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Chirakis

The Argesil Cycle

Whatever you do, do wisely, and think of the consequences.

~Gesta Romanorum

 

Captain Chirakis’s desktop monitor screen split three ways, each section coming from a separate area of the quadrant, each with a unique untraceable encoded signature, each bearing the image of Captain Chirakis’ three former SI-5 team members: Staff Sergeant Resssk, Lieutenant t’Pak, and First Lieutenant Sonny Lucas. All three bore the signs of sleep deprivation, and all expressions were grave.

The captain had slipped their messages into her holding bin so many times within the last few hours that it had become not only aggravating, but disturbing - quite a few mixed emotions she could do without, given the Pakleds and Horta they had to deal with. And Commander Marx. Yes. Commander Marx…. Her attention to the screen before her was distracted, though she was a little concerned at their apparent condition.

“Ragor Tal,” the captain repeated, fingers steepled, her expression somewhere between annoyed and bemused. “Hardly a cause for concern.”

Ordinarily, no, captain. But given the present situation it might be, and we suspect that there is more to his taunting than the price that is on your head.” T’Pak’s normally even Vulcan tone was strained.

“And the price that is on yours, t’Pak,” she quipped, “as well as on the rest of SI-5.” Kirel waved a hand while giving a condescending smile. “But please… enlighten me.”

Argesil.”

After a sudden, pensive pause, the captain leaned forward. “Continue.”

“Director Torak is in custody for his apparent implication in the matter. Several other higher Starfleet Intelligence officials are as well. And SI-5 has been targeted.”

“Targeted?”

“They are disbanding certain teams, Captain, with incarceration on charges of treason. Several have already been taken, and, given the modus operandi, our turn should come soon. Whoever is behind this is selective and thorough.”

“And ‘being selective’ is where Tal fits into the equation?”

“The more we investigate, the more sure we are of his complicity.”

Stroking her chin, the captain fell silent and studied their faces, deep in thought. Ragor Tal was possibly the most brilliant independent racketeer she had ever encountered. He kept his marauding group small, kept them compartmentalized, and was highly skilled in manipulative, clandestine operations. His primary modus operandi was to stealthily convince his opposition that the enemy was within, pit one leader against the other, create chaos and infighting, then either move in and take over the organization or infiltrate what was left with one of his own lackeys. In short, whoever he attacked destroyed themselves. If the captain didn’t know better, she would say that Ragor Tal had been trained by SI-5.

Hey, Cap?” Sonny’s face was flushed with… anger? Indignation? Youthful exuberance? All of the above?

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

We’re goin’ after him, Cap. Gonna take him out.” Sonny tapped the screen with his SI-5 insignia, then tossed it dramatically over his shoulder where it clinked as it hit the floor.

“Really.”

“He doesss not jessst, Captain,” added Resssk, clacking his mandibles. “Tal’s infiltration of the sssystem isss obviousss. The teamsss that have been targeted were key operativesss in the lassst few attemptsss to disssmantle his operation. We are the lassst onesss.”

“And you are telling me this to warn me?”

To asssk for your asssissstance. You were the lassst to have intimate contact with him. Of all in Ssstarfleet, you are mossst familiar with hisss operation.”

“Which is not saying much, Resssk. If you recall, my last encounter was less than intimate, and it was not with him, it was with his lieutenant, who put up a formidable fight.”

“But you won, Cap,” Sunny shot back. “That’s the difference. And he’s out to get you for it.”

“So you want me as bait.”

“If that isss what you believe, then thisss conversssation isss over, Captain.”

Resssk ripped his SI-5 insignia from his uniform and threw it down.

“If you wish to join us, Captain,” said t’Pak quietly, “you will meet us at rendezvous October within the standard time frame. If not, we will proceed without you.” The Vulcan gently unpinned her insignia and placed it on the desktop. “Peace, and long life.”

 

Eris of Argesil

Drakkor slipped silently through space as the dark void thirstily swallowed her jet-black hull. The vessel seemed to relish the freedom after her long hiatus, as did her pilot, Chirakis Kirel, Starfleet Intelligence Division 5 operative and former commanding officer of Sky Harbor Aegis. But freedom often exacts a great price, and the pilot was well aware that this time the cost could be the final payment in a long list of installments that had coursed through her lifetime. Closing her eyes against the firmament, she sank deep into the custom pilot’s chair, both pondering and trying to ignore what could be in store for anyone who came against their most recent adversary, Chaos.

