Prophets and Loss

by

Samuel Redfeather

Chapter 1

 Planet Ba’ku

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

Sector 441

Anij of the Ba’ku stepped from her house into the bright midday sunlight, roused from her afternoon siesta by the inexplicable sound of thunder from cloudless cobalt skies.  Around her others exited their homes, staring skyward, muttering questions in hushed tones to one another.   

“Has the Federation returned?   

“Have more Son’a come home?” 

The Ba’ku had eschewed technology in order to live a simpler, agrarian lifestyle on their idyllic world.  Anij and her companions had no way to determine the nature of the disturbance, no sensors with which to identify whomever was intruding upon their serenity. 

An oasis of peace for centuries, the Ba’ku’s tranquil existence had been disturbed by an attempted revolt two generations earlier.  A small cabal of youngsters who had become enamored with the idea of exploring the cosmos had rebelled against their society’s strict prohibitions against technology.  They’d gone as far as trying to seize power from their elders, and when their efforts failed, they were exiled from paradise by their friends and families.  Thus banished, the called themselves the Son’a, and set out to utilize advanced technology in conquering a corner of the universe to call their own. 

Reconciliation of a sort had come from an ill-fated collaboration between a rogue Starfleet admiral and his Son’a allies.  They’d attempted to capitalize on the Ba’ku world’s innate healing powers, gifted by the metaphasic radiation emitted from the planet’s rings.  When an attempt to physically relocate the Ba’ku aboard a custom designed holoship was thwarted, the Son’a took it upon themselves to abduct their former kin by force.  Only the efforts of the captain and command crew of the starship Enterprise, acting against orders, managed to stop the Son’a plan and led to a rapprochement between a minority of the Son’a and their estranged families. 

In past weeks however, greater numbers of Son’a had begun to return to their people’s adopted homeworld.  They’d been driven back to the Briar Patch nebula by the inexorable advance of some nameless enemy they’d made in their misguided efforts to build an empire for themselves.  Their shameful homecoming had been as refugees rather than as the conquering heroes they’d hoped to be. 

Many were casualties, their wounds testing the Ba’ku’s healing abilities as well as the planet’s rejuvenating energies.  Bodies and spirits broken, the Son’a had come seeking both shelter as well as the succor of their mothers and fathers. 

Anij ran back into her house, locating in a dresser drawer the compin given to her by Jean-Luc prior to the Enterprise’s departure nine months earlier.  She tapped the device hopefully, yearning to hear the confident timbre of her lover’s voice.  Instead she found only ominous silence. 

She wandered back outside to find Gallatin hefting a disruptor rifle.  The repatriated Son’a general had been reunited with his people through the efforts of Picard and his crew, but still clung stubbornly to some of his more suspicious and militaristic ways.  Anij touched his shoulder, causing him to startle.  “I’m sorry, Gallatin, but you know such weapons are prohibited.”  At that moment, the irony of her uttering such a statement while clutching a Starfleet communicator was lost on her. 

Gallatin grunted, tilting his head upward.  “Tell that to the Alshain.” 

“The Alshain?”  Anij frowned, “Aren’t they the enemy you’d spoken of?” 

“Yes,” he hissed from between clenched teeth.  The plasticity of the man’s skin had relaxed during the months since he’d returned, but his face still offered a troublingly distorted visage.  Now, Anij read both anger and fear in his recovering features. 

“Why would they come here?” she asked, dread beginning to clutch her chest like a vise. 

Gallatin’s voice was determinedly calm though his hands grasping the rifle trembled slightly.  “Because they make no distinction between Son’a and Ba’ku, Anij.”  He turned to face her, his countenance haunted by regret.  “And they have sworn to cleanse their captured territory of our kind, in order to restore the Greater Alshain of ages past.” 

She gaped at him in disbelief, “You’re saying they’ve come to relocate us as Ru’afo meant to do?” 

Shouldering his rifle, Gallatin grabbed Anij by the upper arm and pulled her along with him as he headed for higher ground and the dubious cover of the surrounding forest.  “No, my friend.  They mean to slaughter us all.” 

***** 

Starbase 12

Executive Lounge

Office of the Admiralty

Vice Admiral Edward Jellico clutched his mug of coffee, staring across the table at his two colleagues as the three flag officers collectively ate breakfast while establishing Starfleet operations protocols that would affect a twelve sector area of Federation space.  Jellico had been appointed the new Assistant Chief of Starfleet Security only weeks earlier, after his predecessor had ascended to the top post in Security following the quiet ouster of Admiral Samson Glover from that august assignment. 

Jellico had taken the opportunity to familiarize himself with his new position by embarking on a first-hand tour of the Federation’s trouble spots to better assess the UFP’s overall state of security.  What he’d found was troubling.  Not enough ships, too few people, and far too many critical missions to perform, all of them seemingly vital to national security.

Seated across from him in the Starbase’s executive lounge were Rear Admiral Bryce McCormick and Vice Admiral Thiv’ala, the regional heads of Starfleet Operations and Logistics, respectively. 

They’d just tabled the discussion of repealing the Federation Council’s stop loss order that prevented Starfleet personnel from resigning or retiring from service.  Jellico was worried McCormick might suffer a stroke due to the emotional spike the conversation seemed to engender in the man.  At the moment, Starfleet was still churning out ships at wartime production rates in order to fill the numerous vacancies caused by the war’s attrition.  Staffing these craft was another matter, as it took substantially longer to train a Starfleet officer or enlisted person than it did to build a starship.  Changing tacks, the vice admiral broached the subject that had really brought him to this place.

“So, what do you think of Picard’s proposal?”  Jellico baited the hook as subtly as he could.  He’d already decided to green-light the captain’s plan, but he’d rather talk these officers into supporting it rather than shove it down their throats.  He would force the issue if he had to, of course, but Jellico would at least give them the appearance of hearing them out.

McCormick snapped at the prize like a starving grouper.  “I think it’s a load of crap, Edward.  I’ve already had to divert a dozen starships away from this theater to bolster anti-insurgent operations along the Cardassian border.”  The rear admiral’s face reddened with frustration.  “I know things over there are rough, and Bill Ross has his hands full, but I’ve got my own priorities to worry about.  If Picard wants a public relations coup, tell him to look for it elsewhere.”

 Jellico shrugged, “Jean-Luc’s got a point, Bryce.  The Alshain are hunting down the remaining Son’a like animals.  They’re our allies, and a pogrom against the Son’a, however reviled they are, makes us look bad.”

 McCormick threw up his hands, “And I care because…?  Damn it, Edward, you know what a proud people the Alshain are.  They’ve suffered Son’a plots and intrigues for generations, not to mention outright invasion of their territory during the war when the Son’a signed on with the Dominion.  If you ask me, a little payback is in order.”

Jellico quirked an eyebrow and gave McCormick a disbelieving look.  “Payback is one thing, Bryce.  Ethnic cleansing is something else entirely.”  Raising his glass of orange juice, he offered a mock toast, “My friends, to genocide.”

That took some of the wind from McCormick’s sails.  He grabbed the linen napkin from his lap and tossed it onto his plate in a gesture of exasperation.  Giving man a few moments to recover his composure, Jellico looked to the Andorian admiral to his right.  “Opinions, Thiv’ala?”

 The cerulean-skinned man appeared thoughtful for a long moment before forming his reply.  “McCormick is correct insofar as our available ships and personnel are concerned.  At present, this command is supporting three planetary relief operations, coordinating sector patrol assignments along the Klingon and Romulan borders, overseeing the establishment of several refugee settlements for displaced Tarlac and Ellora fleeing the conflict, and combating a significant rise in interstellar piracy brought about by the perceived weakness of Starfleet assets in this region.”

McCormick gestured to the Andorian while looking at Jellico, clearly enjoying that the other admiral appeared to be taking his side.  Thiv’ala shot McCormick a self-conscious glance that the human failed to see before turning back to Jellico to finish his assessment.  “That being said, Admiral, any opportunity to stem the violence taking place in and around the Briar Patch would prove welcome.  We have our hands full as it is without the added burden of tens-of-thousands of refugees from the Alshain encroachment into Son’a territory.”

McCormick’s eyes shot daggers at Thiv’ala who pretended not to notice as he spooned a scoop of yulta fruit into his mouth.  The man turned to face Jellico.  “I can’t spare any more ships.  I just don’t have them.  I’ve got runabouts pulling picket duty posts that should be occupied by cruisers.  Border defense is practically laughable right now, and Picard’s little mercy mission will only serve to make matters worse.”

 “Be that as it may, Bryce, President Santiago is a believer in image dictating reality.  He feels this mission is of vital importance in the post-war playing field, gentlemen.  If the Federation doesn’t move to bring its allies under control, we’ll only be inviting trouble from the second-tier powers in both quadrants.”

 McCormick rolled his eyes.  “I know Picard’s got a thing for these people, Edward.  But Santiago’s standing in the polls is low enough already.  Does he really need another foreign affairs fiasco just before the election?”

“I’m aware of the risk we’re running with this operation, and failure is always an unwelcome possibility.  But imagine the media disaster we’d face if we’re seen to be tacitly supporting Alshain atrocities?”  Jellico frowned, “And I’d remind you that I’m not Picard’s biggest fan, either.  Despite that, his relationship with the Ba’ku and the Son’a make him the best man for this particular job.”

McCormick sat forward, grabbing his coffee mug and taking a draught.  “We turned a blind eye to the Klingons’ actions at Lakesh.  They butchered the civilian populace trying to dig out the insurgency on a world supposedly under Starfleet supervision.”

 Jellico’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.  “That wasn’t our fault.  How were we supposed to know the Cardassians in that system were sitting on top of a hidden arsenal?  Ceding the Crolsa system to the Klingons was our only recourse.”

 McCormick eyed Jellico sullenly, having realized the true nature of this meeting.  “This is going to happen, isn’t it?  My protests be damned, you’re going to stage from this starbase and bleed me dry.”

Nodding regretfully, Jellico said simply.  “Yes, Bryce.  I am.  This one has presidential authority behind it.”  Trying to soften the blow, he added, “Besides the Enterprise, I’m contributing four ships tasked from other commands.  Six ships are all I need from you.”

Shaking his head angrily, McCormick finished his coffee in a single quaff and stood abruptly.  He collected his padd from the table top and placed it inside a briefcase.  Giving Jellico a final heated stare, he inquired, “And which heads roll when this whole operation falls apart and our people start coming home in flag draped coffins?”

Jellico’s smile reminded McCormick of a Terran shark.  “If that happens, President Santiago takes another ten-point hit in the polls, and Picard loses credibility and forfeits his chance of ever making admiral.  I, on the other hand, walk away smelling like a rose.”

McCormick gave him a saccharine smile.  “What about me?”

