Tachyon

“The Efforts to Allay Your Dread” Lt. Anastasia Poldara -------------------------------------------------- A chill woke Anastasia in the middle of the night, running up her legs and tickling her brain. She groaned and sat up, rubbing her eyes. She had been dreaming again, one of a series of recurring dreams that scratched at the inside of her eyelids all night long before transforming into pounding headaches during the waking hours. Although her body was cold, her bare legs were clammy against the bedsheets. She shivered while covered in sweat. Figuring out why she was cold was easy: Michael had stolen the blanket again. That was something she hadn't missed during her first stint on Challenger. Anastasia looked over at her husband. He lay on his stomach with one arm at his side and the other thrust beneath the pillow. She couldn't understand how that could possibly be a comfortable way to sleep. With an affectionate sigh, Anastasia reached out and tousled his hair, but he didn't stir—Michael had always been a heavy sleeper. She was glad to see he had adjusted so easily to life in deep space. As she embarked on a daring solo raid of his side of the bed to reclaim the portion of the blanket that was rightfully hers, Anastasia thought—not incorrectly—that he had adjusted even more readily than she had. This flexible, easygoing attitude was just another way in which he differed from her. It still amazed her, sometimes, that he had given up his practice to follow her back into space. If their positions had been reversed, would Anastasia have sacrificed so much for him? Yes, of course. But he had never asked—never would ask. Technically, she hadn't asked either, but he had gone and done it anyway. And as nice as that was, maybe that was what irked her. Anastasia burrowed into the blanket and let her head sink down into her pillow. Again she thought about their children—rather, their lack of children. It was odd how they had never managed to get around to initiating such an important stage of their lives. After all, they had both wanted children from the beginning. It had been a major impetus in precipitating their marriage. Something had just always stood in their way—he had to establish his practice; she had her career in Starfleet. And when Challenger came calling . . . well, that was no way to raise a family. Their relationship was still healthy despite their childlessness. Oh, they had had their arguments. Despite her attempts to distance herself from ethnic stereotypes, Anastasia could be mean when she was angry, and it hadn't only been cadets whom she terrorized when provoked. She was always right, of course, but over the years she had discovered it was good for Michael's self-esteem if she let him win once and a while. And she suspected that he knew his victories were hollow but took them anyway—any victory being better than none at all. And so even on their battlefield, they compromised. That was the only safe battlefield, the only place where, even when she lost, Anastasia could still win. Michael was her sanctuary, but he was also a safety blanket. She loved that he was here with her; at the same time, she knew that the only way to vanquish her demons would be to face them alone. If only she were strong enough. . . . Michael mumbled something about mitochondrial stimulation before rolling over, his back now turned toward her. Anastasia wrapped her arms around him and snuggled close. She did not close her eyes. She did not want to go back to sleep. The realm of dreams held no more promise for her, only nightmares.

"Batteries Not Included; Some Assembly Required" Crewman Alonso Packard, Fighter Mechanic 1st Class (Featuring Lts. Scott Coleridge and Caelan Fletcher) ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "All right, stand by for my signal," Coleridge said to Fletcher, "and activate the capacitors. If we're lucky, we'll get a stable power flow and nothing will explode. Just let me check the status of the emitters." He left Fletcher over by the access hatch to the EPS conduit and stalked in the direction of the deckhands. Crewman Alonso Packard, Fighter Mechanic 1st Class, was not an engineer. He was a mechanic. He didn't sit in a gilded office and push buttons all day; he was out in the field, making a difference. But did anyone ever thank him? Anyone ever clap him on the back and say, "Good job, Alonso!"? No. Well, his crewmates did, but they were a different story. They were mechanics too, part of the brotherhood, the trust. Engineers were a different story. Oh, the enlisted men weren't so bad. Like the mechanics, they understood what it meant to get one's hands dirty, day in and day out. But engineering officers were a contradiction of terms, a betrayal of the word "engineer" and the glorious service it promised. When it came to arrogant engineers, Scott Coleridge and Caelan Fletcher were among the worst. One minor power fluctuation, and here they were, PADD-happy and his Action Boy, acting like they owned this flight deck. Packard would like to see them try to field-strip a Galahad-class fighter in fifty-three seconds or less. Coleridge barely acknowledged Packard as he walked past the deckhand and stopped at the reassembled tractor emitters. Long, flexible cables connected the emitter assembly to the power supply in the bulkhead; the emitters would be reinstalled in their wall-mounts after they were working again. Of course, that would be Packard's job. Just as Packard and his team had been the one to actually reassemble the emitters after Coleridge had taken apart every last self-sealing stembolt. Packard now had a very ugly idea of exactly how long it took 321 self-sealing stembolts to self-seal. Try three hours. Now this pretty-boy officer was inspecting his work, like he had something to prove. Fine, two could play at that game. Packard stalked off in the opposite direction, toward Fletcher and the EPS taps. The other engineer didn't notice Packard's approach; he was busy typing at his PADD again. That was another problem with officers: they took too many breaks. Packard cleared his throat in a very practised, very disruptive manner. "Did you need something?" Fletcher didn't look up from his PADD at the sound of the man's arrival, keeping his attention instead on his handheld device. He was wearing a lopsided grin on his face, though nothing in the bay warranted that sort of amused expression. Probably talking to some girl, trying to impress her with his his four-year education and an ego to compensate for his lack of...field experience. Packard kept his eyes forward, attempting to ignore the other man's attempt to ignore. "We've finished the reassembly, sir." Silence. "All three hundred twenty-one stembolts have been resealed and are in place." More silence. "You asked me to let you know when we were finished, so that you could make sure our work was...sufficient." Caelan glanced up for the first time in a quarter hour. "...Sorry, what? Did you seal those stembolts yet?" That annoying grin hadn't faded from his face. What a total douc... Stupid kid. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir, was I interrupting something?" Packard's eyes narrowed as he took a half-step closer to the young engineer. One could only tolerate the indifference and ignorance of their superiors for so long, and today had been a particularly bad day. Eyes in the room began to shift in the direction of the two men, following the telltale tone of trouble that their ears had picked up on. For a desk-man, Fletcher was a fairly solid guy, but he had nothing on the boys down in the flight bay. Despite this overtly obvious detail, the code of masculinity forced Caelan to assume a similar posture. Fletcher furrowed his brow, attempting to look intimidating as the Chief so often did while folding his arms, the PADD still in hand. "There a problem, crewman?" Crewman Alonso Packard, Fighter Mechanic 1st Class, plucked the PADD from Fletcher's all-too-clean hands and threw it to the ground. In a single, deliberate motion, Packard brought his foot down on the PADD with a crunch. He replied, "Not anymore, sir." Half in shock, half in anger, Caelan let out an audible teenage girl huff. Oh no he didn't. "Lemme guess...." Fletcher gave Packard a quick up-down, scrutinizing his appearance with his stare. His PADD was now gone, but he kept his arms folded tightly, using his hands to make his biceps look bulgier. "You're peeved 'cause you think you did all the work today." That stupid lopsided grin made its reappearance. "Does ickle Alonso want a pat on the back?" He snickered. Oh snap. "Yeah. Something like that," Packard sneered. By this time, a small group of deckhands had quietly put down their tools and surrounded Packard and Fletcher. The former looked away from Fletcher, surveying the crowd, and nodded. Then he abruptly pulled his arm back and swung at the engineer, landing a punch squarely on Caelan's jaw. "Sixteen years I've been repairing fighters and shuttlecraft, pouring my sweat and blood into the job. Then, one power fluctuation, and you lot come down here and start acting like you know better than me." Fletcher turned to the side, spitting blood to the floor. "Oh, I wasn't acting like a know better..." He looked to the audience, eying the unfriendly faces, "I do know bet..." That train of thought was interrupted by another knuckle supper, leaving Caelan with a crimson grin and the wind knocked out of him. Gritting his teeth, he forced his focus on his attacker, launching forward with his own set of punches. One. Two. Three. He couldn't tell how many of his punches actually landed, but he wasn't going down without the appearance of a fight. A pair of arms hooked around Fletcher's elbows, restraining him from any further aggression. "That's enough!" said Coleridge, forcing Caelan away from Packard. A counterpart from the group of deckhands similarly restrained Packard. "Just what the hell do you two think this is, a fight bay?" Packard just looked away. He made a show of trying to escape his coworker's grip, but truthfully he was glad Coleridge had stepped in--engineers fought tougher than they worked. His ire now subsumed by post-fistfight lucidity, he realized the first punch had been a mistake. The punches after that--well, those were a bonus. Judging from his own sudden headache and Fletcher's condition, however, maybe they'd been worth it. "Look, it's been a long day. Lots of mistakes, lots of pressure. No reason to get violent." With a grunt, Packard shrugged off the hands of his fellow deckhand and said, "I disagree, sir. I've known a lot of engineers in my life. Didn't like most of them. But you two are by far the worst." Reasonably certain that the situation was back under control, Coleridge released Caelan. "Why? Because we're cleaning up your mess? Look, crewman, I don't care what you think of us. All I want to do is get that tractor beam working, then hit the sonic showers and get a good six hours of rest. I'm sure you want the same." He looked from Fletcher to Packard and added, "Now, can we test the tractor beam and get this done, or does security have to learn about this ... extracurricular event?" Packard hated to say it, but Coleridge was right. He had already crossed the line by starting the fight; continuing it would serve no purpose except to land him a stay in the brig. The sooner he sucked up his pride and cooperated, the sooner these two would leave. He could do that. After all, he, Crewman Alonso Packard, Fighter Mechanic 1st Class, was the better man. "All right," Packard said, turning to his crew, "everyone back to work. Marsters, Hannigan, finish aligning the phase coils. T'Val, double check the sensor inputs." As his crew dispersed under his supervision, he overheard Coleridge and Fletcher's conversation. As the deckhands began to disperse, Caelan wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He turned to Scott, forcing a grin, "You see me take him? Didn't stand a chance 'gainst me..." It was sarcasm, of course. Fletcher was well aware the he was lucky to be walking right now, and more lucky not to be in the brig...yet, but it simply wouldn't do to walk away without some snarky comment to his fellow engineer. Coleridge shook his head, but he couldn't hide the grin on his face. "Next time ... wait until I'm around to get your back. Seriously though, we've got a job to do here. If you want to pick a fight, go do it in Drankum's or some other establishment on the Midway, and spend a night with security." He glanced back in Packard's direction, and the deckhand chief made a show of looking busy. Coleridge added, "Besides, we're outnumbered. Tactically inadvisable." "Yeah...well, anywho...I'll go..." He jerked his thumb toward an EPS conduit hatch, indicating that he'd be returning to work. "Right. Remember, my signal," Coleridge repeated, jogging back toward the emitter assembly. Again, he barely acknowledged Packard, but this time the deckhand didn't take offense. Fifteen minutes later, the repairs were complete, and the tractor beam was humming happily. So far, the power to the flight bay remained nominal--the Klingon, Ferengi, and Federation technology seemed happy to work together this time. Packard watched the backs of the two engineers as they left the flight bay and scowled. "Here's hoping we don't see those two around here any time soon," he muttered to no one in particular. The rest of the deckhands were busy collecting spare parts and equipment strewn about the flight bay. Packard stood there for a moment, surveying the newly-operational tractor beam, attempting to reassert his dominion. This was his flight bay, his crew. He was Crewman Alonso Packard, Fighter Mechanic 1st Class. He and his team did all the dirty work those fancyboy engineers were too good to do themselves, and he and his team did it better. They were the Sky Harbor Aegis fighter mechanics. This day was over, but tomorrow they'd begin anew: stripping burnt out gyros and realigning fuel initiator sockets, doing their jobs. Saving the world.

