Tachyon

“Gentle Throbs” Stardate 0702.18 Lt. Cdr. Tandaris Admiran --------------------------------------------- The yawn encompassed the passage of an entire thirty seconds. Tandaris was not just tired; he was exhausted. He was willing to bet that his entire staff was exhausted after the amount of double (some, even triple) shifts being pulled to repair the Excalibur. Yet he had to commend them, for it was through their efforts that the ship was starting to regain her former glory. The last of the rubble was being cleared out of engineering as he finally returned to his office and sat down. The PADDs upon PADDs of reports, requests, complaints, and inquiries were haphazardly stacked in one corner of the room, to be dealt with . . . well, at some point in the future. They were just paperwork, after all. What mattered now was to find a way to level their playing field. The Scorpiad offensive advantage bothered Tandaris—and he was getting tired of having to fix the ship every time the Scorpiads showed up. They needed an edge, something that the Scorpiads were not expecting—something that they could not combat. The gentle throb of his achy body mirrored the gentle throb of the restored warp core, and Tandaris remembered that this was no time for thinking. It was time to sleep, to rest, and to recover. After all, even once they restored Excalibur to 100% of her former efficiency, there was always one system in need of refreshment: her crew.

“Winter Nights Are Long When Summer Days Are Gone” Dave Grey -------------------------------------------- The sand was hot beneath his feet, but that did not stop him from walking slowly, enjoying the feel of its warmth radiating up toward him. As he neared the water, the sand got damper, and it squelched into the space between his toes. The sun reflected harshly off the ocean, but the water itself was cool and refreshing. Then there was a splash, and suddenly Dave was soaking wet even though he was only waist-deep. “Got you!” ten-year-old Harriet screamed, then waded away, giggling. Dave followed after her; it was hard to make any progress against the waves, and once they were out into deeper water, Harriet was the better swimmer and would have the advantage. Taking a deep breath, Dave dived beneath the surface and swam forward. He felt the plants and rocks along the bottom tickle his chest. He caught up with Harriet, who was still waded, and clamped a hand onto her leg, which prompted a scream of surprise. Emerging from the water, Dave gasped for breath and said, “Tag!” before running away again. ***** “... a synaptic dysfunction caused by damage to the cerebellum, or in some cases, the hippocampus. It could have been much more severe,” Tratos said. “We’re talking catatonic vegetable here. But right now, she can talk . . . somewhat.” “All this technology,” Grey swept his hand across the room,” all this medicine, and you can’t cure her!” ***** The J.S. Bach Neurology Hospital—what sort of name was that for a neurology hospital anyway?—was the first place to which Grey went after Challenger arrived at Earth; he did not even bother stopping at his parent's place. He rushed past the snooty receptionist up to room 42, where patient 0097-XL-8233-GH was lying in a coma. The time he spent waiting for the elevator (and, later, running up the stairs when the elevator took too long to arrive) felt like an unbearable eternity before he finally stopped in front of the door to room 42 and took a deep breath. “You can do this, Dave,” he said, then he entered the room. And there she was. The room was just as he had left it some months ago—then the abrupt realisation that it had in fact been more than an entire year gripped his heart and twisted it. Reaching out to touch Harriet's still form, he noticed how slim she had become while her body tried to fight the illness. “I should never have left you,” he whispered. His heart twisted further when a familiar voice replied to him. “You would never have been happy here on Earth,” said Harriet's voice. Dave literally jumped half a metre into the air. “Who—who said that?” “I did,” Harriet replied. “Shut up, Dave, and listen to me.” “But-but-how—” Dave looked down at his sister, but her eyes were still closed, her lips were not moving, and her breathing was sedate. Had he just been hallucinating? “You're not hallucinating, Dave. Before Dr. Tratos induced a coma, I asked him to let me record this message to you. If you're hearing this, then I . . . I must be beyond saving.” Harriet paused here, and Dave could tell even through the recording that she was trying to phrase her words as perfectly as possible. “Don't blame yourself. You've done all you can, so don't drown yourself in guilt. If I can't say it to you face-to-face, Dave, I want you to hear it one last time: I love you, and you were the best brother a sister could ever ask for.” Dave didn't notice the tears that had welled up in his eyes until they were halfway down his cheek. He bit his lip, and underneath his breath, he asked, “Am I—” Harriet's recording interrupted him, “Yes, Dave, you are so predictable that I can record my side of the conversation in advance.” Then the computer beeped, and she was gone. Just like that. ***** There's always hope, isn't there? Grey’s eyes flew open again, this time to be confronted with the bright artificial light of the launch bay, only to realize that he had been dreaming the entire memory. There was no beach, no football, no Harriet. He was alone.... ***** Dave desperately tried to keep himself busy during the trip home. The excitement that had briefly dispelled his grief and guilt had itself dissipated some days ago, leaving him an empty shell again. He sat alone in the science lab, meditating more than working, listening to the beeps and bloops of the computer equipment, pondering why the universe seemed so innocuous on the surface while it was a seething sinkhole of suffering. And with the slow force, the kind that one uses to push a boulder up a mountain, Dave shrugged. If he could not change it, what use was it being so depressed all the time? He might as well accept it and move on with life. To his left was a PADD that he had been studying for the past four hours. It contained the details of the experimental procedure that Dr. Tratos and Jas had developed. The procedure that was illegal. The procedure that could save Harriet's life. Most of the terminology was over Dave's head, but he understood the basic concepts, and he knew that it was risky. It was gene therapy. Not just any type of gene therapy though; it was modelled after the eugenics research that had first been done in the early 1990s—a period in Earth's history that no one liked to revisit. The procedure would involve treating the recessive gene that made one vulnerable to tovanengitis and deactivating it. Due to the Eugenics Wars and events thereafter, unfortunately, genetics had not advanced as far as it ought to have, and the technology required for the procedure was available. So they would have to improvise. But Jas had warned him that the procedure was risky. “There's a chance that it'll go wrong, that instead of isolating the mutations that make her vulnerable, it'll cause a cascade reaction across her nervous system.” “You mean it could kill her?!” Dave did not welcome the news. But he knew that they had no choice . . . she would die if he did nothing at all. At least with the procedure, she had a chance. Not only does God throw the dice into the corner where you can't see them; His dice are crooked. ***** I have always been quite indecisive. Even now, as you watch me babble on about choices and voices, you notice I have not made any judgement on the issue of the glass. It is not my nature, I think, to be decisive, although I consider it a character flaw. I’ve always found it difficult to make decisions, even little ones, and continuously delegate the duty to someone else. “... somehow I don't think there are 'proper channels' for what I have to do.” ***** Foamy waves lapped sanguinely along the sandy beach, their gentle motions making it seem as if the ocean beyond were breathing deeply. Dave’s bare toes lay just inside the range of the waves’ influence and received regular splashes of refreshing water. He lay on his back on the beach, eyes closed, oblivious to the world around him. A football hit him. It landed squarely in his right eye, causing the world to shatter in an explosive pain as Dave instinctively reached up to touch the wound. His eyes flew open and then he winced, struggling to do too many things at once. After a few moments he had managed to sit up and ascertain the football had not caused any serious damage, so he turned in the direction from which the projectile had originated. “Wake up, Dave,” his sister Harriet teased him. She ran past him to retrieve the football and gripped it menacingly. Dave reluctantly climbed to his feet. This time when she threw it, he was ready, and he caught it neatly in both hands before whipping it back at her just as hard. And so the game went. After the sun had gone down and both of them had tired of the game, they joined the adults who were talking up near the cottage. Irene was in vigorous conversation with Trudy Masterson, the family friend who owned the cottage along with her husband Leonard. Mark was engaged in a crossword puzzle. Without looking up, he absently asked, “What's an eight-letter word for 'a neutron star with a magnetic personality'?” “Magnetar, Dad,” Dave responded, equally offhand, as he dried himself off with a towel. Mark mouthed each letter as he wrote it in and then said, “Thanks.” Only when he looked up did he