“You?  You get your ships back and win the right to begin each sentence for the next year with ‘I told you so.’”

 ***** 

Planet Ba’ku

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

Sector 441

Anij had cried herself out by the time the Alshain arrived on foot to examine their handiwork.  The shattered remains of the Ba’ku village, home to their people for ten generations, smoldered in the valley below.  Unlike the Son’a, who’d at first tried to forcibly relocate their alienated families, the Alshain had made no such attempts to minimize the loss of life.  A brief but effective orbital bombardment had reduced their community to scattered cinders, killing all but the handful of the Ba’ku who had joined Gallatin and Anij in their flight from the village.

Her dear friend Sojef and his young son Artim, who’d both survived the harrowing pursuit and capture at the hands of the Son’a less than a year before were now dead.  Anij’s entire world had been crushed in a matter of minutes, her society annihilated with casual ease by an enemy she’d only heard rumors of prior to this dark day.

Gallatin and two similarly armed former Son’a stood guard over their distraught Ba’ku hosts.  Drav’in approached the ex-general, kneeling beside him as they observed the lupine Alshain strike team as the enemy soldiers sorted through the embers of the village, looking for any sign of survivors. 

“Gallatin, we should go.  We can follow the kelbonite deposits into the mountains, just as the Ba’ku did to thwart us.  It should mask our life signs as effectively.”

Gallatin lowered his field glasses, pushing back from the lip of the overhang they were using as an observation point.  “That will safeguard us from their sensors only.  These are Alshain.  They’re a race of hunters, and once they have our scent, it will only be a matter of time before they find us.”

“Then what are we to do?  Where shall we go?”

The general was considering his reply when they heard the muffled crackle of snapping twigs behind them.  The traumatized Ba’ku survivors did not notice the sound, for none of them had ever had to develop the kind of situational awareness that helped one to survive in a combat environment.  Before Gallatin and Drav’in could turn and raise their weapons, the enemy was upon them.

***** 

 Executive Officer’s Quarters, Deck 5, USS Gibraltar

Docked to Federation Starbase Deep Space Nine

Commander Liana Ramirez stepped from the sonic shower, wrapping a towel around herself as she padded quietly through her cabin’s sleeping alcove so as not to wake her sleeping guest.  She donned her uniform slowly, burdened by thoughts of their upcoming assignment.  It was a troubling mission that she’d discovered only the day before that Captain Sandhurst had volunteered them for.

She’d have to confront him about it, and it wouldn’t be easy.  Ramirez had bent over backwards to be accommodating to her commanding officer in the weeks since his return from neural-psychiatric reconstructive counseling on Betazed.  On their last, ill-fated assignment, the captain had been held captive and tortured by a madman for weeks, and the resulting psychological scars ran deep.  He hadn’t been the same since his return, and she felt naïve for having hoped that he’d come back as his old self.

Suddenly someone grabbed a hold of her hand and pulled her off balance, sending her toppling onto the bed.  ‘Great,’ she thought angrily, ‘Six months ago I’d never have let someone surprise me like that.  I’m losing my edge.’

“Good morning, Lia—“  Commander Jeffrey Thorpe’s voice caught in his throat as Ramirez reversed his grip on her arm, taking control of his limb as she rolled to a position of advantage and pinned him to the bed with a painful joint-lock.  “Ahhhh!  Woman, what’s wrong with you?” he hissed. 

 “Good morning to you, Mister Grabby Hands.  And exactly what leads you to believe that you can have your way with me on this fine morning?”  Her tone was mostly playful, but contained a hint of genuine irritation.

Thorpe fought to control his breathing, struggling against the pain of a shoulder pushed to the limit of its range of motion.  “Just— just playing around, Lia.  Please, let go.”

She released her grip, climbing off the bed and leaving Thorpe face down on the rumpled sheets massaging his now aching limb.  “I’m yours when the uniforms are off, Jeff.  I thought we’d established that rather clearly.”  She made a show of smoothing out the tussle-related wrinkles in her jumpsuit.  “As you can see, the uniform is most definitely on.”

Thorpe rolled over, eyeing her warily.  “We’ve been seeing each other for a month, and I still haven’t even begun to figure you out.”  He sat up, placing his feet on the floor.  “You’re not big on subtlety, Liana.  I’m picking up a very strong vibe that this whole arraignment is merely recreational.”

Ramirez stepped back into the bathroom, running a brush through her long black hair before starting to tie it into a low-maintenance bun in back.  “Playful canoodling in the morning smacks of an actual relationship, Jeff.  We agreed that this was purely physical.”

He pulled on his shorts and stood, walking over to lean against the doorway to the bathroom alcove.  “So you’re eliminating the possibility of it being anything but?”

She spared him a withering look while fiddling with her hair.  “I’m nobody’s fallback girl.”

He crossed his arms defensively.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “The Haliian woman, Jeff.  I’m not blind, or stupid.  When we ran into her at Quark’s the other night, you acted like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”  She smirked at his evident discomfort with her observation.  “Well, maybe not your hand…”

 Wincing, Thorpe moved behind her, his hands up in a gesture of supplication.  He looked into her eyes through the reflection he shared with her in the mirror.  “I’ll admit that I have feelings for Aquiel, that’s true.  But we’ve decided against risking our friendship by taking it to the next level.”  He turned on the charm, conjuring up the devilish smile that Ramirez found so oddly irresistible.  “The fact that I’m attracted to her doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t be open to a genuine relationship with somebody else.”  He raised his eyebrows, “If a certain someone would lower their shields.”

 Ramirez met his eyes, taking the implied offer into consideration.  She and Thorpe shared a great deal in common, but those commonalities were a shared pain that had brought them together during the Gibraltar’s refit at DS9.  Both she and Jeffrey had lost ships under their command in the Crolsa system, ships that by rights had belonged to other men.  They’d been the stand-in’s, the acting captains, and ultimately both had been found wanting.  Now, Thorpe was acting CO of DS9’s dedicated warship, the Defiant, while Ramirez was nearing the halfway point of her year long obligation to Gibraltar’s XO’s billet.

 He slowly lowered his hands to her shoulders, maintaining eye contact as he leaned in to nuzzle her neck.  She closed her eyes, her body electrified with the sensation.  Liana couldn’t remember the last time she’d let anyone even this close.  She firmly believed that relationships were a luxury someone on the fast track to command couldn’t allow themselves.  She desperately enjoyed sharing a bed with him, but they were too dissimilar in disposition and ambition for their coupling to be anything other than an enjoyable diversion.  She was driven and focused, while Jeffrey was a feather on the wind, an explorer at heart who’d stumbled into the command division purely by accident.

 She sighed, then reached up and placed her hands atop his.  He paused, sensing she’d raised her defenses once again.  “Jeff, I’m truly flattered, but this is as far as it goes.”

 Her compin chirped, “Sandhurst to Ramirez.”

 Thorpe turned away, his expression one of disappointment as she tapped the pin.  “Go ahead, sir.”

 “Commander, just a reminder that our briefing in the station’s wardroom is in thirty minutes.”

 “Acknowledged, sir.  On my way.”

 She found him slipping on his civilian clothes in the bedroom.  “Tonight will be our last in port before we head out,” she tried to sound upbeat.  “If you’re not too busy, I wouldn’t mind seeing you again before I leave.”

 He stared at her calmly as he buttoned his shirt.  “I thought you made your feelings… or lack thereof perfectly clear, Commander.”

 She liked him, she really did.  She didn’t want to hurt him, and had made every effort to establish that the only thing this could possibly be was a brief dalliance.  “Let’s just let this be what it is, Jeff.  It’s not that I don’t want a relationship eventually, but it can’t be right now, not while I’m on this ship.  Later, when I have a command of my own, circumstances might be different.”  She stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his face.  “If we try to force this, someone’s going to get hurt.  And right now, odds are that it’d be you.”

 He nodded reluctantly then dipped his head to meet her brief kiss.  Then she was gone.

***** 

 Chapter 2

 The Plevlian Squalls

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

Sector 441

 The Alshain heavy cruiser G’Shrora slalomed wildly between the thundering columns of energetic plasma that had been whipped into frenzy by the deep gravitational footprint of a nearby proto-star cluster.  The warship was seriously damaged, and its desperate gyrations were a last-ditch attempt to evade its pursuers.  A squadron of small, compact attack ships of unknown origin matched the larger ship move for move, darting through the billowing fumaroles with practiced ease and making a mockery of the heroic efforts of the cruiser’s helmsman.

 On the bridge of the Alshain vessel, Sutahr Vacquin R’Vor snarled with displeasure as he observed the persistence of his unidentified enemy.  The flotilla of attack ships had ambushed them just outside the Ba’ku star system as the G’Shrora had departed with its cargo of captured Son’a and Ba’ku prisoners.  What had begun as a routine clean-and-sweep of newly annexed territory had quickly deteriorated into a running battle to save their own lives.

 Turning to his weapons officer, R’Vor inquired heatedly, “Can we ignite those columns?”

 The younger male’s ears flattened in subservience under the withering scrutiny of his captain.  “No, sir.  You’re thinking of metreon gas.  There are pockets of that material throughout the Bri—“ he was flung against his console as the ship rocked from yet another well placed torpedo hit.  Gathering his wits, he replied with a hopeful volley of swarm-missiles that fanned out behind the ship as he continued, “…throughout the Briar Patch, but none are found nearby due to the plasmoberic currents—“

 R’Vor waved away the rest of the explanation, baring a mouthful of formidable teeth.  “Status of weapons?”

 “Disruptors and exciser cannons are still offline, sir.  Their aim with their opening salvo was impeccable.”

 Grunting with grudging admiration for his enemy’s prowess, R’Vor scanned the navigational display at his station for any other anomalies in the vicinity which might serve to either hide them or slow their pursuers.  He found nothing.

 The helmsman announced, “Clearing the columns, Sutahr.  Shall we swing around for another run?”  The man’s voice was tight with fear, and despite R’Vor’s hatred of that particular emotion, the sutahr found that he could not judge him too harshly under the circumstances.

 “Status of the enemy craft?”

 “Eleven of the original twelve threat craft are still intact, sir.  One of them appears to have collided with a plasma column attempting to avoid our last volley.”

 R’Vor’s hands clenched the forelimb rests of his command chair.  There were no other alternatives.  His ship was crippled, so prolonged flight was not an option.  His shields were failing, his most potent weapons disabled.  They would have to turn back and brave the raging tendrils once again.  ‘Better a quick death by plasma storm than capture at the hands of an unknown foe,’ R’Vor thought soberly as he recited a quick prayer to his ancestral lineage.  “Helmsman, bring us about!”