I'm not going to get into a discussion of which Trek film is the "best" in my opinion--my favourites tend to change with my mood. However, I did thoroughly enjoy The Wrath of Khan. This moment, as far as I know, is more infamous than it is "great." As the enormity of Khan's nefarious actions sink in, one would expect this moment to be truly breathtaking--will James T. Kirk actually lose? Then suddenly we get Kirk screaming into the communicator ... and the moment falls flat. It's fun to parody. I'm not sure I understand. Isn't the general idea to improve the franchise with each successive film? When comparing the movies to each other ... I doubt anyone has ever intentionally set out to make a sequel that's worse than the original. That would just be silly. Most people will answer this by extolling the villainy of Ricardo Montalban as Khan Singh--and they'd be right. Bringing back Khan was a stroke of genius; he's a very Shakespearean antagonist, and Star Trek has deep ties with Shakespeare. Khan is, in essence, the "anti-Kirk." His personal connection to the protagonist makes the stakes higher. That's part of the reason why the Borg worked well as villains in First Contact--they brought out a side of Picard that we seldom saw, one that almost consumed him. Likewise, Khan wants revenge against Kirk, and this passion consumes him (and is ultimately part of his own undoing). He doesn't care about political intrigue or profit--all he wants is to kill Kirk. His wife is dead, his world destroyed, so he has nothing to lose. And that makes him the most dangerous foe Kirk has ever faced. Maybe I'm just inured to spoilers these days, but I never let my knowledge of future events compromise my enjoyment of whatever's happening on screen at the moment. After all, Death Is Cheap. So I just bundle a dose of temporary amnesia into my suspension of disbelief package, and I'm golden. Spock's sacrifice, regardless of the permanence of his death, was moving because of its significance to Kirk. All these years, and Kirk has never lost, never faced a no-win scenario. Yet even though he manages to defeat Khan, his best friend dies in the process--and for once he's truly lost something. This is no longer the whimsical, wrap-around uniformed Kirk from the upbeat epilogues in the original series: this is a man who has suddenly had his own mortality thrust into his face as a brutal reminder that he is not invincible. The Wrath of Khan signals the beginning of rough times for Kirk. He loses Spock, then in the next film he loses his son and his ship. Thus, while I understand that Spock's subsequent resurrection belies the emotional impact of it, his death is still quite important thematically. It's fine if one prefers other Star Trek films over The Wrath of Khan, of course. Hopefully, however, this should enlighten you as to why some number The Wrath of Khan among their favourites.

“This House of Cards, Part I” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ------------------------------------------------ The emotion that Anastasia felt was a dense, crystalline composite of anger and bitterness, supported by a subtle lattice of confusion entwined with desperation. It did not dissipate during her journey home—if anything, it festered and blossomed into an entire new species of emotion. In time, it would probably evolve to sentience; luckily the transport arrived at Earth before that could happen, and Anastasia soon returned to her terrestrial home. The kitchen had recovered since the fire—not spontaneously, of course, as that would be weird, not to mention disturbing. A skilled repair crew had surveyed, then assaulted, the remains of the room before surrendering to the interior decorator and his team of makeover mercenaries. The end result, at least from Anastasia's perspective, was a refreshing redesign that still fit into the decor of the house. It had fast become her favourite place to sit while at home. She was spending a lot of time sitting lately, consuming cups of tea at a prodigious rate. The new kettle was bearing this workload without complaint, much less combustion, which Anastasia took as a good sign. The mechanical motion of bringing the cup to her lips, taking a sip, and setting it back down on the table was soothing. And as long as she drank tea, Anastasia managed to avoid the vodka. She pondered the vicissitudes through which she had arrived at this kitchen. I can't believe they shut it down. It wasn't right. Even after resigning as project leader, she had obtained clearance to receive regular updates. The news had been almost universally good; the project was well ahead of schedule. Then one night, completely out of the blue, Anastasia received a terse communication informing her that the project had been terminated, effective immediately. Those updates from Melbourne were among her last tenuous links to that former life, now so distant in both time and space. It was a blow to her ego, and also the final blow to the perilous house of cards she had constructed since coming aboard Challenger. The house of cards had started as a quaint bungalow, low to the ground and stable enough. Day by day, week by week, Anastasia had felt the house growing larger. Unauthorized construction. Even as she attempted to get used to life aboard a starship, the house grew up, up, storeys upon storeys extending higher than the eye could see, countless decks of cards expended in a pointless, hopeless exercise. She knew eventually the house would fall, but she wanted to postpone that confrontation for as long as possible. She stood alone now, a field of cards scattered around her. Infinity pickup. The face cards stared up at her with caricatured grimaces, mocking her naivety. The backs of the cards were the purest, coldest black, devoid of substance, devoid of meaning, devoid of mercy. Anastasia could only seek respite by closing her eyes and refusing to gaze upon this desolate scene, but she couldn't go through life with her eyes closed. She would bump into things. None of her former colleagues knew why the project was being shut down either. Zia Wyndam, former deputy lead and the new lead after Anastasia's departure, begged Anastasia to come back. “Maybe you can talk some sense into the board of directors. I've been stonewalled at every turn, even went to the top brass. No one is returning my calls anymore. I don't know what's going on—we just came one day to find the lab locked, no explanation, nothing. Maybe they'll listen to you.” Anastasia had been doubtful then and remained doubtful now, but she had acquiesced to Wyndam's request. Truth be told, she had been looking for a reason to leave Challenger for some time now. Her brief sense of ecstatic connection, of being involved in something momentous, had twisted over time into a sorry excuse for devotion to duty and day-to-day events. She lost sight of any long-term goals she had once had, aspirations to paint the stars with discoveries attached to her name. It all became routine, ordinary, and humdrum. Depressing. Oppressing. And in this suffocating atmosphere, a sense that she did not belong—she was not one of them. They were explorers and adventurers. She? She was a lab technician. Brilliant, perhaps, and certainly diligent in her job. But she was not “starship material,” no matter what the tests and interviews declared. It was a “leave of absence,” not a transfer. A compromise in many ways, but also just another opportunity for Anastasia to vacillate and avoid making another life-altering decision. The last one hadn't worked out so well for her, why would this one be any different? So ironically, even though joining Challenger had led her to this impasse, she could not bring herself to leave it, not just yet. Thus, even as the transport skipped across the surface of subspace, carrying her back home, it took her away from home.

