Cptn Corizon

It took almost an hour after he looked at report from his first officer before he could even speak without growling. It took at least another hour before he could touch anything without throwing it against the bulkhead. To say that Captain Ah-Windu Corizon was upset would be putting it mildly. How… how these things kept happening was beyond him. If he were a character in a novel, he’d seriously want to kill whoever was authoring it, because seriously enough was enough. Not only had primitive people managed to steal a baby from him, but a Pakled (which, to paraphrase his XO, what the hell was that doing here?) had somehow managed to stow away completely undetected aboard the ship and report for duty in a Starfleet uniform. Just who the hell was running security these days? Deep calming breaths. Deep. Calming breaths. Two hours later, Corizon finally had calmed himself enough to type up a response to the Caitain to the effect of “Just who the hell was running security these days?” A few moments later, he got a similar response from the Caitain. A few feet away, having heard what happened to his quarters, his yeoman was rather pleased/proud/relieved that he’d managed to not repeat the ‘incident’ with his ready room. “Perhaps,” she said crossing the room and picking up a PADD from his desk, “you should go relax in a holodeck… claw something…err” She paused unsure about that last remark; his momentary smile caused a sigh of relief. “Perhaps,” he said with a heavy sigh of his own. “I swear, I barely get one crisis under control when another props up…” Odile cocked her head to one side. "You shouldn't bottle things up as much," she added, trying not to be obvious that she knew about the Quarters Incident. "You really should find a good outlet for your aggressions. “At least you can take solace that the brat’s still green…one of my friends in medical said that they don’t think it will be back to normal for at least a month.” “I heard there’s a pool going…” Innocently, Odile batted her eyes, which suited her as well as stand-up comedy does for a Vulcan. “I hadn’t heard that…” “Six weeks… and a bottle of 2358 Tarkarin Ale…” Feigning ignorance, Odile again smiled. “Hmm?” Corizon snorted, especially when Odile quickly jotted a note down on a PADD. “I just wish…I wish I didn’t have to tell the Satarimi that we don’t have the Crownstone..” She frowned darkly, the scowl surprisingly hostile. "I can't believe we lost three men for that... baby." The word "baby" was clearly on the level of some fouler insults she had buzzing about her head. He sighed again, “Oh, I’d like to blame them. I really would…” “But?” “Victria’s right… it’s not their fault. Sure I can say that the kid shouldn’t have been unattended in sickbay all I want. I can yell, scream and claw people over it…” The mental image thrilled Odile, but she had the presence of mind to hide it with a well placed nod. Though she’d not come out and say it, she was rather concerned for Corizon, and a weensy bit protective. “I’m sure they’ll understand…they have children after all, right?” “Oh I don’t think they’ll be angry with us…” “They’d better not be,” she said, slightly terser than she’d intended. “...I mean…” A small smile creped through the gloom on Corizon’s face; he had to admit, he’d not really been thrilled at the idea of having a full-time Yeoman, but at least they stuck him with a good one. Unlike some people, he rather appreciated the unique perspective Xenexians brought to the table. Odile took another stack of PADD’s from his desk and placed them on the cart to carry down to her own workspace to finish. “I wasn’t joking Captain,” she said. “You really should go relax or something… I can handle all this paper work for you…” He smiled. “I will, but I need to finish this report first, and then meet with the Commander to decide what we’re doing with Security and that… that Pakled.” “Then you’re going to rest?” It really wasn’t a question. "You should replicate Xenex. It's not the best representation..." Her nose wrinkled slightly. "It looks more like the Sahara than the Pit... but it's good for... stress relief." “Yes, I am going to spend the next week ‘off duty.’’ “Oh good! It’s about time!” Odile didn’t mean to sound so happy and then instantly flushed. “I mean… I didn’t mean… you know…” “Yes,” he chuckled. “I know what you meant… you just want me out of my office so you can raid the booze supply.” Odile somehow managed to flush an even darker shade. “I… I…”

To: Personnel Office Starfleet Command, Earth From: Captain Ah-Windu Corizon U.S.S. Excalibur, NCC-2004-C Re: Kallah Ramson -------------------------------------------------------------- This communique is to serve as notice that effective Stardate 0810.05, Lieutenant Kallah Ramson has been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Commander. This decision comes after extended review of her service and dedication to the U.S.S. Excalibur. It is a pleasure to have such a capable officer aboard and I sincerely hope we will profit from her assistance in the future.

The doors had no more than closed behind sickbay when his communicator chirped. “Go ahead.” “Captain,” JoNs said. “The Ziers are getting restless..” “Let them know I just spoke with Doctor Tamoris, he reports that Julie is doing well and should be ready for them to see in the next hour.” “Of course, Captain. I'll let them know.” “Was there anything else?” “No, sir.” “Very well then,” he said. “I'll be in my quarters if anything comes up.” “Aye,” the Caitian said. “JoNs out.” Corizon smiled slightly and headed towards the nearest turbolift. No offense intended to Commander Teykier, but he was pleased to have the Caitian back in action. The lift doors slid shut. “Deck three.” The humming had barely started when another chirp from his communicator caused the Dameon to growl slightly before hitting his badge. “Corizon here.” “Good to hear your voice Captain,” Major Cloud Makisu said. “I think that's my line, Major.” The chuckle from the Dachlyd echoed as the lift came to a halt. “We're still going through de-con, but you should have my report within the hour.” “Excellent.” “Though,” Makisu said, the cheer in his voice quickly drying out. “The casualty report will take me a little longer.” “Casualty report?” “We lost three men, sir.” Corizon stopped in the middle of the hallway, closing his eyes and holding back a more emotional response. “Dammit.” “They were good men.” “Of course,” Corizon said. “Get in touch with Mister K'hal on the bridge... we'll arrange a memorial for them.” “Thank you Captain.” “Thank you, Major. If I'd known, I would have already been down there.” “I understand Captain,” Cloud said. “Don't you worry about us. We're marines afterall.” Corizon smiled in spite of himself and resumed walking. “If you need anything...” “I expect a very strong drink.” “I think that can be arranged.” “Thanks, Makisu out.” Bloody hell. Corizon turned the corner and entered his darkened quarters, half expecting the vampire to be waiting for him. He wasn't sure to be relieved or not when she was no where to be seen, regardless he flopped down on the leathery couch with a thud. “Three more men,” he said aloud. “How many more people am I going to lose on this quest? And for what?” He ran his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh. “Damnit.” The sudden, crashing realization that the entire trip to this godforsaken planet had been utterly useless hit him with the force of a warp core breach. He'd been so focused on getting the infant back that he'd failed to register that if they didn't get the crownstone back, that the entire mission was likely over. They would have to return to Camelot without their prize. “We finally get a decent lead, after three months... and all we have to do is take it from a bunch of ... of.. primitive ...” His rant digressed into an increasingly difficult to translate string of growls, barks and one can only assume obscenities. Suddenly, overwhelmed, he launched from the couch and turned over the coffee table, emptying its contents onto the floor. That was just the beginning; ten minutes later and the entire room looked as if a plasma storm had raged through. In the midst of the rubble, panting, claws extended Corizon stood, his raging bolero building into a scream. The scent of blood caught his attention. It was his. A piece of glass protruded from his hands, but all the adrenaline numbed the pain. Fighting back his urges, he took a deep breath and removed the offending piece of glass and licked lightly at the wound. “Damnit...”