 The pilot’s response was drown out by thunderous weapons impacts as their opponents who had themselves just passed out of the squalls executed a concentrated attack on the cruiser.  Primary lighting died and the sole illumination on the bridge came from the strobing death throes of flickering consoles and the guttering sparks from shattered display screens. 

 From within the darkness a voice shouted, “Shields have failed!  Sensors detecting transporter signatures.”

 R’Vor rose from his seat, drawing a bulky distruptor pistol from its holster on his leg.  “Battle stations, prepare to repel boarders!”  Despite his best efforts, his enemies had pressed their attack and now a battle that had begun as ship-to-ship skirmish would end in close-quarters combat.  He generated a feral smile as he anticipated what would likely be his final struggle.  Let them come for him.  They would enter his lair, defended by his people, where the darkness and confined spaces were his allies.  ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘Let them come.’

 ***** 

 Federation Starbase Deep Space Nine

Ward Room

“…and in conclusion an eleven ship task force should suffice to underscore the Federation’s resolve to see this conflict ended peaceably while not proving overtly threatening to the Alshain.  All parties involved in this unfortunate quarrel are justly aggrieved, but we must make them see that peace is the preferable path.”  With that, Captain Jean-Luc Picard completed his brief on the mission that had consumed him these last months.

He resumed his seat next to Commander Will Riker, scanning the faces of the assembled captains and their first officers, the men and women who had elected or had been assigned to follow him on this vital errand of mercy.  A few appeared genuinely enthusiastic, but the majority had mustered their best poker faces for the occasion.  A handful, Commander Liana Ramirez among them, looked openly dubious.

 Although Deep Space Nine was some fifty lightyears from the Federation border with Alshain space, the core of the task force had assembled here largely due to the presence of two individuals.  The senior Starfleet officer posted to DS9 was Rear Admiral Monica Covey, the Federation’s foremost expert on the Alshain, and the woman responsible for forging the UFP’s alliance with them during the bleak days that marked the beginning of the war.  Seated with her at the head of the table was Lt. Commander Seb N’Saba, Starfleet’s only Alshain member, formerly of the late USS Cuffe.

 The rest of the meeting went by the numbers, consisting of brief exchanges of tactical, logistical, and navigational data as the command staffs from the Lexington, Gibraltar, Zhukov, and Bellerophon made preparations for operating within the unpredictable Briar Patch.

Covey had provided the task force with everything she knew about the Alshain as a species, consciously keeping her reservations with this mission to herself following Picard’s impassioned speech to his fellow officers.  Her objections had already been shared in private, and she had reiterated them to Will Riker, with whom Covey was previously acquainted.  She’d even gone as far as reassigning N’Saba to the Enterprise for the duration of the assignment, praying his insights into his people’s psychology and traditions might help prevent any unfortunate incidents.

The admiral called the meeting to a close with Picard’s sanction, and the personnel filtered toward the exit, chatting among themselves as they collected padds and beverage mugs.  Picard paused near the exit to the wardroom, waiting for Sandhurst and Ramirez to approach.  He inclined his head towards his fellow captain, a man who’d volunteered himself and his ship for the duration of this diplomatic intervention.  “Captain Sandhurst, you’re looking much improved since our paths crossed last.” 

Sandhurst smiled wanly, “Thank you, Captain.”  Donald’s recovery from his recent abduction had begun aboard the Enterprise with Counselor Troi, before the ship had transported him to Betazed for more intensive therapies. 

Picard turned to Ramirez, “You appeared skeptical of my plan, Commander.  I opened the floor to questions and concerns, but you didn’t take the opportunity to voice any.”

 Casting a quick glance at Sandhurst, Ramirez replied evenly, “It’s not my place to question the necessity or the underlying assumptions surrounding this mission, sir.”

 Riker stepped up behind the Gibraltar officers, his mouth drawing into a frown as he picked up on the topic of conversation.

 “If you have reservations, Commander, you should feel free to air them.”  Picard pressed the point, “I certainly wouldn’t want anyone feeling they’re held hostage by the circumstances of this assignment.”

 Sandhurst bit the inside of his lip, looking mortified as Ramirez smiled pleasantly at Picard.  “Respectfully, Captain, I’m a Starfleet officer.  I go where I’m told.  But since you’ve asked for my thoughts, I’m more than happy to share them.  In my professional opinion, we’re biting off more than we can chew with this mission at a time when we can least afford such gestures.  As for my personal opinion,” her eyes clouded as she conjured dark memories, “I’ve danced to this tune before.  It didn’t end well.”

 Picard smiled tolerantly, “Healthy cynicism is a positive characteristic in a leader, Commander.  I hope that by the time we’ve completed our assignment, you’ll be able to see the value in such gestures, most especially when we can least afford them.”

Ramirez allowed, “I sincerely hope that’s the case, Captain.  I’ll have to trust you’re not allowing your personal feelings to needlessly endanger these crews.”  She offered perfunctory nods all around, “Sirs, if you’ll excuse me.” 

 Stepping out into the corridor, Ramirez had only made it a dozen meters before she sensed the fast approach of someone behind her.  She turned to come face to face with an obviously irritated Will Riker.  “Wait just a minute, Ramirez.”

 He outweighed her by over fifty kilograms and stood considerably taller, but Ramirez appeared unfazed, looking up into Riker’s face with iron resolve.  “Something I can help you with, Commander?”

 “You’ve got a lot of nerve questioning the motivations of that man,” Riker said heatedly, pointing down the corridor towards the wardroom.  “He’s made sacrifices you could hardly imagine in the defense of the Federation, and I think you owe him the benefit of the doubt.”

 Ramirez cocked her head, giving Riker an appraising look.  “Picard’s a very accomplished officer and diplomat, but he’s not infallible.  Sometimes even the most well intentioned plans are built on foundations of sand.”

 Glowering, Riker snorted, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 “It means that I’m skeptical of this mission because Picard’s too close to the players.  His relationship with the Ba’ku is driving this, and no matter how genuine his humanitarian ambitions are, he’s been blinded to the realities of the situation.  Mark my words, we’ll be at war with the Alshain before this is done.”

Riker countered, “To be perfectly candid, your opinion really doesn’t count here.  Your captain’s already onboard with this.  All anyone’s asking you to do here is your job.”  He shook his head in disbelief, “I can’t understand why you’d object to taking part in a humanitarian mission, or why you’d disrespect Captain Picard like that.”

 Ramirez’s forced smile turned frosty.  “My job?  Oh, that’s right, I remember now.  That’s what I was doing on the bridge of the Tempest during the war.  I was standing knee deep in bodies, surrounded by burning starships on the Bolian Front while Enterprise was playing diplomatic courier and flitting about on archeological surveys.”  She made a point of looking down at Riker’s knees.  “I hope your uniform didn’t get too dirty hauling shovels around the dig sites for your captain.”

 Will’s eyes widened, his face reddening as his outrage mounted.  However, his anger was fueled by a kernel of shame he’d carried since the end of the conflict.  Enterprise had been considered too important by command to risk in direct combat.  Instead, the flagship had been dispatched on vital diplomatic assignments, recruiting allies against the Dominion and engaging in routine good will missions, helping to preserve the image that the Federation was still functioning normally during the protracted struggle.  He’d yearned to be on the front lines, sharing the enormous burden with his comrades, but it was not to be.

 Riker fought to control his rage at her impertinence, pointing an accusatory finger at her.  “The crew of that ship has—“

 Ramirez cut him off mid-sentence.  “Stow it, Will.  I know you saved the earth from the Borg, but what have you done for us lately?”

 Riker practically recoiled at her attack, his expression conveying such shock and incredulity that it brought Ramirez up short.  She immediately downshifted, holding up her hands in a placating gesture.  “I’m sorry, Commander.  That was completely out of line.”

 “You’re goddamn right about that,” Riker muttered, working heroically to reign in his emotions.

 “I’m well aware of the contributions of your ship and crew to the safety of the Federation.”  Her face was pinched, her expression pained.  “I apologize.  This isn’t about you, or Picard.  This is about my captain and his choices.”

 Calming, Riker examined Ramirez more closely.  He’d never met the woman before today, but he counted himself an excellent judge of human nature.  Behind the young woman’s bluster, he saw a deep reservoir of pain and fear.  The whole idea of this mission had set something off inside her.  Lowering his voice, Riker offered, “This won’t be like last time, Commander.  Captain Picard won’t allow it.  I won’t allow it.” 

 "You can’t make that promise.”  She turned abruptly, walking away down the corridor, leaving a confused and frustrated Will Riker behind her.

 ***** 

 Alshain Heavy Cruiser G’Shrora

Detention Block, Deck 7

The prisoners were flung to and fro in their detention cells as the cruiser shuddered from repeated impacts.  Anij clung to Gallatin for support, “What’s happening?  Has Starfleet come to rescue us?”

Gallatin grunted as they were thrown against the wall, he shielding Anij from the impact with his body.  “More likely a Son’a cruiser,” he said, thinking, ‘I’m surprised we have any left.’

 The wailing of internal alarms drowned out the shouting from their Alshain captors as the weapons fire ceased suddenly.  Gallatin whispered to Anij, “They are being boarded.  We must be prepared to confront the guards should they come to execute us before we can be rescued.”

 Anij’s features tightened with fear, but her eyes were clear and focused.  She was Ba’ku, one of the last thanks to the efforts of the Alshain.  Her people and their culture must be preserved.

 Moments passed, then the sounds of fighting erupted from somewhere nearby.  The whine of disruptors competed with the basso growl of pulse blasts.  In the corridor at the end of the detention block, figures silhouetted in smoke dashed about amidst the flash of weapons fire.

 A tall, red-furred Alshain soldier sprinted into the block, whirling about and taking a kneeling position with his rifle held at the ready.  Two hazy figures leaned out into the corridor from opposite sides of the doorway simultaneously, sending a flurry of white energy bolts towards the soldier.  He replied in kind, vaporizing one of the enemies as he himself was cut down by their fusillade. 

 The surviving figure moved cautiously down the corridor.  Gallatin noticed that the indistinct form of the humanoid was not due to the surrounding smoke, but was instead the result of mimetic holomesh armor that simulated the wearer’s immediate surroundings.  As a former soldier, Gallatin admired the smooth, steady advance of the armor clad figure, constantly scanning his surroundings and sweeping the path of his advance with his rifle.

 Arriving at the occupied cells, the figure spoke in accented Federation standard, no doubt the result of a translator matrix.  “You are Son’a?”

 Gallatin stepped forward, stopping just before the energy field.  “Yes.”

The figure reached out, toggling off the security screens and releasing the prisoners.  “Stay close together and remain with me.”

 Gallatin stooped to retrieve the fallen Alshain soldier’s rifle, hefting the bulky weapon with difficulty.  “Understood.”