“This House of Cards, Part V” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ----------------------------------------------- The empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen table told Michael everything he needed to know. Anastasia never imbibed that stereotypical spirit unless she was depressed. He stood in the door way, unsure if he should interrupt. “Come in,” she said. “Computer, turn the lights back on.” The illumination came up, and suddenly the dreary room once again became the architectural centrepiece of their home. The new kettle, resting comfortably in its place of honour, was cold. Michael sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “It's been two weeks, Ana. You need to leave this kitchen sometime. Or at least switch to a different poison.” His attempts at humour were lost on her, unfortunately. She just stared at the wall ahead of her. “Time doesn't matter. The human brain perceives time linearly, but it's all arbitrary. The only problem is entropy.” “Ana—” She snapped at him, “I killed my best friend! But that's not the worst part. That's not why I'm trying to saturate my liver in vodka. The worst part is that I can't tell anyone it ever happened! You know how they put it down in the books? Hiking accident. The body was never recovered. She had kids, Michael!” He was not sure how to console her. Trained, as a doctor, to handle such a scenario, he was out of practice—fortunately, his line of work universally involved saving lives. “The way you told it to me, you and she went on a mission to expose the truth. She was willing to give her life for that, or she wouldn't have gone along. She wouldn't want you to—” “Oh, don't give me that line. I don't care what Zia would have wanted. I want to wallow, thank you very much. I came back here to get some rest, to escape what I thought was a mistake. Investigating our project's closure was just . . . it was an excuse.” She turned to look at him. “I can't stay here.” “I know,” he said. He didn't add, “But I want you to anyway.” “If I stay here, I stay here, in this kitchen, with my vodka. I came here because I thought it was my home; I thought Challenger was the problem. But it wasn't the setting; it was the actress. I was the problem. Me and my ego. But now that I know the universe doesn't revolve around me, I'm ready to accept my place. And it can't be here.” So that was it then. The ultimatum, although Anastasia certainly didn't see it that way. Michael said, “Then let's go. Let's leave this place behind and go back to Challenger. Together.” It was a relief to see the first genuine smile on her face in weeks. “I wish. You don't know how different it is out there, how much I missed you.” She held up a hand to forestall his commiseration. “I know you missed me. But you have an entire planet of people to distract you. I had a couple hundred. And none of them, much to my dismay, were you.” “Ana, I'm serious. I want to go with you. One moment.” He got up and left the room only to return a few moments later. In his hand was the uniform of a Starfleet enlisted medical technician. Anastasia's jaw dropped. “You didn't. . . .” “Before you even came back home. I wanted to surprise you. I just didn't anticipate . . . you know.” Objections and practicalities flooded her mind. “But your practice—you can't just leave. You have patients, and responsibilities. . . .” “You're my responsibility, as corny as that sounds. My partners will take over my share—they would probably love the additional patients. So what do you say: will you be able to bear being married to a lowly crewman?” Anastasia stood up and embraced him, pressing herself close to his chest. “Oh, I think I'll manage somehow.” “When does your—our—transport leave?” “A week from tomorrow,” she replied, not really listening, her mind having already moved on to other matters. “Well then, I suppose we should make the best of our time here on Earth until then.” He smirked. She pursed her lips. Part of her wanted to wallow more. The other part, the part with her inhibitions, wondered if there was any vodka left. The latter part won. They were about to forsake the kitchen for the bedroom when the comm unit beeped. Anastasia and Michael exchanged glances, briefly considering if they should ignore the interruption. Both were hesitant, however, concerned it could be important. Reluctantly, Michael answered the call. A bureaucrat, dressed in the uniform of Earth security, addressed him, “Mr. Sanders?” “Yes, that's me.” “Would your wife happen to be available?” Anastasia approached the console. “What's this all about?” “Ms. Poldara, I'm afraid I have bad news.” Then the bureaucrat added a last trite line: “You may want to sit down.” It was that bad. Anastasia sat down. “Ms. Poldara, I have the unfortunate duty of informing you that your mother, Irina Poldara, has been reported missing.” Anastasia's mind, now surrendered to the vodka, refused to process this new development. “Missing,” was all she said. “She went on leave two weeks ago, but has not returned. Initial investigation has revealed she never arrived at her destination. I'm sorry, Ms. Poldara, but your mother seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth.” This is the conclusion to this log series. Hope you enjoyed reading.

“This House of Cards, Part IV” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ----------------------------------------------- “Breaking and entering: 2 counts. Theft of classified data: 1 count. Distribution of classified data: 1 count.” Dressed in stylish matching jackets and civilian garb, two rogue Starfleet scientists march down the streets of St. Petersburg on a mission. “Trespassing: 2 counts. Resisting arrest: 2 counts. Escaping custody: 1 count.” They approach a Starfleet research centre. It's early morning, and the sun is only now braving the horizon. The entrance to the building is unlocked, but the reception desk isn't yet occupied. Wyndham takes a seat at the console and brings up a floor plan. “Assaulting a superior officer: 2 counts. Assaulting security personnel: 3 counts. Manslaughter: 1 count.” The lift opens on the fifth floor. So far, so good. No one has stopped them yet—the building is practically deserted, its only other occupants some technicians who seem more interested in their own work than two unidentified civilians. Anastasia and Wyndham make their way across the floor to the secured area. “Do you understand the charges as they have been read to you?” Two guards. Simultaneously they look up, one opening his mouth to ask a question. No chance. Two bodies, stunned but alive, hidden behind their desks. Again, the rogue scientists access a console, this time to disable the automated security system. Cameras off. Internal sensors off, but not before confirming the presence of another person inside the room. “Ms. Poldara?” The door is locked, of course, but they are not mere thieves. Trained Starfleet officers know how to pick a lock. Anastasia quickly bypasses the security protocol and triggers an override. The door swishes open, and they're inside—just like that. In many ways, it feels too easy. But this is the hardest thing she has ever done in her life. “Ms. Poldara, do you understand the charges?” In the middle of the room, sitting at a circular console similar to the one in Anastasia's science lab, an unfamiliar Commander looks up, alarmed. They raise their phasers but do not shoot. Questions ensue, a heated exchange. Anastasia demands the Commander hand over the evidence they finally require and make a full confession. The Commander refuses. Security will arrive at any minute, so time is short. “Yes, I understand the charges.” But security doesn't arrive. Security can't arrive, because the lifts are offline. This was not Anastasia's idea, however, but that of the man with the phaser rifle now pointed at her head. “And what is your plea?” The power goes out. “I plead guilty to all charges.” Emergency lights sputter on. Anastasia seizes the moment to dropkick the trained killer, but he sees her coming and hits her with the butt of his rifle. They go down simultaneously, the rifle clattering out of his grasp. Wyndham, meanwhile, is occupied with two other operatives. Unlike Anastasia, her combat skills are limited. She's easily disabled. He looks her squarely in the eye. Not sure whether to accept this or not. Then, resigned, he nods. The Commander seizes the phaser rifle, trains it on both Anastasia and her opponent. Demands that everyone stop at once. No one listens. Anastasia manages to disarm another operative, points the phaser rifle at the remaining man, who has subdued Wyndham. “Very well. Then it is my duty to inform you that, as of 14:00 hours today—” An aide enters, hands him a PADD. “I see. You're certain? Thank you.” The Commander fires at one of the operatives, point blank. Death immediate. Two more shots, two more people dead. Security belatedly arrives. “Today is your lucky day, Ms. Poldara.” Slides the PADD across the table. “All you have to do is sign this, and you're a free woman.” Wyndham's dead eyes stare blankly at Anastasia. Even as Anastasia had squeezed the trigger, the operative was pulling Wyndham into place as a shield. She didn't stand a chance. Anastasia looks up, confused. “This isn't a confession. This is a recantation.” Another operative, killed by the Commander's second shot, stares at the ceiling. “Correct. You verify that statement, you swear that none of this ever happened, and you go back to your life, your husband, your Starfleet career. Status quo.” The operative whom Anastasia had failed to kill now trains his rifle on Anastasia, but the security personnel stun him. Anastasia flees. Security pursues, along with the confused rifle-toting Commander. “It can't be status quo. It can never be status quo,” she says. “It wasn't supposed to happen like this. . . .” In a parallel universe, Anastasia manages to escape, now a fugitive. In this universe, however, she collides with a passing technician, hitting the floor hard for the second time in five minutes. This gives security enough time to catch up and apprehend her. Her thumb presses against the receptive surface of the PADD. The Sun once again orbits the Earth. All is right in the world. It's over very quickly. Anastasia never does obtain the evidence she needs from the unnamed Commander, who gives a statement and resumes his work. Indeed, all of the evidence she had previously gathered has now gone missing. Names and dates don't match her testimony. Witnesses have disappeared. Her project, formerly mothballed, is now retroactively excised from the database. Anastasia's lawyer advises her to plead guilty. She does. “Thank you, Ms. Poldara; that will be all. Have a nice day.”