Tiny rocks that had once made up the system called Salin parted in the wake of the two white-hulled vessels baring the Federation flag -- the Saladin and the Cavendish. Where a brilliant and thriving system had once existed, the small marbles of volcanic rock remained as the only evidence. Aboard the Saladin the masters of the two vessels sat combing through reports from their combined science staffs and the efforts of several dozen scientists at Camelot and in the Alpha quadrant. None of them seemed pleasing. “The whole damned situation is vexing,” Captain Jai Harom-Kell of the Saladin said. “Yes,” Captain Renee Yvves-Maunier said as she placed another PADD down and began on another. “In all my years I’ve not seen something quite like this.” “Oh?” “Usually, you expect to see some sort of sign as to why a star breaks up, not to mention that the wave pattern is so ungodly unlike anything I’ve ever ran across… even the subspace theorists will be raising their brows over this…” “If they ever hear about it,” Harom-Kell said disparagingly. Yvves-Maunier nodded, her unspoken agreement obvious. “I wish I knew what had done this,” she said furrowing her brows. “If we had some sort of frame of reference, something to go from…” -- Commander Gragogin 147 sat quietly sipping hish tea as the shuttle Thomas Aquinas headed into orbit of the planet Avalon and headed towards the a research base on the planet. Above him, Columbia drifted quietly in the docking berths of the dry-dock of Camelot Station, approximately 120 light-years from the Gamma Quadrant terminus of the wormhole. A sudden, fleeting moment of disembodiment came over hir and an eerie sense of deja vu kicked in, as if someone had just walked on hish grave. S/he blinked for a moment assessing that s/he was indeed aboard a shuttle headed to inspect some findings of an archeological dig in the southern regions. The assurance that s/he was came as welcome news to hir sanity; the past several weeks had been busy to say the least. Columbia had gotten orders to report to into base for refurbishment and major upgrades to bring them in-line with the Iowa-subclass of Sovereign-class vessels. That, as the Admiral had dryly put it hadn't came as such a surprise, the location for the refit, on the other hand, was 'interesting.' Here they were, deep in the heart of Dominion space and there was a major Federation (along with Romulan and Klingon) space station orbiting a rapidly colonizing planet with one of the largest communications arrays ever built. All of this happening while the Dominion attempted to recover from a year-long war with an ancient, powerful and downright scary Empire that, like the Dominion, found itself fractured and enveloped in its twilight. The shuttle dipped into Avalon's misty atmosphere and began its descent towards the primary base. The Hermat sighed happily, shrugging off the nagging feelings that some part of hir had just been violently, surgically ripped away. -- It was a quite morning on the bridge of the Cape Horn. The Steamrunner-class starship had just made its first mapping pass of the Gobiean Cluster and had begun circling for a second, more detailed scan. She’d been dispatched originally for a much shorter mission of surveying a handful of systems, however, at the insistence of its captain, Starfleet had approved a six-month in-depth survey of those systems, with the option of extending the stay another six-months. The aforementioned captain, Commander Arturias Rex, sat looking over the initial scans a bemused smirk on his face. It felt good to actually be out exploring, not just running supplies and smacking local thugs around. So far the Gobiean Cluster has proved to be exactly what they bargained for, and the science team had already excitedly began sending findings back to Camelot and beyond , and the second, more detailed, scan would hopefully be even more revealing. The sudden, violent shaking of the Cape Horn that made the captain feel as if his vessel were passing through its namesake derailed the thought completely. As the bucking finally stopped, and the emergency lighting on the bridge clicked on, he crawled his was back into his seat. “Someone get the number on that truck?” A few moments later Ensign Gail Hajon responded. “Unsure Captain, it appears to have been some sort of energy wave.” “Helm,” Rex responded. “Level us out…” “Already doing so Captain, damage appears to be localized to primary transfer network, engines responding.” “That’s good news, now what the hell was that?” -- Commander Corris Sprint sat uncomfortably in the his chair aboard the command center of Camelot Station, looking with furrowed brow at the communications streams from the various vessels of the allied forces scattered throughout the quadrant. “Something wrong, Commander?” The voice was that of Sogh’a (Senior Lieutenant) BroHngh, the stations chief tactical officer. “You look, concerned.” Sprint nodded and relayed the feed onto the Klingon’s screen. “Yes,” he said lowly. “Recognize anything familiar.” The Klingon soon furrowed his brow as well. “Interesting.” The seasoned Chief Operations officer nodded. “Ensign Degal,” he said without looking towards the blue-purple skinned alien at an auxiliary console. “Go rouse Commander Blair, and find Doctor Yavin.” “Should I put the station on alert?” BroHngh asked. Pursing his lips, Sprint considered for a moment before answering. “Yes, but very quietly, no need to spark a panic. Have El’Arrain [senior Centurion] tr’Lokan very discretely tell cargo runners that they need to stick to patrolled routes, and not to deviate from their flight paths.” “Of course,” the Klingon said tapping the orders, while copying, very discreetly, a memo to Governor K’Vorlag that he might want to check in on Camelot sooner than later. “What about the Admiral,” Degal queried, “should we wake Admiral Day?” “Admiral Day is currently meeting with Rear Admiral T’Pran of the Columbia,” Sprint replied calmly. “I’ll contact them once I have a chance to meet with Commander Blair.” “Yes, sir.” -- The mist was still clearing and the frost had begun burning away as the suns of Avalon rose in the early morning. Dr. Alyssa Yavin placed the silvery mug of coffee to her lips as she stood outside the grey metallic buildings that formed the temporary home of the Avalon Archeology Study Project Base #4. Though not an archeologist by training, it was certainly exciting that her teams were turning up things that even the Dominion had managed to miss. According to the Vorta databanks, this planet had never been inhabited, yet the more Starfleet and their Romulan counter parts looked (the Klingons weren’t exactly into this sort of work) the planet, the more and more they suspected that wasn’t an entirely accurate assessment. This find was particularly interesting. Ruins of a pre-Dominion culture were interesting enough, but ruins of possible Dominion origin were… fantastic. A small shuttle zoomed overhead and made its approach too landing. A small smile crossed her face as she took a last drink of the coffee and headed to landing paddock to greet her invited guest for the day. -- After several months with a gregarious Hermat as her first officer, it would be an understatement to say that drinking tea with a fellow Vulcan, if only half, and having an ordered, logical conversation in which sexual innuendo was as absent as air in space. As such, the Mistress (though she wasn’t sure why the humans felt the need to use such a—sexually charged term) of the Columbia sipped lightly, unemotionally at the jaek tea in the quiet surroundings of the Camelot observation lounge looking over fleet reports with Vice-Admiral Wayne Day. She had to admit that the dichotomy of the two Vulcan half-breeds was rather interesting, and stark in comparison. He, or at the least his parents, had chosen an obvious human name and mostly human upbringing; on the other hand she’d been raised in the proper Vulcan tradition and took a Vulcan name. Interesting how much a name could define a person. T’Pran. Wayne Day. There were subtler differences that were manifestations of this. While his logic was solid, from what she could tell, he likely had emotional outbursts. The very thought of such lapses caused a series of synaptic firings that some humans would call fear in T’Pran. That, however, was an emotion. She was above such… frivolities, or at least attempted to be as much as possible. Nevertheless, he was a Vulcan who’d simply chosen a different path to logic and knowledge, and as with all things, diversity bred infinite possibilities. Pausing in her mental assessments, she glanced towards him. “I must say Admiral, your engineering staff has been quiet adequate in the retrofitting of Columbia,” she said. “I read they are ahead of schedule.” “Yes,” he said with a slight smile. “They do very good work.” The emotionalism caused a slight, unnoticeable pause before she reminded herself of her last thought. She opened her mouth the speak, but was cut off by the chirp of a communicator. “Admirals,” Corris Sprint said, “sorry to interrupt you but Commander Blair and I think you need to get up here.” The two Admirals looked at each other, Vulcan eyebrows raised in unison. “Different, yet the same,” T’Pran thought to herself. -- “Commander,” Yavin said with a smile, “It’s good to see you… I haven’t seen you in… years.” The Hermat officer smiled with a wide grin. It had been at least seven years since s’he had seen hish former colleague and at least they were meeting on ‘good terms.’ “Indeed,” s/he said. “Thank you for inviting me down…” The two hugged each other and exchanged further pleasantries before heading off to the dig-site, where busy scientists were already ‘playing.’ “I do wish you were staying longer, Grago.” “As do I,” s/he said. “You know how it is though, once they complete the refit of Columbia it’s hard to tell where they will send us.” Yavin nodded and continued walking. Such was the life of a ‘fleeter. She’d been lucky in that her assignments had been almost all stationary. She could understand the appeal of gallivanting across the galaxy, discovering something new at every turn, but by the same token she liked the consistency of the sedentary. She opened her mouth to comment on something when the annoying chirp of communicator interrupted her. “Just a second Grago… I swear I am going to throw this thing in the river one day…” S/he smiled. “I know the feeling.” Smirking, Yavin flipped her brown-red hair to one side and hit the communicator. “Yavin here, go ahead.” “Commander,” the young voice of what she could only assume was an ensign said. “I am sorry to interrupt you, bit Commander Sprint and Blair require your presence aboard Camelot.” Chewing at her lip she acknowledged and let him she’d be up shortly. The comm closed and she looked sidelong over to her Hermat companion would rather interested. “I hate it when they do that…” “Call you away from spending time with little ole’ hish?” “No,” she grinned. “Call me ‘Commander.’” Gragogin 147 feigned hurt, “Oh, right.” “Oh shut up,” she said pretending to smack hir. “Why don’t you just tag-along.” “Sounds exciting.” “I’ve learned that in this quadrant,” she said. “Exciting can sometimes also mean dangerous or deadly.”