 ***** 

Sandhurst looked sheepishly at Picard as Riker slid past him and began his pursuit of Ramirez down the corridor.  The captain of the Enterprise looked less than thrilled with the actions of his own exec, and directed a wry smile at Sandhurst.  

“Well, that was… awkward,“ Donald offered. He began to apologize for Ramirez’s statements but the older captain casually waved away the effort.

 “No need, Captain.  She’s entitled to her opinion, and after all you and your crew have been through in past months, I believe I can understand the source of her discomfort.”  He patted Sandhurst on the shoulder.  “Don’t give it any more thought.  We’ve a lot to accomplish in very little time.  Let’s not allow ourselves such distractions.”  With that, Picard stepped into the hallway, leaving Sandhurst standing in an empty room save for Rear Admiral Covey.

Years earlier, Covey had been the first officer aboard the Cuffe where Sandhurst had served as an engineer.  Later, as a captain she’d stolen him away from that ship and made him her Chief Engineer on the Chevalier.  Five months ago Covey had approached Sandhurst, then the first officer on the Venture, and convinced him to accept a captaincy.

Covey recognized Sandhurst’s frustration and grinned at him.  “Look out for Liana when she gets a full head of steam.  I’ll bet she and Will are toe-to-toe out there.”

 Sandhurst rolled his eyes, “No doubt.”

 The admiral stepped forward hesitantly.  “How are you, Donald?”  She couldn’t quite hide her discomfort with his new appearance.  A mere two months earlier, Sandhurst had been noticeably overweight and had possessed a thick mane of dark black hair that had just begun to gray at the temples.  Now that hair was nearly completely white, and had been shaved close to his head, leaving what amounted to a crown of stark white stubble.  He was leaner now than when she’d known him as a junior engineer years before, but he seemed gaunt and brittle.

 Sandhurst attempted a smile of his own, but wasn’t able to follow through.  “I’m… better.”

“Really?”  She placed a hand on his arm.  “I’d heard rumors that something… very unpleasant had happened to you.  Despite my rank, I couldn’t get any official confirmation.  Everything was ultra-classified.”

 He pursed his lips regretfully.  “Unfortunately, yes.  I can’t talk about it.  Under the circumstances, that’s more a blessing than a curse.”

 She inclined her head, having no choice but to accept that explanation.  “I’ll see your ‘no comment’ and raise you a ‘are you sure about this mission?’”

 The reference to their weekly poker games aboard the Chevalier ignited the smile Sandhurst had been unable to light on his own.  “I think it’s the right thing to do, both for the Federation, and the Son’a.”

 She nodded reluctantly, “You know how I feel about this.”

 “I do, and I want you to know your opinion carries considerable weight with me.”

 She laughed, “But Jean-Luc is just so damn compelling, right?”

 He chuckled, “Something like that.”

 “Fair enough.  Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?  I didn’t pin that fourth pip on your collar so that you could go and get yourself mauled by an interstellar wolf pack.”

 He mock winced, “Nice imagery, thanks.”

 She stepped through the door into the passageway.  “C’mon, Captain, I’ve been waiting for a tour of that old ship I pawned off on you.”

He fell in step with her, shaking his head ruefully and just for a moment feeling once again like his old self. 

 ***** 

 Alshain Heavy Cruiser G’Shrora

 Sutahr R’Vor roared in concert with the scream of his disruptor rifle, pouring concentrated fire down the corridor towards the shadowy, advancing enemy.  These creatures were wraiths, darting from cover to slay his men with well placed weapons fire before vanishing again into the chaos.  Their inexorable advance towards the detention center was proof enough that they were here to rescue the Alshain’s prisoners, but the sutahr had never known the Son’a or their servitor species to fight so hard or so effectively.  For a moment he wondered if these were Jem’Hadar holdouts, perhaps some vanguard of a second invasion of the Alpha Quadrant, hiding out in the Briar Patch.

 Crouching back behind the corner as the enemy’s answering fire flashed past; R’Vor accessed the computer command link affixed to his gauntlet.  He reprogrammed the ship’s onboard security forcefields, tapping delicately at the interface with a clawed finger.  Smiling coldly, R’Vor congratulated himself on his own bloody creativity as he motioned for his men to retreat from near the mouth of the passageway.

Activating the defense screen emitters in the corridor, he sent a horizontal field of energy scything down the corridor at waist level.  Like a blade cutting stalks of grass, a half dozen of the darting figures were cleaved in two instantaneously.  Those of the enemy fortunate enough to have been in adjoining corridors or lying prone began an immediate tactical withdrawal, sensing the sudden shift in the fortunes of war.

 R’Vor led an advance down the hallway, retaking the corridor and dispatching pursuit teams to harass their retreating foes.  He paused at a bisected enemy body, his eyes struggling to focus the image of the man as the soldier’s holomesh armor flickered randomly.  Kneeling beside the body, R’Vor unfastened the figure’s combat helmet and faceplate, peeling them away and staring uncomprehendingly at the naked visage of his enemy.

 He looked up to see one of his men doing likewise with another of the enemy, the crewman’s features also clouded with confusion.  The man looked to R’Vor, “I don’t understand, Sutahr.  They are Bajorans.”

 ***** 

 Chapter 3

 Holosuite 3, Deck 6  - USS Gibraltar

Parrises Squares Competition

Pava’s Pirates – 4

Tark’s Thugs – 2

 Lieutenant Pava Lar’agos heaved the ion mallet for all he was worth, contacting the orb with a resounding thud that reverberated off the walls of the playing grid.  The playing sphere rocketed away, spinning into opposing territory as the scoreboard registered a point for the El Aurian’s team.  Lar’ragos jumped from the descending platform and onto its rising neighbor, struggling to keep his balance as the roving tactiball screamed by, delivering a glancing blow to his left shoulder as he landed atop the moving square.

 He was of average height, perhaps a bit on the smallish side, but Lar’ragos was deceptively strong and nimble.  His dark, tightly curled hair was cut short, and his brown eyes hinted at an ample intelligence, bolstered by several lifetimes of experience.  His current posting was as Chief Security/Tactical officer of the starship Gibraltar, and at the moment he was deeply engrossed in a tactical training scenario.

 Across the grid, the leader of the opposing team struggled to meet the incoming orb.  Master Chief Tark, a stout Tellarite, charged up his team’s launch ramp.  He leaped into the air as he swung the mallet, missing the illuminated sphere by scant centimeters before toppling forward and landing hard atop an ascending riser.  The impact drove the breath from him, and he struggled to rise on wobbling arms as he looked around for the fumbled ion mallet.

 “What’s the matter, old man?” asked Petty Officer 1^st Class Saihra Dunleavy as she charged past, now in possession of the mallet, “Did da wittle piggy fall down, go boom?”

 Tark attempted a snarl that emerged sounding more like a desperate wheeze.  Dunleavy sprinted the ramp, jumping from the crest and delivering a solid blow to the orb on its rebound off the back wall.  It arced into enemy territory, sending Pava’s Pirates scrambling to intercept it. 

 Ensign Diamato moved to snare the orb in his under-arm catch net but lost his footing between ascending and descending risers, falling and cracking his shin and leaving him writhing in pain atop a plummeting square.  En route to his own rendezvous with the orb, Specialist Sharpe experienced an unfortunate high-velocity encounter with the tactiball.  He was knocked backwards, falling onto a square currently radiating a containment field that immobilized him for the required thirty seconds.

 Lar’ragos’ only remaining teammate was deep in the well, waiting for the undulating tide of risers to bring him back up and into play.  His chest heaving with the effort, Lar’ragos charged forward, stutter-stepping from one square to another in quick succession, while trying to track the orb’s path through the air.  His legs burned but kept pumping, sending him upwards to catch the ball as it bounced off his team’s score-pad and registered a point for Tark’s Thugs. 

 Wielding the ion mallet like Thor’s hammer, he rose to meet the ricocheting orb, screaming out a primal cry of defiance.  His victory call was cut short as he completely missed the sphere with the mallet, and made the unwitting decision to strike it squarely with his face instead.  He fell like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed, collapsing into the now ascending risers making their way back up from the well.

 As the pain in his head and side subsided, Lar’ragos became aware of the growing sound of raucous laughter.  The rest of the security team stood, sat, or lay on the floor of the now deactivated holosuite depending on their level of infirmity.  A hairy, porcine face peered down at Lar’ragos, and a meaty hand grasped his, hauling him back to his feet.  Wiping at the blood coursing from his broken nose, Lar’ragos gurgled, “Thank you, Master Chief.”

 Clearing his throat, Lar’ragos announced, “Folks, this concludes today’s security training exercise.  You all did very well.  A good game of Parrises squares forces you to maintain your situational awareness in a dynamic environment, just like in a fire fight.”  He assessed the group, noting numerous injuries.  “Everyone here got banged up, but you all stayed in the fight.  That speaks both to your stamina as well as your dedication.”  He wiped the sleeve of his blue Parrises jumpsuit across his nose again.  “Let’s go get patched up in Sickbay, then meet in the rec lounge for debrief and drinks.”

 The group of limping security personnel assisted each other out of the holosuite, grinning and chatting animatedly.  Tark noted with a smile the difference between Lar’ragos’ new training regimen and his previous campaign of endless, excruciating drills and holographic scenarios.  The security personnel were still learning valuable skills, but without the burn-out and the oppressive psychological toll that grueling earlier schedule had taken on them.

 Their last assignment had resulted in nearly every member of the ship’s security department having been either killed or seriously injured.  Although Tark knew the circumstances of that mission were something that would almost certainly never be repeated, those who’d survived the ordeal had gelled and grown stronger for the experience.  Those ‘old-timers’ now formed the core of the ship’s newly expanded security detachment.

 As Tark helped Lar’ragos through the parting holosuite doors, he asked, “So what do you call that move, sir?  Cranial intercept?  Full facial volley?”

 Lar’ragos chuckled, wincing and holding his aching ribs.  “Don’t forget, little man.  I know where you live.”

***** 

Sickbay, USS Gibraltar

The doors parted to allow Lieutenant JG Issara Taiee and her guest into what had been, until two hours earlier, her Sickbay.  Taiee was a career Starfleet officer, and she knew that life was change.  That being said, at this moment she was ready to admit that so much change in such a compressed period of time was a bit hard to swallow.   

The ship’s medical staff were assembled in formation, an almost unheard of occurrence.  Medical technicians and nurses stood at attention in two rows, flanking the main diagnostic exam table on either side.  Stepping aside to allow her guest to take center stage, Taiee kept her voice carefully neutral as she announced, “People, I’d like to introduce you to our new Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander Murakawa.”