“This House of Cards, Interlude” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ----------------------------------------------- “This is starting to get out of hand,” Irina Poldara said. Cdr. Asquith nodded. “We had no way of knowing she would come all the way back to Earth when she learned about the project.” “Yes we did. She's my daughter. Of course she's going to cross a hundred light-years just to pick a bone with Starfleet Cybernetics. It's what I would have done.” “Well what do you propose we do to solve this problem?” asked Asquith. “She's assaulted a Starfleet officer, not to mention escaping custody. We should catch her and court martial her.” “No. At least, not yet. We need to get the situation back under control. Right now Anastasia's an unknown variable operating in a real situation. We need to channel her efforts until she's acting a part in a narrative of our own design.” “So you want us to set her up for victory.” “Please,” Irina said. “I didn't arrange to have her become science officer in deep space just so she could become involved in my other life.” She terminated the transmission, leaving Asquith alone to ponder how to rectify matters. Damn Poldaras! The mother's as bad as the daughter. Asquith sighed and keyed in a code for an unlisted terminal. A blinking light indicated the channel was open—there was no video. “I told you not to call here.” A man's voice, obviously perturbed, distorted by a minor security subroutine. “The situation has become critical. I recommend we terminate both Poldara women immediately.” “Has it become that serious?” “It has. Irina's judgement is compromised by her daughter's involvement. She isn't making rational calls; she's jeopardizing the mission and our cover. She's become too much of a security risk. Mobilize your team and remove both of them before this escalates from debacle to fiasco.” “Understood. We'll eliminate the threats: you eliminate the evidence. Out.” Asquith stared at the blank console for a moment, collecting herself. She had been at this for nearly thirty years now, and it still rattled her every time she marked someone for death. Oh, it wasn't the killing part that disturbed her. It was the calm way in which she simply gave a name, and the person disappeared. It deliberately flouted the due process enshrined in Federation law, simply because that was the only way to protect the Federation and ensure its continued existence. The fact of the matter was, most citizens got due process because, once every so often, someone disappeared off the street. Poof. Just like that. It was a shame she would lose Irina. Normally a sublimely competent operative, Irina's emotional attachment to her daughter was . . . an unfortunate liability. But it had proved necessary to shut down the positronic brain project in order to protect several other interests. Anastasia Poldara, and by extension, her mother, were just collateral damage. . . .

“This House of Cards, Part III” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ----------------------------------------------- The room was large and tastefully decorated in that style so favoured by Starfleet Headquarters—that is, spartan with an extra helping of bland. The occupants of the room, sitting around a remarkably oval table, laboured with great effort to reproduce that effect with their own persons—wardrobe, coiffure, and posture combined to create auras utterly devoid of character. Their success in this venture was marked by the rank they had managed to achieve, for this room was the setting for a meeting of the Board of Directors of Starfleet's Cybernetics Research division. With this scene now firmly established, it is no stretch of imagination to propose that when the doors of the room swished open and Anastasia Poldara strode into the room, this eminent body of un-people did their best to remain composed. Nary an eyebrow rose as Anastasia said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the board, I have an announcement to make!” In fact, while this event was altogether unusual, it was still not important enough to merit the direct attention of the Chairman of the Board. As such, it was the Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman who addressed Anastasia: “Yes, Lieutenant? And who are you?” Anastasia's hand clutched a PADD, which she now rose into the air like a trophy. She ignored the Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman's inquiry and said, “About a month ago, you terminated a project at the Melbourne labs, based on a faulty recommendation. I have, in my hand, evidence that the data you received were falsified to make the project look like a complete failure.” At this point, the security personnel whose pursuit Anastasia had eluded caught up with their quarry. As two of the officers restrained Anastasia, a third said, “My apologies, sirs. She managed to get past the security desk with fake credentials.” “Please!” Anastasia cried, determined to put up a struggle. “Let me speak! You have to hear me out! You're making a huge mistake!” “You wouldn't happen to be Lt. Poldara, would you? The former head of the project in question?” asked the Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman. “Yes! And I'm telling you, someone unfamiliar with the project might have been duped, but I'm not. There's something going on here—some sort of conspiracy—” The Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman leaned forward, fingers interlaced, an expression of bemusement written across his face. “In my twenty-seven years of experience, Lieutenant, when someone crashes a board meeting and mentions a 'conspiracy', they aren't someone from whom I should take advice.” Waving a hand in dismissal, he added, “Take her away.” The security officers nodded and proceeded to drag the kicking Anastasia out of the room, ignoring her undignified attempts to break free. Meanwhile, the Board of Directors resumed their meeting. The Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman turned to his colleagues and said, “Now, I believe we were in the middle of planning the semi-annual intra-departmental zero-gravity golf tournament. . . .” *** The security holding cell was also decorated in a spartan theme, although for considerably different reasons. Anastasia could have elected to pace the length of the cell with impatience, or throw herself against the force field in a fit of self-destructive rage. Instead, she sat on the bench, absolutely still, awaiting her fate. Perhaps storming a Board of Directors meeting had been the wrong thing to do. But Anastasia was tired. She and Lt. Wyndham had spent weeks contacting superior officers, forwarding their evidence—corroborated by third parties even!—but their cries of foul play fell on deaf ears. Reluctantly, Anastasia had abandoned the tiny, remote hope that this was all a mistake. She had let go of the notion that this was the result of a grudge against her or her project, that it was a minor machination on the part of another Starfleet officer. No, she had stumbled upon to a full-blown conspiracy, and she had become determined to expose it. Now, imprisoned behind a coherent field of gravitons, Anastasia had to admit that victory was rapidly becoming more distant. “You should be in space, Lt. Poldara.” The voice was familiar. Anastasia's head snapped up in surprise. Cdr. Asquith stood in front of her cell. “Something came up,” Anastasia replied. “I can see that. Really, Lieutenant: barging into a meeting of the Board of Directors, denouncing a conspiracy? Is that the best you could do?” Her eyes narrowing, Anastasia smirked. “Certainly not. The best is yet to come.” “I can't decide if you actually believe you're going to succeed or if you're just so deranged you don't realize how much trouble you're in. You broke into classified files, copied them, shared them with third parties—trespassing is mundane compared to those charges. You'll be lucky if your lawyer can get you off with just a court martial. I'm disappointed, Lieutenant. I expected better from you.” “Same here, Commander. Tell me,” said Anastasia, standing face to face with Asquith, “was my project targeted specifically—is this a vendetta against me? Or do your superiors have a larger plan in mind? How many strings did you have to pull to get me assigned to Challenger anyway?” She nodded as Asquith's haughty expression faltered. “It took me a while to figure it out, but now it all makes sense. Why would I ever be offered a post as chief science officer on a new Excalibur-class starship? There must be hundreds of people more qualified for the post, more deserving of that honour. Yet somehow, I was the lucky one. Because you needed me out of the way before you could kill my project.” Through gritted teeth, Asquith said, “I have no idea what you're talking about.” “I think you do, sir. Only you obviously didn't anticipate that I'd cross half a quadrant to find out why my project was killed. You didn't anticipate me breaking Starfleet security protocols, risking my career, or enlisting the help of my former colleagues. And you didn't anticipate my accomplice.” “Your accomplice?” “Yes, Lt. Zia Wyndham, my accomplice. You didn't anticipate her coming up behind you during this conversation and stunning you.” Then a phaser beam hit Cdr. Asquith square in the back. The woman gasped in surprise before crumpling against the force field, falling forward to the floor after the field subsequently disengaged. Anastasia stepped over Asquith's unconscious body and looked at Wyndham, who was standing at the control console, phaser in hand. “Good work. Did you get the location?” Wyndham nodded. “Wasn't easy, but I traced the source of the transmission. How do you feel like a vacation in St. Petersburg?” “Hmm . . . chilly this time of year. We'll need jackets.”