notice that it was his ten-year-old who had replied. “I think it was a mistake to take Trudy's science crossword. I don't suppose you know what 'a solid material that deforms by viscous flow', five letters, would be?” Dave's eyes widened and he shook his head. His sister, though, thought about it and then asked, “Does 'rheid' fit?” “It does indeed,” Mark said after he pencilled it in. “Looks like we have two resident geniuses on our hands.” ***** Harriet lay on the bed, her body covered in a thin linen blanket. Bones showed through jaundiced skin and her hair lacked lustre. She lay perfectly still, the picture of a corpse, and could be mistaken for bed were it not for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the linen blanket. Jas frowned at Tratos and his cheese burger then signed and walked forward to shake his hand. “You haven't changed a bit.” ***** The operating room was silent save for the beeps of the monitor next to Harriet. There were four life signs in the room, but only three of them were aware of what was happening. Tratos, Jas, and Dave looked at each other. They were in the second hour of the procedure. Dave was not actually performing surgery, but his skills meant he could help monitor Harriet's condition using . . . the device. Jas and Tratos, meanwhile, skilfully manipulated the genetic sequencer. This was part one of the surgery. By resequencing Harriet's DNA, they hoped to eliminate the gene that caused her to be susceptible to the tovanengitis condition. Part two would involve neurosurgery to remove and regenerate deteroriated portions of Harriet's brain. It was ironic. This part of the procedure was relatively painless and simple—yet it was far more unethical than the painful and complex second part of the surgery to follow. In this world, there was nothing wrong with cutting into a person's brain. But changing the order of a few amino acids? Apparently, that was a no-no. ***** Harriet's voice had become his conscience; it had become his constant companion.... She was trapped. Too sick to get better, too well to slip from this world and into the next. She had no more options; she had no more hope. “Of course it will work, Ms Rawel,” said Tratos, reclining back in his chair. “Just trust me. I'm a doctor!” ***** “Whoa, look at that!” Harriet turned to look in the direction that Dave indicated. Her expression blossomed into one of joy as she saw the massive whale send a spout of water into the air. She laughed, such a sweet, innocent, care-free laugh. They were seventeen, and they had seen whales many times before, but every new sighting was a joy, particularly because most species of whales were so rare. “What sort of species is it?” Harriet asked, not having time to get a good glimpse of it before it dove back under the water. “Maybe it's a humpback,” Dave suggested. Harriet hit him playfully on the chest. “Those have been extinct for the better part of a century, silly. Nah, it's not that large. Mom would know. Where is she?” “Seasick,” Dave said. Harriet nodded understandingly in response; although Irene Grey was a marine biologist, she was also prone to seasickness—but no one else in the household dared mention the irony of her profession, lest they expect an earful in return. Another whale surfaced. Harriet sighed and said, “I should go see if we've got any ginger pills left. Dad always forgets to pack some.” Without another word she went below, leaving Dave to stare out onto the ocean alone. He spent a lot of time on or near the ocean. But the ocean was, as any sailor knew, inextricably linked to the stars. On starry nights he could crane his neck upward and navigate by the pinpricks of light originating from hundreds of light-years away. Maybe it was the allure of those boggling distances—combined with the hallucinatory effects of the salty ocean spray—that got him interested in astronomy, and later, astrophysics. Harriet came back after about ten minutes. She said, “Found the pills; she should be okay. Dad is getting dinner.” She frowned when her brother did not reply. “Dave? Dave ... helloooo?” Smiling, Dave turned to look at her and shook his head. “I'm fine, Harriet. I'm just fine.” “Seriously, Dave. Don't make me have to start worrying about you. You'll be the death of me, I just know it.” ***** “She has less than a year. And if we try this procedure and it fails, it may be less than that.” The doubt had begun to percolate in an insidious fashion, pooling in the deepest recesses of his harangued mind, but he still maintained this sliver of hope that things could be resolved without drastic measures. ***** Jas twitched but remained silent; she knew from past experience that in moments like this, she should let the family of the unfortunate be at peace. A though struck her, and she wondered: Did Grey consider her family? Her mind pressed on despite the events unfolding in front of her. I have never before been confronted with a crisis of this magnitude.... ***** Tratos stared at his desk, willing the tumultuous storm in his stomach to settle. It wasn't his fault, really. It would never be his fault. He was just following orders from powerful people in powerful places. It wasn't his doing, it was theirs. He was just an instrument. Right? His stomach did not agree, and nothing he did could soothe it. Robin had suggested ginger pills, but those only worked for seasickness with him. Even his precious cheeseburgers were little consolation. Now here he was, only hours before the most controversial and difficult procedure of his life, and he had butterflies like a first-year med student! Of course, he had never undergone first-year, let alone second or third year.... No matter. Dr. Tratos stood up, cheeseburger in one hand and hand scanner in the other. Only a metre of air and a thin wall separated him from his destiny. Tonight, he would make his footnote upon history. Either way, he would emerge from that room having done something that no doctor before him had dared to do. Either way, he would have earned his place in the small print of medical historians' annals. Either way, this would all end. Tonight. ***** “Dave. Dave, I know you can hear me. You know you can hear me. So pay attention. You're running out of time, Dave. Even with the coma the clock is still ticking. How much longer? A year? Two, at the most. You can't put off the decision forever. And then it will be too late.” “I wanted to see living patients again ... what happened to Marks ... hurt.” ***** “What the hell is going on?!” Grey yelled. Alarms were going off everywhere. There was not a single green light on the monitor. And Jas was frozen, a scalpel hovering a centimetre away from Harriet's brain. Tratos stood next to Dave, attempting to calm the scientist down. “Dude, chill,” he said with uncharacteristic calm. “You aren't helping things.” “Yeah, well neither are you! She's dying. DO SOMETHING.” That was when the monitor flatlined. That was when the universe paused for a single, small, significant moment, and Jas and Grey's eyes locked. Tratos left Grey's side, immediately kicking the monitor with his foot whilst seizing the defibrillator from the crash cart and applying it to Harriet's chest. It was no good though—her heart was not the problem. It was her brain, and no matter how far science had advanced in the 22nd century, the brain still remained the greatest unknown. Tratos' shoulders slumped as the monitor continued its incessant tone. He turned to look at Grey, and he shook his head. “I'm sorry. We . . . we did our be—” But Grey was flipping out. “What do you mean, 'you're sorry'?! You're just going to give up now? Stop? How could you do that? She's not dead! You can save her, bring her back. Fix her.” Dave repeated again, with the plaintive voice of a petulant five-year-old child, “Do something!” “There's nothing we can do, Dave,” said Tratos. “Dave . . .” said Jas. Dave could not hear her, or Tratos for that matter. He could only look at his sister lying on the operating table, hooked up to the machines. That was Harriet—or what was left of her. Just an empty husk, long gone. They had been foolish to try and act now, after all this time. He had been too late. What an idiot. ***** Grey's reservoir was quickly running dry. And just when he thought he would drown in the desert, someone tossed him a life preserver, and his mixed metaphor existence disappeared. The dog looked at Grey calmly with sombre brown eyes for several moments. Then it nudged the pitcher of water with its nose, pushing it far enough that it knocked it over onto the floor. The water pitcher shattered into fragments, its contents sloshing onto the carpet. ***** Ours is a universe of struggle. Darkness that lurks around every corner, waiting to seize us unawares. Yet ours is a universe of infinite possibility. Each star out there, each thought, is a buoyant aspect of this possibility, an expression of the fundamental equation of space and time. Aristotle knew it but could not label it. Newton grasped at it blindly in the darkness but failed to find purchase. Einstein glimpsed it once, maybe twice, and was humbled by it simplicity. Dave Grey had looked into the heart of Omega, and into the blazing centre of a supernova. He had seen more than any human could claim right to see. But he would give it all up if it meant having Harriet back. She had been his sister—his twin sister—and without her, Dave felt like he had lost a limb. Why, Dave asked himself, why do any of this—at all—when she was not there to experience it? Dave lay on his bunk with his eyes closed, staring at the inside of his eyelids, and wondered what words were written there.