 Doctor Denise Murakawa followed Taiee into what she had to admit was an impressive medical center, especially given the size of this ship.  Currently classified as an escort, the Gibraltar had been briefly refitted as a hospital ship earlier in her service, and after being brought out of mothballs during the Dominion War the engineers overseeing her refit had decided to let the ship keep some of that expanded medical capacity.  She now supported forty biobeds and four surgical suites, in addition to a host of dedicated laboratories and even a null-g ward. 

 The woman Murakawa was replacing, albeit temporarily, was not a doctor but an accomplished nurse practitioner.  In the wake of the war’s losses, not every starship could be afforded a full-fledged doctor and surgeon.  Smaller ships like the Gibraltar made due with nurses, relying more heavily on their Emergency Medical Holograms than did larger, better staffed vessels.

 Taiee looked on, feeling both humiliated and unappreciated, but striving to bury both unworthy emotions under a façade of tolerant acceptance.  In the past five months aboard this ship she had treated numerous injuries, helping save the lives of not only the captain but countless crew from theirs and other vessels.  During the war, Taiee had served in a front line mobile surgical hospital, often nearer the conflict than many starships.  She felt that her record and skills spoke for themselves, as they had certainly been sufficient to warrant her original posting as the CMO.  Until now, apparently.

 Murakawa was presently the senior medical officer aboard the starship Sutherland, a post she’d held for the last six years.  She’d been on leave, attending Starfleet’s annual medical symposium, held this year on Bajor as a testament to that planet’s rapid progress in rebuilding its post-occupation medical infrastructure.  Her time at the renowned convention had been cut short, however.

On orders from Dr. Beverly Crusher of the Enterprise, Murakawa had been unexpectedly reassigned as CMO of the Gibraltar during its participation in the Briar Patch taskforce.  The ship’s medical capacity made it a definite asset to the mission, but Crusher had judged that an actual physician needed to in charge should the ship be asked to assist with a mass casualty or evacuation scenario.  Other attendees of the symposium had been likewise assigned to other ships in the flotilla, bolstering their existing medical teams in preparation for coping with the humanitarian disaster that presumably awaited them within the nebula.

Murakawa set her shoulders, meeting the expectant gazes of her new staff with a faint smile.  “I know this change in leadership comes as an unwelcome surprise.  I was caught off guard by this suddenness of this as well.  I assure all of you that this arraignment is only temporary, and shouldn’t be construed as a lack of confidence in your collective abilities.  I’m not here to rock the boat, or to play power games, but to complete a task to the best of my ability.”  She turned to look at Taiee, who was doing an admirable job of looking supportive.  “Lt. Taiee and I will endeavor to make sure we’re prepared for whatever the Briar Patch has in store for us.  Now, let’s get down to business.”

 ***** 

 Forward Observation Post B'hala

Aulerg Moon

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

 Anij awoke to find herself laying atop an uncomfortable metal-frame cot, alone in a darkened room.  The air was stale and humid, and Anij was drenched in persperation.  She stared at the ceiling for a few moments, concentrating on breathing and clearing her head.  The last thing she remembered was fleeing through the corridors of the stricken Alshain warship, following Gallatin and their mysterious rescuers.

 There had been a wild chase through a confusing series of corridors, their escape beset by random firefights between their liberators and the Alshain.  That’s where things grew hazy for her, but she supposed some kind of beamout had occurred.  This certainly didn’t resemble the interior of the Alshain cruiser.

 She sat up, her nose crinkling at her own unwashed smell.  How long since she last bathed?  How many days had passed since her entire civilization had been wiped out in a handful of minutes?  Anij fought off another wave of fruitless tears, determined to figure out where precisely she was, and how she’d gotten here.

 *****

Only meters from Anij’s cot, separated by layers of lunar rock and thermal concrete, Vadark Jobrin Adnai stared impassively at the Son’a officer seated across from him in the cramped cement walled room.  The Son’a’s face was a tortured mask of stretched flesh that only seemed to underscore for Jobrin the Prophets’ displeasure with the Son’a’s naïve attempts to hold death at bay.

Adhar Wuuten, the latest in a long line of Son’a strongmen, sipped idly at the cup of springwine his Bajoran host had provided.  He choked down the sickly, flowery scented liquor, unwilling to upset his hosts’ delicate sensibilities.  The Bajora Tava had very little in the way of creature comforts, and the offer to share drink with an outworlder was a sign of deepest respect.  Their culture was so totally geared to martial sensibilities that they seemed to have neither the time nor the desire to actually enjoy their lives.  It was a cultural trait, Wuuten knew, the ultimate example of delayed gratification.  Paradise would await them in the next life with the Prophets.  This life was for making war.

 “You and your people are to be congratulated on your bravery and skill, Vadark.”  He made certain to address the man by his Bajoran religious title, “The rescue of the prisoners was superbly executed, but I wonder, why did you not destroy the Alshain ship when you had the chance?”

 Jobrin set down his empty cup, eyeing the foreign leader warily.  “We left the ship intact because you asked us to rescue their prisoners, nothing more.  As yet, the Alshain are not our enemies.  It was gratifying to test our abilities against them, to be sure, but you know very well we have marshaled our strength for the tasks that lay ahead.”

 Wuuten inclined his head, conceding the point.  “Perhaps I should be more detailed in my future requests?”

 Jobrin’s countenance darkened, “Do not mistake us for servants like your Tarlac and Ellora, Adhar.  We are allies because such a relationship benefits us both.  The moment you forget this fact and attempt to command us like chattel, that relationship will be irrevocably severed.”

 “I would never attempt to do so, Vadark.  We value your help in whatever capacity you select to offer it.”  Wuuten hated the obsequious act he was forced to put on for the benefit of these arrogant warrior monks, but as the Son’a were currently being hunted down and killed by the rapacious Alshain, one took allies wherever one could find them.

 Jobrin tilted his head, accepting Wuuten’s gesture of humility and appreciation.  “Your new mimetic armor served us well, Adhar.  Many lives were saved by its use; the Alshain are ferocious fighters, especially when defending their own ship.”

 “Fates willing, we will repel their advance into our space and the Son’a will be left in peace.”

 Apparently moved by that sentiment, Jobrin poured them both another cup of the cloying liquid.  As they raised their glasses, the vadark intoned, “Perhaps someday, the Son’a will stand beside us as we retake Bajor from the clutches of the Cardassians.  It is the Prophets’ will.”

 Wuuten smiled, his haphazardly placed artificial teeth making the expression more  horrific than celebratory.  “Death to Cardassia,” he said.

 “Death to Cardassia,” Jobrin of the Bajora Tava repeated, his invocation moving him almost to tears.

 *****

Ready Room - USS Gibraltar

En-route to Starbase 12,  Warp 6.5

 Liana Ramirez stood at parade rest in front of Sandhurst’s desk.  He’d been silent for nearly a minute, mulling over how severe a dressing down he should or could give to a subordinate who’d done nothing more than answered honestly a question posed by a superior.

 He finally uttered, “Would you like to tell me what all that was about?”

 Ramirez stared over his shoulder through the circular viewport where an airlock door had once stood.  The stars fell behind them as streaks of light in the void as Gibraltar and her sister ships made way for Starbase 12 in tight formation.

 “He asked me my opinion, and I gave it.  Simple as that, sir.”

 Sandhurst sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his chin.  “Have we lost that much ground, you and I?”  He shook his head regretfully.  “Liana, I’ll ask one more time.  You can either answer and get it out of your system, or stay quiet and fume about it for the next five weeks.  I know you’ll do your duty either way, that’s not the issue.  It’s more about your comfort level.”

 She considered that.  “Fine.  I disagree with your decision to take part in this mission in the strongest possible terms.”

 “Why?”

 “This isn’t about the Son’a for Picard, it’s about the Ba’ku.  And it isn’t about either of them for you, Captain.  It’s about the Cardassians, and all those people we left for dead back there on Lakesh.”

Sandhurst’s face colored, but he held his temper in check.  “You don’t feel our helping to intervene in a slaughter of innocents is a worthy assignment?”

 “Under different circumstances, certainly.  But in this scenario Picard’s going to get us embroiled in a blood feud deep inside of a spatial anomaly that prevents us from calling for backup.  The Alshain Starforce may not be what it was three hundred years ago, but it’s certainly more than a match for a dozen starships.”

Sitting forward and placing his elbows on the table, Sandhurst marshaled his patience with his young, headstrong first officer.  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Liana.  However, this is going to have to be one of those occasions where we agree to disagree.  The mission stands.”  He forced himself to relax, “I do appreciate your feelings on the matter.”

 “Do you?” was her sharp retort.

 His head dipped in growing exasperation.  “Meaning?”

 “Meaning that I think if you’d really cared about my opinion, you’d have asked for it before signing onto this job.  After all your talk of our shared responsibility for this crew, you go and volunteer us for something this dangerous without even consulting your executive officer.”

 He leaned back in his chair, examining her thoughtfully.  “And how do you know I volunteered?”

 She directed an incredulous glare at him, “I got my hands on a copy of Picard’s original mission proposal.  It asked for ten ships, and Gibraltar wasn’t on the list.”

 “Oh,” was all Sandhurst could think to say.

Ramirez continued, “And with the exception of the hospital ship Bethesda, the other taskforce vessels are all heavy cruisers or explorers that might stand a chance taking on an Alshain warship one-on-one.”

 “Your point?”  Sandhurst’s patience was beginning to wear thin, due more to Ramirez’s insight than anything else.

 “I’d be less worried if the taskforce was staying together once inside the Briar Patch, but we’re going to be scattered on individual assignments.  That makes us all vulnerable, and Gibraltar doubly so.  With our speed restricted to one-half impulse within the nebula, we certainly can’t outrun trouble.  And even with our paltry allotment of six quantum torpedoes in addition to our photons, we’re in no shape to fight our way out of a confrontation.”

 “We didn’t have quantums at Lakesh, and we survived that battle,”  Donald pointed out, immediately regretting the comment the instant it had left his lips. 

 Ramirez went rigid, her eyes flaming.  “With respect, sir, we did not all survive that engagement.”  The burning, listing bridge of the Phoenix intruded into her thoughts, and she shook her head as if trying to cast the image out.

 “I’m sorry.”  Sandhurst closed his eyes briefly.  “I wasn’t thinking.”  He sought to atone for the gaff by offering an olive branch.  “I understand your feelings regarding this mission, and I apologize for not consulting you.  That being said, I think we can do some good out there in the Briar Patch.”  His eyes sought out hers, trying to convey his deep conviction.  “We have to try, Liana.  It’s what makes us different, makes the Federation a beacon of hope for others.”

 She nodded.  “I too hope things go according to plan, sir.”  Taking a deep breath, Ramirez grasped the proffered branch.  “I appreciate you letting me vent my spleen, Captain.”