“This House of Cards, Part II” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ----------------------------------------------- “The project was terminated a month ago, Lt. Poldara. Its resources have already been reallocated. It will not be restarted.” Commander Zend maintained an official, detached tone, but his eyes smiled at denying her request. Anastasia scowled. She recognized a dismissal when she heard one, but she was not ready to let the matter drop. They had been discussing the termination of her former project for almost an hour now, “But you still haven't told me why. You didn't even tell Lt. Wyndam why. Why aren't you saying why?” “That's classified.” “Oh it is, is it?” Anastasia retorted, eyebrows raised. She placed her hands on her hips and added, “And who decided that?” Zend said, “Watch your tone, Lieutenant. You left this institute and your project some time ago. We are not obligated to explain ourselves to you.” “Respectfully, Commander, I don't see how Starfleet Cybernetics can just shut down an entire project and reassign its staff without so much as a final project report. I tried to check the work entry database—it's been purged, all records sealed.” “As I said, they are classified now.” Zend sighed and leaned forward. “Look, Poldara. I don't like this any more than you do. My orders came down from much higher up than I'd like to think pays attention to individual projects here. You think I like having wasted all that time on something that won't even enter into the journals as a failure? But that's the price we pay for using Starfleet resources and equipment—we're subject to a chain of command and at the mercy of military paranoia. You know that what we were developing had weapons applications.” That induced a snort from Anastasia. “'Weapons applications'?! We weren't even at the prototype stage yet. We hadn't even figured out how to stabilize the positron flow, let alone form a coherent matrix. Practical applications were decades off, not years.” Zend shrugged. “Not my call. Not your call. Let it go, Poldara. You dropped this toy for a shinier one; you can't expect a quick tantrum will get it back for you. Now, you can go ahead and rant in the hallway until security takes you away, or you can go find something productive to do. But until I see a transfer request, as far as I'm concerned, you don't work here. Good day.” Fuming, Anastasia managed a “Yes, sir” before whirling around and leaving Zend's office, the black cloud struggling to keep up. “Officious obstructionist vague imbecilic bureaucrat!” she vilified her former supervisor all the way down the corridor, ignoring the stares of passers-by. But it was no use. She hated to admit it, but Zend was right. Wyndam had tried this approach: no one would say a word. Anastasia knew she wouldn't produce any different results, but she had tried anyway. It didn't make sense. Nothing from the project could have been a threat. According to the last update she had seen, they had been attempting a new method of aligning the induction grid to offset the quantum instabilities of the neural network. The simulations were favourable. Then nothing. What happened in two weeks to cause Starfleet to shut down the entire project? Without some sort of explanation or access to the records themselves, Anastasia would probably never know. So Anastasia flew down the corridor, past the offices of former colleagues: Chaz Reimer, micro-electric engineering; Tebrek, cortical imaging specialist; Brett Malo, data networking specialist and record-keeping—record-keeping! She stopped in front of Malo's office door, the light indicating he was in. She had known Malo for years—since he was fresh out of the Academy, in fact. If there was anyone who could and would get her access to those records, it would be him. Anastasia took a deep breath and pressed the door chime. “Come in,” said Malo. The door hissed open and Anastasia stepped into what she had always thought of as a “lair.” Every available surface, including the walls, ceiling, and most of the floor, was covered in schematics, diagrams, and equipment. There was space to get from the door to his desk and an overturned container that functioned as a guest chair. Malo was a minimalist, both in milieu and method. The high-pitched set of dissonant notes pumping through the room's speakers was new, though. It didn't sound like any music Anastasia had ever sampled. Malo's hobby was recital and composition, however; he enviably possessed absolute pitch. Anastasia covered her ears and advanced cautiously. “Uh ... Brett?” “Yeah, wha—” Malo whirled around in his chair to face her, his expression changing as he realized the identity of his visitor. “Ana! Wow. I didn't—oh, sorry.” He touched a control on his desk, and the noise stopped. “Forgot about that.” “You forgot about a deafening noise in your office?” Malo smiled and gestured at the guest . . . crate. “You'd be surprised.” “What was that?” “Subharmonic field distortions in an isolinear medium. I'm working on isolinear circuitry now, but we're experiencing degradations in the way we embed the optical matrix. I've developed a program that translates the field distortions into audible sound frequencies. Now I'm listening for the anomalies to see if there's a pattern in the degradation progression.” Anastasia laughed. It was the first time she had laughed in a while, and it felt good. “You were not.” “It's not that hard when you can hear the distortions. At first I had the computer analyzing it, but I found that I could intuitively tell what sounded wrong. The computer had trouble distinguishing between fragmented data storage and corrupted memory.” “We had the same problem with our project,” Anastasia said. “And I remember you coming into the lab one day with the solution. That's when I learned about your advantage.” “Hey, if you've got it, use it. But what brings you back to Earth—you heard about our project, I guess.” “That's why I'm here.” Anastasia wasn't sure how best to proceed, so she just said, “I need access to the final data, Brett.” Malo frowned. “It's classified. Zend doesn't even have access.” “I know. But Zend doesn't have the skills to get me access.” She raised an eyebrow. “Ana . . .” Malo sighed. “I really can't. I mean, yes, I could, but I won't.” “Not even for an old friend? Your old mentor?” Anastasia said, drawing her lips into a pout. She carefully reached out and placed her hand on his, ever so gently squeezing it. “Not even for me?” Her index finger stroked back and forth. “Uhh. . .” Malo pursed his lips, debating. Then he sighed again, but this time it was one of resignation, not regret. “Ana, why do you always ask me to do things that break security protocol?” “Because I'm fun,” she replied. “And those other times were accidents. I honestly didn't know Keller's lab was quarantined!” Intently focused on his computer now, Malo responded with a distant, unconvinced, “Right. And the Deltan ambassador's quarters?” “I maintain that the directions to that conference were vague at best. How was I supposed to know that the we were in the wrong wing of the consulate?” A beep issued from the console, and Malo said, “There! I'm in. Oh wow.” Anastasia came around the desk and read over his shoulder. “Oh wow,” she repeated. “There's tons of data here—what were you guys doing with the engrammatic encoder?” “Nothing, that's what's so odd. It's like . . .” “. . . someone falsified these data to make it look like there were problems.” Anastasia shivered. “Why?” “Someone wanted the project killed?” “Not just killed. Killed gruesomely and buried forever.” “Gruesomely but silently. No wonder we don't have access to these—any of us would have spotted the inconsistencies immediately—” “Like we did.” “—and raised the issue with the board of directors. I've got to let Zia know. Can you download this to a PADD?” Malo looked up at her and frowned. “I don't know, Ana—breaking into classified files is one thing, but copying them. . . .?” “Breaking into them alone is a court-martial offence. PADD. Now. What difference will it make?” Even as Malo took a blank PADD and copied the data, he muttered. “Oh, about fifteen years in prison.” He handed the PADD to Anastasia and said, “Good luck.” Anastasia clasped Malo's shoulders and planted a kiss on his bright red hair. “Thanks, Brett. I owe you one.” “One? Try twenty-seven.” “Fine, make it twenty-eight,” Anastasia said. As she turned to leave, she added, “Put it on my tab!”

