Cmdr JFarrington

Second Officer's Log Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 Stardate 500503.13 "The Voice" Ever since Manticore had tapped into the comm between the USS Hawk and its rendezvoused Sovereign dreadnaught, Manticore's Second Officer and helmsman Jami Farrington had been constantly replaying the script in her mind. Zang, release your tractor cable now, we'll take it from here. She knew that voice. Commodore, what the hell was I towing to the memorial? Commodore . . . Commodore who? Captain, just release your tow cable and move off. There is a new assignment for you. Yes Commodore, releasing now. But sir, I must protest that it is highly irregular to be bringing enemy contraband into a Federation commemorative event. Zang, this is the last time I'll remind you that Special Ops is all about NOT asking questions. Now move off from the cruiser at once. I won't tell you again. We have sent you coordinates for your next mission. Now begin. It wasn't until a few hours later that the realization hit her. Jami sat at the helm, randomly shifting vectors as Manticore fled from the heavily armed Sovereign class dreadnaught and its Romulan prize. Suddenly she knew who the voice belonged to. Lenscher. But she knew him as Captain. She had met him only once, and was thankful it had never happened again. About a year before Manticore launched, Jami had been recruited by Black Ops and came under temporary assignment to the staff of Vice Admiral Gren Dejariov, Starfleet Surgeon General. While ostensibly teaching deep space medicine at Starfleet Academy, Jami underwent 12 months of intensive training and indoctrination into the alternate universe of covert operations. It was there she met her new CO, long-time friend Captain Atragon-9, and the rest of Manticore's hand-picked crew. They all worked so closely together that they came to know each other intimately — each quirk and foible, each mannerism, every like, and every loathing. They built a trust unequaled in regular Starfleet crews. They also learned to be wary, to keep a watchful eye for interlopers and for traitors. Jami's Black Ops medical training included the psychology of cults and secret societies, one of which was the KEHL, the Keep Earth Human League, dedicated to ousting all non-humans from Earth, especially Vulcans. As the movement grew, so did infiltration into it, until a Romulan faction took control and manipulated the KEHL to their own ends. [cf: Sarek, A.C. Crispin] As the KEHL waned, a succession of cults took its place, some more radical than others. One such cult was the APG, the Alliance for a Pure Galaxy. Just as the KEHL aimed at keeping Earth human, the APG dedicated itself to keeping the galaxy "pure." Unfortunately, they had their own idea of purity, the standards of which were hidden from outsiders because their cult was wrapped in secrecy. As far as Starfleet Intelligence could determine, anyone and anything that did not look or think the way the members of APG did was not "pure." The APG had experienced a waning of sorts, but had not totally moved off the Intel scope. Rumor had it that there had been a resurgence of the APG, with splinter groups suddenly forming throughout the Federation. As Jami's initial Black Ops training came to an end, Starfleet held a reception under the guise of an Academy reunion. It was there that she met Captain Lenscher. His Machiavellian reputation had preceded him, so, though she would have liked to meet him, Jami had decided to keep her distance. Lenscher wasn't difficult to spot. Over the hum of practiced small-talk which focused on space tugs and freighters rose a hearty baritone laugh worthy of Fischer- Dieskau. His lanky frame towered over most of the crowd and his musculature spoke of a man who carefully honed his physique. A mass of expertly trimmed dark hair framed his chiseled, sun-tanned face, and he moved with a dynamic grace. Put him in a toga and he'd make a good Caesar, thought Jami. She also knew his command style bordered on tyrannical, and had been warned by a few that Intel kept him on a very short leash. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Jami must have been staring. One second she was talking medicine to a young Midshipman, and the next second she turned to face Captain Lenscher, his cold gray eyes staring down into hers. "Doctor Farrington, I presume," he said smoothly, his lips curling slightly at the corners. "Tell me, Commander, why a woman of your caliber is wasting her time aboard a space tug." Jami held his gaze for a moment, then courteously extended her hand. "Captain Lenscher. Even space tug crews have need of medical attention from time to time." "Indeed they do," Lenscher replied. He shook her hand gently but firmly, then continued to hold it well past a socially acceptable length of time. He stepped a little closer. "I understand you will be under Captain Atragon." He sighed deeply and pulled her even closer, then narrowed his eyes suggestively and bent down to whisper, "Surely you could do much better." Machiavellian? Lecherous is more like it. Jami managed to sustain her passive smile and began a graceful attempt to extract her hand from his. He, in turn, tightened his grip and began a caress, working his way from her hand to her wrist, then to her forearm, then . . . . "Dr. Farrington!" A jovial voice broke Lenscher's concentration as Admiral Dejariov came up from behind to rescue Jami. "Please excuse us, Captain Lenscher." The Admiral put a firm hand around Jami's shoulder and, still talking, led her off. "Doctor, there is someone over here you must meet." When they were some distance away he leaned towards her and said in a jaw-clenched stage whisper, "I trust you've learned your lesson." "Yes, Sir," she sighed, "I certainly have." At present, as Manticore continued her flight from the Sovereign class dreadnaught, Jami turned to Colonel Claire Eason, Manticore's Operations Officer and resident Starfleet Intel liaison. "Lenscher," said Jami. "The voice on the comm, the Commodore on the dreadnaught. It's Lenscher." Claire paused for a moment, a cloud passing over her face. "Damn. I bet you're right." "I met him at a Starfleet gathering once. He's not someone you forget easily." Col. Eason sighed and shook her head. "No. I've met him a couple of times myself." Then, putting two and two together she added, "He's always had an eerie fascination for, and yet hate of the Romulans. He's very idealistic and will not hesitate to run over anyone or anything in his path." "Is he a Captain? Admiral?" asked Engineering Chief Garnoopy. "Last I heard he had just been promoted to Admiral," said Claire. "Last *I* heard, he was busted down to Commodore," said Admiral Atragon, with more than a little satisfaction. Col. Eason nodded. "That's highly possible Admiral. He's constantly being promoted and demoted." Lt Cmdr Farron, Manticore's Chief Science Officer, had been listening. "The Romulans we encountered a year ago knew we were there after receiving an illegal Federation device that could track our ship's cloaked movement," she said. "It is reasonable to assume that dreadnaught has the same technology, or perhaps even better. You think we have a runaway Admiral running one of the most powerful ships we've ever seen? With the cloaked Romulan vessel, did he want the Romulans to be accused for the bomb?" "Think about it," interjected Garnoopy. "If we think the Romulans blew up a ship, who would we attack?" Ship's Counselor Margaux Roget had been listening and finally spoke up. "He can't be working alone. No one with that size of ship, the those resource needs, can work alone." Atragon shifted his weight in the command chair and took a deep breath, something he did habitually before speaking. The bridge fell silent. "I'm not scared if he's working alone," Atragon said slowly. "I'm scared if he's working within the system."