He smiled slightly, the gesture small but genuine.  “Always, Commander.  Anything else on your plate?”

 She thought about that briefly.  “Only one other matter I can think of, sir.  We’ve received updated orders from Starfleet.  Apparently Admiral Covey wants us to have a diplomatic officer aboard for the duration of the mission.”

 “Very well.  Make sure we make arrangements for that officer’s billet once we’ve reached Starbase 12.”

 Ramirez hesitated fractionally, “Actually, sir, we’re scheduled to divert from the formation briefly to rendezvous with a runabout bringing her outbound from Pacifica.”

 Sandhurst scowled.  “Really?  That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”  Then, his eyes widened slightly as he did the math in his head.  Covey.  Diplomatic officer.  Looking physically pained, the captain asked, “And the name of this officer?”

“Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, if I remember correctly, sir.  She’s Bajoran.” 

 Sandhurst rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing.  “She certainly is.”

 Ramirez studied him curiously, then asked, “I take it you know her.”

 “You could say that.”

 Quirking an eyebrow, his exec summarized, “This is Monica being a meddlesome wench again, isn’t it?”

 “Oh, yes indeed, Commander.”

 ***** 

 Chapter 4

 Alshain Heavy Cruiser Venska

In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

 The weapons officer glanced back at his sutahr, his muzzle flecked with salivation from his excited state.  “Five-hundred thousand kilometers, sir.  Still no signs that they’ve detected us.”

The Venska sat cloaked in orbit of a planet populated by the Tarlac.  The inhabitants below had been seeded by the nascent Son’a Imperium with the proviso that they should be fruitful and multiply, thereby providing their masters with slave labor and foot soldiers.  Now an Alshain warship perched unseen above a flotilla of civilian rescue ships, dispatched by several non-aligned worlds in the vicinity of the Briar Patch in an attempt to deliver some portion of the region’s civilian populations from harm.

 No Alshain vessel had yet penetrated so deeply into Son’a controlled space.  The major engagements were being fought along a front some lightyears distant, contiguous to the Briar Patch.  The Starforce had attempted a few sorties within the great cloud, but as yet the Son’a were still too formidable and wily so deep in their own backyard, and had visited defeats upon the Alshain like the crippling of the cruiser G’Shrora. 

 But here within the diaphanous veils of nebular gas was the crèche in which the Son’a enemy birthed and reared their armies.  To attack here would weaken the heart of their defenses, and sow panic and confusion among their servant races.  And here was where Sutahr Vlask R’Voss would avenge the dishonor visited upon his family.

 “Type and number of enemy warships present?” asked R’Voss, making a final tally of his ship’s weaponry on a display panel as he projected firing solutions in his mind’s eye. 

 “One Ellora-crewed frigate, Sutahr.  Compliment of thirty-seven; reading class-four armaments.”

R’Voss sneered, “A single shepherd guarding such a fat herd of meat-stock.”  He nodded knowingly to his first officer, “The day will be ours.”  The bulky transports clustered like animals at a water hole, beaming and shuttling aboard the alien chattel that were now his by the ancestral right of the hunt.

 “Perhaps you should look again, before you leap, Sutahr.”  This note of caution was sounded by their Klingon advisor, Captain Yejokk, the man responsible for the maintenance of the Imperial cloaking device that had allowed their unobserved approach to this most pregnant target. 

 R’Voss turned to look back at the Klingon officer, irritated by the man’s reluctance to let the call of the prey heat his blood.  The warriors of Qo’noS prided themselves as hunters, but secretly the Alshain laughed at the audacity of the ridge-headed little man-apes.  Real hunters relied not upon spears or knives or disruptors, but on tooth and claw, muscle and bone.  “You have found something, Captain?”

 Yejokk toggled a sensor display, enlarging an image of Norfander XII’s northern polar region.  “As we approached, I detected an errant sensor return from near the polar magnetic field.  Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps it is an enemy warship laying in wait.”

 R’Voss growled impatiently.  His cousin, a revered member of his family Sept, was Sutahr R’Vor of the G’Shrora.  R’Vor’s defeat at the hands of presumed mercenaries in the Son’a’s employ had cast a shadow of embarrassment over all their kin.  Thus, R’Voss had vowed revenge upon their foes.  They were so close now he could smell them, and the call of his instincts was rivaling that more rational part of his mind which was listening to Yejokk’s counsel.

 His muscles ached for the release of the pursuit and the kill, but R’Voss reigned in his baser callings.  He gestured to the helmsman.  “Re-align for polar orbit, Z plus fifteen hundred kilometers.  Bring us in above whoever may be hiding in the magnetosphere.”

 “Immediately, Sutahr.”

 ***** 

 Pell Ojana hadn’t know what to expect when she materialized aboard the Gibraltar, but it certainly wasn’t the sight of the ship’s captain manning the console in an otherwise unoccupied transporter room. 

She shifted the strap of the duffle bag on her shoulder, straightening as she announced formally, “Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, Diplomatic Officer, reporting as ordered.”  A traditionalist, she added, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

 Sandhurst stepped out from behind the transporter console, all stoic professionalism. “Permission granted, Commander.”  He extended a hand, “Welcome aboard the Gibraltar.”

 Pell stepped down off the dais, taking his hand and shaking it lightly, her eyes drinking in her old friend’s new and unfamiliar appearance.  ‘He looks worn down,’ she thought finally, ‘But there’s also a strength there I don’t remember from before.’ 

 “It’s been too long, Donald.”

He inclined his head thoughtfully, “Four years and eight months, give or take a week or two.”  Sandhurst cracked a self-conscious grin, “But who’s counting, right?”

 She returned his hesitant smile, the expression on her face causing a dull pang in Sandhurst’s chest.  He remembered that smile.  Once upon a time, the woman to whom that smile belonged had loved him. 

 “Last time we met, I was the superior officer.  How quickly things change, eh?”  Pell stood facing him, struggling against the part of her mind that seemed determined to replay the memories of the first time they’d made love.  She railed internally against that selfish recollection.  This wasn’t her.  She didn’t do this, daydreaming like some addled schoolgirl.  She’d given her imagination too much free reign during her leave on Pacifica, spinning what-if’s and might-have-been’s as she watched her good friend Jasmine struggle with the potential dissolution of her marriage.  Pell directed her mind to an image of her long dead husband Soyam, and the errant line of thought abruptly terminated.

 Attempting to make small talk to break the tension, she said, “I have to admit, Donald, I knew you’d be a fantastic chief engineer but I never saw this coming.”  Pell reached up and ran a finger along the four pips that adorned his collar.  He flinched unexpectedly at the gesture, causing her to freeze.  Looking mortified, she withdrew her hand.  “I’m sorry, Captain, that wa—“

Sandhurst’s face flushed with embarrassment, his hand shooting out to capture her retreating one.  “No!” he blurted.  “I mean…” his voice suddenly abandoned him, and he released his grasp of her hand.  Shaking his head, he turned and sat down on the edge of the transporter pad, looking haggard.  “Damn it, Ojana, I’m sorry.  I can’t imagine how I could make this any more awkward or uncomfortable for you.”

Pell lowered her duffle to the deck, taking a seat beside Sandhurst and placing a hand on his shoulder.  “If nothing else, I’m glad to see you’re as worked up about this as I am,” she said softly.

 He sighed, looking morose.  “I’m sorry about this.  I know Monica’s using your expertise as an excuse to play matchmaker, but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t need someone of your caliber with us.  My exec is a superb tactician, but neither of us has any appreciable diplomatic experience.”  Sandhurst turned to look at her.  “If this isn’t going to be doable for you, I can transfer you to whichever of the other ships could use your services.”

 She shrugged lightly, her smile now radiating reassurance.  “The Aegis is gone, and I’m just fresh from prison with no immediate job prospects.”  She laughed lightly at that, running a hand through her hair in another unconscious gesture that Sandhurst had once cherished but had since forgotten.  “Now’s there’s something I’d never have expected to hear myself say.”

 Sandhurst relaxed enough to join in her quiet laughter.  “Aren’t we a pair?  Me a captain, and you an ex-con.  Who’d have thought?”

 She squeezed his arm lightly.  “I honestly can’t imagine anyplace I’d rather be than someplace I’m actually needed, Donald.” ‘Or wanted,’ she added silently in her head.  Her eyes met his.  “Are you okay with this?”

 Sandhurst took a moment to consider the question, finding that he in fact was.  “Yes.”  He stood, straightening his uniform and trying to regain some semblance of his command persona.  She watched him, suddenly recognizing his strange reticence and disproportionate responses to stimuli.  Pell had seen such reactions in herself and others long ago, just after having been liberated from squalor and despair of the Cardassians’ Gallitep labor camp.

 Having reasserted his bearing, Sandhurst announced, “I’ll show you to your quarters, Commander.”

 She followed him to her feet, retrieving her duffle.  “After you, sir.”

 ***** 

 Tarlac destroyer SDU-17

In polar orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

 The Tarlac officer rubbed his eyes, taking a brief respite from staring at the monotonous prism of the sensor scope.  They had remained here, mired in the soup of the polar magnetic field for the past two days, standing watch over the motley collection of civilian transports and cargo carriers as they strained to load every last Tarlac refugee their hulls could contain.  While the Elloran frigate was the obvious guardian, his ship had been given the dubious honor of covert over-watch.

Although he could just barely make out the signatures of his charges through the sensor scrambling magnetic interference, he continued to do so, terrified that a moments inattention could spell disaster for the whole evacuation.

 The first indication that something was amiss took the form of a volley of merculite rockets fired scattershot from above by the newly decloaked Venska.  The tactic was a variant of the old naval depth charges designed to rattle a hidden enemy and provide a better sensor return with which to calibrate a more robust attack.

 “Shields!” the Tarlac captain howled above the screeching alarms, blinking against the strobing confusion now dominating the sensor returns.  Abandoning the scanners, he stumbled towards his command couch, struggling to keep his footing as the deck trembled from weapons impacts.

 “Shields raised, now holding at thirty-one percent.”  The engineer called out.  “We’ve taken structural damage to the engines, and systems damage to life support, tactical, navigat—“

 “Fire!  Return fire!” the captain roared, pounding his fist against the inoperative weapons  panel at his command console. 

 “Incoming!” shouted the sensor chief, who flung himself out of his chair and curled into a tight ball beneath the illusory safety of his workstation. 

Having pinpointed the destroyer’s exact whereabouts with the merculite salvo, the Venska trained her exciser cannons on the smaller ship, the scintillating bluish-white beams punching through its depleted defense screens to carve chunks from the hull, venting air and crew into the vacuum. 