She sniffed again. It smelled funny. Wort, Bogart Auntie and Raidmistress looked at the 'present' her idiot son had brought back from his raid on the Excaelyburr with mild displeasure and hint of annoyance, he at least could have had the decency to steal something she could wear. Granted, as her inner hedonist was quick to point out, the baby did have enough skin to make a nice clutch bag or a wallet. Though it would need tanned and dyed a decent color – that ugly pink was soo last season. (Mostly because it clashed with her skin tone, pink and green... ewww.) At the very least, though, he could have picked something the Excaelyburr and its menagerie-esque crew actually wanted enough to come ask for it back – for a decent price. True, she did have reservations about accepting the 'gift' in the first place, and wasn't entirely sure she wanted the war-dog and his panther prowling around if they were in cahoots with those moron cloud-minders who'd never quite got over that she'd won. Side-long, she glanced over to her 'prize' and smiled. Well at least she'd still have that. If the war-dog and his fancy ship did come looking for the baby and somehow survived navigating the Thicket, she doubted he'd have enough to buy both from her. Doubted? Knew. For the kid she'd ask for plenty... Her train of thought derailed as it started crying... or something and managed to somehow smell worse. Oh good Bogart Mothers. She frowned deeply and looked to her perfectly manicured nails, then to the mess it had made of itself. No. way. in. hell. “Bek! Hork! Nok! Get your green, dirty rear-ends in here now!” The three young-ish Boganary children clamored quickly and promptly into Auntie's room, each unsure exactly why they were there, but each prepared with a perfectly good excuse for whatever mischief she was going to bawl them out over. Presenting themselves in good, well-ordered (if not vile and dirty from playing in the swamps) fashion the three of them tried to ignore the awful smell coming from behind Auntie as best they could, wondering if it had been some new perfume Galik had brought her that just didn't mesh well with her natural musk. Finally, in unison they spoke. “Yes, Auntie?” Wort looked them over, finding them, despite herself, disgustingly cute. She glanced back at her 'present' that had finally shut-up. Mine are so much cuter. Smiling, she returned her glance to her three children. “Auntie has a job for you...” Surprised, they blinked, wondering what they'd done to deserve such pun... responsibility. “You do?” “Yes,” Wort said with a wide, toothy grin that belayed mischief. “Galik's present for me is... well ... I need you three to be very careful with it and keep it out of my hair till I am ready for it. It also needs cleaned.” “Like, for eating?” Bok, the most vocal of the three said, obviously bouncy about eating something young and tender. She considered for a moment before responding, “Perhaps, but not yet. I just need you three to bathe it, like you would your umammi's when they've been playing in the swamps with you.” They nodded, though clearly excited that Auntie trusted them with such an important gift. “And after we clean it? Then what, Auntie?” “Then you can take it to your room and I don't know... keep it busy. It does seem to be awful dense, I suppose those huomans aren't the brightest things around. Keeping it amused should be within even your abilities.” The trio bounced happily and removed the stinky thing from it's soiled surroundings and headed off to boil a pot of water for cleaning. They liked new toys. Yes. New toy. Bounce. Children, Wort sighed. Why would anyone want one in the first place. She just hoped that one would fetch a decent price, or was tasty.

Corizon sat in the ready room in darkness. That could have gone better. He was trying to recount when the last time he'd lost his temper on the bridge to one of his own crew members had been and failed miserably. The man had a sharp memory, and while he'd occasionally barked at the crew, pardon the pun, he'd never wanted to claw them. What had caused the flare up was actually the most troubling part. Had it been that junior officers were being sarcastic and arguing with the Captain as if they were equal? Possibly. Perhaps it was the role-reversal. Corizon for a change didn't want fly in guns blazing, but wanted to achieve some modicum of a peaceful solution and was met with stiff resistance by many of the same people who either behind his back or to his face made crass remarks about him being 'gun-happy.' A long, deep sigh escaped him as he lay on the maroon leathered couch of the ready room with a cloth over his face. So much for having a good relationship with the crew. Now, not only was he a gun-toting , erratic Captain with a history in the dark side of the fleet, but he was an ass. Oh this was going to be a fun mission. Which brought about the main crux—how the hell did they solve the current issue? There was no solution being offered forth that didn't carry risk either to the ship, the child, or both. If they went in guns blazing, the Boganary could decide the kid wasn't worth it and kill the kid, or worse they beat the Excalibur. It was unthinkable thought to be sure, but even with every support craft aboard the ship fight off more than 5-6 of those ships and god only knew how many they'd have. Nor did they have the intelligence to insert a stealth team. There was a suggestion to steal a Boganary ship, Corizon wasn't sure what that would do beyond giving them another dangerous task.. (Even with a cloak, stealing a ship isn't as easy as taking candy from a baby.) Information they gained would be useful, sure, but not enough to justify the risks of capturing a ship. And then there was the peaceful solution, which banked on the greed of the Boganary and Auntie Wort. There was not telling if once they approached the system, if a dozen or so Boganary ships would jump them and well, boom is never a good thing. Now, alternately there was the advantage that the cloak (and he wasn't even going to touch legal issues there) could give them enough stealth to approach the planet and ask for the kid back, but there was still no guarantee of them not going boom as soon as they decloaked. Again with the risk.. Irony abounded; Corizon was the risk taker. Well at least, he was willing to make choices that needed to made to accomplish a mission. Why then could he not sort out which amazingly awful plan and go with it; why was he doing double and triple takes and engaging in an argument with his junior officers about it? Perhaps it was the continued questioning of his own judgment that seemed to only lead to worse problems? His head hurt. No mater how long he lay around asking the questions forming in his head, he'd not be any closer to a solution to the problem at hand: get the baby back, and if possible the crownstone. The next thought was that his eye-lids were heavy. Very. Heavy.

It had been a long day and Felix settled into his bunk with a heavy sigh. Leave had been cut short way too early; didn't it always though? The sandy-brown haired human sighed again and looked over to the mess of clothing, PADDs and bottles of bloodwine that decorated the floor of his and petty officer James Moroial's two person room. He was lucky his department head didn't get to upset about silly things like keeping cleanly rooms, other wise the two human males would be on constant PT duty. Shifting his weight, he turned over on his side and glanced at the digital display on the dresser. Ugh. Even if he got to sleep now, he'd only have a few hours before the voice of the computer – could they not find something more pleasantly toned? -- started the wake up call. And then it would start all over again. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. After leaving Deep Space Nine the maintenance crew had quickly gotten their assignments – which weren't too awful – but the week-long layover at Camelot Station had broken the routine so thoroughly that going back to it was almost unbearable. Especially on an older ship like Vergniaud that'd been through quite a bit in her long service. You would have thought that the starbase engineers could have started the work on replacing the primary EPS handlers for eight junctions, but no... they'd been to busy. More likely, he suspected, the Chief'd pissed the Romulan CENG of Camelot off and she'd found fifty other things for her own people to work on. He hurt all over. Crawling around in a JT for seven hours would do that you. He didn't even want to think about how swore he'd be tomorrow.