Note that this log is largely a plot device to sync my following log with our timeline. “Kaboom” February 18, 2157 Lieutenant (sg) Dave Grey ------------------------------------------------------- Dave Grey was not like ordinary kids in that he did not always enjoy watching things blow up. Oh, he admired the way that the blast pattern could be mathematically predicted using a set of equations. He enjoyed the physics behind the ignition of the explosion, or the chemical equations used to engender the combustion reaction. Yet to stand and admire the beauty of the explosion for sheer pyromania's sake was not something that naturally occurred to him. Novae were different. For one thing, a nova is like an explosion in slow-motion: since they occur so far away, they are virtually frozen in time, the tendrils of the super-heated gases stretching out across the blanket of the cosmos like a vast, hidden message. It was beautiful. It was one of the reasons that Dave had reached into space. Yet in the three years that Dave had been out there, exploring, the beauty of the cosmos in his mind had been tempered by its demonstrations of ferocious—and unfairly—destructive power. Nothing in this universe was permanent. He had always wanted to see a star go nova; it was just one of those things that wound up on one's to do list if one happened to be a fairly intelligent astrophysicist with the ability to travel at faster-than-light speeds thanks to a shiny warp-powered starship. So when the star started to go nova, Dave thought—just for a moment—that this would be one of the defining joys of his life, something at which he could look back in the future and say, “This is why I went out there. To see that. To live it.” Dave was wrong. The star exploded, sending shockwaves rippling across the fabric of its solar system, and so did Dave's mind. And all he could think of was Harriet. The days since they had left Earth had been quiet for Dave. He had not talked to anyone about those few final hours spent closeted in a hospital room with Dr. Tratos. He had, in fact, blocked it out of his memory entirely, so much so that he could recall the simple fact that his sister was. . . . That is, until, the nova reached down into his mind and snagged the memory, dragging it up, kicking and screaming, to the surface of Dave's brain, where it arced across the neurons of her cortex until reaching the amygdalae, which let it pass through the emotional floodgates, straight for the heart. Kaboom. And all the memories came back.

DS9 definitely got better as the series continued. It matured and the story arc developed nicely over the series, turning it into a very compelling adventure.

I got Love Actually, Serendipity, and Monty Python's Life of Brian on DVD. I wub them. :P For computer I got Star Trek: Legacy and Civilization IV. Do not buy Star Trek: Legacy. It's a terrible, terrible game. Civilization IV is awesome though. And I have enough candy and chocolate to hospitalize myself. :lol:

“Watch Where You Step” Stardate 0612.15 Lt. Cdr. Tandaris Admiran ------------------------------------------- Every so often people stop and look at themselves from without, trying to figure out who they are. Some people spend forever searching for themselves; other people seem so confident of who they are that they spend less than a microsecond on these thoughts. The Trill are no different in this regard. And being that many of them have several lifetimes, the search for the truth of their current personality is of paramount importance. Tandaris did not want to be a sequel. He did not want to be “Admiran #7.” This was his fear, his nightmare, his own personal demon that had dogged him throughout his life. For Tandaris, the pressure to succeed did not come from his family, or his friends. It did not come from his commander, or from Starfleet. It came from his whole society, his entire culture, where a joined Trill was expected to do brilliant things. It was the price paid for this existence. The people who were brilliant enough to be selected for joining obviously had a glorious future in store for them. Those years had been rough, as the transition from Tandaris Brinn to Tandaris Admiran asserted itself. Admiran had smoothed out his rough edges, equipped him to better deal with life. And Tandaris had brought to Admiran the latest in a line of perspectives on life. Yet no amount of knowledge could help him deal with the pressure to succeed. Maybe that's why the Gamma Quadrant had seemed like such a good idea. So far away from the Alpha Quadrant, it let Tandaris worry less about how his actions affected his people. But now his life had become more complicated. He had not been expecting to become chief engineer. The Excalibur was his ship now, and she needed him. Captains fall in love with their ships as a whole. Engineers fall in love with every individual nut and bolt. They talk to and caress each panel, loving the parts that make up the whole. In away, the humanoid relationship to its starship was symbiotic . . . the Excalibur depended upon them to survive, as they depended upon her to survive in turn. This was something that Tandaris could understand, and it was a relationship he hoped would make him a great chief engineer. The malfunctions plaguing the ship plagued Tandaris' mind and played on his nerves. They made him doubt his own abilities—which were formidable—and his own worth—which was considerable—and question whether he was right for this job. And all the while in the background, Tandaris watched himself move, and asked himself the single most important question . . . Is this who I want to be for the rest of my life? There were too many questions looming in front of him that needed to be answered before he could tackle that one. Too many unresolved issues that clouded the playing field. He had to buckle down and finish these immediate tasks first, keep his doubt in check just a little longer. But he could only wait so long. Each host had gone through this, but each had dealt with it in its own way. It was the crisis of being Tandaris, of trying to process the universe through such a limited window of understanding. It was a crisis to which Tandaris had only one solution, and that was why he was aboard the Excalibur. The only way to understand the universe was to experience it. The only way to widen his window was to explore it. Tandaris sought out the truth the only way he knew how: one foot in front of the other, one star a time. Going forward . . . . . . into a puddle of icky green goo. Next time, Tandaris made a mental note to himself, wear rubber boots.

“Breathe” Stardate 0612.15 Lt. Cdr. Arthur Dent ------------------------------------------------------- Energise. Reset. Target. Energise again. Reset. In the space of those moments Dent's life was compressed to a fraction of a percentage of a ratio of the corresponding sides of similar triangles of the wavefunction of the inverse sine of nothingness, extending outward to infinity like the wings of an albatross with an inner-ear problem. And like this metaphorical albatross, Dent's life (which was largely metaphorical in and of itself) was off balance and spiralling out of control. The situation, fortunately, is not as dire as the above paragraph seems to depict. In fact, Dent is in a rather tenable position, considering that for the first time in his short term memory no one is shooting at him, yelling at him, or tempting him to violate diplomatic protocols. The only problem about which Dent must worry at the moment are the pesky voles. The voles in question are on the decrepit Cardassian shipyard—for lack of a better term—that the Lewis is orbiting. In order to proceed with the plan to rebuild Aegis, the voles must be exterminated. Wiped out. Eliminated. Dent continued to operate the transporter, beaming as many voles away from the structure as possible. The task was not an easy one: the vole lifesigns were hard to isolate. The shipyard was emitting four types of radiation (none of it harmful to humanoids, thankfully) and several strange power emissions that he could only guess were malfunctioning reactors. This, combined with the vole ability to so flawlessly blend in with it surroundings, made it hard for the Lewis' targeting scanners to get a clear lock on the life forms. He had managed to beam roughly 5% of the voles out of the shipyard. Dent recalibrated the targeting scanners and selected another spot. The memories of the past month were still fresh in his mind, but they were fading quickly, becoming a blur against the backdrop of a life that had started to move too fast. Now they were rebuilding Aegis! Still there were so many unanswered questions. The whole Breen dilemma made Dent worry about Aegis' probable survival. Who was to say that the Breen were not coming back? Or were they on a lunch break before launching another salvo against the quadrant? Dent found himself wanting some sort of news—even bad news. Instead, all he had was an empty feeling in his stomach, a feeling that would not go away no matter how much he ate at each meal. For right now, Aegis was the common tie that held them together . . . having to bear such memories alone in the midst of a brand new posting with an unfamiliar crew would be too much for Dent. Yet would rebuilding Aegis rebuild their own shattered beings? Dent had not felt whole since Aegis' destruction; his stay on the Lewis felt almost like a dream in comparison to the solidity offered by Aegis. But he wondered if bringing the station back would help heal him, or if it would lead to more frustration, more blood, more tears. How can one bottle lightning twice? The hyperbolic curve of the solid of revolution extended in a parallel arc to the cross-sectioned axis of the single instant of experience of Dent's tangled existence. Lines radiated outward in a seemingly random order, but each one glowed with its own energy, sparkling in the otherwise dull tedium of reality. Energise. Reset. Target. Energise again. Reset. Breathe.