 A chorus of rending metal drove all thought of escape from the Tarlac captain’s mind.  He moved past the flailing weapons officer and hastily pushed the helmsman from his seat.  Taking the controls of his dying ship, the captain came about and set sublight engines to full, running headlong towards the oncoming Alshain cruiser. 

 The captain’s valiant suicide run was ended prematurely by Venska’s disruptor batteries, which peeled the hull of the ship away like the skin of a fruit before leaving the glowing hulk of the destroyer’s shattered interior to cool in the pitiless cold of space.

 R’Voss grinned savagely at his crews’ handiwork displayed on the viewscreen before turning his attention to the burgeoning transports.  “Now, Klingon, you shall watch how true predators make the hunt.”

 ***** 

 The Elloran frigate fought hard and well, but it was outmatched by its opponent.  The loss of the Tarclac destroyer on over-watch meant that the escort ship was the only thing standing before the Alshain and the helpless Tarlac civilians. 

 The crew of the smaller ship struggled valiantly to give the civilian ships time to escape, but most of the transports continued to remain on station, awaiting recovery of their surface teams via transporter and shuttle.  In the end, all that could be said of the frigate was that it died well, having depleted the cruiser’s forward shields by forty percent.

 Now, nothing remained to keep the Alshain warship from its intended prey.

 ***** 

Angosian Hospital Ship Thruuma II

In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII

 Captain Brinig Uxtel navigated the teeming corridors of his ship, weaving through and around the clutching knots of Tarlac refugees that had spilled into the passageways from the vessel’s overcrowded compartments and holds.  The aging craft’s life support and waste reclamation systems had been upgraded specifically for this mission of mercy, so there was no danger of running out of breathable air, but the sheer numbers of people jamming every cabin, health ward, hold and closet aboard couldn’t help but give the ship a claustrophobic feel. 

Uxtel stopped every so often, inquiring about the well being of his passengers and attempting to reassure the emotionally exhausted evacuees that everything was being done in order to transport them out of the war zone.  Doctors, medics, counselors, and other volunteers from a half-dozen non-aligned planets helped make the transition for the frightened people somewhat easier.

The Federation had its plate full with recovering from the war and trying to secure their borders, and apparently could not be bothered to assist with the growing humanitarian crisis in and around the Briar Patch.  A coalition of planets not affiliated with any of the great powers had combined their meager resources in an attempt to at least lessen the suffering of those innocents caught between the Son’a and the Alshain.

 His earpiece comm chirped, “Captain, our Ellora escort says we’re under attack.  They’ve just lost their covert sentry and are tracking the approach of an Alshain attack cruiser.”

 His stomach clenching at the thought of an Alshain warship running amuck deep behind Son’a lines, Uxtel threaded his way through the mass of bodies as quickly as possible, heading for the command cabin.  He had seen enough war in his time.  Indeed, he’d been personally responsible for countless deaths, and not all of them could be easily categorized as ‘enemy.’ 

 As a physician and researcher for the Angosian government, Uxtel had helped to create a generation of physiologically enhanced super-soldiers to defend their homeworld in the Tarsian War.  Those among their programmed and bio-modified ranks who survived the conflict were scarred physically and emotionally for life, many unable to readapt to the society that had spawned them. 

Uxtel’s self-imposed atonement for those sins had come as captain of this ship, a vessel whose crew had sworn to make a difference in the galaxy, despite their limited range and resources.  He had elected to ally himself with people whose view of the galaxy was unique, people who purported to put morality ahead of politics.

Uxtel arrived in the command cabin just in time to witness a nearby Lissepian freighter explode, its spinning debris the result of a concentrated disruptor barrage.  Rolwik, one of the very soldiers his captain had helped to forge, manned the helm.  He glanced back from his bulky acceleration seat, noting almost laconically, “The Alshain cruiser has opened fire on our convoy.”

 Uxtel envied the man his endless reserve of calm, ordering.  “Take us out of here, best speed.”  He hated abandoning the other ships to this ghoulish shooting gallery, but the Thruuma II had no weaponry. 

 “Coming about, sublight engines ahead full.”

 The local comms channels were clogged with panicked voices; ships laden with refugees pleading for mercy from the Alshain attack.  Their entreaties were met with surgically precise weapons fire.  A Rutian cargo carrier listed towards the planet, holed through from repeated exciser strikes, trailing glittering contrails of frozen gas as it slid towards the planet’s upper atmosphere.

 The Venska moved into the confused melee, firing weapons in all directions.  The cruiser took note of the quickly retreating silhouette of the Thruuma II, and moved to pursue. 

 “They’re coming after us,” Rolwik stated with a dissatisfied grumble. 

 “Escape pods?” the captain asked.

“It might… confuse them.”  Rolwik smirked.  “They may slow to try and capture or destroy them.”

 “Then by all means…”

Rolwik tapped at an auxiliary panel, entering a series of codes and safety overrides.  Four of Thruuma II’s escape pods launched away, drifting into the path of the oncoming warship.

 Rolwik eyed the sensors.  “They aren’t even bothering to fire on them.  Not taking prisoners today, apparently.  They’re just going to mow straight through them.”

 Uxtel grunted, “Cold hearted bastards, aren’t they?”

 “Big bad wolves.” Rolwik said, reinforcing their aft shields a moment before an Alshain disruptor pulse crashed into their rear screens.

Venska’s forward shields plowed into the tiny capsules, triggering the trilithium laced tri-cobalt explosives encased within undetectable subspace shielded housings.  The resulting detonations rocked the cruiser, overloading their shield grid and causing multiple hull breaches along the leading edge of the ship’s prow. 

 “Oops,” Rolwik noted dryly, “Our life pods appear to have exploded.” 

 Uxtel frowned, “How strange.  You usually don’t see that kind of behavior in emergency escape vehicles.  Remind me to order a diagnostic on the other pods when we get home.”

 “Not a problem,” the ex-soldier replied as the Thruuma II quickly fled the planet’s orbital zone.  Behind them those remaining craft still under their own power also moved to escape, taking advantage of the precious few moments the Angosians’ ploy had given them.  The Alshain would not be disabled for long.

 Activating a specially encrypted subspace transceiver, Uxtel began preparing his report.  They would be unable to broadcast it until they’d cleared the nebula, but the captain wanted to make sure he’d properly underscored the seriousness of the growing catastrophe within the Briar Patch.  He had to convince Starfleet Intelligence that this was something worth intervening in.

 ***** 

 Captain Yejokk emptied the bulky Alshain extinguisher onto the crackling console fire, depriving it of oxygen just long enough to suffocate the flames.  Throwing the device aside with derision, he approached R’Voss’ command seat, where the large lupanoid cradled his head in his hands as his crew scurried about, reinstating damaged systems.  On the flickering viewscreen, a dozen scattering transports darted into the nearest tendrils of nebular gas.

 “And where,” Yejokk asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “does a true predator go to lick his wounds?”

 ***** 

 Chapter 5

USS Gibraltar

Docked to Federation Starbase 12

 Denise Murakawa strode down the narrow corridor on her way to Sickbay, returning from her meeting on the starbase with the chief medical officers from all the ships participating in the task force.  As she navigated the passageways, Murakawa marveled that people could live and work aboard so small a vessel.  She was used to the spacious corridors and living areas of a Nebula-class starship, and even though Gibraltar’s crew compliment was a relatively small one-hundred and forty souls, the ship still felt cramped.  It was hard to believe that nearly a century earlier this same ship had supported a crew of over four-hundred.  ‘They must have stacked them like cord wood,’ she thought sardonically.

 She stepped into Sickbay to find the pre-mission staff briefing already underway. 

Although in her opinion these people were not on par with her hand-picked staff aboard the Sutherland, Murakawa trusted in their skill and professionalism sufficiently that she hadn’t felt it necessary to oversee the more mundane departmental tasks.  Heading up a routine pre-operational logistics accounting was something Lt. Taiee could handle.

 On her way towards her office, Murakawa paused, noticing the two EMH Mark I’s were activated and present among the nurses and med-techs as Taiee worked through a medical inventory checklist.  The atmosphere of the meeting was noticeably casual, with various personnel laughing and joking as the admittedly boring inventory process continued.  Denise didn’t object, in fact she worked to keep things light with her own staff to help cope with the pressures of the job.

Murakawa completed her daily quota of datawork, then spent an hour drawing up the ship’s specific operational plans for various contingencies, including planetary evacuation and mass casualty crises.  She glanced up to see Taiee standing in the doorway.

 The regularly good natured lieutenant was putting up a valiant front, remaining her jovial self for the benefit of her coworkers in Sickbay and the crew at large.  Taiee was widely accepted as the ship’s unofficial morale officer, as well as the emotional rock upon which many of the crew anchored.

 “You wanted to see me, Doctor?”  Taiee struggled to keep her voice inflection neutral.

 Murakawa, cognizant of Taiee’s discomfort, tried to choose her words carefully.  “I noticed your medical holograms were activated during the meeting.  Might I ask why?”

 Taiee stepped a bit further into the room, clearly ill at ease with being on this side of the desk.  “They’re part of the medical team,” she replied succinctly.

“The EMH is supposed to be a short-term emergency supplement to a ship’s medical staff, Lieutenant.”

 Taiee frowned, “Perhaps that’s the case aboard larger ships with more abundant medical resources, Doctor.  However, without a physician’s knowledge base, I rely on our holograms for assistance in everything from diagnoses to surgery.”

 Murakawa shook her head, “That’s unacceptable.  You’re using them as a crutch, one that will ultimately undermine your own skills and judgment.”

 “A crutch?” Taiee echoed incredulously.  She gestured through the transparent partition towards the EMH that was still online.  She’d left it activated to teach a refresher to the medical staff on staunching arterial bleeding, utilizing a holographic victim.  The nurses and med-techs looked on with rapt attention, in stark contrast to their earlier levity. 

 Pointing to the hologram, Taiee struggled to keep the mounting anger out of her voice, “The EHM contains every piece of medical knowledge ever compiled by the Federation, Doctor.  Two hundred years of accumulated brilliance… Phlox, Darvanger, Carrington, McCoy, Pulaski… their ideas, their skills, they’re all in there.  How could I not use such a phenomenal resource?”

Murakawa nodded, “I agree wholeheartedly that they’re a useful tool, Lieutenant.  However, becoming dependant upon them risks not only losing your edge, but ultimately endangers the welfare of your patients.”

 Taiee folded her arms across her chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture.  “I’ve managed without them before.”

 “I’m sure you have, but as acting CMO it’s my job to make sure that you’re prepared to take on a medical crisis without having to rely on the hologram for help.”

 The lieutenant stared expectantly, “What are you suggesting, Doctor?”

 “Are you familiar with a 24/QPS?”  Murakawa studied the nurse-practitioner’s face, aware that her response would demonstrate just what kind of medical professional she was.