Mission Brief: Excalibur has caught up to the fighters and the piece of hull the Boganary left behind. We're just on the edge of the Thicket, which on closer inspection, is about as fun looking as the Briar Patch and the Badlands combined. 072008.txt

"Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life...." ~ Genesis, Chapter 3, 23-24 Weyoun sat quietly, emotionless as the transport lurched to warp beneath him. He'd journeyed so far to once again be in the presence of the Female Changeling, his god. Yet, he'd come no closer to the answers he'd so desperately desired. Vorta did not have what most humanoids would consider parents, they were clones after all; however, he'd always considered the Female Changeling to be more than just his god – she was his mother. It was she who'd given him life, she who'd led him through so much trial and strife, and she who provided constant wisdom for him so that he might please the gods and earn his life. Suddenly, he understood so much better the feeling, the rush that it must give the Jem'Hadar when they connected a vial of White and felt the very breath of the gods course through their bodies. It was in deed true that for the Vorta, the White was the instruction of the Founders. They had been breed to serve, but without masters, without their gods they starved in painful, guilt ridden withdrawal. Unlike the Jem'Hadar though, they could physically live without the 'white' of the Founder's Guidance. Perhaps that is why it had been so... painful to endure. Now as the Earth and the only true Founder that could give him guidance shrank in the distance, he felt pangs of hurt, jealousy and a sudden desire to be with her once more. It had been harder for him than say, Keevan or even Semil. They didn't understand. For so long, he had been at the right hand of the Gods, ever in their presence, and so suddenly that relationship was gone. When they'd reawaken him as Weyoun 10, he had many of the memories of the last Weyoun, including the time spent with the Founder in this wretched, foul quadrant that his god was forever imprisoned in; then to find that he could not only not commune in with her but to find that all of the Founders, save for the 'Hundred,' had cut themselves off from the Vorta had been... almost unbearable. Of course when the chance arose that he could see her again, at the beginning of the Scorpiad Conflict, he had felt like a child who'd lost his mother in crowded market and been found. The wisdom she had given him, the insight had been utterly astonishing and his hope in life had been restored, any faith in the Founders that had been lost returned ten fold. Leaving then had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do in his ten life-times, but it had been for the good of the Dominion. She had tasked him with the fate of her creation. She had once again placed her faith in him, and it pleased him greatly. He'd done as she asked. He found Taenix. The Scorpiads had been defeated. The Dominion was not safe. In that, he once again returned through the wormhole in failure to once more beseech her for guidance. That had taken quite of bit of diplomacy on his part. The Federation had been reluctant, resistant to allow him to see her the first time the request had been made. They'd been pertinacious in their rebuke of the second request, despite the blessings of the Starfleet officers at Camelot Station. Finally, three weeks ago they'd relented. They agreed to allow him to speak once more to the Founder in her cell at the ultra-high security prison on New Zealand, Earth. Though they cautioned that this could be the last time they allowed such an interaction, and noted that they would be moving her to another facility, whose location would not be disclosed. It actually made him smirk. The Federation was so utterly predictable. They assumed they held her against her will. There was little doubt in his mind that if the Founder so choose, which a small, tiny portion of him desired more than anything else in life, she could and would free herself from their chains and return to the Gamma Quadrant to be with her people once more. When he arrived at her cell, his heart had filled with hope as he felt the eminence of the gods once more. For both of them, it was a welcome reunion. Though she would not admit it openly, she had missed Weyoun. He was so loyal, so kind, so caring. His entire life had been dedicated to one purpose and one alone – serving the Founders, and she missed that. She missed her old life. Her people. Weyoun deeply missed the commune. He told her of the war, of Taenix and how the combined forces of the Alpha Quadrant and the Dominion and the Hundred had defeated the Scorpiads. It had pleased her that her children had so deftly fought of the old nemesis of her people. It gave her renewed faith in what Odo had taught her about the humans and gave her hope that someday she could commune once more with the Great Link without fear of the Solids. Weyoun couldn't help but be pleased. He lived for no other purpose than to see his gods happy. Sadly, he could not bring her just good news. Gravely, he'd told her of the turmoil that was now beginning to spread across her glorious creation; without the Founders the Vorta were lost, they had little direction, the people of the Dominion grew weary as the Vorta struggled to rebuild on their own, and the Hundred were stirring ideas of dangerous proportions, all the while the Founders were no where to be found. They'd abandoned their people. Weyoun had hoped secretly that she would tell him where to find Odo and the rest, surely she knew... or that she would return with him to bring order to the chaos. His heart sank when she offered neither in response. Her words echoed in his head as his transport headed for home. “My dear Weyoun,” she'd said, placing her hand on his face. “You have served me better than any Vorta I have ever remembered.” “Of course, Founder,” he'd said, his pale eyes taking her in. “What would you have me do Founder?” “You must return to the Council and tell them to decide for themselves how best to proceed. I cannot leave and return, nor will I tell you where to find Odo and the Link. Perhaps the humans will find themf or you, but I feel that even then... he will tell you what I am about to tell you as well... “It is time for my people to step back and grow. We have hated for so long. We have feared solids. We need to change, for our own sake. It will take time Weyoun. Eventually we will return to the Dominion, to our most loyal subjects, but that time is not now. You must learn to carry on in our place.” “But Founder...” he said, caught in a whirlwind of emotions. “We cannot...” “You are stronger than you know,” she said. “You will, in time become strong enough.” “But what if they turn to the Hundred?” She frowned. “They will find their leadership a poor substitute for the true wisdom of the Founders and Great Link. If the Federation succeeds in their mission, if Excalibur does locate Odo and the Great Link, he will make Eloi understand.” “And we will still be on our own...” “Yes,” she said, moving off. “You will find your place Weyoun.” “The Founders are wise in all things...” At first, after he’d left the presence of the Founder, he’d felt, and it still was shameful for him to say, betrayed. How could the god he served so diligently, so selflessly just abandon him and her creation, just as Odo had? The feelings were so dirty. Even the defective Weyoun clone had never questioned the love of the Founders for their creations, never felt used as he did now. The distance between he and the Founders gradually increased and suddenly his feelings of resentment and abandonment faded to a wanting desire to suddenly be with her again. That was when the true wisdom of the Founders had begun sinking in to his brain. She truly was his, and the rest of the Vorta, mother. It was like the mother bird who nudged her baby out of the nest for the first time, letting them fly on their own. If that were the case, it would be a massive challenge for his people. As it stood, they could barely stand on their own, let alone lead the Dominion back to glory. That was to say nothing of the fact his people couldn’t even reproduce. Though, thankfully, his people were among the most ingenious in the galaxy. They had the rare evolutionary advantage of being bred as scientists and geneticists. They would survive. They would triumph. The Dominion would stand once again as the mighty testament to the wisdom of the Founders. Of that, Weyoun would see to with his every breath. The female changeling sighed heavily to herself as the images of Weyoun faded into memory. Her finest creation, her most loyal servant. She had not the heart to tell him that the days of the Dominion were over. The time of Founders had passed into history. No longer would their rule over the solids continue. Odo was right. The time of hate had ended. It would take, for the solids, lifetimes before the Changelings of the Great Link were ready to return to the world of solids. The Dominion would crumble in their absence, but such causalities were acceptable to her and the Link. They had made the Dominion to protect themselves and they no longer needed it. What they needed was time. Odo had been wise to follow her suggestion to him; he had taken the Link faraway from the influence of the Dominion, away from the dangers that lurked in shadows. Many generations ago, when the Scorpiads had nearly eradicated them, they had journeyed far into the heart of the Quadrant to a place known only to the Link, hidden deeply away from prying eyes. There the Great Link would endure. For all of her platitudes towards Weyoun, that was all she cared about. The Dominion would fall and fade into chaotic twilight, but the Link would survive.