That is a super-cool new logo! Great job!

STSF upgraded to a newer version of IPB to improve security, so they haven't have redone the skin for the new version yet. Relevant topics: http://www.stsf.net/forums/index.php?showtopic=12160 http://www.stsf.net/forums/index.php?showtopic=12347 But we do have a nifty new logo on the site! *drool*

“This Is Space: We Only Have One Dimension” Lieutenant Dave Grey December 8, 2156 -------------------------------------------------------------------- Grey considered all the evidence in front of them. The array itself was not functioning. The lack of physical damage, combined with the problems surfacing in the computer code, pointed to some sort of sabotage. Which meant that whoever had done it hadn't just wanted to take the array offline . . . they had either been trying to get access to the communications network, or they had been trying to lure someone out here. . . . Or both. The most obvious suspects, Grey surmised, were the Romulans, since they were the current antagonist in this corner of the galaxy. But they were not the only suspects. Just because the Romulans were getting more aggressive did not mean that any other alien species was going to sit back and put their machinations on hold. The Orions, the Klingons, the Suliban—anyone could have sabotaged the array. They needed to narrow it down. Grey glanced over at T'Parek and Westler and hoped that the computer would be back online soon. The internal sensor logs would hopefully shed more light on what had happened. Then there was the question of this Vulcan blood . . . what was it doing here? Had the Vulcans made a trip to this array, one that wasn't in the reports sent to Challenger? Grey mentally made a list of things to do. One, send this sample of blood back to Challenger and have sickbay analyse it. Two, get Challenger to do a detailled scan of the array. Three, review those internal sensor logs when possible. Four, have a nice, relaxing nap. Five, make a snack. And then if he still had time before bed he'd try to get to the bottom of this.

“Living History” Stardate 0610.30 Lt. Cdr. Arthur Dent -------------------------------------- The reality of life seldom managed to penetrate Dent's skin, preferring instead to simply stick to it like a filmy residue. In this case, however, it sliced through, right to the heart. And he had not realised it until now, but . . . Aegis had been home. He stared out of the window at the space beyond, just taking in the nothingness. It occurred to Dent that there was too much nothingness out there. Too much empty space . . . never really full. Quite a pessimistic universe. Taking a long, deep breath, he slowly turned around and left his quarters. The corridors of the Lewis were different from those on Aegis—everything was different from Aegis. Normally it would not be a problem, but from the moment that Dent saw the debris from Pylon B careen past his shuttle, he knew that he would never walk those decks again. Everyone was busy. They still had survivors to rescue, sensors to analyse. There were briefings and debriefings and unbriefings and rebriefings. Dent felt a bit subdued, but he tried to help out where he could. Right now he wanted to go to the observation lounge and have a bite to eat. He did not want to be alone, but he did not quite want to be with other people either. The turbolifts on the Lewis even hummed differently. As Dent requested his destination, he heard someone say, “Hold please.” Dent paused the lift and turned around to see who his fellow occupant would be. When he saw the light reflecting off the hairless crown and the haughty expression on the face it was all Dent could do not to leap out of the lift before it started to move. Standing next to Dent was none other than the Irate Bald Man, name unknown, who had seemed to always enjoy belittling and berating the flight operations officer whenever their turbolift rides coincided. Of all the days in all the weeks of any possible universe, Dent did not need such a conversation right now. But there was little he could do. “So,” the IBM said as the lift began to move upward, humming in its Lewis-like way, “I never thought I'd see the day.” Dent said nothing. “You young whippersnappers actually managed to nearly get yourselves killed. Well la-dee-da. Congratulations. Want a plaque? Back in my day, our stations tended to stay in one piece. We didn't let nobody destroy them—not the Romulans, the Klingons, no one. We had quality stations back then. Yes siree, built to last.” Dent focused on the door in front of him, the nearly invisible seam down the middle. He listened to the hum of the turbolift, trying to count the number of decks left until his destination. The IBM continued to prattle. “Of course, it really isn't your fault. I suppose you're just a 'product of your environment' these days, whatever that means. It is all the same philosophical doggerel, just another way to dodge responsibility for your actions. Buck up and take some blame once and a while! Dent just gave the man a glance that was halfway between a glare and a stare. “I don't really want to talk about it,” he said. “Oh, he doesn't want to talk about it, eh? Tough luck, son. We don't get half the things we want in life, so get used to it. I bet you didn't want your poor station destroyed too. Well too bad.” The lift stopped. The doors opened with a Lewis-like hiss. Not Dent's stop. That meant—yes, the Irate Bald Man left the lift. His parting words slipped in through the closing doors. “Doesn't matter if you can't change it. That's your problem with the youth today. You have no sense of scope. Only thing that matters is what you do about it.” Some people might think this somewhat pithy and wise. Dent did not know what to think. This was different. The Breen—or people who acted and talked like Breen—had just destroyed his home. There were enough machinations going on in the Cardassian system alone to satisfy the entire Alpha Quadrant's lust for intrigue. All sorts of powers vying for control, going madly off in all directions, everyone doing what they could to maintain status quo and maybe, just maybe, shift it into their favour. Dent got out of the turbolift. Sometimes he wondered how he had gotten himself into this. What possible reason had he come up with to justify living in the crucible of conspiracy? It was, he decided, sheer and utter madness. Maybe he was Starfleet material after all. Aegis was gone, but its legacy remained. Most of its crew remained. Most of Arthur Dent, save for the skin cells that he had left behind, remained. All they could do now was move forward and try to make sure that the station's sacrifice would not be a footnote in Federation history; it would be at least a page. Maybe a chapter. Perhaps one day someone would write an entire book about it, and the book would be turned into a short-lived and poorly-produced movie. But that would be all.

Wow. I only came to Excalibur slightly more than a year ago. But I immediately found a niche there in Crispin's engineering department. One of the things I noticed was that we always had something to do. Even if the mission at the time didn't call for a lot of engineers, Crispin would always have some sort of assignment or task for us on which we could collaborate and contribute. From time to time he'd PM me, just to check up. I appreciated the attentiveness. All I can say, I guess, is goodbye, Crispin. I wish I'd gotten to know you better, and longer, but in our time on Excalibur I had a blast. :(

Ahoy! Fer more info on talkin' and walkin' like a pirate me matey, get yerself over to the website! And have yerself a happy International Talk Like A Pirate Day '06