Covering Our Asteroids Lts. Coleridge and tr'Jeth Dabi ---------------------------------------- Daise'D'heso tr'Jeth Dabi walked out of the conference room after the meeting with Drankum and Chirakis. He wasn't convinced with the responses at all, but made mental notes about security issues to be resolved in the future. There was too much at stake not to get things up and running at a minimum of standards immediately; the other issues could wait for further investigation. His stride, as usual, was long and firm as he went to the turbolift, called for Coleridge's engineering deck and exited as it stopped. Upon stepping out, he was greeted by Lt. Coleridge, who had been expecting him. "Where is your Daise… Engineering boss?" tr'Jeth firmly stated as he approached Coleridge, "I'm looking for Daise'Jorahl." "Jorahl's not available at the moment. If you'd like, you can leave a message after the tone. However, if you're here to discuss the defense grid, then you're actually looking for me," replied Coleridge. He didn't even crack a smirk to Coleridge's joke, though after being on a Klingon ship for the last 6 months, these monotoned lloan'na sounds more like the hum of a well-tuned engine. "Lieutenant Coleridge," tr'Jeth paused momentarily to look him up and down, taking in who Jorahl choose to be in charge in his absence. "Daise'Jorahl must trust you to put you in charge of such a fantastic system such as the defense grid." Coleridge barely noticed tr'Jeth's appraisal and wondered whether he was beginning to get used to working alongside Romulan officers--perhaps Jorahl was rubbing off on him. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but smirk as he said, "I wouldn't presume to know the Chief's intentions. But yes, it appears my head will roll if the grid fails to protect us when the situation arises. So I'd like to get it right." Coleridge gestured toward one of the nearby stations, where he had prepared an overview of the grid. Following Coleridge over to the overview, tr'Jeth stepped around the table taking in a keen view from all sides. "Tell me about the grid." He wasn't courteous, he wasn't flowery, he was all business. This was always appreciated by his superiors, but co-workers and subordinates were never in appreciation of his straight forward demeanor. Part of it may have been by his personal dissention for using Federation standard, but under orders from the Commander, he did his best to translate. Coleridge said, "We have just completed deployment of the final platforms--at least for now--bringing the grid's total strength up to 712 platforms throughout the system. The platforms consist of three types: short-, mid-, and long-range. Engineering, science, and your predecessor in security jointly decided on the deployment pattern you see before you. "As its name implies, the grid's primary purpose is defense against enemy vessels. However, the grid also functions as a sensor and communications network. Now that Aegis is situated in an asteroid belt, we experience a higher level of ionic interference on our short-range sensors, so these auxiliary functions are of greater importance than they were in the Cardassian system." He paused and waited to see if tr'Jeth had any questions. The security officer didn't miss a heartbeat, injecting, "Show me your redundant systems." "The platforms are completely modular, allowing us to replace damaged or destroyed platforms efficiently." Coleridge brought up a schematic of an individual defense platform. "The platforms themselves function as redundant backups; if an enemy destroys or disables several platforms, the grid can automatically compensate for the loss by redeploying nearby platforms." Coleridge's enthusiasm for his work came through in his explanation. "Each platform has its own power source in the form of a fusion generator. However, platforms can share power amongst each other or even receive it from Aegis. Thus, in a battle, unused portions of the grid may transmit power to engaged platforms, boosting shield strength and weapons." "Explain its range and strengths." tr'Jeth wasn't very flowery in conversation; in fact, it was more like reading a technical manual than a novel. He didn't know how to be friendly but certainly knew how to get the work done. After working with Jorahl for several months, Coleridge was well acquainted with this perfunctory attitude. He wisely refrained from remarking that many Romulans shared this trait with their Vulcan cousins. Instead, he answered tr'Jeth's question. "The grid spreads throughout the entire system." He switched back to the overview of the deployment. "Its long-range sensors are good for fifteen light-years in any direction, with a lag of about seven minutes per light-year. They can also interface with long-range Federation sensor relays. The EM emission and tachyon detection palettes on the mid- and short-range sensor platforms make it nearly impossible for a cloaked ship to enter the system undetected. "By default, each platform operates individually, shielding only itself and automatically targeting the nearest threat. However, the grid can use multiple platforms to shield larger areas or collectively target specific threats. The platforms are mobile and may be reconfigured for optimal firing positions. In the event that an enemy destroys or disables several platforms, the grid can automatically redeploy existing platforms to cover the gap. The tactical officer may issue manual orders at any time during a conflict, but the grid was designed to operate automatically." Deep in thought, tr'Jeth stood perfectly still next to the console. He had thoroughly been taking in everything that Coleridge had said, plus had ever so slightly admired the enthusiasm the officer showed in his recounting of the project. "Can the grid send its excess power back to Aegis?" With arms crossed against his wide chest, he took in the platform's range and strength. "It will be necessary to have an independent system for the colony. What is the plan for this?" Briefly he leaned over the table to inspect a few areas a bit closer. Taken unprepared by that question, Coleridge paused briefly, trying to remember if Jorahl had mentioned anything when informing the engineers about the colony. "The thought did cross my mind, but I haven't heard anything about it from Chief Jorahl. If there are any legal issues surrounding a colony defense grid based on this technology, then that's a headache for another officer." On his first assignment, the ill-fated Endeavor, such considerations had seldom come into play. On Aegis, he was beginning to wonder if the patients--er, diplomats--had too free of a run around the asylum--er, station. Hence, he adamantly refused to become involved in any sort of political concerns, resolving to be a good Starfleet officer and merely follow orders. A wormhole, some time travel, and a multi-sector station transport later, this policy had served him well. The cogs were grinding against each other, making mental lists of inferior design flaws and tr'Jeth was going to expose all of them, work to get them corrected, and do some of his finest security work. They were becoming too numerous to remember, even with his superior skill, so he taped on a console, switching it to his security level and screens, then began recording quite a few things as they spoke. One of his concerns was noted as "colony defenses", yet he listened as Coleridge continued. Returning to engineering concerns, Coleridge added, "From a technical perspective, duplicating this grid for the colony is possible. We'd just need to manufacture the platforms and install the appropriate facility on the colony from which to operate the grid. If or when I receive such orders, I'll submit an estimated timeline." He stepped back to stand firmly on both feet without leaning on anything. "The fighter pilots are out of shape, mentally and physically. The proposed test scenarios must retrain their mind and body." "Right, and that's really where I need your help. Tactics were never my strongest area." Coleridge replaced the overview with a close-up of a single, nondescript section of the grid. "Any initial thoughts?" "I will put together a well formed training plan for the fighter pilots now that I have the basics on the grid's layout. I have yet to meet with them, though I keep getting security requests for them to go out for flight training. I think a holodeck program would be best in order first, as we do not need to send any to Areinnye early," but noting the inquisitive look in Coleridge's face, he quickly spoke, "a form of the afterlife." Knowing full well it meant a mean and evil Hell. He looked up from the console for a moment, eyeing Coleridge. "What can you tell me about this holodeck situation?" tr'Jeth didn't know who would know about what, but was still searching for the source of the ghosts that Joy had mentioned to him. He wanted that cleaned up, pronto. Eyebrows raised, Coleridge said, "The 'holodeck situation'? I haven't heard anything about that." He paused and tried to think if he had seen any work orders for the holodecks recently. Shaking his head, he added, "I'm not surprised though. Between reassembling the station in a somewhat-working order and working on the defense grid, I may have just missed it. You'll want to talk to Lt. Fletcher; Jorahl has put him in charge of station maintenance." "Fletcher, noted." He tapped on the console entering that piece of information. "If an enemy selected a segment of grids to take over, could they in effect, send malicious code, power surges or shortages, and other communications to Aegis or other parts of the grid? I need to specifically know more about the security setup behind the scenes. What you've showed me so far is all topical." Specs would be the first order of business, so that any malicious code could be removed. tr'Jeth Dabi knew how back doors worked, and he wasn't going to be responsible for leaving one in this system. As Coleridge spoke, tr'Jeth kept tapping on the console to add to his notes for ways to have the fighters attack the grid and show its weaknesses. "The security protocols remain almost unchanged from the original grid's design. Only commands from Aegis are accepted. Theoretically, if an enemy breaks Starfleet encryption protocols, it could fake a transmission from Aegis. However, breaking those protocols would also allow an enemy to disguise his or her vessels as friendly or wreak havoc on Aegis' systems as well. Commandeering an individual platform would be difficult; if a platform is disconnected from the grid but remains operational, it will automatically shut down after five minutes. We can remotely self-destruct any platforms we suspect have been compromised. "No, the grid's weakness is Aegis itself. A spy could sabotage the computer here, install a program that would disable the entire grid." Coleridge gave a fatalistic shrug and added, "You may review the existing station security protocols and propose whatever changes you think are necessary, sir." "I'm already on that… that's why they've hired me, but I would hope you would never repeat that. Words like that tend to grow wings." Both of them knew the state of the security system and protocols haven't been laid out clear enough yet to keep the station safe. tr'Jeth had to get the security staff cracking on each segment, and utilize the staff that best knew the systems, Coleridge clearly being one of them. He logged out of the console, turned towards Coleridge and stated, "I will be in touch."

To put it simply, space is very big. Hugely, amazingly, mind-bogglingly big. While the Earth may seem like a large target, it's relatively small compared to the amount of "empty" space around the Earth. Moreover, the Earth itself is in motion relative to any object with which it might collide, so an object's trajectory has to take it to where the Earth will be in its orbit around the Sun, not where it is right now. So statistically speaking, more objects are going to miss the Earth than collide with it. We've been lucky so far and avoided hitting anything large enough to cause mass extinctions. I'm sure there are others on this board more qualified to answer questions regarding atmospheric entry/re-entry, so I won't touch on how the space shuttle re-enters the atmosphere. On the subject of "flight" versus "pull": everything "orbiting" Earth is actually in constant free-fall around the Earth. Every object with mass in the universe exerts a gravitational pull on every other object; the strength of that pull decreases drastically with distance. The Earth exerts a gravitational pull on all the objects that orbit it, but these objects are travelling fast enough that instead of falling into the Earth, they fall around it constantly, hence "constant free-fall." Eventually these objects' orbits may decay, which means their velocity decreases to the point that they can no longer maintain that state of free fall, and the object crashes back toward Earth's surface.