There was a foul stench in the air. Mmm dinner was nearly ready. Wort, Boganary Auntie and Raidmistress sat lounging in an ornate silver chase lounger with black, crushed velvet cushions that seemed oddly out of place in the dusty, wooden surroundings of the room. Skulls and objects from various raids and campaigns lined the room—her trophies. She wrapped a green hand around a brilliantly engraved mirror and looked at her figure. Light blue eye-shadow and red rouge stroked gently across her face, which was lined with wrinkles and bumps. Her long, thin ears were adorned with gemstone earrings. With her free hand, she took a small brush and patted her face with ornoroot powder for that special glow. Dinner did smell appetizing. She placed the mirror on the table and leaned back into the chase once more. “Auntie! Auntie!” She turned to see the pattering of three small, orcish green Boganary younglings approaching her. She lifted an ear and sat up enough to get a better look at them. Bek, Hork and Nok. Wonderful. “Yes,” she said in the gravely, harsh voice only a mother can use without sounding overly stern. “Galik is on his way home! And he has a present for you!” This came as a pleasant surprise. Not only had the three younglings brought good news, and weren't coming to her because someone had stolen something from them, but her son Galik was returning from a raid-patrol with presents. Perhaps he wasn't a complete failure after all. His fellow broodmates certainly weren't all that promising. Of course, that had been why the three younglings, who currently were playing with a skull or...something, probably had a different father. “And what is he bringing me?” She asked, as they quickly stopped playing and looked at Wort intently, like three well-behaved, for Boganary, children should. “Oooooh,” the said almost in unison. “Something good!” “Well,I assumed that, but what is he bringing Auntie?” “Something from the Excaelibur!” Wort looked over them for a few moments. “He stole something from that ship?” They nodded in unison. “He thought you'd be most excited...” She took a very deep breath. “That fool... now they'll be looking for him...” “You're not pleased?” “Oh,” she said, softening. “Auntie is always pleased when her children and clan bring her presents. She just worries that Galik bit off more than his little, filthy mouth can handle...” “Should we tell him to send the hoomhan baby back?” She blinked. Baby? Galik might have just redeemed himself after all. From what she'd heard of these hoomhans and this Excaelibur they were very fond of their people, and she could only image what they'd pay to get one of their off-spring back. Granted, she'd heard a great many things about this ship too... supposedly they were lead by a war-dog, a giant panther, and had... what had her spy called it... a leech? Yes... a leech aboard that worked for the ... she paused... if they were in league with them. Curses. A thousand thoughts went through her head. Had the Cloud-people became so desperate as to enlist their help? Her concerns were lost on the younglings who were still looking intently up at their mother. “Mmm no, tell him proceed to the thicket, but bring Hathig and Warthig to me as soon as you find them... we have preparations to be made.” Dinner would have to wait.

So you'd agree with the idea of it being more like the EU then?

Captain Jai Harom-Kell of the Saladin sat quietly in the observation lounge of the Excelsior-class vessel as it sailed through the debris of what was once known as Salin system. To say the devastation was shocking would have been putting it lightly. It was as if the entire system had been brutally, utterly torn to tiny pieces the size of dom-jot balls. In his years, which included battles with the Borg, Dominion and now Scorpiad he’d never seen this level of utter destruction, not even when the Plasma Storm of ’79 had torn through the Altivca Sector with the vengeance of a spurned lover. Frankly, he found it rather unsettling that anything could do this… which left the question lingering, “what had done this?” Though he’d preferred not to know the answer, Starfleet Command would undoubtedly feel different. Thus, the entire science staff of the Saladin was working tirelessly across four shifts to find out just what had so abruptly caused the end of the once brilliant light of the green star named Salin. Science was just beginning to get the first results back from the preliminary rounds of scans, which were being carbon-copied to Camelot Station for further analysis, as well as being relayed to the Nova-class Cavendish that had been dispatched to aide in the investigation. So far, the leading theories were: some sort of planet-busting Scorpiad subspace weapon they’d deployed to demonstrate their power to the rebellion, a new natural phenomena that had yet to be explained, the Al-Ucard were testing new weapons and it went poorly… the list kept growing. From his own perspective, he considered the first theory the most likely, which only served to scare him even more. The idea of such an aggressive species with ability to wipe an entire sector off the map without so much as firing a single shot was downright terrifying. “Captain,” a chime came through the comm., “Secure communication from Starfleet Command… shall I transfer it to you?” “Of course,” he said turning to face the view screen against the wall. “Put it through.” The blank screen lit-up with a familiar golden parabola before switching through a secure line process as it jumped across communication relays and connected him to whomever was calling. The screen flashed, and soon Rear Admiral Nakota Haegail’s green-blue ridge-lined face appeared on screen. “Captain,” the Hiaori female said in the warmest way possible for a species who, Harom-Kell was fairly sure, thought that being friendly meant biting your head off. “I have read your report, as has the Federation Council and the Joint Chiefs…” For a moment, he simply blinked, wondering just why his fairly unalarming report to Command about the situation had managed to work its way through the halls of power so quickly as to merit a call from the brass so quickly. “I didn’t figure that it would have made it through so quickly,” he said honestly. “The Belvidere Array has greatly increased the communications between quadrants, Captain…” He silently cursed the inventor, but just nodded instead. “The wonders of modern technology…” “We’re troubled by the assertions that this is the work of the Scorpiads to quell a ‘rebellion.’” The Grohmorite Captain again blinked a few times, processing what the woman was saying. “May I ask why?” “It asserts that the Scorpiads would willingly use weapons of mass destruction against their own people, and that there is an organized rebellion—neither of which are acceptable assertions to the Admiralty or the Federation… “We simply cannot accept that our allies would participate in such…nefarious activities. Nor do we accept the rumors of an organized rebellion by the Al-Ucard and Eratian forces.” “With due respect, Admiral,” Harom-Kell had added the inflexion as much to remind himself whom he was talking to as much as anything else. “That’s the biggest crock of hagne I’ve heard in a while. “Anyone who’s spent anytime out here over the last year and a half, let alone the last three years, will tell you both are rather true…” “With due respect, Captain,” she said, adding the inflexion to remind him who he was talking too. “The Admiralty does not believe the assertions of a few disaffected members of their society to be true. And in our own negotiations with the Scorpiads, they’ve proven to be wise, considerate and thoughtful.” Harom-Kell considered his possible responses and the outcomes of said responses and decided not to press the point any further. “Admiral,” he finally said. “What do want from the Saladin?” Mildly placated Haegail cracked a thin-smile that seemed as razor sharp as a sehlat’s fangs. “We wish for you and the Cavendish to continue your research into the incident in the Salin system, however…” There was always a however, Harom-Kell thought to himself quietly. “Yes?” “However, your findings are not to be broadcast across any unsecure channels, nor are you or any of your crew to speak of it to anyone who’s not authorized directly by Fleet Command… a list of which is on its way as we speak…consider this now an issue of Federation Security… Cavendish has been CC'd on these orders as well.” He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed in capitulation. “Of course, Admiral, anything else?” “Not that I am aware of… good day, Captain.” The screen blinked off and Harom-Kell sat alone in the observation lounge with more uncomfortable questions that he didn’t want answers too.

ENT makes everything more complicated :P In general I like the idea of differentiated levels of 'membership.' Again I generally assume the Federation not to be unicameral. Actually I think instead of the UN, perhaps the model we might want to look at is a slightly more unified version of the EU?