“The Intangibles” September 10, 2156 Lieutenants Dave Grey and Jas McCellan (with special guest star, the salad) --------------------------------------------------------------- Dave played with the food on his plate. Eating lunch with Jas had been a mistake. His euphoria from Sauria long gone, he knew that he was beginning to sink back into a miserably morose state. Jas would only try to cheer him up—or worse, agree with him and remain silent. Dave looked up and wondered if he could dare to look her in the eyes.... Jas put her head on a glass of grape juice. Ever since coming back from the surface she just felt like sleeping. Or support her head on something solid. Unfortunately, unlike her head, she could not prop up her spirit. So it would be silence then. Dave could handle that—or couldn't, depending. He turned his head away and looked at the window, but saw only the customary bleakness of stars streaking by at warp speed. Every second brought them closer to Earth. To Harriet. Dave didn't realise that he was so distracted he had begun to eat the fake flowers of the centrepiece instead of his salad. "G-G-Grey..." Jas inquired as to why Dave's sudden hunger for plastic has manifested itself. Snapping his head back up—a little too fast, causing an audible crack from his neck--Dave looked surprised as he said, "Yes?" Only when he noticed the tang of the plastic as it went down his throat did he realise, to his chagrin, that his salad was untouched. He started to play with a piece of lettuce. "This is it, Jas. It's all come down to this." Jas stared. The guy in front of him had just ate plastic. She opened her mouth, no words came out of the otherwise unremarkable cavity in her face. It was the stark surprise that she did not know this man that caused Jas to falter. Misinterpreting her silence as a wilful attempt to ignore him, Dave exploded. "How can you be so calm at a time like this?!" People at surrounding tables looked at him with consternation as he raised his voice, and Dave lowered it slightly and added, "How can you be so stoic?" The outburst took her by surprise as her heart pounded louder and louder. Jas still stared, frozen. What could she say? What did he want her to say? But then she found out that he would not give her a chance to say anything. Dave stood up, salad barely touched. "I have a lot of things to do before we get back to Earth. I'll see you around." He turned to leave. "Wait." Jas stood up, and Dave stopped. "Calm? Do you think I want to be calm?” asked Jas, some uncharacteristic sarcasm creeping into her voice. “I can't stop thinking about it. I can't help not thinking about it." Her voice rose. "How can I be calm when I can't do anything?! I look calm? WELL ... " She trailed off, coming to the end of her rant. "... that just doesn't sound right." Her response, rather than angering Dave, reassured him—at least he did not immediately go. Tensions had just been running high for the past few weeks, and they had not discussed Harriet since before their visit to Sauria. It was always on his mind, and to know that it was always on Jas' mind too was . . . it made Dave think that perhaps he wasn't so alone after all. “I wish I could stop thinking about it, you know," confessed Dave. "I feel bad saying this, but I wish I could just forget about it for once. It's a terrible thing to say; she's my sister." "It's gone long ... so long. I don't know how you are feeling but I can tell you can't take anymore." "We arrive at Earth in less than eight days." Dave glanced over to the chronometer on one wall. "I want . . . I want you there. No matter what happens, Jas." "I will be there. You don't have to suffer all by your self." Dave opened his mouth to say something, and then shook his head. Jas added, "Your sister doesn't have to suffer alone either." "No, it wasn't that. I just think that, if Harriet were around ... I think she'd have liked you a lot." Dave sat back down. "You're quiet, Jas, but you've got a heart of gold.” Dave winced even as the cliché slipped from his mouth. “And as infinitely improbable as it may be, I think you've got what Harriet would call 'spunk'." Here he smiled, the first smile that had crossed his face since Jas had sat down to eat with him. Jas asked, “What is it?” “She told me to watch out for quiet girls with spunk. . . .” The conversation lapsed as they both paused to eat. Jas finished her meal and set down her napkin. “I want you to promise me something, Dave.” “Anything.” "Then promise me you won't beat your self up any more. Promise me you'll do everything you can to save her. Because I can't bare seeing it." She fumbled for a napkin to dry her tears, unbidden but unstoppable, and rub them away. Dave shook his head again. "No. I only make promises that I can keep." "I guess, everyone can only make promises they can keep...” But she wondered, was this promise really so hard to keep? As a doctor, Jas had developed a certain amount of detachment when it came to death—she had to, in order to function. Dave hadn't such a shell into which he could retreat, but he was stubborn enough as it was. What was stopping him from coping with this? Was there really anything else that could rub this wound raw and keep him from healing? Dave did not notice Jas staring at him as he polished off his salad. He stared at the leafy greens and the juicy tomato. They had never known their fate before being plucked from the hydroponics garden; they had never learned how far they would travel before being eaten. The lettuce was crunchy; the tomato was sweet; the entire dish was definitely one of the better meals Dave had had in awhile. He wished he could promise Jas what she asked. It was not that he didn't want to; he just could not, and he didn't know if Jas could understand. She was a doctor, after all—she saw patients die all the time. He was just a stupid theorist; he wasn't even cut out for practical science. Yet here Dave was, gallivanting across all of creation on a starship. So why was he even here? Dave Grey had never wanted to leave the Sol system. If he hadn't taken up a commission on Challenger, if he had left after Harriet's accident, maybe he could have saved her . . . maybe—but Dave left the thought at that. He had considered leaving Starfleet hundreds of times now, and each time, Dave reached the same decision. “I'll promise you something else though,” he finally said. “I promise that, no matter what happens on Earth, I will be on this ship when we leave port once again.” But Jas' reply cut Dave's legs out from under him. “I ... I may not be able to promise the same thing.” She looked away, and consequently she missed the fleeting expression on Dave's face, the only one that might ever have changed her mind.

“A Grey Sort of Karma” August 28, 2156 Lieutenant (sg) Dave Grey -------------------------------------------------- The brother and sister stared at each across subspace. At twenty-eight Henry was three years older than his revolutionary sister, but they had both inherited genes from the stubborn side of the family. Now each stared at the other, one on Earth and one on Mars, their faces implacable twin masks. “Look, we need the money, Henry,” Robin said. “You are the only one we know who could afford it. Dave certainly can't—have you seen his savings account lately?” In fact, Henry had—the PIN had been surprisingly easy to guess, although being a computer programmer might have lent itself to that. His cousin's savings account was in poor repair, with a lot of funds tied into bad investments. With some quick and judicious interference Henry had managed to remove most of those misplaced funds and sink them into more lucrative opportunities. But gene-splicing equipment was not cheap these days. The programmer reclined in his chair and looked over at another console, where his latest program was spinning idly on the screen. He shrugged and then said, “How much do you need?” Robin looked at someone out of range of the camera for a moment. Henry thought that he heard someone mutter something about a cheeseburger before she replied, “Three thousand credits.” That was not a sum to be snubbed. “Three thousand,” repeated Henry. “Plus tax. Henry, the procedure has a 5% success rate without the equipment, and a 63% rate with it. You do the math.” And that was what it came down to after all. Harriet would, in all likelihood, die if the necessary equipment were not purchased. Henry realised it had been over two years since he had last seen her conscious and well. He did not want his last visions of Harriet laughing and smiling to be three- and four-year-old memories; he wanted her around to make new memories for years to come. “Henry, just use your Visa card,” Robin suggested. “My wha? Oh, right, my Visa . . .” Henry trailed off, looking through the pockets of his tattered lab coat. “I know I have it somewhere. . . .” Robin snorted. “Sometimes you're just as bad as Dave.” The name in conjunction with his Visa card awoke a distant memory in Henry's mind, but he pushed it aside and said, “Whatever, I can just do it remotely.” Henry opened up his financial management application and started a transaction, designating Visa as his mode of payment. Several red lights went on, and he frowned. “What is it?” “It appears that the card is over its limit.” Henry double-checked the bill. “Hmm. That's odd—there's a 650 credit purchase on here, quite recent. And now I'm 300 credits over my limit.” He looked up at his sister. “I'm sorry, Robin, but . . . I can't pay for the equipment.” The silence in Tratos' office could have retained sentience and wandered off to strangle a puppy, then return to still find that Robin and Tratos just sat there. The equipment in question was a critical element that would allow them to isolate individual gene sequences in milliseconds; without it, even Tratos acknowledged that the procedure was a long shot at best. Henry said, “Maybe Irene and Mark—” “No!” Robin interrupted. She did not want to have to let Dave's parents know that the procedure they were going to try on Harriet was experimental, illegal, and most likely unethical. “I don't want to get them involved.” “If it comes down to that or Harriet. . . .” “Fine,” Robin said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Irene's on Denobula for some sort of marine biology conference, and she's going on an expedition to explore several underwater caves that'll put her out of contact for at least a week. Mark's almost as bad as Dave when it comes to money. I'll try to contact them anyway.” “You do that. I'll try to track down whoever spent those credits,” Henry told her. The connection cut, and he was left alone in his Martian abode to dwell upon this unwelcome turn of events. Credit card fraud was a crime, but in this case the perpetrator was responsible for far more injury. For they might just have murdered Harriet Grey.