"A Question of Trust" Lt Cmdr Christie Farron & Cmdr Jami Farrington USS Manticore NCC 5852 The most stressful time of war is not the battle itself, but the lull beforehand, the endless waiting in the bunker, the hours of sitting still in a marsh or creeping through the underbrush towards the enemy, finally bringing him into your cross hairs and then lying motionless, barely breathing, staving off hunger, exhaustion, and bodily functions, waiting. Endlessly waiting for the opportune moment. Waiting for the order to proceed. Now Manticore waited, after stalking her prey from Wolf 359 to . . . to where? A remote nondescript location in space. To wait. Cloaked. Silent. All unnecessary machinery shut down, all unnecessary movement curtailed, the very life of the crew put on hold. Waiting. Few aboard the Manticore understood the stress of waiting better than its second officer, Cmdr Jami Farrington, who had based her medical career on the study of deep space and its physical and mental effects on military personnel. After a certain point the sharpness needed for instant, accurate assessments and split-second decisions became dull. Mistakes were made. Lives were lost. Waiting. Manticore had been sent to Wolf 359 to monitor ship movements and help assure the safety of nearly half the ships of Starfleet assembled to commemorate the battle that took place there 20 years ago. During their routine patrol they had discovered the USS Hawk towing a cloaked object — a booby-trapped Romulan vessel, its Romulan crew in stasis, and the bomb aboard powerful enough to destroy everything within 20,000 km. Chief Engineer Garnoopy had succeeded in disarming the bomb, but not before tension aboard the Manticore rose to near intolerable levels. Jami Farrington had been in command during that time. She became so absorbed in the mission that when Captain Sovak returned to the bridge her subconscious found it difficult to relinquish command. She second-guessed his orders and more than once responded to questions meant for him. It was clear that her judgement had been impaired by preceding events. And so, as the bridge crew began its rest rotation, Jami was among the first to head for the peace of the observation lounge, slip into a chair, lean back, close her eyes, and relax. A few minutes later the gentle whoosh of the door barely registered as someone entered. Then a voice. . . tentative, but insistent. "Commander." It was Chief Science Officer Christie Farron. Probably taking advantage of rotation A, thought Jami. Lt Cmdr Farron had performed admirably during the mission. Jami was proud to serve with her. "Do you have a moment to talk?" "Of course," said Jami, "What's on your mind?" Her eyes were still closed, her body sinking deeper and deeper into the chair as the tension of the day melted away. "Permission to speak freely?" Jami opened her eyes. This was definitely not a courtesy call. She swivelled her chair, to give Christie her full attention. "Permission granted," she said. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Farron continued. "I can't think of one good reason why the Manticore just sat motionless while half the fleet was at risk. I have absolute faith in Chief Garnoopy, but now I'm beginning to question your leadership ability. I'm just being blunt, Commander." It wasn't what any commanding officer ever wanted to hear, and it certainly wasn't something Jami wanted to address at the moment. But Chief Farron's stance emphasized the seriousness of the situation, and Jami instantly knew two things. She could not take this conversation lightly, and there very well could be other officers who felt as Christie did. Jami would have to move cautiously, choose her words carefully, and above all listen to everything Christie had to say to rectify the problem. Farron continued, "What reason was there for us, perfectly capable of saving many ships from fleets around the galaxy, to just sit and do absolutely nothing? We risked the lives of thousands of people. Because of us, Wolf 359 was about to happen again. This ship could have guaranteed safety for other ships in the area." Jami took a moment to be sure Christie was finished, then another moment to gather her own thoughts. Behind Christie the observation lounge window afforded a perfect view of Manticore's prey, the USS Hawk, and the menacing Sovereign Class dreadnaught with which it had rendezvoused. Jami stood and slowly walked towards the window, taking in every aspect of the scene. The conspicuous absence of their running lights, their close proximity without physical contact, the obvious attempt of both ships to run as silent as possible without drawing undue attention from passers- by. But what passers-by could there be in such a remote area of space? Jami began, speaking carefully but deliberately. "Commander, we can never guarantee the safety of anyone or anything. We can only do our best to prevent what we believe might happen from happening." Christie nodded. "We knew that a detonation would wipe out every vessel at this ceremony. We could have very well guaranteed safety of the people here from that." "And how could we have done that?" A simple question said without challenge, not meant to provoke but to solicit the chief's ideas on alternative strategies. "Evacuated the area. Or, better yet, just flown in and hauled that cloaked ship away from the area at high warp. A phaser blast to the Hawk would have disconnected its tow cable. We would have blown cover, but it would be logical." "And what if the phaser blast or the tow had detonated the bomb?" "And what if Garnoopy was forty-two seconds late?" Yes, thought Jami. Christie was indeed voicing a question that was probably running rampant through the Manticore. A question of leadership ability. A question of trust. What was the quote etched above Command Officer Training School? Trust men, and they will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great. ~R. W. Emerson But how much could she reveal to show her trust? How much would it take? Jami continued to eye the two ships framed by the observation window. The predator and the prey? Or, perhaps . . . "Have you ever gone fishing, Commander?" she began. "Many years ago, sir. In my younger days." "Ever fished in the ocean? Fished for large deep-sea fish? Marlin, perhaps, or something similar?" Christie shook her head. "No, just in small lakes around home." Still watching the dreadnaught, Farrington continued, "The ocean is a beautiful, peaceful place on a calm day. Slow swells rock the boat, sunlight on the water lulls you to sleep. Then suddenly, a ways off, the surface begins to boil, like a cauldron boiling over, spewing its contents into the atmosphere. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of fish break the surface, churning the water in an area as much as a thousand yards in diameter." Jami paused, then turned to Christie and continued in a half-whisper, moving in animation. "Then you know that the big fish are feeding, about to surface, looking for the best of the chum to begin dining. But you don't see the big fish. You only see the little ones, frantic in their attempt to avoid what they know to be certain doom." Christie's eyes moved from Jami to the observation window, then back again. "That big fish was a cloaked Romulan vessel with a bomb that would instantly kill all the little fish. We've also got to look out for one another out here." "No, Commander. The Romulan vessel was the little fish." Farrington turned to point at the dreadnaught. "THAT . . . is the big fish. And yes, we have to look after one another, but sometimes the little fish have to fend for themselves for a while in order for the fisherman to find the big fish." Christie paused, as though she were thinking. "The dreadnaught out there isn't on our side of the sea, is it?" Jami shook her head. "Most probably not." "But . . . its Federation, isn't it?" "Is it?" A difficult question, and unfortunately one that is asked all too often in Black Ops. "Why did we wait for Garnoopy, pending certain doom if he failed?" Chief Farron was not about to be deterred. Yes, thought Jami, definite command material. But what to tell her . . . and how much? "Commander, you have some excellent questions, and justifiable qualms." Jami spoke slowly. Deliberately. "Black Ops is like treading on the edge of a knife. One slip, and all is lost. True, Chief Garnoopy is a good engineer. I would venture to say perhaps the best in Starfleet. One is not chosen to serve in Black Ops without being the best. And the best of the best serve aboard Manticore. "Commander, I trusted the best to do his job. I took a chance trusting him, but I knew that if he could not do it, no one could. Granted, it was a terrible chance. But in my judgement . . . with the information I had . . . I felt that chance was justified." Farron persisted. "But there were alternatives. That's the part I don't understand. The alternatives seemed to fit better." "Yes, they seemed to fit better," said Jami, "but not everything is always as it seems."

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 500502.20 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 Wolf 359 "One Ping" One ping. The prearranged signal for covert away team beam-out from an operation. The term was a hold-over from the days of sonar when submarines used one ping, supposedly to verify distance to target, but actually used to send messages from one ship to another during covert operations. Hundreds of years later, in Black Ops jargon using the "one ping signal" meant sending a signal lasting bare nanoseconds and masked as subspace noise. Only minutes ago Commander Jami Farrington had used one ping to beam from a cloaked Romulan ship back to Manticore. They were engaged in yet another covert assignment, and, as was true with most of their assignments, this one seemed to engender more questions than answers. Over the past few weeks Starfleet's finest ships of the line had assembled at Wolf 359 to dedicate a memorial commemorating the lives lost twenty years ago when Starfleet intercepted and attacked the Borg in a vain attempt to halt their progress towards Sector 1, Earth, and the seat of Federation government. That day, 39 ships and a total of 11,000 lives were destroyed by one Borg ship. A few days ago, Manticore cruised casually through the fleet in her space-tug cover guise. They had come upon the USS Hawk, a Federation ship using a surreptitious tractor beam to tow a cloaked object. It warrented further investigation specifically because the use of cloaking devices by Federation ships was expressly forbidden by treaty. Knowing of no other way to investigate covertly, an away team was sent and found themselves aboard a cloaked Romulan ship, its Romulan crew in stasis, and a time-bomb powerful enough to take out the entire assembled fleet and then some. Twenty years before it had been one Borg ship. Now would it be one Federation ship? According to Engineering Chief Lt Cdr Garnoopy, The bomb appeared to be connected to the antimatter injection systems. Once it exploded, all ships within 20,000 km would be destroyed and anything within 1,000,000 km would be damaged. Projected casualties: several thousand. It was one of the most deadly things he had ever found. The initial 55 minutes to disarm quickly dwindled to 15 after a small slip accelerated the timer. Fifteen minutes still left enough time to evacuate in Jami's estimation, but it was cutting it close, and Jami had another goal to accomplish before it was too late. Something Lt Cdr Precip had said sent a chill down her spine. "I feel we best deploy a homing device on this floating bomb. For all we know the ceremony may not be its final destination." If not the ceremony, then where? Speculation at this point was not an option, only the transfer of vital information, data Jami had gathered and stored on her tricorder during her inspection of the ship. So she left the away team on the Romulan ship. It was a definite breach of protocol, but several considerations had led her to make that decision. First, if the bomb exploded it wouldn't matter if she were with her team or aboard Manticore. They would all die. Second, her presence on the Romulan ship was not needed for the progress of the operation. She trusted her away team implicitly. Then, in her second breach of protocol, Jami left Lt Cmdr Precip in charge. She wanted to be sure the senior officer, Col. Eason, was free from the added pressure of command so she could continue her work deciphering the data she was gathering from the operations console. Finally, there was the matter of the information Jami had loaded into her tricorder, sensitive information that may lead to the origins of the Romulan ship and the perpetrator of the situation at hand. It was imperative that she deliver it personally and upload it to Black Ops' secure safe haven well away from the projected radius of destruction. After a gut-wrenching few minutes on the bridge of the Manticore and with only 42 seconds to spare, Chief Garnoopy, assisted by Lt Matt McFly, had worked a miracle and disarmed the bomb, saving not only the lives of the away team and the Manticore, but the lives of half of Starfleet deployed personnel. But the situation itself had yet to be disarmed, and too many questions remained unanswered. Why had the USS Hawk continued on as though nothing had happened when their bomb had failed to detonate? Was Lt Cdr Precip correct in believing that the ceremony may not be the bomb's ultimate destination? And what had led him to that speculation? If not the ceremony, where was the USS Hawk bound? Why tow a Romulan ship? Why a Romulan crew in stasis? Question after question continued to emerge in the aftermath. For the present, however, Jami Farrington was content to rest in the knowledge that in this one incident they had succeeded. Now, if she could only succeed in getting the color to come back into her face.