I tend to imagine the same version as what Sorehl describes, only going a step further. One of the big issues you'd get into with having something the massive size of the Federation that some "worlds" like Earth might actually have like 20-30 different colony worlds or more under their jurisdiction. So would they be elected from each "world" or each "race." In general, I've tried to simply keep any sort of issue with that away from my own game, because it makes my head hurt. :P

I actually generally imagine the "Council" itself to be set up much like the UN and it's "Security" council with several "Permanent " members that would be the Founding Worlds of the Federation, generally given as "Earth, Vulcan, Tellar, Andor, and Cait. (Though in ENT implies Denobula in their place, it could be possible that both Cait and Denobula have permanent seats.) Then a number of rotating 'at-large' seats from the 'General Assembly.'

What he was about to say would likely come as a surprise to anyone who'd known Ambassador Tyan-ji of Dameon. As one of the rotating members on the Council, he'd spent the better part of the last three years going to every little trouble spot in the galaxy doing 'investigations' of one kind or another. That had included a three month stay at Camelot Station to oversee a very not-publicly known visit of the Weyoun to the Female Shapeshifter on Earth, and again to be a signatory to the joint "Camelot Armistice" which had brought a temporary end to the conflict between the Scopriads and the Dominion. In the intervening time, he'd been mostly dealing with issues of less galatic importance than the 'Sorehl Report' which was currently on the front burner of the Council's "to-do" list. That said, he'd not even asked a single question during the report... all four hours of it. He'd simply set back and listened with both of his dog-like ears to everything being said around him. He achieved some modicum of amusement that few of his colleagues had any idea of his real feelings on the subject. In the general assembly, Dameons (including himself) had a propensity towards the more 'martial' side of the Federation, leaning a tad bit towards the Iron Fist in the Velvet Glove approach to dealing with Cardassia. Granted, that shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who had read anything about his people, or knew that they still harbored feelings of ill will over the attempted conquest of their world during the last war. In deed, as one of his colleagues had put it, "the general feeling of the people of my world, and this delegation, is that Cardassia should not be allowed to ever rebuild in a manner that would allow them rise to threaten the peace and security that so many fought to protect..." And not that he didn't agree with that sentiment. But the way that sentiment had been carried out had only increased the chance that Cardassia would emerge from Occupation (either forcefully or diplomatically) as an armed and hostile nation that would be anxious to once again prove it was a force to be reckoned with. In other words, they'd emerge, if the parallel would be allowed, as Earth's Germany from WWI. Or more aptly, exactly as they had after the end of the Bajoran Occupation. That was unacceptable. Thus, the Ambassador from Dameon sat quietly in his office preparing his statement to the Council. He'd not bothered to meet with anyone else on the body to run his remarks by them, he was long past politicking his way through the body, it was not as if he had any ambition to run for President of the Federation. Nor did he care if his government asked him to return home. So his remarks would be solely his own, and they would come from his heart and mind. My fellow members of the Council, I have sat for the past several weeks and listened to the debates on the issue of the burgeoning mission to Cardassia known as the Aegis Project. Many of you have broached the issue with thought and concern, and all of you have spoken with the veracity and eloquence I have come to expect from this body. In deed, you have offered a number of opinions and listened to the testimony of our chosen vassal, Commissioner Sorehl of Vulcan as if he were a member of this body, which I applaud. To begin, I would like to thank the Commissioner for his thoughtful, diligent, through and eloquent remarks, observation and reporting. I feel he has provided us with an invaluable trove of information from which to form our opinion. And I would advise my fellow members on the council to carefully consider his report when making your own recommendations. That said, I now humbly offer my own. The stated aim of the Aegis Project was, from my point of view, to create an anchor point from which the Federation and our Allies could over see the reconstruction of Cardassia. To that end, it was the unstated goal that we should bring Cardassia back into the fold of the intergalatic community as a pliant, well-manerred ally of Peace. A certainly noble goal. To accomplish it, we needed to ingratiate ourselves to the Cardassian people. We needed them to understand the value of peaceful cooperation. The question I have heard asked over and over these past few weeks is "has the Aegis mission failed." I think that's the wrong question to be asking. Largely we have accomplished our stated goals. Aegis served as vital anchor to Cardassia through turbulent times, helping shepherd the way to a new world. Cardassia for the first time in generations is looking towards peaceful solutions to rebuilding, instead of simply annexing the nearest planet not under the Cardassian flag. They have elected a government that is working to grow and rebuild what has been lost. They have survived tests of leadership and came through better for it, all because of the support of the Aegis Project. As I said, "was the Aegis Project successful," is not the question we should be asking, but instead "what is the future of the Aegis Project." The task this council should be taking up is how do we move forward in respect to our goals of an independent, robust, strong and peaceful Cardassia. In that respect, the Aegis Project has largely failed to bring Cardassia closer to the Federation, but not by it's own doing. I will not, at length, go into those reasons -- I think them to be rather evident -- I will simply say that our policy has failed to produce a Cardassia that is what we desire. And perhaps there in lies the problem that we should be considering. We have assumed that we can decide for the Cardassians how Cardassia should rule Cardassia. That said, the longer Aegis remains under the direct control of Starfleet, the longer that perception will continue. The longer it lingers the stronger the perception of us not as wise guides helping towards a strong future, but as occupiers placing our own goals and aims before theres becomes. Taking that into consideration, as well as the remarks and suggestions brought forth by others, it would be my humble proposal that Aegis continue, but in a different role. It is clear that, even though they are capable of defending themselves, a station with the capabilities of Aegis is needed to insure the defense of Cardassia. However, in recognition of both Cardassia's sovereignty and the strategic interests of the Allied Powers, I would advise that the station come under full purview, ownership, and operational authority of a joint-body comprised of the allies and the Cardassian people. In doing so we not only signal an end to the "occupation" but usher forth a new era of cooperation, while keeping our ability to maintain a strong presence in the sector. I would also strongly recommend that we include in the agreement to transfer ownership of the station to the joint-body, an "open borders" agreement between the Allies and the Cardassians similar to the agreement between the Klingon Empire and Federation. This would allow a degree of mutual protection, while allowing Cardassia the freedom to conduct itself in a manner they so chose. I believe my proposal to be a compromise between the competing ideas of a full-withdrawal of the Aegis Project and the continuance of the status quo and I would most humbly beseech my colleagues to give weight it merit when rendering an opinion. Thank you.

It's sad when someone with a doctorate can't preform a simple operation like selecting between two different printers.

Only Six months late, here's the list of *last* year's awards. Winners will be announced at next week's game. The Excalibur Command Staff is pleased to announce that the following Awards will be presented to members of the Excalibur crew for the 2007 Year. Excalibur Starburst of Excellence: Awarded yearly to the simmer who most exemplifies the Excalibur mission; contributing logs, attendance, and overall excellence in play. To be selected by the command team. The recipient of the Starburst is Victria! Crispin Xavier Stamina Medal: Awarded yearly to the player with the best overall attendance, and named in honor of former player Crispin Xavier. Awarded by the command team. The recipient of the Xavier Stamina Medal is Laarell Teykier! Captain’s Quill and PADD Award: Awarded yearly for the best log, or best series of logs; given by Captain Ah-Windu Corizon. The recipients of the Quill and Padd award are Sorehl and Tandaris Admiran! Meritorious Achievement Award: Awarded to the simmers for excellence in log writing. To be selected by the command team. The recipients of the Merit Award are as follows: Atticus Segami Laarell Teykier Dox Maturin Sorehl Victria Left Ear JoNs Ah Windu Corizon Tia Marius trLorin Mreh Khal Alexander Zier Maria Zier Nice work everyone!

I am an idiot. :D The awards were given out... I forgot to post them. They'll be updated shortly with the winners. However, in the interest of not looking completely foolish, there will be a new award given out, stay tuned for details.