That depends on where you're looking and how far away it is. Some regions of space are volatile and change rapidly. The surface of the sun is this way. The sun itself, however, has been relatively stable for the past few billion years. And that's the timescale generally applicable here--stars take millions of years to fully form, and usually last for billions of years. To a species with a relatively short lifetime, such a timescale is very hard to fully comprehend. Since our solar system is a very active region of space (compared to the empty space beyond the solar system), it's easy to take a look at our neighbourhood and imagine that everywhere in the universe is similar. Lots of space is empty or so close to being empty, however, that it's hard to detect any minute changes therein. A region of the space that's mostly empty, or home to a smattering of stars, isn't going to change much over the course of time, especially not in the spectrum of light we can see. Keep in mind as well that the Hubble takes photos of extremely distant regions of space. At that distance, resolution becomes a problem, so we can only see objects that are really big and bright. So while that region of space may be quite active, from our perspective, it hasn't changed too much. There's also the fact that everything is in motion relative to everything else. I.e., the Milky Way galaxy isn't just sitting "somewhere" in the universe, happily rotating about. It's actually moving at a very fast speed--right toward the Andromeda galaxy, in fact. They'll collide in a couple of billion years or so; if you haven't purchased "galaxy collision insurance", now might be the time to do so. I imagine that ships in the Starfleet universe have a considerable advantage over our current technology. Firstly, the sensors on a starship are much more precise than our best instruments, and they have better range. Secondly, most of Federation space probably has comm relays or sensor buoys (not to mention all those starbases) deployed throughout. These can feed telemetry back to ships via subspace. So for all intents and purposes, starships can get real-time or close to real-time updates on whatever region of space they are about to enter and navigate accordingly. We, on the other hand, are stuck with photos that are out of date the moment we take them.

Welcome to STSF. ;) The first place you want to go is the Getting Started page. All of the links under the Table of Contents section of that page contain useful information about roleplaying with STSF; none of them lead to the StarTrek.com site. You can also look at the Tips From Moose forum for lengthier posts on specific topics related to simming. Before you can join an Advanced Sim, you do need to go through the academy training process first. So after you've read the Getting Started section, check the Schedule for a list of academy times. There's one every day, at varying times, so choose whatever works best for you. You don't always have to attend the same one either.

I was correct in my supposition that they harvest the Hawking radiation. Cool. ^_^ Hmm ... I wonder if some Starfleet Intelligence operatives would approach Scott with the aim of getting him to steal classified Romulan design plans.... ;)

I could see an argument being made that the portrayal of Romulans as sneaky and dishonourable is all a large smear campaign instigated by the Klingons or the Breen, with the participation of the Federation. This would have begun during the post-TOS era, when the Klingons began to regret their recent decades of rather dishonourable behaviour and wanted to restore their reputation as honourable warriors. The Federation needed a way to redirect ire toward the Klingons after these two powers signed the Khitomer treaty. What better way than to make the Romulans the new bad guy? The Khitomer massacre didn't help, and during their isolation after that until the events in "The Neutral Zone" at the end of TNG's first seasons, the Romulans weren't around to defend themselves. On the other hand, it's conceivable that Romulan culture simply changed over the decades between TOS and their reappearance in TNG. Just as the Klingons became more honourable, there was plenty of time for balances of power to shift and cultural mores to move away from honour and toward paranoia. Rome did eventually fall. And now the events at the end of Nemesis (I will totally agree to ignore all that Reman stuff...) indicate that the society may be returning to those honourable roots now that leaders have come to power who are more open to interacting with other species.

Now that I would like to see. ;) It depends on how exactly the ship extracts energy from the singularity. One way to do it is by harvesting the Hawking radiation emitted by the singularity (assuming Hawking radiation exists). There are other methods, but this one seems the most practical for a vessel, at least in my opinion. If this is the case, then the singularity is actually shrinking (evaporating) as it emits radiation. Then feeding more mass into the singularity merely maintains its optimal size rather than increasing its mass. These are theoretically micro-singularities (since I don't think you'd want a macro-singularity anywhere near a ship), which means they don't pose much of a threat as a planet-based weapon. Micro-singularities emit the most Hawking radiation and thus evaporate very quickly (this is why concerns over the danger of the Large Hadron Collider producing a planet-gobbling black hole are unfounded). I can see how micro-singularities would be cool as vacuum weapons, since you could fire them at the hull of a ship and pepper it with pinpricks until the vessel depressurizes ... but I digress. I would be more worried about the weapons that people can actually power with the amount of energy they extract from their pet quantum singularity. Once you start playing around with the absurd amounts of energies required for things like warp drive, you've pretty much signed any waiver of "safety." Just consider the transporter--its innate dangers are often lampshaded by paranoid characters, but the truth is, it really does disassemble your body into constituent atoms and reassemble you elsewhere. That is freaky, and unsafe. Quantum singularities just seem more dangerous because they're mysterious and misunderstood (sort of like the "bad boy" cool kids of the physics high school...). I would expect that the Romulans will want to maintain as much secrecy and misinformation about their AQS system for as long as possible. Rather than disclosing any schematics to the other powers involved with the Aegis shipyard, I would think that the Romulans will regularly send as many pre-manfactured AQS drives as required, and a team of Romulan technicians will install the AQS systems aboard the ships. While I agree with you in principle, I disagree with your reasoning. The purpose of the warp nacelles is to generate a symmetric subspace field around a starship, causing the ship to go to warp. As you've observed, this design seems very common--probably because it's one of the easiest ways to generate a symmetric field, much like having two flat wings on either side of a plane is one of the easiest ways to generate lift. I've always thought that the glowing pods on either "wing" of a D'deridex Warbird were nacelles--someone correct me if I'm wrong. In any event, the warp core is an incidental component of the warp drive itself. It's really just a glorified matter-antimatter reactor. The drive system is power-agnostic--all it needs is electroplasma to inject into the nacelles; it doesn't care if this plasma comes from a warp core or an AQS. So I can see us designing a ship that's able to use either power generation method with the same power distribution system. Now, there may eventually arise other technical or diplomatic reasons that hinder the modular development of the ship's power systems ... we'll see. Personally, I've always found the AQS unique and cool just because ... well, it's quantum. And not "quantum" like "quantum torpedoes, but honest-to-goodness funky quantum, with all the spatial-temporal side-effects this implies. We just need to slap a huge sticker on the side of the unit that says, "Warning: Going to warp voids the warranty."

This made my day: Robot Chicken Presents: Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, the Opera http://io9.com/5146816/robot-chicken-prese...-khan-the-opera (Sorry, Tach. We don't have imbedded videos here as a rule, so I just changed it to a link that others can go to.)

i09 has created this nifty chart that will help you generate your own Star Trek adventures!

“Tandaris Goes Over the Edge” Cdr. Tandaris Admiran ------------------------------------------------- Tandaris slipped into the cargo bay, a surreptitious glance reassuring him that none had seen him enter. There could be nothing to link him to this crime—not a single shred of evidence. Oh, everyone would know he had done it; that couldn't be prevented. But no one would be able to prove it.... His combadge lay on the table in his quarters. He had implemented an anonymous backtrace deletion script for the internal sensor logs in this section—the logs would be gone, but there would be no way to tell who had deleted them. It could be any engineer. Yes, it was a method of last resort. He was not proud of such tactics, but he appreciated that they had a certain flare. And to be honest, he would enjoy it. His tricorder's constant hum disrupted the otherwise pristine silence of the cargo bay. No one had been here for at least a couple of weeks—this storage area contained rare or less-often used components. It was the perfect place to hide something from prying eyes. “There you are,” Tandaris said, his voice unusually sedate. “Yes, you're very pretty, aren't you? I can see why you're so popular. But you had to go and taunt me.” He crept forward. “Do you know how long we've been out here? Do you realize how much damage we've sustained—heavy battle damage, no less—in the course of the past months? Do you have any conception of the amount of work and effort involved in trying to repair the ship and keep her functioning when you have no support from a drydock, few extra supplies, and an overworked crew?” He didn't bother waiting for a response, for he would have received none. His victim couldn't speak. Indeed, it would suffer silently—perhaps even unaware of the torture it was about to endure. Tandaris was no expect in these matters, but after six lifetimes, he had managed to pick up a trick or two. You don't negotiate with terrorists. But for terrorists, negotiation is a powerful weapon. Almost as powerful as terror. Tandaris stood in front of his victim, a smile spreading across his face. “I need a release after all this stress, you know? And you're going to give it to me. “Don't worry, I'll try to make this as quick and painless as possible. . . . But it'll still hurt.” ---- An hour passed, and Tandaris finished his business in the cargo bay. His next stop was the transporter room. Fingers flew across familiar controls, disabling the pattern logs and the activity alerts. Then he energized. A bottle of 2355 Andorian brandy materialized on the desk of Corizon's ready room. It was sealed with the stamp of the Kerran-Saldar Vinyard & Distillery, one of the most renowned manufacturers in the entire Alpha Quadrant. And of all Kerran-Saldar's vintages, 2355 was the best. It was neither easy nor cheap to replace it. Tandaris had stumbled upon Corizon's hidden case of brandy several weeks ago. He had been ecstatic. Corizon may have been willing to part with a case of common Altairian whiskey—but what about rare Andorian brandy? He'd have to negotiate now. A folded piece of paper was tied around the neck of the bottle. On the outside were the words, “We have your brandy. Meet our demands and it will be released unharmed. Refuse to comply, and you will never see it again.” A list of demands followed on the inside.