“Known Unknowns” Stardate 0608.29 Lt. Cdr. Arthur Dent ------------------------------------- The outermost left console of Dent's station had a running tally chart on it, with two columns: “Destroyed” ships on the left side and “Distress” on the right-hand side. The status of the distressed vessels was conveyed in various colours. So far the ships on the right column outnumbered those of the left, which was good news, although it meant that this mystery was far from being solved. He swiftly relayed and updated statuses of the disabled vessels as they reported. The Vulcan freighter, the T'Rol, had suffered an explosion but had not been destroyed—yet. Dent hoped they would stay that way, even as he reassured them over the comm that they were on the situation. He then took calls from a Bolian transport, a Klingon cargo freighter, and a Tellarite personnel cruiser, and a very confused Pakled freighter. “Yes, we understand that your situation is urgent—no, we don't have any further news on what's happening—I'm sorry, but I don't want to buy Smol's Miracle Hair-Growth Cream—no, there is no word on the cause of the problems—yes, we have dispatched runabouts to assist you, please hold.” Dent though this voice would go hoarse by the time he was finished. The computer continued to receive calls. Surely not all of them could be from vessels that suffered mishaps—no, a quick check revealed that they were also from concerned groups and individuals seeking more information. He updated the map at one end of the Control Tower. The red lights signified the destroyed ships: the USS Cooper, the NAS Eraio, the USS Rigel V, and the Q'W'Koa. He added yellow lights signifying the disabled vessels from whom he had received status reports, and orange lights for ships with explosions who had not yet reported their status. Lastly, he put the runabouts and Pandora's Box on the map to track their progress. Dent noticed an incoming communication from the MMS Mudd, the diplomatic courier, and asked them to standby for further instructions. He stole a quick glance of the situation around Cardassia Prime, but the data on the monitor were not forthcoming, so he brought up more detailed scans even as two more communications were incoming. It was vexing, to be sure. Just when Dent thought that the situation would calm down enough for him and Zhu to explore their renovation plans, this had to happen—without any apparent cause. It seemed utterly random, yet he knew there had to be a reason, something behind all of it. He hoped that they discovered the solution before more innocent people lost their lives—and before Aegis itself suffered a mishap.

No wonder Segami is so messed up, and the Scorpiads haven't even gotten to him yet! :D

Robert C. Cooper himself said that since season six the writers have been writing "endings", and that they are all getting tired of writing endings. And I wouldn't blame them. It's incredibly difficult to keep on writing bigger and badder threats and then solving the problem realistically--the fact that SG-1 lasted 10 seasons is a testament not only to the excellent writing but to the depth of performance and commitment by its cast and crew. I love Stargate SG-1 and will be sad to see it go, but I am not as outraged as I was over, say, the cancellation of Enterprise (which, as terrible as the writing was there, was definitely A Terrible Blow to the entire franchise). In this case it is the reverse; the Stargate franchise is going to continue blossoming for many years to come: The producers and writers can now focus exclusively on Atlantis. Cooper has commented on how he enjoys it because everything is new again. Perhaps this will motivate MGM to do a movie, television movie, mini-series, etc., if they could find a network. Maybe someone will get their act together and produce a cool Stargate computer game (I have no clue if Stargate Alliance is ever coming out--the show website says yes but other places say no). Stargate Worlds looks interesting, but I am not an MMORPGer at heart. At least the show will be spared jumping the shark (unless someone thinks it already has . . .). And by being informed now, the writers have the ability to create a truly fantastic series finale that will blow us away. Of course, I would love to see SG-1 jump to another channel, provided that the channel could adequately carry the show. However, budget is a concern. I'd rather have this be SG-1's last season than see it silently freeze to death in season 11 due to budget cuts that limit the show's potential. :/

“Here Goes Nothing” Stardate 0608.13 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran ----------------------------------------------------- Tandaris rubbed his eyes. He had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but it had not really been sufficient. He sipped at his coffee and looked over his data. It would be ready soon. His job right now was to further investigate the mysterious, presumably Scorpiad, device. As it was apparently able of two-way communications, they planned to turn it against the Scorpiads by feeding it disinformation. In order to do this, however, Tandaris had to first learn what made it tick. It was a simple device, in its own way. It could not eavesdrop on audio or visual signals; it could only tap into computer systems. But it was very good at what it did. The device was able to monitor over a thousand input feeds simultaneously, meaning that if he wanted to fool it, Tandaris would have to be creative. The data on the console was promising. If it was correct, he believed that he could interface it with the computer and then feed it falsified optronic data generated by the program that he was writing. The hardest part would be preventing the device from sensing that this data was fake. “Okay, let's just hope you're smarter than its software,” Tandaris said to his program. The program did not talk back, which surprised Tandaris, because he was precisely at the point in his sleep cycle when such an event might actually happen. He gulped down the rest of his cold coffee and put the finishing touches on the program. Tandaris smiled. “Here goes nothing,” he said. He did not interface the device not yet—the computer was still taking scans and running diagnostics. But soon, and then he would see if his gamble succeeded.