Sweat rolled down his back, and his silver hair matted against his skin. The gym was fairly busy and the smell of hot bodies filled his nostrils and his heart pounded in his chest as his cross-training program continued to run. Working out was the only sensible solution for the frustrations building in his brain. His body, however, was in full protest at what was now a two-hour workout session. The terrain changed slightly beneath him and he willed his legs to work harder. They responded in protestation with a burning akin to acid being dumped on soft, milky skin. He pressed harder in spite. Finally, they responded, but only grudgingly. His heart pounded and his mind focused not on the problems of command, politics and the universe, but simply on surviving the hell its owner was putting it through. It didn’t like it either. The terrain changed again. A steep grade rose on the cross trainer, and even the nimble Dameon took a few moments to adjust to keep from falling. His brain screamed as the workload increased -- who hell programmed in a climb up Mountain Selya! The burning sensation in his legs had now been joined by a similar, though more acute, pain in his lungs as blood vessels ruptured under the strain and his nervous system cried out in organized panic. Blood rushed through his blood vessels at a frantic pace, desperately trying to feed oxygenated blood to the muscle cells that were working overtime. Corizon pushed on, willing his legs even harder. They screamed again in protest and felt heavy as lead. Yet they obeyed. They had little choice other than to do as they were commanded. They were but tools in a larger system, and should they stop… the whole system would break down. If the legs stopped, would not the heart? The heat was getting to him and the form-fitting, sleeveless, gray work out tunic was shortly lying near the cross trainer, discarded. The lithe, smooth muscles of his chest and abdomen glistened under the lights. The dorsal muscles of his back gleamed as the tightened under the stress. For an ancient commander, one of the young ensigns doing his PT thought to himself, Corizon was in awfully good shape. The cross trainer finally halted the brutal assault upon his body and his muscles gave a relaxing cry, though they were going to protest any further movement for the remainder of the day and maybe week if he wasn’t good to them. His brain, though tired, was just glad it didn’t have to consider any further matters of deep philosophy for the rest of the day as the agenda for the rest of the evening appeared to be a shower, dinner and bed.

Note: The Recon teams have been at the base for some two days longer than the Excalibur.

Giiick’jeeek’haka’ticccc stood silently in the “open space” observatory of the aft section of the G’Jak battlestar Blood Cull. “Open Space” had always seemed somewhat amusing to him, considering that the room was little more than a lounge with force fields separating the vacuum from the oxygenated atmosphere of the vessel. None the less, he enjoyed his time in the room as it gave him clarity of thought that was difficult to obtain elsewhere aboard the spidery-looking vessels. The subtle vibrations of the wall behind him reconfiguring itself to allow entrance caused him to focus two of six eyes on the approaching figure. “Your highness,” the clicking, sounds coming from the tall, slender Lepratus Scorpiad who approached him equated to. “I trust you do not mind the intrusion?” Giiick’jeeek’haka’ticccc (or as it was normalized for those species lacking mandible, Gy-kjek’Hktic) lifted an arm and motioned his advisor to come more fully into the room. “Of course not,” he clicked out, still keeping his primary focus on the streaming stars. “You have served my family longer than most of them have been alive.” Jahggg-ik’Tahkkkkken`naikkk (Jhag-k’Tahk-nk) made the Scorpiad equivalent of a nod and approached alongside the black-bodied Emri Prince, taking up a position just in the comfortable visible range of his primary visual centers. “I’ve spoken with your hatch-brother,” he said. “The situation has not changed.” That didn’t come as a surprise to the Emri who simply clicked his acknowledgement. “When a situation like this arises,” Jhag-k’Tahk-nk continued, “where none of the survivors of the Emperor are from the crown brood-hatch, succession becomes… muddled. Usually it has been resolved by the Council, but we’ve never had a situation quite like this one…” “You mean our Empire has never stood on the brink of collapse, gasping for breath and lacking a leader?” “I see you inherited your mother’s directness with words,” the elder Scorpiad noted, rather proudly, having tutored both the young Emri and his mother. “But yes. The Council could spend nearly half a cycle sorting out these issues…” “We do not have that sort of time…” “Clearly.” “Then what is to happen? Are we to simply grope with our claws and cauda in the darkness while the Eratians and Al-Ucard openly defy us…” “There is an option?” Gy-kjek’Hktic finally turned all of his eyes upon the male next to him. “Yes?” “It would be a rare precedent,” he said soberly. “But if all from your brood-hatch, the second of the Emperor’s seven, would agree to name one of you as your leader, it would be difficult to dispute this claim.” “I think the sands of Arcahanis will freeze over before that happens…” “Would you have your brood-hatch be the one to end our Empire?” “Our Empire has long been in decline,” Gy-kjek’Hktic said bitterly. “I hardly doubt we will be remembered as the catalyst to its fall…” “Perhaps,” the long lived Lepterus said, thoughtfully. “But never the less you and your brood have an opportunity here to save the Empire from a protracted internal conflict.” “And which of us would rise to the occasion? Hmm? “Cek-ka? Or Tiiiiehka? Myself?” A long pause followed by several non-committal clicks emanated from Jhag-k’Tahk-nk. He considered his next clicks carefully. “Aeiiik’Jghgkkc” Another long pause followed. “What you’re suggesting is…” “I know…” “An Empress?” “She is the eldest of your brood,” his mentor said. “She has been tutored by the finest of our scholars, she has extensive knowledge of our history, a passion for our people…” “The Council will not support this…” “On the contrary, only a few more of your brood-hatch need to consent…” “You know her better than I,” the Emri Prince said resignedly. “Can she lead the Empire through this darkness?” “I would not be advising you to support her if I did not think so…” “Very well then, you may let it know I will support this action, though I am not sure anyone can save us from this darkness.” "We can only hope for the best..."

Some of us *are* Canine. TYVM :) As for me... let's see: The Dameon's are my own, Rihannsu, Elasian and Catullan are TOS; Bajoran, Arzaban are DS9; Risan is TNG; the rest have been humans.