“Dialogue Prior to Act Three” Cdrs. Tandaris Admiran and Laarell Tekyier ---------------------------------------------------------- "... and that, you can imagine, was quite unexpected, but not in the least bit unpleasant. Alas, it was not to be. As I told you before, Lyrin later escaped from the slavers thanks to a faulty alarm circuit--not to mention some Pakleds, perhaps the most unintentionally helpful species in the galaxy. And that was the end of Admiran's experience on Calufrax Minor," Tandaris concluded, looking over at Laarell, hoping she had not fallen asleep during his recount of Lyrin Admiran's capture by the Orion Syndicate. She certainly hadn't, and was smirking at him with the expression only lazy cats and Orion females had perfected. "Later," she purred, "you'll have to show me exactly how she did that. Though I'm slightly surprised. I'd think by—oh, seventh or eighth host?—you'd have been used to ... all the tricks in the book." Tandaris rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, as if to say, "Humanoids!" He replied, "Lyrin was number three. This was back when the Federation was in its infancy, and the Orion Syndicate really was Orion"—he smiled—"very Orion." "They still are, at the roots ... just ... not quite as green as they used to be," Laarell yawned, winding the sheet around her body a little tighter as she reached for the tray of foods. "Not that I mind. They were a black mark on my species, even if they did spread some interesting rumours about our females." "I never have had a chance to go back to Calufrax Minor since then, nor have I had the opportunity to separate truth from fiction on that point," said Tandaris. "At least, not until now," he added. "Do we match up to our reputations?" the Orion asked, nibbling on a gagh worm between bits of an unfamiliar fruit. "And what is this?" Tandaris glanced at the food. "Looks like an alsnip--sort like a very blue apricot from the rainforests of Delvia. Funny, I thought those went extinct two hundred years ago. Someone must have found an extant subspecies--or maybe someone committed the molecular pattern to replicator before the species went extinct. Excellent!" "I'll have to find out. Or perhaps it was preserved in some arboretum. It's rather sweet." She offered him one. "I like it. I'll have to make a pet project out of it." This elicited a raised eyebrow from Tandaris as he accepted the fruit. "Project? Is that what I am?" "The plant, dear, not you." She eyed the Trill. "Though I could make a project of you..." "Uh ... no thank you. I've seen what you do with your projects. Speaking of which, you still haven't told me about your experience in the Archives yet. I'm rather jealous of that." In fact, when they had first met for dinner—at least, what began as dinner—Tandaris had been unable to talk about anything else. "My projects all enjoy themselves," Laarell retorted, before relaxing into the pillows. "The archives were ... astounding. I wish we'd been encouraged to browse more than just the information on the one location. I did stumble across a few texts of ... other interest...." The other eyebrow followed the first. "Oh really? You'll have to share those with me." "Well ... Satarimi have some interesting ... ideas on ... intimacy." "It's been my experience that every culture has their own take on that subject. You've certainly ... been no exception." "Thank you." She grinned at him. "Likewise, Trill are very ... versatile." She poked at a few red-colored stalks of a vegetable. "These are good." "They're also poisonous in combination with alsnips," he remarked offhand. With a small yawn, Tandaris stretched. "While you've been reading in a library, I've been dealing with our Pakled stowaway-turned-engineer." While he had gotten past the initial resentment of being forced to accept such an unconventional crew member under his command, Tandaris was still not happy about the arrangement, and determined to stay unhappy for as long as possible. That was his prerogative as a senior officer, after all. Laarell glared at him, turning slightly greener than usual, and tried to spit the red vegetable into a napkin as delicately as she could. "I haven't heard much about ... her? Her, right?" "Indeed, although—and don't make too much of this—apparently, she's lived much of her life disguised as a male in order to escape the oppression of her gender." He laughed. "In fact, you two might want to compare notes some time." "Now ... that would be interesting." "Speaking of notes," Tandaris said, "it's your turn to tell me a story. You may not be three hundred years old, but I imagine you've already collected a number of interesting experiences." "Ohh ... a few." She smirked. "Welll ... what do you want to hear about? I could almost do a 'plant or mineral' question and a devious look, but ... well ... my Horta and I ... well ... that's a bit acidic, even for my tastes." Glancing at the tray to the side, Tandaris said, "I'm starting to get an idea of where your tastes lie. What I haven't figured out is whether or not they've got any limits...." "They don't," she assured. "Let's see. There was the time ... oh ... that's ... a bit much for you, I think. Then there was the time ... that one too ..." Laarell considered a moment. "There was this time I was in a club on Argelius. I didn't know that it was attached to this other bar, and I was fairly wasted...."

“Not As Advertised” Lt. Anastasia Poldara ------------------------------------- Wanting is so much better than having. But this recurring truth seldom makes itself apparent until after the fact. Smote by hindsight, there is little you can do except pick up the pieces and try to figure out where to go from here. Try to make choices. Pick new paths. And remember that it's fine to want, but not always good to have. As a young girl, Ana's mind had been filled with fantasies of reaching out and grasping the stars. She would speak for hours on end to anyone—whether they cared or not—about her future with Starfleet, how she would single-handedly stride entire planets and engage in dialogues with strange new species. She devoured all of the training manuals, read the histories of Starfleet, not to mention every log of Captain Kirk's historic five-year mission. Then, when she was old enough, she entered the Academy. And then her life, as lives are wont to do, changed of its own accord. Her interests remained within the realm of science and exploration, but they shied away from space, instead delving deeper into the mysteries of the mind. Even as she completed her degrees in astrophysics, she took courses in cybernetics, wrote essays on the development of neural networks, and somehow wound up working at the Asimov Centre. Before she knew it, the Anastasia who wanted to go into space had ceded control of her destiny to the Anastasia who wanted to build robots. It wasn't a bad life. She had been happy at the Asimov Centre. She had met several great guys, a couple bad ones, dumped all of them, met Michael, and married him. Her recognition in the field was almost unparallelled—except for that horrible Tracey Chambers, who did not, as far as Anastasia was concerned, deserve the Coulton Award for Cybertronic Development. Still, Anastasia had been fortunate, and she was only twenty-eight. Why then, when the call came, did she answer in the affirmative? What sudden switch flipped, like a bit in a binary matrix, to make Anastasia change her mind for the second time in her life? She pondered these questions now, as well as a third one, the one that pained her most: was she reconsidering her reconsideration? Her time as science officer on Challenger had not lived up to her expectations. Murder, hostile encounters with alien devices, hostage encounters with alien warriors, not to mention trying to save a planet full of those same ingrates. . . . So far, Anastasia was not enjoying her planet-striding adventure, and she was wondering if this entire thing had been an infatuation, a fling that, once the novelty and passion had dissipated, revealed itself as unfortunate chapter in her life. Wanting had motivated her to join Starfleet, eventually leading to her involvement with the Asimov Centre, eventually leading her to Michael. Having had given her headaches, adverse reactions to Risan food, and a nagging voice in her mind that said, Maybe you aren't really cut out for this after all. Maybe you should give up. Lacking a warranty, or even a 30-day-money-back guarantee, Anastasia had to live with her choice. The past—excluding some highly unethical and probably illegal time travel—was fixed. What remained was her future, the choices that lay in front of her, possible wavefunctions waiting to collapse.... Maybe she would be better off if, like many people, she wanted what she couldn't have. Because so far, having was a disappointment.

They have definitely captured these two demographics, at least: People who see movies in which lots of stuff blows up. People who see movies that have scores that sound suspiciously like Lord of the Rings. I really enjoyed the new trailer. I don't go to see many movies in theatres, so I don't know if I'll go see this one, but it's definitely one I'll consider going to see in theatres if the opportunity arrives. Regardless of how it treats Star Trek canon or how it affects the Trek franchise as a whole, it looks like as a move it will be solid. And I'm withholding my judgement on the other two points until actually seeing it.

Laser pointers, eh? /me ponders doing this near Cait....

If it was an attack, not only do the attackers have incredibly precise aim, but also very good prophetic calendars. ;)

This is my favourite piece of LHC-related media. :rolleyes: Reminds me of those music videos at the end of episodes of Bill Nye the Science Guy.