 Taiee stiffened slightly.  “Yes.  It’s a twenty-four hour quarantine protocol scenario.  It’s a pre-graduation exercise for doctors in their final year at Starfleet Medical Academy.  A simulated pathogen infects a starship crew, and the medical staff has twenty-four hours under deteriorating circumstances to identify and treat the infection.”

 Murakawa smiled.  “Precisely.  And to make things more interesting, the simulation takes place in circumstances where the starship in question has lost portions of its computer core memory.  As the scenario progresses you’re going to lose access to more and more of the medical database, so time is most definitely not on your side.”

 Taiee’s face took on a defiant cast.  “When does this begin?”

“Report to Holosuite 2 with these people at 13:00 hours.”  The doctor handed Taiee a padd containing the names of eight of the ship’s medical personnel selected at random.

 Taiee turned to leave, pausing on the threshold.  “Has Captain San—“

Murakawa replied curtly, cutting off Taiee’s line of inquiry.  “The captain has already approved this training, Lieutenant.”  She directed her most confident smile at the nurse.  “Despite what you may think, this isn’t a punishment, or me trying to grind you down.  You’re a good CMO, but you could be better.  I’d like you to see for yourself what you’re capable of.”

Taiee left without another word, deep in thought and succumbing to a growing sense of anxiety.

 *****

 Alshain Heavy Cruiser Venska

In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII

 Captain Yejokk looked on with obvious distaste as Sutahr R’Voss placed the targeting reticule directly over the central urbanized area of the Tarlac colony on the surface.  Drawing his lips back, R’Voss exposed his glistening teeth to the Klingon officer.  “You disapprove, Captain?”

 “Slaying your enemies in battle is one thing, Sutahr.  Slaughtering the helpless from orbit may be effective, but it is not the way of the warrior.” 

 “What would you have me do, Klingon?”  R’Voss brought himself to his full bipedal height, though his species was equally comfortable moving on either two or four limbs.  “They are the foot soldiers of my enemy.  If I leave them, they and future generations might take the lives of my kin in battle.”  His smile became ever more predatory.  “Besides, they are only Tarlac.  If it had not been for the Son’a’s interference, these creatures would still be drawing on cave walls with charcoal.  Instead, they have warships and phasers and swear allegiance to their Son’a masters.”

 Yejokk stepped forward.  “Beam down, and engage them in person, Sutahr.  I do not object to your killing them, but at least show them the respect of looking them in the eye as the deed is done.  Give them a chance to defend themselves as men, to die on their feet.”

Snuffling with laughter, R’Voss’ ears twitched in an Alshain approximation of a head shake.  “Sometimes I find it difficult to believe your people overcame the Dominion, Captain.  Your antiquated code of honor belongs to an age where men fought one another with bows and swords.”

 Yejokk’s cold smile was tinged with irony, “Perhaps, but it serves us.”

Turning to complete the targeting process, R’Voss aimed the Son’a manufactured isolytic subspace weapon at the planet’s surface, targeting the two-hundred thousand plus inhabitants of the world’s capitol city.  “It will appear that the Son’a, fearing that this planet would fall into our hands, decided to cleanse it with fire rather than allow the Tarlac to live under Alshain rule.”

 “I’m curious.  Exactly how did such weaponry fall into your hands, Sutahr?”

 R’Voss grinned fiercely, “Their arms depot at Wuan’bado was the target of our first attack against the Son’a Imperium.  We took possession of a cache of these devices.”

 “Use of such armaments is a flagrant violation of the second Khitomer Accords,” Yejokk offered, his tone carefully impartial, “to which the Alshain are a signatory.”

 The Alshain captain turned to look at his Klingon counterpart.  “As is your covertly providing cloaking technology to our government.”

 Yejokk found himself returning the Alshain’s toothy smile.  “An excellent point, Sutahr.”  He moved to a vantage point offering a better view of the main screen.  “Do we know what effect this weapon will have on a planetary body?”

R’Voss released control of the weapons console to his tactical officer, moving to sit in his command chair.  “In fact I have no idea.”  Glancing sidelong at his Klingon advisor, the sutahr said, “Let us find out together, shall we?”

 ***** 

 Eiayna City, Tarlac colony Norfander XII

Ancient Tarlac myth told of a Judgment Day, a day on which the demons of old would tear the sky asunder and boil the seas.  Although the threat of attack by the Alshain had spurred much of the population to near panic, few would have believed that the day to end all days would have arrived on this day.

The isolytic weapon detonated some thirty kilometers above the city, causing a subspace shear and sending out a shockwave measuring at over one-hundred isotons.  Just seconds prior to the overpressure wave annihilating the city, the subspace wave front swept across the surface, a bizarre confluence of energies forcibly pushing peoples’ consciousness out of their bodies.  Each and every one of the Tarlac witnessed the demise of their physical forms from a surreal out-of-body perspective.  Then the overpressure front pulverized the entire continent and blasted the seas in that hemisphere into superheated steam.

 The Venska witnessed the death of Norfander XII as the ship thrust away from the stricken world at half-impulse.   A monstrous shockwave swelled out from ground zero, spreading across the planet at thousands of kilometers per hour.  The subspace tear upset the gravitational balance of the planet’s orbit, shifting the planet off its axis as R’Voss’ ship was tossed about like flotsam on a tidal wave.

As the Alshain captain pulled himself back into his chair, he stared with near disbelief at the image of the shattered planet, shocked from its gravitational plane.  Glancing to Yejokk as the captain struggled to his feet, he exclaimed, “Now we know…”

***** 

Forward Observation Post B'hala

Aulerg Moon

The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

 The pressure door hissed open, light pouring through the opening that forced Anij to shield her eyes against the unexpected intrusion.  She could discern the form of a man standing in the doorway, but it was not until she heard his voice that the ember of hope in her heart grew to an open flame.  “Gallatin!”

 He embraced her tightly, picking her up off her feet, happy to know he had at least one friend left in the cruel universe that had so recently claimed most of his dying race.  “It’s alright, Anij.  We’re safe for the moment.”

 “Where are we?”

 He lowered her to the floor, taking her hand and leading her slowly out into a bare, cement-walled corridor.  “We’re on a moon, though I’m not entirely sure in what star system.  Some of the Son’a are here, along with a new ally.”

 She looked at him after a cursory examination of her new surroundings.  “What’s happening, Gallatin?  Why did the Alshain attack our world?  What did you and the others do to provoke them?”

 It was a perfectly valid question under the circumstances, despite the discomfort it generated within Gallatin.  He led her to a small lounge of sorts, though it was bereft of any windows it boasted a dozen tables and some primitive looking food replicator units.  They sat, Gallatin trying to find the right words under Anij’s expectant gaze.

 “When our group was first exiled from home, we set out to make an empire for ourselves.  However, we had nothing but a handful of old ships, and the technology that you, our parents, had abandoned when you settled Ba’ku.  We discovered races like the Tarlac and Ellora nearby, primitive by our standards, but they were easily controlled and we convinced them that we were their gods.  We forced them to work for us, made them soldiers and laborers, settled them on uninhabited planets so their numbers would grow.”

Anij’s eyes glistened as she absorbed the litany of the Son’a’s crimes.

 Gallatin continued reluctantly, “But then we came across the Alshain Exarchate, whose empire hemmed us in and threatened our acquisition of new territories.  They were an ancient power, now in decline.  Generations ago they controlled a sizeable portion of the Alpha and Beta quadrants, but their empire was now a mere shadow of its former glory.  We were still no match for them in a direct confrontation, so we decided to take another path.”

He took a moment to retrieve a hot, heady smelling drink from one of the replicator slots as he struggled to contain his grief and embarrassment.  Returning to the table, Gallatin accepted Anij’s offered hand has he resumed the difficult tale.  “We manufactured a potent narcotic, ketracel-white, and introduced it to the ruling nobility of the Alshain.  We became the sole suppliers of this drug, and we used their addiction to the white to influence and manipulate generations of their leadership.  We stole their technology, annexed their territory, and undermined their society at every opportunity.  Most of our industrial and military strength came at the expense of the Exarchate.”

 Tears streamed down Anij’s cheeks, her eyes wide with shock and revulsion.  “So, they have just cause to hate you.  To hate us…”

 Gallatin nodded ashamedly, “They do indeed.”

 “But why now?  What brought all this to a head?”

 Looking down at his cup, Gallatin said, “After the Federation thwarted our attempts at collecting your planet’s metaphasic radiation, the Son’a allied themselves with the Dominion, an aggressive power from the Gamma quadrant determined to conquer the known galaxy.  The Alshain took this opportunity to join the Federation alliance opposing the Dominion.” 

 He took a long draught of his drink with a shaking hand.  “Our side lost, and now the Alshain have set about collecting the spoils of war.  They wish to re-establish the Greater Alshain of ages past, and in so doing they’re intent on wiping out the Son’a, our servant races…”  He looked up, meeting Anij’s unwavering gaze, “…and our parent race.”

 She collected herself, holding her anguish in check for the moment.  “What are we to do, Gallatin?  Can these new allies transport us to the Federation?  Perhaps Jean-Luc and his people can help us?”

 Gallatin finished his drink, appearing to have regained some of his composure following his difficult confessions.  “The Federation has it’s own problems right now, I don’t think we’ll be seeing them anytime soon.  But, the remaining Son’a and these Bajora Tava are planning something big, something that may slow the Alshain advance into the nebula.”

 Her countenance darkened, “More fighting.  More death.”

 “That’s what it’s going to take for us to survive, Anij.  The Alshain won’t rest until we’re all dead, or until the last handful of us have been pushed so far away from our homes that we’re no longer a threat.”

She shook her head dejectedly.  “This all seems like a bad dream, a nightmare that refuses to end.”

 He held her hand more tightly.  “It will end, Anij.  I promise you that.  The few of us that remain will reclaim our heritage and retake our homeworld.”

“But at what price, Gallatin?  What will remain of the Ba’ku soul at the end of such a conflict?”

He had no answer for her.

***** 

 Deck 6, USS Gibraltar

Federation Task Force Peacekeeper

Approaching the Briar Patch, Warp 7

 Sandhurst stepped through the parting doors onto the turbolift, mildly surprised to find Ramirez inside.  “Don’t you have the midwatch?”  He asked.

 She smirked, “I do, but Lt. Ashok was determined that I needed to see firsthand the adjustments he’d made to the impulse engines to decrease the likelihood of our overheating the impulse manifolds once we’re in the Briar Patch.” 

The captain nodded, “Well, we’re seeing improvements in that respect.  On Enterprise’s last visit they were restricted to one-third impulse.  With the assistance of the SCE we can now achieve half-impulse, maybe better.”