Darkness engulfed the forward observation lounge. It was quiet. Granted at 0200, the lounge usually wasn’t the most active place in the world, even when the ship was on standard duty. Nothing was standard at the moment, however. The Excalibur limped along at Warp 2, taking extra care as every little blip in subspace seemed to break something. What was going to be a challenging mission--scouting a rough and tumble alien base with dozens of unknown races, where law and order was only a few steps past anarchy--had suddenly become something more important. Now their mission to the base was going to be a full on layover as Excalibur’s engineers scrapped together materials to rebuild the field coils, and the various departments resupplied the ship. Standing alone in the lounge, Captain Ah-Windu Corizon sighed heavily. He’d watched the teams leave for their missions from the lounge, remaining long after pondering the merit of their mission. It was if a sudden, cataclysmic reaction had occurred in his psyche. While he’d never been comfortable with this mission--he still couldn’t quite stomach the thought of helping prolong the Dominion’s totalitarian rule over billions of individuals--the mounting toll on his crew had started to join the festering questions on his conscience. The Federation stood for liberty of all individuals, not just those lucky enough to be born in the embrace of the Federation. Peoples from across the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, some of whom had been the fiercest of rivals, had laid down their lives side by side each other to prevent the spread of tyranny and oppression during the Dominion War; now, because it was politically convenient, those same brave souls were being asked to work alongside the very people whom they’d once fought against to help continue their domination of lesser races. In a word, it was disturbing. Corizon had always considered himself a servant of the Federation. It was his duty to carry out the will of Starfleet Command and by extension, the Federation Council, not to question his orders. In the past, that seemed easier. In the past, it was a requirement for his position. During his occasional stints of fieldwork, he had to rely on trusting his orders. If he stopped to question them, he’d likely end up dead. He told himself it was better that way, that even though some of the decisions that were made, some of his actions, were morally questionable, they were made in the best interest of the Federation. Now he wasn’t sure. It was true that this mission was mostly his own doing. After all, he’d been the one to promise assistance in locating the Founder’s to secure the aide of the Dominion in recapturing the wormhole. Looking back, he should have told them to go straight to hell; but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d agreed to do the ‘diplomatic’ thing and offer the Federation’s assistance in locating the Founder’s. Morally, ethically, he still hadn’t been able to savvy that decision. True, it was in-line with the Federation’s position of mutual cooperation towards peace, and it offered an opportunity to strengthen the relationship between the former foes if the Excalibur succeeded in returning the Gods to Olympus. On the other hand, it was decidedly – uncomfortable - for the Federation to simultaneously say they didn’t approve of totalitarian dictators while helping prop up a failing theocratic oligarchy that’d seen her better days come and go. In the past, these questions were easier to rationalize, to validate. After all, only he had to live with the guilt, and only he had to pay the occasional ethical and physical price. Maybe that was why he’d started having the thoughts that were forming in his brain; it was not just him who now had to live with the problems, might have to pay a price in blood. And as the toll on his crew grew, as the number of letters he wrote to loved ones mounted, it was becoming glaringly apparent to him that this mission wasn’t kosher. Starfleet Officers should not be asked to die for a mission counter to the ideals that they swore to protect. What was he to do? He was a soldier. For all Starfleet’s trappings as an explorative body, they still maintained military tradition and duties. If you were given an order, you were expected to follow it. Question it sure; note, heavily, your protestations, but carry out the orders. Soldiers weren’t to be politicians. The moment the military dictated political policy, was the moment the door was thrown wide for the rise of a dictatorship. It left him in a delicate position. If he were to no further violate his principal of non-interference in politics (which had already been strained near breaking point), he had to complete his mission, even if he deeply opposed it. That brought about his conundrum; if he didn’t believe in the mission, how could he expect his crew too? All of the excogitation he’d done had not brought him any closer to a riposte that satisfied him. Was it enough that he had these thoughts? Could he continue to bury them deeply enough to hide them from the crew? Again the answers seemed just out of his reach. Darkness pervaded the room and his thoughts. At some point in the very near future, he feared, he would have to answer those questions, and when he did… he might not like the way they blanks were filled in.

The turbolift doors opened--or at least, attempted to open. Damage to the ship's computer core had caused the secondary systems--turbolifts, replicators, transporters, etc.--to go haywire. The turbolift doors opened fully, closed, then opened again halfway. Tandaris sighed and pried open the doors. He took a deep breath, then exited onto the bridge, marching dramatically over to the door to Corizon's ready room, an item in hand. He pressed the chime on the side of the door--nothing. Suppressing another sigh of annoyance, Tandaris knocked. Corizon looked up from his desk. He'd been expecting Tandaris Admiran; it must have been him, or some equally disaffected crewmember. "Come," he said, louder than normal. The doors opened properly this time. Tandaris marched into the room, up to Corizon's desk, whereon he dropped the item he had been holding. It was a twisted, burnt out, unrecognizable dongle. And it was still smoking. Tandaris sat down, made himself comfortable, and waited. The Dameon blinked a few times, wondering if the object was going to leave a mark. "I assume," he said finally, dryly. "I shouldn't mark down the new damage on my desktop on my damage report to engineering?" "I should hope that you have become used to your share of battle scars," Tandaris replied. "So," he said motioning to the object. "I assume you were trying to make a point?" "Naturally. I wouldn't damage a perfectly good dongle otherwise." "Then make your point, Commander." Tandaris leaned forward in his chair, fingers interlaced, and said, "The ship works better when it isn't damaged. My engineers work better when they don't have to spend their time repairing damage caused by pyrotechnical displays of prowess." "I am sure it they do and it does," Corizon said with a toothy smile. "However, I fail to see your point." "Humans have an interesting expression ... 'would you like the good news or the bad news first'?" Corizon was more than familiar with the phrase. He frowned slightly, his smile fading. "The good." Tandaris' expression changed to a pleasant, content smile. "Oh, well then," he said, his demeanour improving, "you'll be pleased to know that the impulse engines are fine. And we still have warp power. Most of the primary phaser arrays are undamaged, as are the torpedo tubes. The somewhat unreliable appearance of the secondary systems"--he gestured to the lights overhead, which had become crossed with the subspace transceiver and were now flickering in time to the peaks of comsic background radiation picked up by the ship--"is only temporary. Oh, and I had a delightful peanut butter and jam sandwich for lunch." "Good to hear," Corizon said dubiously, "and the bad?" A shadow darkened Tandaris' face. "We have warp power. Warp drive is a different matter. Five of the warp coils in the port nacelle fused during the battle. I can bypass them, but we can't exceed warp three without risking a nacelle imbalance. Also, an EPS grid overload has catastrophically damaged the shield generators for the port side of decks 2-8. We won't have any shields in that area until I can recalibrate the other generators to compensate for the hole--and that is a temporary solution that weakens the overall strength of the shields." Corizon's face went flushly white. "So... what does that mean?" "It means that I need the resources and staff of a spacedock to replace the coils, repair the nacelle, and install new shield generators." Closing his eyes, he put his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "The nearest friendly facility is...Satarimi... but it would take us weeks at warp three...." Tandaris nodded. He did not like the situation into which--as he saw it--Corizon had gotten them, nor did he enjoy having to constantly patch up the damage these conflicts caused the Excalibur. But he did not want the ship to suffer any more than it had to, and he did not want to see the mission fail. "There may be another option ... an alternative to replacing the coils. But it would be a long shot, and it's risky." A little brighter. "Yes?" "We would have to come to a full stop, then perform a complete shut down of the warp core and vent all of our plasma. Then, a shuttle would remove the fused coils from the port nacelle and the counterpart, undamaged coils from the starboard nacelle. This would decrease the total number of coils but keep a parity. As long as we are careful to monitor the warp field, we could probably get warp 6, maybe even warp 7 for a short time." "Like... how long?" Tandaris ticked off the procedures on his fingers while focusing on a corner of the ready room. "Shutdown would take about an hour and a half. We have to purge the nacelles of any plasma to avoid accidental ignition by the shuttle thrusters. Removal of the coils would take about ten hours. After that time, we could restore main power and continue moving at sublight. I would need another three to five hours to recalibrate and test the warp drive before we could use it again." "And how far and how long would this last us?" Adjusting his focus from the corner to Corizon himself, Tandaris smiled wryly and replied, "That depends on how much you expect to do. Theoretically we could operate with the reduced coils indefinitely, although I'd recommend against that, as there's a reason we've got so many as it is. Every system on the ship has been calibrated to operate with a certain number of coils, a warp field of a certain magnitude and geometry. So we could complete our mission in this area of space, but as soon as that is finished, I would have to insist we put in at a dock and get the coils properly replaced." "That might be problematic," Corizon said, a pressure forming between his temples. "What are the chances of you finding a compatible set of coils at the base we were headed towards?" "I thought about that. We can actually repair the damaged coils ourselves -- new ones would be better, but the damaged ones are salvageable. What we need is a supply of verterium cortenide and the tools offered by a starship service dock." A heavy sigh escaped the Captain's lips as all the plans they'd made during the trip so far went up in smoke. "Then I don't think we have many options. Get everything ready, we'll start limping our way to port." "Yes, sir." Tandaris got up and was about to leave when he stopped, turned around, and said, "You know, we used to have a cloaking device to avoid precisely this sort of situation." "Yes," Corizon said. "But the Romulans didn't give us a new one. But by all means, if you want to buy one... go right ahead. I am sure you'll be able to find one of those just... laying around." The sarcasm hung heavy in the air between them. But Tandaris seemed to take the advice to heart and nodded thoughtfully. "Anything else, Captain?" "As a reward," Corizon said finally letting a brief smile reform on his lips. "I have a case of Altarian whisky hidden away in the cargo bays... it's labeled as bio-hazard or something like that... get yourself and your staff a bottle of it." Tandaris allowed himself a smile as well. "I'll be sure to put it to good use." "See that you do."