“Two Can Be As Bad As One” Stardate 0608.05 A Joint Log by Captain Corizon and Lieutenant Admiran --------------------------------------------------------------------- The past few hours dragged on in a manner that would have Einstein begging relativity for a rain check. Tandaris sat in the science lab, tea on one side of the console and coffee on the other, as he stared into the mysterious depths of the blinking alien device behind the containment field. "What are you?" he asked for the umpteenth time. "And why are you so reluctant to reveal your little secrets?" It had been about an hour since his meeting with Victria. An hour since her concern over learning of the device. An hour since he started to feel like everything was shifting around him, constantly, and there was no longer any firm ground upon which he could make a stand. Tandaris leaned back and tried to decide which beverage to drink right now. His report to Corizon was almost done—it just needed some polishing—but he was relatively sure he would wait up and present it in person. The doors to the science lab gently swished open. The slow, measured steps of an individual carrying something metallic flowed across the near empty room. Tandaris closed his eyes as the light from the corridor flooded into the lab, whose lighting levels he had decreased in an effort to rest his retinas. "Ach, I thought I locked that thing," he muttered to the presence. "You did," the cool voice of Captain Ah-Windu Corizon said, a smirk obviously on his face. "Sorry to interrupt you.” The electrifying chill that ran down Tandaris' spine when he heard Corizon's voice served to energise him enough to swing around his chair and--at least he tried--to give some semblance of sitting at attention. "Captain. I didn't recognise your unique . . . metallic-bearing . . . footsteps?" he finished, rather like a question, as he realised that what he was saying made absolutely no sense. That was, of course, the trouble with staying up at all hours of the night. Smiling, bearing his fangs, Corizon removed the object from behind his back. "No need to stand on ceremony. I thought you could probably use some of this." Tandaris squinted in the dim light. "I could use anything that doesn't cause me immediate death, dismemberment, or the sudden ability to sing opera," he said. "It won't solve any of my problems though." Looking at the bottle, the captain asked, "Are you Klingon?" Tandaris glanced down at the semi-reflective surface of the console to examine his face. "Nope. Unless Klingons have spots these days. Why?" "Well, 2309 bloodwine does have a tendency to make Klingons sing Opera, but I am not sure if it has that same effect on Trills, perhaps we should do a little scientific experiment." "Ohhhh," Tandaris groaned, catching on now. "I don't know about that, sir. I've got a lot of work to do before I deliver this report to Captain Cori—oh. Ah." The Dameon's face wrinkled in laughter at the Trill. "I know what's like, being in your position." "You're an empath now too, Captain? I was not aware that Dameons had such a broad range of abilities," Tandaris said. "Call it a seventh sense," Corizon referenced his own canine likeness lightly, though he was unlikely to take a such a comment from any other member of his crew. "If we do break open the bloodwine, I doubt I would be able to count that high afterward." Tandaris motioned to the chair in the corner. Although he was rather surprised that his captain had decided to show up in the science lab at the middle of the night to share a drink with him, Tandaris was too tired to care or try to make any sort of sense from it. He figured that if he were dreaming, at least it was not a nightmare—yet. "What brings you down here to my little slice of existence?" "I couldn't sleep," Corizon admitted. "It's this...mission." "Mmmph. I'm sure that whatever is troubling you, I certainly don't want to know about it. For all I know you've got something up your sleeve that is both crafty and in a mucky, morally grey area." "I did," Corizon nodded, his ears moving back and forth. "But Captain Sorehl thinks..." He stopped and sighed. "Well, You've got a lot on your plate too, don't you. I guess you all do..." Sighing, Tandaris reached over and pressed a button on the console, telling the computer to double check the scans it had just run. "Indeed we do. That's why I'm up here at this hour trying to pry the secrets from this intriguing bauble. But, no, do go on. What does Captain Sorehl think?" Cracking the seal on the bloodwine and placing it to his lips, taking a long drink of the Klingon beverage before passing it off. "That I'm overstepping my bounds—which I am. And that I've been keeping people in the dark for far to long." Tandaris accepted the bottle. "Secrecy is habit-forming. If I recall, you were in . . . some sort of highly-classified tactical group . . . ATAG or something? No doubt you had to keep a lot of people in the dark, still do probably." He took a drink of blood wine. Wow. "I haven't had this stuff in . . . hmm. A lifetime." Corizon honestly wasn't sure what had driven him to the Trill, but for some reason he found a certain degree of trust from the young host. "I've had it for sometime now, a friend owed me a favor...or three." Pausing, "So many things...I wish I could just forget the past...but I can't.” "Yes, that can get rather annoying, especially when you build up quite a resume—not all of it flattering." He passed the bottle back to Corizon. The computer beeped at him serenely, and he sighed and turned around to address it for a moment. Then he turned back to Corizon and said, "If you're overstepping your bounds, you obviously feel that it's the only way to get us out of this intact. However, consider this . . . we could be out of touch with Command for awhile. You may need all the resources you can get, sir, and that will mean sharing information. It may be time to shed some light on all that darkness." Nodding he took the bottle to his lips, "Sorehl said the same thing...in his own...logical way." Then, taking a swig of bloodwine, he added as an afterthought, “And don't call me 'sir'.” Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the difference in personality traits—Corizon's aggressive, controlling way of doing things in contrast to Tandaris' introversive style—but Tandaris thought that he was being rewarded with a glimpse into the burdensome life of his commaning officer. "You only feel so burdened because you aren't sharing the burden around. I know what it's like to try and stay in control of everything. But . . . I know what it's like. Admiran's fourth host, Gazrin, was in a sticky situation quite similar to yours, where he had to overstep a lot of boundaries. Nothing of your scale, but still, the only way he managed to resolve the situation was finally to trust in the other members of his group." Corizon took another swig before passing the bottle back. "Indeed. It's hard for me to...to trust anyone." It took more effort to admit that than Corizon had expected. "The universe would be a better place if people would just trust one another a bit more," reflected Tandaris as he stared into the bottle in a fit of philosophical fancy. "Alas, were it not for the lawyers...." "Or the Politicians..." Corizon mused. "I've spent the better part of the last decade fighting their wars." "Quite. When was the last time we went exploring just for exploration's sake?" Tandaris asked. "That's why I joined Starfleet. Fighting always gives me a stomach ache, anyway." Or maybe it was the wine. The computer beeped twice more, and Tandaris absently handed Corizon the bottle so that his hands would be free. "Hmm," he said as he stared at the results. "I don't know," Corizon said weakly, "I want to blame it on the Dominion..." "That's odd. How could a gamma spike like that go unnoticed by our sensors?" Tandaris asked. Then his attention reverted to Corizon. "What? Oh, yes, the Dominion. It's their war we're fighting now, really, their enemy. Their quadrant. But we're here now." "Sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't just..." He paused lifting a half-drunk eyebrow, and the opposite ear. "Gamma spike?" "Mm, yeah. It looks like our little friend here has been busier than I first thought. I thought the gamma radiation was just cover for encoded transmissions. Now it appears I was wrong—or, more likely, half wrong." He nodded to a screen on the console. "I've been wondering how the device has been getting its orders. Radio transmissions just don't cut it across light-years. The gamma radiation there . . . it's not just cover. It's a byproduct." "Wait...the device?" "Yes, the—oh." Tandaris had completely forgotten that Corizon was not yet up to speed. He quickly summarised what he had learnt since Corizon had charged him with this task: the gel-paks, the device, its transmissions, and then his meeting with Victria. "I was careful not to share potentially classified data with her, but she sounds concerned and wants to know more. I told her to talk to you. But I think she could help." Nodding somberly, and offering the bottle. "Dear gods what have we gotten ourselves into..." Taking the bottle, Tandaris gave a half-inebriated smile. "I have a feeling that this is only the beginning. When we get to . . . to . . ." he could not remember where they were going, but he was sure it was important, ". . . that place, it'll be different from whatever we expect." "The Expanse," Corizon smirked. "That's it," Tandaris said. "Riddled with all sorts of subspace--subspace!" He sat up straighter, and the words came out of him as if they were evaporating from his lips. "The device's gamma radiation is a byproduct of undetectable subspace transmissions via microwormholes. Why couldn't I see it before?! We can jam it by simply remodulating the containment field to block the wormholes from forming." Then frowned. "Unfortunately . . ." Blinking, "Unfortunately?" Tandaris handed him the bottle. "Well, even if we block it, they'll still know where we are and everything the device has already transmitted. Plus, if Victria's concern is any indication, I doubt that this will be a permanent solution. As long as it is on board, it will doubtless pose some sort of threat. The containment field may jam it for some time, but there is no telling what other capabilities it has." "You know," Corizon took a drink. "I should order you to chuck that thing into space. But for some reason...call it that...seventh..hic..seventh sense. It might just come in handy." Tandaris said, "Ah, so that's why I haven't been keelhauled yet," as if in revelation. "That'd be incredibbly difficult to do in space," Corizon replied, slurring his speech. "You'd find a way. Hey," Tandaris pointed at the bottle, "we need to end the night . . . on . . . a . . . a good note, eh?" Corizon nodded, "What do you have in mind?" A toast. Care to do the honours, oh captain, my captain?" Drawling himself up slightly, Corizon took the bottle into the air. "To bringing darkness to the light, to us not going crazy. And to doing some real exploring once and while..." Tandaris nodded. "Here here," he affirmed. Corizon took a long drink, then handed to bottle to Tandaris. "Have the rest," Corizon smacked him on the back, the bloodwine brining out the inner-Klingon. "You've earned it." The air knocked out of him, Tandaris paused to catch his breath before taking the bottle. He stared at it for a moment, then tipped his head back and emptied the remaining blood wine. Smacking his lips together, Tandaris read the label over. "2309," he said, and his eyes glazed over with memories. "That was a good year."

