Challenging the Status Quo

[Sorehl 0]

Sorehl eased the kal'athri into its padded case. It was a larger instrument and less well known than the ka'athyra - the Vulcan lyre - but it was the one his parents had urged him toward in his youth. With a return to civilian life two years ago, he'd renewed an interest when encouraging the musical talents of his three elder daughters.

 

He slung the case over his right shoulder, then pulled his short cloak over the strap. Nodding to the few patrons he knew in the Vulcan establishment, he stepped out onto the upper level of the Commercial Concourse. The exit placed him near the top of the massive viewports that spanned three decks.

 

The starship Excalibur had already departed, although it wouldn't have been visible from this vantage in any case - the drydocks and umbilical connections were thirty-five decks below in the D-Ring. To his knowledge, only the small escort Reliant remained berthed, although he was aware the starship Yorktown was due for a layover in the coming days.

 

Sorehl stepped onto one of the dedicated Concourse lifts, since the main transporter complex was only two levels down. As the open car descended, he reflected on his interchange with Lieutenant Victria and what would come next.

 

Their conversation had been an acknowledgement that the situation in the Gamma Quadrant was destabilizing. The Federation might refuse to acknowledge it, but Scorpiad territory had degenerated into a full-magnitude, if slow-paced, civil war. The Al-Ucard were not faring well.

 

"Starfleet, of course," he'd assured her, "must yield to the command directives it is given - it cannot interfere with what has been deemed an 'internal matter of the Scorpiad Empire' by the Council." But he went on, adding that "ordinary Federation citizens, unencumbered by military regulation, were not bound by such political non-interference directives."

 

He stepped off the lift, moving towards the center of the station and away from the outer hub. Those outer areas of the ring were blocked off by the entrances of Embassy Row.

 

Even "unencumbered", there were still bounds. The help he could offer Victria's beleaguered people was limited. There were only a handful of loosely connected, concerned individuals willing to enter Scorpiad space. It would be illegal for them to provide weapons; on a personal level, he did not condone it either. They could make no commitments of military equipment or Starfleet deployments. As ordinary citizens of the Federation, they could do little more than offer their personal skills. They could provide medical supplies and the services of charitable organizations. They could try to expose conditions to a wider audience and encourage a shift of political will in the Alpha Quadrant toward intervention in this distant part of the galaxy.

 

For him, as a former Starfleet officer, even some of those limited options weren't available. His knowledge of classified information, dated in his years since entering the Reserves, still made it problematic to travel in foreign space. His knowledge of tactics and aeronautical engineering offered secrets that competing powers might try to wrest from him. It would be unwise to travel in unaligned space without elaborate precautions to safeguard such information. That would involve Vulcan disciplines and internal biometric protections - things that would make this knowledge unavailable to him consciously. At this point, there was no pressing need for it. But it did mean relegation to little more than administrative support and coordination. As a Vulcan, he considered himself ideally suited to such a role.

 

Passing the onboard hospital and the Main Security substation, he nodded at some of the officers who recognized him from previous years of service. He had no doubt his future activities would be frowned upon by the new regime. It was a cliché to find fault with one's successor, but Vice-Admiral Abronvonvich was clearly cast from the militant mold. He was no diplomat.

 

Sorehl blinked. That was a phrase he generally reserved for describing himself, he mused, or rather, what he was not.

 

Ironically, it was Semil who had prompted him toward such action, although the Vorta had undoubtedly intended the focus to be on his own disputed part of the Quadrant. The Dominion was slowly losing grip on their own empire. Starfleet remained complicit in containing knowledge that the Founders no longer ruled their subjects, but the secret couldn't last. Starfleet had further upheld their former enemy by seeking out an instrument to regain contact with the shapeshifters in their isolation - the classified mission that had taken Excalibur nearly a year to complete. The Hundred, previously restrained in their rebellion, made it clear they would not tolerate such a tacit alliance. Before ending their presence on Camelot Station, Semil had made one last appearance at his home on Avalon, using his own form of logic to suggest Sorehl had a duty to promote the "liberties he claimed to espouse".

 

It was the Vorta who had confirmed that there were already independent Federation citizens at work in Dominion space - stimulating independence, encouraging resistance, offering new values, and perhaps even fomenting rebellion. Some were offering dissenting opinions in the Federation press. Semil had been cryptic, but implied he was leaving Camelot to join those forces. Sorehl had rejected an invitation to join him.

 

He gripped the strap of the instrument case as he entered the transporter queue. He passed his civilian identification by the entry sensor, although the Andorian lieutenant nodded recognition. He stepped onto the raised pad.

 

Over the past few months, rumors of discontent between the Scorpiad and their servitor races had grown more frequent. Although his wife Ambassador T'Salik remained a representative to the arachnid race on Camelot, their mutual sense of duty would not permit a violation of the strict rules about sharing classified information. He had neither requested nor learned anything from her. Similarly, Sorehl had made no attempts to gain information from those formerly under his command, having no desire to impose on any emotional sense of loyalty they might harbor. Despite his lack of access to official intelligence, the Vorta Semil had used their informal meetings to confirm the destruction of Eritan and Al-Ucard forces, colonies, even worlds.

 

Unbeknownst to Semil, the discussions had worked. Genocide, it seemed, did not sit well on the Vulcan brow. As a private citizen, he could not ignore it, especially under the thin guise of maintaining status quo.

 

At the console, Lieutenant shiKren Staso slid the controls. The constituent atoms of the Vulcan's frame obeyed the governing physics and dematerialized, sending his essence and its connected will onto its next destiny.