Joint Personal Log Admiral Atragon-9 and Cmdr Jami Farrington Stardate 500501.30 USS Manticore, NCC 5852, at Wolf 359 "Who Watches the Watcher?" Over the past few days Jami Farrington had become quite concerned about Atragon's behavior, but she had attributed it to a combination of factors. Extended deep space duty, which could play tricks with the mind of the most seasoned Starfleet officer, seemed to be de rigueur for Manticore. Add to that the pressure of being charged with covertly protecting the fleet during ceremonies commemorating the Battle of Wolf 359, and you had an entire crew fighting off insanity. It was therefore understandable that their commanding officer would also be on edge. But this time Atragon had gone too far. He was being held under house arrest in their quarters after having been relieved of command. As Jami made her way there she considered the series of events that had, only moments ago, brought activity on the bridge to a standstill. Sensors had picked up an anomaly trailing the USS Hawk and Manticore had sent a shuttle to investigate. Since the latest technology, a phased cloak, had been tested successfully, the shuttle was to approach the anomaly under cloak, run passive scans, then return to Manticore. A simple task, except that several things went wrong. Just before and just after the shuttle engaged cloak, strange power readings were picked up in their vicinity. Static. Low-level interference. Background noise. Engineering Chief Garnoopy, justifiably concerned, asked that the shuttle be recalled, citing the possibility of a cloak failure, which could result in an explosion the size of a warp core breach and take out half the fleet. Admiral Atragon's reply was nothing short of astounding. "NOW you start jumping up and down about this, Garn?" Unabashed, Garnoopy continued, "Admiral, the phase cloak still needs to be tested, as I stated before." "AND you stated that it ran a perfect test, and we NEED it now!" "The original phase cloak ran a perfect test, then the Pegasus exploded killing nearly all aboard." "So, let's just get it done so we can get it back here and turn the cloak off, if that's OKAY with you, Lt. Commander!?" "If something is wrong with the phase cloak, we needn't risk the crew onboard Admiral. We can send a normally cloaked shuttle to do the task. It's riskier, but if it saves the three lives out there, . . . " Atragon hadn't even let him finish. Jami remembered turning to look at them, wondering how far this conversation would go. And Atragon continued, his tone becoming more and more condescending, bashing Garnoopy. "Life is risk, Chief. Black Ops is intense risk, or didn't you see that part of the brochure?" Garnoopy grit his teeth, and would probably have come face to face with Atragon had he been close enough. "Admiral," he began slowly and evenly, visibly containing his anger, "We're talking about three lives out there on an untested piece of extremely dangerous and volatile technology." "Chief," replied Atragon, copying Garnoopy's tone, his inflections, his body language, in an attitude of total disrespect for Garnoopy's expertise and experience. "I think I've had enough discussion of my ORDERS for now. Thank you." One by one the bridge officers, charged with protecting the ship and fleet every bit as much as the Admiral was, questioned the wisdom of using the phase cloak, citing the safety of the shuttle crew, the safety of the Manticore, and the safety of every ship in the fleet. Atragon's response was to mock, to jeer, then to order the even-more-dangerous maneuver of running the phased shuttle through the USS Hawk and use active scans to detect what it was towing. It was an order that no one could allow in good conscience. For the safety of all involved, Atragon was relieved of command and ordered to his quarters under guard. Unfortunately, he had refused to leave the bridge, forcing Captain Sovak to disable him with a Vulcan neck pinch. After taking a few minutes to regain her composure, Jami had excused herself from duty and was now en route to their quarters. She didn't know exactly what she would do, but she knew she had to do something. Upon entering, Jami found Atragon lying on the couch, still unconscious. Since waking him would have probably done more harm than good, she removed her tunic jacket, folded it neatly and placed it over the back of a chair. Then she sat down quietly in an armchair opposite the couch and waited for Atragon to awaken, taking the next few minutes to rein in her emotions and gather her thoughts. Soon Atragon began to stir. "Wow, what a headache," he said, putting his hand to his brow. He sat up a little too quickly, winced, then slowly opened his eyes. "What am I doing here?" He looked confused. Disoriented. Jami rose slowly, still very unsure of the situation. She turned to fetch an analgesic and some water, just about the only thing that will cure a neck pinch other than a very long nap. "Hello, love. Quite a mess I'm in, eh?" Without responding, she handed him the analgesic and the water, waited for him to take it, and sat next to him on the couch. "I would say so," she said, her voice even, neither accusing nor questioning. Forget he is your husband, she thought. Forget that he is an Admiral. Treat him as a patient. "But they just don't understand." Atragon seemed to want to continue the argument that had ended so abruptly on the bridge. Jami sat back to listen. "The Wolf. We have to destroy the Wolf and its cargo." "The Wolf?" As far as Jami knew there was no USS Wolf in Starfleet, much less in orbit of Wolf 359. "The wolf out there! The wolf in sheep's clothing!" He shook his head, as though to clear it. "No! I mean the Hawk! The USS Hawk, Jami." "A wolf in sheep's clothing? The USS Hawk is a threat?" "Jami, I need your help. I have to get back to the bridge. I have to make sure the Hawk is neutralized. You see, I know . . . I have been . . . " He dropped his voice, glancing around the room as though someone else were there listening. "You have to trust me," he whispered. Treat him as a patient. "There are things I have been told. Secrets I have sworn to keep. Even from the crew. Even from . . . you." It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Like the implant in your head?" Atragon recoiled momentarily, shutting his eyes. Then he attempted to explain, "The nodule in my brain was implanted when they gave me command of Manticore. It was something the Consul General supervised and was a requirement of command. Sometimes I look back on it as a test of my commitment. Most of the time I understand it, especially with the planet killers we carry." Oh gods. The planet killers. Something she wanted to forget, but dared not. Jami shifted her weight, still skeptical of his ability to reason clearly. Atragon must have picked up on her body language. He sighed. "Jami, haven't you ever wondered why I've never let you run a full diagnostic on me? Why I avoid Mele's physicals? The nodule is not in my medical records. But forget about the switch in my head, dammit! You've got to trust me. The crew has to trust me. I have to neutralize the Hawk!" Jami stared at him, incredulous. "How can we? After the performance you just gave?" He became agitated again, his voice rising with every phrase. "I know it's dragging a horrible weapon behind it. It's just waiting for all of the ships to arrive. Don't you understand???!" With that he had risen and confronted her physically. He looked -- and sounded -- like a madman. Jami began to lose control. "How can you ask anyone to trust you when you sound like . . . like Captain Ahab? If you want us to trust you, you have to at least behave like you know what you're doing. No one will trust a commanding officer who throws a fit every time another officer questions him. If you want *us* to trust *you*, *you* must trust *us* to do our jobs." "How many commanding officers are questioned every time they give an order? This isn't command by committee!" "The only commanding officers I know of who don't listen to the advice given to them on the bridge and WEIGH it accordingly instead of treating it like a THREAT to their COMMAND are officers who are all washed up and in an office somewhere pushing papers. Is THAT what you want?" "We have to be willing to take risks to perform our jobs." "Being willing to take risks and risking their lives without cause are two different things!" "But there *is* a cause! The greatest cause of all! I just . . . cannot tell them what it is." Jami stood there, unresponsive, waiting for him to tell her, though she knew it would not be forthcoming. "Jami," he said finally, "it all comes down to this. Do you trust me? Right here and now?" She didn't. She couldn't. "Maybe you need a little time off to sort this out." "We don't *have* a little time. The ceremony is in two days." "Then we have two days." "If we don't neutralize the threat beforehand it will be too late." "Then give me one day," she said, realizing a split second afterwards that she had suddenly put the entire matter on her own shoulders. That maybe . . . just maybe she might believe him. Either that, or she had slipped neatly into his trap. "I will allow you one day," he replied, as though he were in charge. As though he could do anything about it if it didn't happen. "And then, I must take matters into my own hands. Personally." For a long minute they stood there, eyeing each other as though in judgment. What did he mean by that last remark? How could he take matters into his own hands? Maybe he was insane. Maybe this deep space covert operations business had finally gotten to him. And yet, there was always that chance, no matter how remote, that he was right. Jami sighed, turned, picked up her tunic jacket and slipped it on. "I have to get back to work," she said as she walked purposefully towards the door, habitually straightening her uniform. "Oh, and make sure the guards stay away from being right in front of the door." Jami stopped short. Of course. One well-placed telekinetic zap and they would be on the ground, out cold. She made a mental note, nodded without turning around, and continued out the door, unsure of what she would do next. Well, first she had to warn the guards.