“Waiting for You” July 29, 2156 A Joint Log by Lieutenants Dave Grey and Jas McCellan --------------------------------------------------------- Jas found Grey sitting in the science lab, alone and liking it that way. He was tending to experiments and listening to light music when he looked up, hearing the door open. "George?" he asked, wondering if that crewman upon whose toes he continuously trod had returned. "Not George, Jas. What are you doing?" she asked as she entered, carrying a rather large bundle of paperwork. Grey paused in his work and turned to look at her, brushing some hair out of his eyes. "Oh, nothing. Just some things I needed to uh . . . catch up on. What are—what are you doing?" Jas looked around, although it was the same unchanging sight that she had seen many a time before. "I appear to be in a room. With lights." Her tone was almost, but not quite, sardonic. "They weren't here a moment ago," interrupted Grey. Then her expression changed, as did her voice. "I mean. Erm... do you... are you ... busy?" "Yes," he said and went back to working. Jas laughed nervously. "Well, you've been working too hard. You need to relax. Lets go down to the planet. They may have long range communication ..." she trailed off when she realised that Grey was ignoring her. Grey continued puttering about the lab as if she was not there. He walked past her several times until he finally said, offhandedly, "I am rather busy. Perhaps . . . another time. You go have fun." Jas opened her mouth and then closed it, trying to think of what to say to persuade him. A console near her beeped, first with tenuous outreach, and then with a more insistent attitude. Grey, who was occupied by a glowing scanner to his right, asked, "Could you handle that?" Jas nodded silently and pokes the console, wondering what it was. The console suddenly went blank, then displayed an "analysis complete, routing to storage" message. It seemed satisfied. Grey, on the other hand, was not. The way his feet shuffled along the deck plating in a restless manner belied his relaxed posture and calm tone. Jas stared at the console, at a loss for words. "What ... what's wrong?" "Oh, I don't know, where to begin? How 'bout my sister dying? The fact that my entire life has become some sort of arena for my guilt? I'm not alive, anymore, Jas. All I do is mope. What sort of life is that?" Jas looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry... but ... I'd thought if they have communication ... we could contact Earth ... maybe there is development on a cure ... I ... " "And do what? I can't do anything. She's going to die anyway, so why should I cling to her so much? I might as well just shut myself away right now . . ." Rubbing her eyes, she thought of the Dave Grey she first met, the very first time. She wondered if she will ever see that person again. She looked up at the person in front of her. "I'm sorry... " She turned to go. Grey stood there, shocked into silence, and watched her leave. He was wrestling with his demons, struggling to articulate everything he wanted to say. And in the struggle he was forgetting to say the most basic things of all. He wanted to scream, to shout, to finally rid himself of the terrible burden that was his guilt. But he couldn't. It wouldn't be fair. So it remained within him, gnawing at him day in and day out, a creature that fed on his innermost doubts until he was just the hollow shell of the human he had once been. After guilt would come grief, and with grief came despair and depression and a descent into other, baser emotions. Darker days than this one were ahead. "Jas, wait," he said. "That was unfair of me . . . that was . . . that was stupid." He could feel the colour rising in his cheeks as he said this, but pressed on. "Er, I've just been under a lot of stress lately. And I'm just at the point where I want it to end. It's gone on long enough, you know?" Jas stopped and turned her head. "I'm sorry ... I thought ... I'd understand how you felt. But ... stress ... I never thought ..." She looked down again. "You seem so calm ... I had a feeling you're under a lot of stress." "Stop apologising—you have nothing to apologise for! I'm the one being the idiot. Although, you must admit," he said in a lighter tone, "I have a pretty good excuse." "I ... I am sorry for not being able to save her ... You have the right to be worried ... she's a person close to your heart ..." Jas thought for a moment. "There's nothing wrong with it. I don't want you to bare all the pain alone though." The oppressive walls closed in around them. Strange, Grey had never really thought of them as oppressive until now. But when he stood across from Jas, they felt claustrophobic, threatening to squeeze the air out of both their lungs. "Sauria, you say?" Jas nodded. "Yeah..." Grey ran a hand through his hair, sighing, and the he stood up and started turning off consoles. "I don't drink," he reminded her, "and we aren't phoning home." Then his voice softened. "But . . . maybe I do need a break. And some time with friends." Jas nodded. "Gotcha, no drinks and no phone..." She smiled lightly, wondering what whilrlwind storm of emotions is hiding behind this temporary victory over stress. "Let's go, I heard T'Parek is handling the application work." They headed for the door and then Jas stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here, carry this, will you?” She dumped the entire stack of paperwork into Grey's arms. Surprised, Grey raised his eyebrows and asked, “What's this for?” “To make you look less conspicuous!” she said with a grin. “Oh, and uh, because I need someone to . . . it was getting heavy.” They left the lab, both a little lighter in different ways, and trudged toward the launch bay in silence. Grey broke that silence. "Oh . . . and Jas?" "Hmm?" "Thanks."

“Mea Culpa: The Folly of My Days” Stardate 0607.29 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran --------------------------------------------------------- The result on the computer screen caused him to go completely pale. His body stiffened as it would if anticipating some sort of attack. He could feel his palms sweating as they gripped the rounded edge of the console with alarm. It was impossible. How could—what could cause it? Surely he was not doing anything to cause it. So why was the signal emanating from his quarters? Tandaris looked around engineering. Then got out a repair kit and left abruptly, heading for deck 4. His need for discovery had just gotten personal. When he arrived at his quarters, they admitted him easily enough—apparently they were still his quarters. He put the repair kit down on his desk and opened it, then took out a tricorder and reconfigured it to interface with the ship's internal sensors. It started to beep as it traced the source of the low-level gamma radiation used by whatever was causing the gel-pak malfunctions. Nothing on his bed. Nothing near the desk. He brought it past the storage locker, and suddenly it beeped with a passion. There it is. The shop on Al-Ucard. The alien trinket. You're an idiot, Tandaris. Mottled black and green, organic in its very design, it now blinked with a deadly sinister purpose, its rim glowing magenta. As soon as Tandaris laid eyes on it he knew that it was the source of the problems. Bought from a merchant on Al-Ucard, Tandaris had thought it interesting but quite innocuous. He had obviously be wrong—very wrong. After so much inactivity, it was somehow alive and transmitting instructions now on nearly undetectable frequencies. So much for security. “Okay, that's not good,” Tandaris said to himself—or perhaps to Umb, who looked at him stoically from one corner of the bed. The stuffed animal did not comment, although Tandaris imagined that its critical expressions were enough to drive him to shame. He should have known better than to just pick up something totally foreign and store it in his quarters! It reminded him of an incident over a century ago that a past host had caused, not too dissimilar from this. Fortunately, Tandaris had a few advantages: experience, and an advanced starship. Well, you broke it. Now you get to fix it. The alien device looked up at him with a cyclops eye. He could feel the low-level gamma radiation coming off it, and its malice was equally tangible. Tandaris took it with him as he left his quarters, his personal stake in the games to come now confirmed. All bets were off. The starting line had receded into the distance, but someone in the shadows ahead kept on moving the finishing line farther and farther away.

If your problems are because you have a beta already, I recommend you switch back to the latest stable version. :P Betas are unreliable at best. Firefox 2, as much as I anticipate it, is not touching my computer until the final release candidate (or maybe the final release). If your "various issues" are coming from Firefox 1.5.0.4, you could try and be more specific. :ph34r: You might also want to try running Firefox in Safe Mode, which disables all extensions and themes, as they can cause trouble if you install an extension that conflicts with another one or has a bug.

Happy birthday, Dac! :P

I've got the Expansion Pack too. I believe that it also included Jeri Ryan's voice as Seven of Nine rather than the other voice actor.