Stronger than any weapon forged by mortals, she was the primal void, the yawning, the chasm of nothingness from which sprung darkness and the abyss, according to the legends of many species and perpetuated by hundreds of mythological variants. It is often said that what happens in the heavens bears fruit in the actions of the beings that inhabit the universe. If that were true, the chaos that now engulfed Starfleet, the Federation, the Allied Powers, and countless other governing bodies, had spawned from a battle in the heavenlies. One seed had sprouted many shoots producing innumerable tendrils that threatened to choke the very life out of every organization whose primary goal was harmony.

“Destination October,” Kirel spoke quietly into her helmet communication system as soon as the computer signaled neutral territory. “Run dark. Engage avoidance maneuvers and random course changes at random intervals.”

Compliance.” The computer’s synthesized reply did not hold the concern of its master, offering instead a sense of calm while she pondered the purpose of her mission: Argesil.

Named for the location of the first evidence of a high Federation official’s questionable practices, Argesil became a catchphrase for anything connected to the evidence or the official's dealings, however remote. In short, it was the Federation’s Watergate.

Intrigue had been building for decades, but a modicum of control had prevailed until recently, when accusations against the government had bled into the military infrastructure, the seams of command unraveled, heads rolled, and conspiracy theories of complicity implicated governments and the military of most of the Allied powers. Soon secret weapons sales, technology exchanges, and the infiltration of various Allied governments had spread well beyond their bounds. Most agencies had been investigating each other, and, of course, SI-5 was not overlooked.

Everyone seemed to be convinced that they had a mole. Leaders accused and indicted each other, and what had previously been minor differences grew into great schisms. Chaos and infighting was the norm, and a few previously-unknown “highly qualified negotiators” had suddenly appeared and were reaping great benefits. In short, the situation bore the mark of the master racketeer known as Ragor Tal. Every generation spawns a master of chaos, and to this generation her master was known as Ragor Tal. However, to contain such chaos could be beyond the ability of just one man. It was entirely possible that he or his small, compartmentalized organization could not contain it, that it had spread well beyond his control and fallen into the hands of Eris. Taking him out might not cure the illness, but cutting off the head could help immensely. At least Kirel hoped it would.

By dint of its remote location, the nature of the commerce, and the lack of governmental influence, Aegis had escaped most of the intrigue. Kirel hoped it would stay that way.

Unknown vessel on intercept course.”

Strange. Given the immensity of space, the odds that a fighter would just happen to be on an intercept course were astronomical, and the possibility that someone had detected Drakkor’s presence was highly unlikely.

“Identify.”

“Insufficient data.”

“Vessel description.”

“High warp capable starship, fighter configuration nine meters by five meters, one occupant, standard armament.”

“Species of occupant.”

Human female.”

“Are weapons engaged?”

Negative. Weapons are inoperable.

Stranger still. “Time to intercept.”

Ten minutes, 43.7 seconds.”

“Projected destination given its present course.”

Sky Harbor Aegis.

Kahless! “Change course to parallel the unknown vessel’s, maintaining a distance of 5,000 meters. Commence audio and visual record. Track trajectory. Arm all weapons, but do not target.”

Compliance.”

Soon a strangely configured fighter passed and faded in the distance. Analysis of Drakkor’s data revealed recent scoring to the fighter’s hull, though no major damage. Her pilot was indeed human, but her lifesigns were low, and given the speed of the vessel, its fuel supply would not last long. It seemed odd, especially because this particular area of space was truly a void; there was no port of call close, not even a tiny asteroid.

Kirel took manual control of Drakkor and came about for pursuit. Not long after, she approached the vessel, now dead in space and beginning to drift. Her pilot, slumped forward and barely alive, wore the uniform of a Starfleet officer, though that was no guarantee that the pilot was a Starfleet officer. With the number of strange “coincidences” mounting, Kirel remained in Drakkor, trying to decide if she would attempt a rescue or leave well enough alone.

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From the Abyss

Drakkor drifted wing-to-wing with the unknown fighter. Minutes passed with no evidence of pursuit and the Peregrine’s upgraded systems verified that there was no trap, no failsafe, and no danger in boarding the other vessel, yet Chirakis' suspicion remained. A hangover from earlier times, perhaps, or paranoia generated by the present chaos? Possibly both, but more probably it was her usual caution in such matters.


The slow rise and fall of the young occupant’s chest and occasional twitch of her left hand indicated she was still alive and possibly conscious, though given the state of her vessel’s life support, she would not be for long. With that thought, Kirel had made her decision. Drakkor's emergency escape hatch locked with the other fighter and she was squeezing through the passageway into the cockpit. The configuration was stranger inside than out, the console seemed ordinary, but the language was a bizarre mix of Klingon and Romulan, barely readable.


As fresh air surged in from Drakkor, the young woman came around, drinking in great gasps and thirsting for more. Soon she slumped back into the pilot’s seat, her head lolling against the headrest for a minute or two until her gaze fell on the still-helmeted Kirel, who had left the helmet's black reflective visor securely in place as a precaution.