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 500501.23 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 "Suspicion" Many times Jami Farrington had realized the wisdom behind Starfleet's reluctance to allow officers posted together to marry, especially officers posted in Black Ops, and most especially line officers posted in Black Ops. That Jami and Atragon were married and served aboard the same Black Ops ship presented enough problems. That Atragon and she were commanding officer and second officer respectively compounded the problem exponentially. Reconciling the role of spouse with the role of starship officer was difficult enough without being a line officer and having your spouse as your direct superior. Given the oath of duty, one could not suddenly cease being a spouse. Given the bond of marriage, one could not simply set that bond aside, like so much excess baggage, for the sake of duty. The humanoid psyche did not allow such luxury. No matter how concentrated the effort to separate loyalty to duty from loyalty to spouse, somehow, somewhere buried deeply within the subconscious, the neglected loyalty would take a stand and wrestle for dominance. Such was the situation now with Jami as she considered approaching Chief Medical Officer Kyle Mele about Atragon's revelation of privileged information -- specifically Margaux Roget's cranial implant -- to personnel on the bridge. At the time it had rendered Jami speechless and flooded her with a myriad of questions, none of which had she yet answered. How did he know of the implant? Why did he suddenly choose to break confidentiality? Were there other bits of undocumented confidential information he was privy to? If so, for what purpose, and was it important? Why . . . why . . . how . . . ? The list was endless, and the questions had been rolling around in her head ever since the incident. The questions persisted, creating a profound sense of unease that threatened to make her suspicious of everything Atragon said and did. She needed help, and the only one she felt she could trust at this point was her long-time friend and medical colleague, Dr. Mele. If anything happened aboard Manticore to indicate that Atragon was either blatantly disobedient to Starfleet directives or outside the bounds of rational behavior, it would be the Chief Medical Officer in collaboration with a line officer who would remove him from command. Jami prayed it would not come to that, and she suspected Kyle felt the same way. That is, until he said, "Jami, I may need your help. I have no reason to act at the moment, but.. as Atragon's wife, have you noticed any change in behavior at all? I am truly worried for the safety of the crew." Jami studied his face for a moment, her heart in her throat. The need of the many outweighs the need of the one. Problem was, her husband was the one. Duty? Love? Which would it be? And why couldn't it be both? She made a joke, half hoping it would help her sort the problem out, but it didn't. It only made the problem worse. Then she realized why she was *really* there - not because of Atragon, but because of herself, her own misgivings, her own problem sorting out the dilemma. She had to trust someone to do the right thing, and that someone was Kyle. Then he posed the question her subconscious had hoped he would not ask, the question that had been foremost in her mind all along, but had been pushed aside like so much excess baggage. "If the situation continues to escalate, and I feel like the right thing is to utilize my authority as Chief Medical Officer, where would you stand in the mix?" Jami sat there, momentarily struck dumb, her eyes fixed on Kyle's prompting but patient look, her mind vaguely aware of the activity outside his office, a constant murmur of monitors and movements of personnel that was the daily activity of sick bay. Then she gave the only answer she could honestly give. "I don't know, Kyle. I seriously don't know."

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 500501.16 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 Fear not death, my son. Rather fear a deed not done, A race not run, A song not sung. For death is nothing more than a becoming, While life is opportunity for loving. ~21st Century Poet Ai Li The year was 2359. The place, a system known as Wolf 359, a mere eight light years from Earth. Beginning with the USS Melborne and swiftly followed by the Saratoga, the Yamaguchi, and the Bellerophon, the Federation's newly-found enemy, the Borg Collective, systematically destroyed Starfleet. After mere minutes, 39 starships and over 11,000 lives had been sacrificed, and all with the aid of an unwilling officer named Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the USS Enterprise. Now Starfleet's finest, including the USS Manticore, had gathered in tribute to all who served and died that day. On the 20th anniversary of the conflict of Wolf 359 a memorial was to be dedicated, and Helm Officer Jami Farrington would have a front-row seat for the ceremonies. She hoped she wouldn't have a front-row seat to anything else. As Second Officer on Black OPS's premiere vessel, Jami had witnessed more than her share of operations gone awry, and she had witnessed them from just about every angle. Out of necessity, she and other officers aboard Manticore had given new meaning to the term cross training. First posted in medical, she had subsequently moved to ship operations, science, and helm. Years later she would confess that, although she was a physician trained to look beyond the bloody, battered bodies strewn across a battlefield, witnessing war and devastation from the point of view of a medical officer was by far more unnerving than witnessing it from any other position. Still, Jami feared not death. She often feared not being able to keep a patient alive, or not knowing when to release a struggling patient into the peace of death. But she feared not death for herself. What she did fear was the loss of control, living without being able to control her own mind, her own body. At the Admiral's command, Jami changed Manticore's flight pattern. A touch of helm's membrane and the ship responded deftly. Jami enjoyed helm, because at helm she had total control, weaving throughout the moored ships awaiting the ceremony. USS Chekov. USS Tolstoy. USS Melborne. USS Bonestell. USS Gage. One by one they passed and inspected the new, more heavily armed ships of the line that had been christened to replace those lost in the Borg attack 20 years ago. They passed the Liberator, the Princeton, the Roosevelt, and then, dead ahead, loomed the Enterprise. In the endless irony of life, the Enterprise had been both nemesis and savior at Wolf 359. Were it not for her captain, Jean-Luc Picard, captured by the Borg . . . . Jami's thoughts broke off abruptly in a stab of realization. She feared not death, but to be taken by the Borg, to be assimilated and used, to be alive in body and dead in spirit at the same time? Picard had never fully recovered from his capture. During the battle he had been a bystander to his own actions, watching as ship after ship, life after life was snuffed, fully realizing what he was doing as Locutus, and helpless to stop. Starfleet Medical required its deep space physicians to study in depth Picard's experience and the physical, emotional, and psychological damage he endured and overcame. The course culminated in a personal no-holds-barred interview with the Captain. The memory of her interview with him still garnered a knot in the pit of Jami's stomach. In conclusion and to soothe her reaction, Picard had quoted a 21st century sage. "Fear not death, my son." Then he had added his own ending. "Rather fear being alive and taking it for granted." Rather fear a deed not done, A race not run, A song not sung. For death is nothing more than a becoming, While life is opportunity for loving.

::nodnodnod::: Broccoli. Definitely.

Strange. They begin with The Restaurant at the End of the Universe? Isn't that, like, the fifth book in the ever-increasing redefinition of trilogy?

Future Imperfect J. Farrington 05.05.00 Jami gathered the last few squash from their small garden, placed them in a basket, and headed up the path towards the root cellar. Lately she had been spending most of her time gardening, not just because of harvest, but because she found that when she gardened -- sorting through plants to decide which should be eaten immediately, which should be stored, and which should just be thrown away -- she found herself sorting her thoughts in exactly the same way. Some thoughts were worth considering immediately, some needed aging, and some should be thrown out altogether. Her foremost consideration today was Atragon. Lately they had been stuck in a loop as far as their relationship was concerned. Whether conversation began about the house or the ship, it would eventually worm its way around to whether they should go back to their own time or stay on Future Earth. That subject would lead to each one airing the same reservations and concerns they always had. This, in turn, would lead to an impasse, then hard feelings, then profound apologies, after which the cycle would begin again. The result of all this was Jami spending more and more time in the garden and Atragon spending an inordinate amount of time aboard Manticore. Like Ahab, Atragon had become a man obsessed. Unlike Ahab, Atragon probably had good reason to be obsessed. Five and a half years had passed since their arrival, and many crew had settled on Future Earth permanently, as though there would be no other home. Houses of worship had sprung up here and there and the settlement had begun to spread, with newlyweds moving farther afield to find unsettled land for a fresh start, much as settlers had in America's youth five and a half thousand years ago. It struck Jami as an ironic milestone: five-and-a-half years after five-and-a-half thousand. Several children had been born, the oldest of whom would be 6 years old on his next birthday. These children marked a generation which knew nothing of the Federation, Starfleet, or the universe five thousand years ago. Their home had always been Future Earth; they knew no other. And now Jami and Atragon were about to birth their own new generation, to add to the generation of native Future Earth. She was entering her third trimester, and, though she felt a little off-balance, she had felt no ill effects of the pregnancy. Over the last six months what began as a tiny bulge had grown to what resembled a basketball under her loose clothing. As with all new mothers, she was becoming more and more aware of its personhood, and marveling at the progress of this new life. No matter how technology advanced, mortal beings would never be able to duplicate this new life with perfection outside the womb. Often Jami would pause in awe that their newborn child would be a tiny version of a human body. Yet, there was one person who didn't seem very enthusiastic about their newborn: Christie Farron. Ever since the physical six months ago when Christie had discovered Jami's pregnancy, Christie seemed to be distancing herself from Jami. Was it a professional distance she was attempting? Jami wondered. No, it was more than that. Something was bothering her, and Jami wanted to help, but she wasn't sure how to go about it. J Farrington USS Manticore Future Earth

. . is Life Jami Farrington's Log Future Earth 04.03.21 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. ~Psalm 23:4 Two years. It had been two years since Claire's death, and yet it was still fresh in Jami's memory: Claire's insistence that the child be born planetside, the difficult delivery, that last glimpse of Claire's face, radiant as it gazed upon her firstborn, then sightless as she passed on to . . . . That's where the memory always stopped: when Claire passed on to . . . what? It certainly wasn't the first time Jami had lost a patient or a friend, but this was the first time she had the opportunity to really think about it. Here, in this place, where all time seemed to move at a snail's pace, she wondered what exactly a person *did* pass on to. She had always believed in an afterlife, but she never took time to pin down exactly what *kind* of afterlife. Eventually, Jami had returned to her childhood faith, the Christianity she embraced as a youth just blossoming into womanhood. So, lately, when visiting Claire's grave, she knelt and recited the one Psalm she had learned by heart over 5,000 years ago: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters, He restores my soul . . . . Afterwards, having received a certain peace, Jami would rise and wander down the path toward their homes, to be greeted by the bubbly antics of a not-quite-Vulcanized two-year-old. And . . . was that pride she sensed in the child's father? Since Claire's passing, Sovak had become a little more . . . Jami couldn't find a word that adequately described it, but somewhere behind that stoic countenance she could see a definite fatherly satisfaction occasionally tinged with a heartfelt longing, and perhaps a little hope. Most of the crew had expressed hope in some form or another. Some hoped they would not be forced back to Manticore's stealthy existence of 5,000 years past, hoping for a new life here on Future Earth. Others hoped that Manticore would return, and at the precise place in time to rectify a horrific wrong -- the destruction of all life on Earth. Then there were those who hoped that in returning, everything wrong that had happened here on Future Earth would be righted, that separations and misunderstandings would be erased, and most of all, that loved ones who had died would be alive again, that none of this would ever have happened. But to Jami, that seemed too much to hope for, much less even think about. She could hope for a life restored, but how could she hope for a child not born? Sovak and Claire's daughter was beautiful by both Human and Vulcan standards, and a delight to all who saw her. She and other children born here had become the very symbol of hope for new life that many longed for. And what about her own child -- their child? With that thought, Jami's hand reflexively moved to her belly, barely swollen, hardly noticeable in its early first trimester. Five thousand years ago, Jami and Atragon had decided that black OPS was no place to raise a family and had dismissed all thought of starting one. On Future Earth, however, it had just "happened," leaving Jami experiencing an entire range of emotions she had hitherto forced herself to ignore. Motherhood was a beautiful thing, and she wasn't sure she wanted to give it up. And yet . . . . She looked around at the landscape, still barren, bereft of life except for the tiny patch occupied by Manticore's crew. Here was a terrible wrong for which they were responsible, and her morality would not -- could not -- leave it unrectified. Jami felt herself caught between two worlds: motherhood and duty to humanity. She wished -- yes, even hoped -- that she could have both, but knew in reality that only one was possible. Which one remained to be seen.

With You or Without You a personal log Jami Farrington-Atragon Twenty months -- nearly two years. It didn't seem possible that almost two years had passed since Manticore began limping its lonely vigil in solitary orbit around Future Earth. It had been an interesting experience for everyone, with the entire spectrum of responses having run its course through the crew. As for Jami, she tended to keep her opinions to herself, a practice gained partly from medical training and partly from being in command. However, there were a few from whom she did not hide her true feelings. Her close friend and planetary neighbor Claire Eason had become her chief confidante, and, of course, she tended to confide in her husband, Atragon-9. Until recently. Lately Jami had chosen to not share as much with Atragon, because a certain thought had been coyly weaving its way into her list of viable possibilities, and she did not want to worry him needlessly. If the time came -- and she expected it would sometime soon -- she would broach the subject. After several months of physical labor, building and planting, Jami had begun to believe that her life on Future Earth was everything she had always wanted. An incomparable exhilaration accompanied exhaustion at the end of a day's work, akin to scaling a cliff or conquering a seemingly insurmountable task. She felt a sense of accomplishment she had not felt in years, and what's more, she could feel her body responding in kind. A strength came from planetary physical labor that did not come from exercising in a holodeck. A genuine feeling of well-being came from breathing planetary air, and a greater satisfaction came from eating earth-grown food. This life seemed her ideal, except for one thing . . . Atragon. For about a month she had noticed his growing tension, his sleepless nights, his pacing during the day, and his preoccupation with the ship. To Jami the ship, the Federation, her commission, everything but her medical degree was part of another life, something that didn't matter anymore. But Atragon seemed eager to return. Why? She surmised that he felt responsible for the crew, and in a way he was. But didn't that responsibility fade with time as the crew spread out to renew their lives here on the planet? And what if they couldn't return? What would that do to Atragon? Would it destroy him? And if the crew succeeded in repairing the ship and, if, by some extraordinary quirk of fate, they could return to the proper timeline (which, in Jami's mind, was highly unlikely), what of the crew who wanted to stay behind? Would they stay? Would Atragon let them stay? All these questions invaded Jami's otherwise tranquil thoughts during her daily routine. But of these, one in particular plagued her: If they could leave, and if she could stay, could she stay -- could she survive -- without Atragon?

Personal Log, Earth Date 01.02.07 Cmdr J Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 As Jami wandered between rows of carrots, peas, and squash, pulling an occasional weed and working her way slowly towards Claire in the tomato patch, it seemed strange to her that they were 5,000 years into their future. A sense of timelessness had settled in after the first week of land duty, yet she had felt the need to mark their time planetside, to use a reckoning besides a stardate. As she scratched her daily notes onto thin bich strips, she had begun to date them "day seven, day twelve, day fifteen," until she finally decided that a proper date was needed. Drawing on the chronological practices of ancient monarchs, she began to write "01.01.18," meaning the first year, the first month, the eighteenth day of their arrival, which made today's date 01.02.07: the first year, the second month, and the seventh day of their arrival on future planet Earth. For the most part, Earth seemed the same to her except for the lack of people. Thoughts of their solitude would invariably bring to mind fragments of an old story: a man asked a genie to grant his wish for peace on earth, whereupon the genie removed all people from the planet, leaving the man entirely alone and very peaceful indeed. This story would in turn remind her of her father's favorite phrase, which he often used to end unwanted political debate: the only thing wrong with the world is the people. With that thought she came full circle, and would look around, thankful that she was not entirely alone on this planet. Conflict and resolution was the basis of learning and the lifeblood of any civilization. It led to change. What was beneficial in the change led to growth, and then prosperity. Jami stood for a few minutes' stretch, letting the sun warm her back, which, after many years of pallor, had turned a healthy tan from working in the fields. Her hair, a curly gold in youth, had become dark after years of starship duty. In the past month, however, the sun had lightened it considerably and brought out some reddish highlights that she hadn't seen since she was a child. She felt good. In fact, she felt better than she had in years, and, what's more, many of the crew had remarked how much better they felt being planetside, "roughing it." It made Jami wonder if their efforts to return to their own time were worth while. Here, at least, there was a naturel life rhythm rather than the artificial rhythm of the starship. Here fertile ground produced sweet fruits, and the air even sweeter memories of what once was her home on the western Scandinavian peninsula. Each breath came clean and fresh, unpolluted by man's meddling manipulations. The universe from which they had come had been caught in a vicious cycle: progress led to pollution, which brought the need for cleaning and disposal processes, which brought more pollution, which brought the need for cleaning, ad infinitum . . . . What if they had been brought here by some higher power to start anew? Was this a future Eden? Several times a day these thoughts toyed with Jami as she went about her daily routine. But no matter how many times they came to mind, the end was always the same: she had lived long enough and had experienced life enough to be content no matter where she was. So long as she had her friends and A9, she could endure almost anything. Doin' the best she can with what she has. J Farrington

Helm Officer's Personal Log - ESD 2597 BCE Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC 5852 Somehow, the Manticore has been thrown back 5000 standard Terran years, making the estimated stardate for this log 2597 Before the Common Era. Although I'm worried about getting back, I can't help wondering what effect we will have on history. Oh, I'm sure there will be some effect, even if it's very slight, and we have to be very careful not to pollute the timeline. Still, I've spent every spare minute looking into ancient Earth history, wondering if we are already a part of it. One story, from the book of Genesis, says, "When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose." Is this our fate? Will be have to stay in this time, eventually intermarrying and modifying the human race? The Epic of Gilgamesh says, " Who can compare with him in kingliness? Who can say like Gilgamesh: 'I am King!'? Whose name, from the day of his birth, was called 'Gilgamesh'? Two-thirds of him is god, one-third of him is human." Two-thirds is god? He is a great warrior, described in the epic as one would describe a Klingon. "Like a wild bull he makes himself mighty . . . there is no rival who can raise his weapon against him." How very strange it seems. Are we about to become -- despite all our efforts to avoid it -- a part of our own history? Are we about to become our own ancestors?[/color]

=/\= MANTICORE BRIEFING #272, STARDATE 50308.25 =/\= sovak: The Manticore is in Romulan space to hunt down illegally obtained Federation technology, sold to them by former Consul General Melville, who has survived, somehow, his own death. The ship has been led into a trap and is now surrounded by six Warbirds that can see through our cloak. The Manticore's engines have been disabled and shuttlebay doors fused shut. The Romulans have taken the crew captive except for a dozen people, hidden under personal cloaking devices. The fate of the crew rests with this rescue squad. Meanwhile, key members of the crew are being tortured by the Romulans, but the ship's computers still seem beyond the Romulans' grasp.

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 5003081.0 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC 5852 As soon as the order to defend the bridge was given, Jami's mind switched modes. Now was the time for training to take over, for standing orders and defensive patterns to take effect. Because they were in Romulan space, Jami had put an extra touch on their defense plan. One of her science officers, Lt Dal t'Lev, was a Vulcan-Romulan, an unusual mix to say the least. An outcast for both Romulans and Vulcans, he had chosen Starfleet as his home. He had proven himself to be one of the most valuable scientists in Starfleet and could be trusted implicitly. What's more, his knowledge of the Romulan language and his ability to blend in to the culture could be invaluable in this situation. Dal was the perfect choice for the PCD Rescue Squad. When Jami gave the word, he would disappear. With Atragon and his telekinesis at the fore to slow the invasion of the bridge, Jami took aim at the first few that made it past him, knowing that if she were hit, she would die. Romulan disruptors have two settings: kill and disintegrate. Not long into the fray, however, Jami took a hit to the shoulder, then one to the chest, amazed that the Romulan's weapon had not killed her. For some reason there was a heavy stun setting, meant to maim. Retreating to Dal's position behind a science console, Jami shouted, "Go! Now!" She turned to take aim again, but Sovak was down, so she moved to cover him. Another shot grazed the base of her skull, sending a searing pain down her back. A glance behind her told her that Dal had taken the rear turbolift, but had paused to take a good look at the Romulan who was making a swift advance. In a heartbeat, the Romulan was on her, forcing her torso forward and her leg back. She heard a sharp crack. . . Some time later Jami awoke, cold and weak, struggling to hear any sound -- movement, voices, engines -- anything that would let her know where she was. But her brain was fogged and her eyesight dim. Someone called her name, someone familiar. Answer. Answer. Nothing came. Then . . . a hand, an arm, hoisting her up, and an instant consciousness clashed with excruciating pain. She remembered crying out, then silence. Jami awoke in what could only have been a medical facility, with smell of electronics and medications, and the varied hums of sterile fields and medical equipment. She knew those sounds and smells all too well. The pain had subsided, and she had plasma bandages affixed to her body. She wanted to talk, to ask where she was, see who was with her. Nothing came. Still, she could hear. She could hear. She could breathe. She was alive. "Ah, Commander. You are awake." Jami turned towards the voice, but something blocked her vision . . . "I am Doctor Aerv. Please . . ." he touched her shoulder, "do not be alarmed. Your eyes are bandaged for . . . security reasons. The medication I have given you will not only ease the pain of your injuries, but may cloud your mind for a time and make it difficult to talk." Here he paused, as though listening to something or someone. Someone speaking Romulan with a strange accent. Jami thought she could hear breathing and someone whispering, then the doctor's whispered reply. She inhaled deeply. There was one smell that did not match a sickbay. Some kind of incense? A cologne? She made a conscientious effort to remember that smell for later, though she couldn't quite figure out why. Yes, her brain was clouded, and she soon drifted off to sleep. When she awoke she was back on the cold she had felt before, and not as comfortable as she had been in the medical facility. She opened her eyes and the blindfold had been removed. Cargo bay. Manticore crew. Guards. Someone asking how she felt. She nodded a yes to that, then shook her head no, instantly wishing she had not moved her head from side to side. Sit still. Rest. There will be a time for action, but for now . . . rest.

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 5003072.7 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC 5852 Only His Hairdresser Knows For Sure Was he . . . or wasn't he? Did he . . . or didn't he? Though the entire crew of Manticore had just witnessed the disintegration of the ice moon, and the apparent death -- again -- of former Consul General Melville, they still could not be certain of his demise. Some months before, Melville had killed himself and had done it so skillfully that the then Commodore Atragon had been indicted for murder. An autopsy had been performed on Melville's body and it had been given to the family for disposition. Still, in Atragon's words, "Research at the Lincoln Outpost [where Melville had been working many years before] seemed to be directly applicable to old Altered Carbon Project. Melville took personal control of all research and accelerated the project as his own health problems increased." In essence, Melville died, but was still alive in a new body/sleeve. This lent credence to Atragon's conviction that Melville killed himself on Atragon's knife, if Melville had already done a needlecast download. He had nothing to lose. Because he was about to "rise" in a new sleeve he could "die" and leave Atragon to take the blame. Had he done the same again? But how? It seemed impossible that anything could survive the explosion they had just witnessed. Still, Jami could not be sure that they had seen the last of Melville. Atragon had returned to the ship alive and well, and that was the most important thing. They had escaped the explosion, albeit barely, once more due to the skill of their engineers. Putting those thoughts aside, Jami turned her thoughts to the imploded moon, the Romulan phasing device, and the destruction it caused. She had Spencer take a continuous data run so they could document everything. The study could very well keep them busy into the next millennium, but the dangers of phasing and phase-cloaking had to be recorded and studied. For once, Jami was thankful that Manticore's phase cloak was inoperable. During repairs they could implement anything science found from studying the phasing on the moon and hopefully prevent the same occurrence.

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 03072.0 Chief Science Officer Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC 5852 "What's wrong with this picture?" With Jami on the bridge, the entire demeanor of Manticore changed from one of calm control to one of anxiety. Jami wondered if the change could be because the bridge crew was not used to her being in command. No, she decided. She had been in command many times before; surely they were used to her style. Perhaps the absence of Atragon *and* Sovak? Um...maybe. Because she was a woman? Not likely. There were many women in command in Starfleet, and few had risen to that position without gaining the confidence and respect of their respective crews. Maybe it was because the Manticore had just violated the Romulan Neutral Zone, been rightfully attacked by a Romulan Warbird, the Manticore's systems were iffy, several crew were injured, and Jami had coolly ordered the ship to reenter the Neutral Zone by passing in gray mode right between two of the three Warbirds that now faced them? Yep. That might cause anxiety. There was definitely something wrong with this picture. All joking aside, Jami seemed to have changed personalities and elected to take risks she, herself, would question, were she not in command. Moreover, she had a cold, calculating air about her - one that many of the crew had never witnessed. Especially the Tactical Officer, Mitar Precip, questioned her strategy -- and rightfully so. But Lt Precip didn't know the full story and what was at stake. What was worse, he may never know. Such was the nature of Black OPS. Black OPS often meant working in the dark -- no pun intended -- trusting the commanding officers implicitly. So, now came the ultimate test: would Precip trust her, or would he press his reservations to the point that an order requiring split-second timing would be questioned? Jami leaned back and took a deep breath to clear her mind, then focused on her main objective: using Melville's last known location to ferret out illegal technology. Atragon was aboard Pegasus looking for Melville, himself, so Melville wasn't on her menu - yet. She considered several possibilities regarding the Romulans: 1) that Manticore outsmarted them and they did sneak between the ships without detection; 2) that the Romulans allowed them to slip through so they could capture Manticore later and either parade her in front of the Federation or steal her technology, or both; 3) that the Romulans were working with Melville for whatever motive. As an ice moon, from whence the latest questionable signals emanated, filled the viewscreen, all action on the bridge came to a standstill. Either their sensors were glitchy, they were in mass hallucination, or they had just come upon one weird moon. All eyes turned in wonder to the viewscreen as a mountain range on the moon disappeared and reappeared moments later. There was *definitely* something wrong with this picture.

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 510306.22 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 What was it about an officer's chair that made it a matter of life or death when it wasn't just right? Jami stared at Atragon's defunct chair and realized that, no matter how comical it appeared, she would be as disturbed as he if it had happened to her. An officer's chair was personal space, treated with the utmost respect and not given up lightly. From the parent at the dinner table, to the CEO of a corporation, one's chair symbolized authority, power, position, presence . . . in short, everything that person was. Jami remembered sneaking into her father's office and sitting in his chair, only to be shooed away when he entered. "You'll get your turn to sit there some day," he chided. Then there was the "Command Chair" at the academy, often called "THE Chair" or "The Hot Seat," sat in at one's peril. To sit there invoked a mixture of awe and trepidation. Generations of cadets had sat there - from the very first crew of Enterprise, to the famed James T. Kirk, and countless others. Sometimes that chair seemed to take on a mind of its own. New cadets, especially, remembered it encouraging them to greater achievement, or whispering their impending doom. There was a certain feel, a certain warmth or chill, even a certain smell the academy exam command chair held — remembered to one's dying day. Jami ran her hands along the arm-rests of Captain Sovak's chair, where she sat in his absence. She knew every inch of it, where the pad depressed because of Sovak's habit of resting his elbows on it in contemplation. The left arm-rest had a slight scratch that Jami picked at unconsciously when she sat there — how the scratch got there she didn't know, but it came within easy reach of her fingers, and the blemish brought back a buried memory. Manticore's XO chair. Captain Sovak's chair. His brother, Commander Adam Vern, used to sit here. Only a few weeks after Manticore launched, Jami was sitting in this very chair when the command chair exploded, killing him instantly. It had been an accident — a horrible, inexcusable accident. After working feverishly to revive him, Jami had pronounced him dead, only a few feet away from where she now sat. The command chair. In it one found victory or defeat, life . . . or death. It was understandable that Atragon would be disturbed about the condition of his chair. Jami was thankful that it had only broken this time, and she hoped that whatever else broke on Manticore during this cruise would be minor. Adam Vern, she whispered. Let us not have another Adam Vern.

Chat log for the advanced simulation USS Manticore, meeting Monday evenings at 11 PM ET in the Ready Room.

Pride and Principle Cmdr Jami Farrington USS Manticore, NCC 5852 'Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days Where destiny with men for pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the closet lays. ~ Omar Khayyam Jami stood, arms crossed, staring out Surgeon General Gren Dejariov's window. The Federation complex spread for miles, a city in itself, gleaming like a crystal palace in the last light of day. Evening clouds rolled in, momentarily obscuring the setting sun and casting checkerboard patterns of gold and black across the landscape. After what seemed an eternity, Jami heard Admiral Dejariov's voice, but not much registered except that they knew the charges against her were false, that they would do their best to reinstate her as a medical officer, and that for now she needed to let it go and move forward. She couldn't move. Most of all Jami couldn't turn and look at him for fear she would either explode in rage or in emotional collapse. The Admiral, now the Surgeon General of Federation Forces, had known Jami since she first entered the Academy. He had been instrumental in her assignment to Manticore. So it was no surprise to Jami that she suddenly felt his hands on her arms, and his voice behind her. "Jami, let it go." He must have felt her tense because his hands dropped immediately. After another long silence, he said, "Walk with me." Somewhat reluctantly, she turned and followed him through a patio door, into a garden that served as a refuge for the Federation's top officials. Since glass walls looked out from every office surrounding the area, Jami made an effort to look composed, quickening her step to walk beside the man who had been her mentor for so many years. She glanced up, and for the first time since her arrival she noticed that he had aged considerably since she last saw him. His hair was thinning, and his face was more lined, as though political turmoil had strained him beyond his capacity to bear it. With this realization, Jami began to forget her own distress and focus more on what he was saying. He began carefully. Almost too carefully . . . as though he were hinting to her to read between the lines. "Sometimes," he said, then paused for a moment. He began again. "Sometimes things are not as they seem. Sometimes we have to . . . accept what happens and move on . . . for the greater good." His eyes darted around the foliage as he and Jami walked a few steps further, then he stopped and turned towards her. Jami stopped beside him, waiting. He had her full attention. Gren Dejariov continued, almost in a whisper. "Kyle Mele is not a random assignment to Manticore. Neither is Suberance Faldorn, nor Neveah Crito." He took a deep breath, as though he were weighing his words, judging whether or not he should go on. "It is not by chance that you have been moved to the science department. We need a good officer at the head of that department. Someone we can trust. Now, more than ever." That was the end of their conversation. Hours later Jami could still hear his words. Once again she was being called to swallow her pride, and, possibly, put aside her principles. For the greater good. Was she a pawn in a game of chance? She certainly felt like one. And who could she trust, if not Gren Dejariov? She could -- and would -- swallow her pride one more time. But would she put aside her principles? That remained to be seen. Whatever it was, whatever she would be called to do, or called to oversee, would be revealed slowly, like a veil of darkness lifting before the dawn. Strange, is it not, that of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through Not one returns to tell us of the road, Which, to discover, we must travel, too. When you and I behind the veil are passed, Oh but the long, long while the world shall last, Which of our coming and departure heeds As much as ocean of a pebble-cast. And that inverted bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling we live and die, Lift not thy hands to it for help. For it as impotently moves, as you or I. ~ Omar Khayyam

Chief Medical Officer's Report, Stardate 03021.0 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC 5852 As the Manticore leaves Citadel 18 behind, I have to wonder what actually happened there. Atragon seems distant and distracted; several times I've seen him stare into space, then mutter the word "Babylon," and shudder. He is not willing to share, and I will not press the issue, as much as it disturbs him. Some things are better left unsaid. We're headed to Starbase 108, where our new Counselor, Neveah Crito, will come aboard. I am looking forward to meeting her. Dr. Tabor Kraden, a Thesian physician, will also meet us there. I have requested a conference to discuss Thesian physiology, information on which I found sorely lacking in the medical database when Dr. Faldorn was injured. It is inexcusable that our database would not contain important patient information, and I am filing a formal complaint with Starfleet Medical. Ltjg Garnoopy has residual soreness in his throat, but has begun to talk, albeit sporadically. Commander Roget is physically well, but I am still worried about post traumatic stress. She occasionally drifts off into another world during a conversation, and is quite preoccupied with something. Otherwise, most of the away team injured in the Griffen mishap have healed. On a personal note, I am looking forward to a little time to be offship, even if it is on a starbase.

Chief Medical Officer's Log Cmdr Jami E. Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC-5852 5003020.2 I am both pleased and amazed at the resilience of the away team and how they have healed so quickly. Most have been released for duty, with a few returning for periodic checkups. I am most amazed by Dr. Faldorn, whose Thesian physiology, when under stress, seems to defer to a healing stage called the Tala'ri, similar to the deep trance Vulcans use for healing. I'm looking forward to discussing this with Dr. Faldorn as soon as time and occasion permits. His return to duty was somewhat premature, and I have insisted he take time off to rest and fully recover. I am concerned about Commander Roget. She is physically well -- better than would normally be expected, given the extent of her injuries -- but seems to be suffering from post traumatic stress. I have recommended a session with our new counselor, but I doubt that Margaux will comply; she's more apt to take the bull by the horns than admit she needs help. I will inform the counselor and will keep a discreet personal watch on Margaux's mental state for the time being. Only Ltjg Garnoopy remains in sick bay, but he should be released soon. I have explained to him that pain is the body's way of telling us that something is wrong. Just because the pain goes away with medication does not mean his body is completely healed, it only means the pain is dulled so the body is more relaxed so it can heal itself. Unfortunately, it's a human trait to believe that absence of pain equals absence of injury. Ltjg Garnoopy is also suffering from post traumatic stress, and I have referred him to our counselor. Speaking of whom, Dr. Crito, our new counselor, has just come aboard. Already she has a heavy work load, but it is very comforting to know she is here.

Chief Medical Officer's Log, Stardate 5003012.6 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore NCC 5852 Dr. Farrington fought back fatigue as she sat in her office formulating her report. It had been a long day and was going to be an even longer night, given the extent of the injuries to many of the crew. Once again, Margaux Roget had pulled off a nearly impossible task, this time the rescue of Colonel Eason and Dr. Faldorn from the clutches of former/sometime Intel officer Kurtz. But the rescue exacted a terrible price. Claire Eason, Ltjg Garnoopy, Ltjg Miltar Precip, Dr. Mele, and even Margaux, herself, had been injured in the mishap. In fact, were it not for Margaux's exceptional piloting skills and the advanced technology available in Manticore's sick bay, some of them might have died. Jami rubbed her eyes and rested her head in her hands for a minute, thinking. Kyle Mele had faired better than any of them, sustaining only minor cuts and bruises from the Griffin's hard landing: good condition. Claire's contusions and abrasions and minor concussion: good condition, light duty and 24 hour observation. Miltar Precip's concussion, head lacerations, and punctured carotid from being thrown from the craft: fair condition, carotid repaired. Ltjg Garnoopy: concussion, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, internal lacerations of the throat, broken leg: guarded but stable condition. Dr. Suberance Faldorn? Thinking of him, Jami sighed deeply. According to Claire, Kurtz had planned to kill him slowly, inch by inch, just to break her - make Claire talk about Manticore, the ship's purpose, and what had brought them to Citadel 18. And Kurtz had said he loved to watch them die. What kind of creature could do such a thing, inflict such pain, especially on a physician, and to enjoy it . . . . Jami forced herself to stop thinking about it. All that remained now was Suberance's healing, and Jami wondered if he would ever be the same again. She entered "critical condition" into his record. Then there was Margaux. Here Jami paused, leaned back in her chair and considered this person - this superhuman of sorts who called herself Margaux Roget. Once again she had escaped what should have been certain death, and saved her crew in the process. What was it about Margaux that continued to protect her, to save her from irreparable harm? Minor lacerations and a ruptured spleen, easily repaired with Manticore's advanced technology. And again, medical scans showed that anomaly in her cranial cavity - some kind of implant? Her endorphins and adrenaline levels were high, but it wouldn't necessarily be caused by something artificial. And yet . . . .for Margaux's security, Jami was reluctant to enter anything into Margaux's medical file, especially because Jami was not made privy to it when Margaux first came aboard, and as CMO she would have been notified if it were anything that might cause concern. Jami leaned forward, entered, "Margaux Roget, minor lacerations, ruptured spleen, good condition." She closed her medical logs, stood for a long stretch, then walked into sick bay to check their charges. Kyle was taking a well-deserved rest. Dr. Stone continued to hover around Suberance in ICU. Jami moved on to check Garnoopy, who seemed to be having a fitful rest; she adjusted his medication, watched him a while, then shifted to Margaux. Margaux was resting comfortably and would probably be released within the next 12 to 24 hours. Jami stood there watching Margaux sleep, as if doing so would give her insight into the mystery. After a while, still standing over Margaux's biobed, Jami whispered, "Who are you, Margaux Roget? Who are you, really?"

Secure Duty Log, Stardate 5002111.7 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 Begin log. Interim Consul General Jaffe has ordered the Manticore to Citadel 18 because she suspects there will be "intense activity there soon," and if we are asked, we are only on patrol. Citadel 18 is, according to Colonel Eason, run by a not-so-well-liked dictator. Not well liked, but not hated enough for the people to overthrow him: a love-hate relationship that could be applied to any number of officials in any number of governments throughout the quadrant. I shudder to think Commodore Atragon's assessment may be true: that we have been sent on an assassination mission. Surely Manticore has more options at its disposal. Surely a ship and crew of this caliber are more than Federation hit men. As much as I did not enjoy our duty as a deep-space tug, it was a lot easier on my conscience. Our new physician, Dr. Faldorn, is settling in well. He comes highly recommended and has not disappointed my expectations. Though his designation is General Practitioner, he has already proven himself capable in a number of other capacities. I have no qualms about leaving him in charge of sick bay at any time. I have also explained to him the nature of Manticore's true mission and have briefed both he and Dr. Mele on our current mission - as much as I am allowed to tell them. End log.

Chief Medical Officer's Log, Stardate 5002110.2 Cmdr Jami Farrington, MD USS Manticore, NCC 5852 We are currently docked at Starbase 9, and medical has received a new physician, a Thesian, a General Practitioner by the name of Suberance Faldorn. So far he has proven competent and efficient, and seems to have a good sense of his duties aboard the Manticore though he has been here only a few days. He also seems to be fitting in with the rest of the crew. Only one minor problem: I must remember to give new physicians security clearance so this new alarm system doesn't go off. That kind of thing can be disconcerting to anyone, much less a new crewman. Something strange happened to me just before Dr. Faldorn came aboard. I was sitting in my office and distinctly heard someone call my name. When I turned to answer there was no one there. I mentioned it to Dr. Mele and he said - at the same time I did - that maybe we were getting a new doctor. A few minutes later, when we docked at Starbase 9, I accessed our messages and saw that we were getting a new doctor. When Dr. Faldorn first spoke, I recognized his voice as the one I had heard call my name. Now, the most unusual part of this entire story is that I felt like it was a normal, natural occurrence that I would have such a premonition. This situation in itself wouldn't make me think twice, except for something that happened to me several years ago, something I had nearly forgotten until this incident. Not long after Manticore launched I was caught in a particle beam and was unconscious for several days. When I awoke I had periods when I would sense that the ship or a crew member would be in trouble before the incident occurred. The sensation initially frightened me, but soon I accepted it as a part of my life. I haven't had such feelings for several years -- until now. I am recording this only for future reference and will add it to my personal medical record. Commander Roget is healing well after her fighter mishap. She is still assigned to light duty. Shore leave has been ordered for off-duty crew, always a welcome break, but especially after our last mission. Atragon and I have been permitted quality time together aboard the station, pending the outcome of the investigation into the death of Consul General Melville. Thank goodness for Melville's paranoia, which caused him to keep paper records.