“Who are you?" the girl breathed, her face pale and looking much more like a girl's than a woman's.

"I would ask you the same. Lieutenant," the captain countered skeptically.

"Not until you tell me who you are."

"It would appear,” Kirel replied, arms crossed as she leaned against the hull, “that you are in no position to bargain, and if you refuse to answer I will leave,” she shrugged, “which means that you will be dead within the hour. Of course, someone else could come along, but it’s highly unlikely given this area of space."

The girl gave her a blank stare, like she was trying to process the information. She clearly suffered from hypoxia.

”Can't you at least let me see your face? Please? So I know this is real and not a dream?"

At that, the captain reached out and grabbed the girl's arm in a vice squeeze, releasing only after she cried out.

"There. You are awake. Now tell me who you are."

"Lieutenant Madelyn Logan, operations officer, USS Vladivostok."

"And your destination?"

“ I don't know. The captain gave me the coordinates. I stole the fighter and entered them, then pressed what looked like the button to engage."

"You stole the fighter? From whom?"

"I don't know. They were all masked, and their bodies were completely covered. When they were around us they didn’t talk at all, so…” she started to fade, then took a deep breath, “...so we don’t know… I don’t know who they are… they were….”

“You said ‘the captain’ gave you the coordinates, and then mentioned ‘they were all around us.’ Who is ‘us?’”

“The crew… our crew… the crew of Vladivostok.” A few labored breaths, and she asked, “Please, do you have any water?”

“I do. Are you able to move?”

“A little.”

“Then come. Use the hatch to enter my vessel. I have plenty.”

For a moment, the girl’s blank stare returned, but she shook it off as she struggled out of the pilot’s seat. “You still didn’t tell me your name.”

“In due time. For now, you may call me ‘Captain.’”

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Rendezvous October

After reviewing hours of documents, statistics, reports, and miscellaneous data, it was clear to Kirel that only two facts were absolutely certain, and that those two facts were very basic and very broad. There was conflict within the governments and organizations of the Allied Powers, and the present conflict was slowly and methodically unraveling personal and governmental alliances at the seams. Everything else remained to be seen.

She put the PADD aside to clear her mind which, at this point, was overwhelmed with data, most of which was conjecture based upon distant history, eons of records, and ancient geopolitical considerations. They all played a part in 24th century politics and thinking, but they were not necessarily pertinent to the issue at hand.

Where there are sentient beings, there are conflicting points of view, whether they are slight differences of opinion, moderate differences in goals, or hot contention over territorial limits. When a major problem arises, there is always the danger that the entities could come to an impasse, that the impasse could become irreconcilable, and the irreconcilable issue could ignite a flame that moves them from the ideological and diplomatic realm into the physical realm, otherwise known as war.

That the present unraveling of political and military structures within the Allied Powers would come to war was possible, but, in Kirel’s estimation and in the estimation of several others, war was highly unlikely. At this juncture, war among the Allied Powers would accomplish little, and those holding power in the Allied governments knew it. Given the interdependence that had developed over the last half century, all out war, or even limited war, served no purpose for any of them.

What was more likely was that the weakness and uncertainty created by the present chaos within every Allied government and military would create a void, and a channel would open for an external force to take over. It was precisely this concern that the trusted few who were now assembling at Rendezvous October were going to consider.

Some of the remnants of SI-5, especially the teams who had dealt with one Ragor Tal and his small ruthless organization, were convinced that he was behind the unravelling. Though Kirel had initially believed that was possible, she had experienced her share of chaotic governments and militaries over the past decades, and in this instance, especially in light of the documents she had been reviewing, she had her doubts.

Granted, Ragor Tal had an extensive record of ideological insurgency and a proven ability to infiltrate wherever he wanted to for whatever goal he desired to achieve, but the scope and scale of the present situation, that it encompassed entire governments that, though interdependent, had differing political and ideological views, was more than one man or one very small organization such as Tal’s could easily accomplish, if at all. Some kind of alliance was likely involved, and, whereas the short term goal might be material and/or political gain, it was quite possible that the ultimate long-term goal of the alliance was something much greater.

In Kirel’s mind, there was more to the situation than most October analysts were presently considering. In fact, it was entirely possible that the quadrant was about to engage in a different form of warfare, one that forced governments to restructure how they approached their internal and external affairs. In essence, they would be forced into a radical change in thinking.

Data flowing smoothly down the PADD reflected in the fighter’s canopy as Kirel considered all this. Next to her, sleeping soundly in the fighter’s second seat, was a young Starfleet officer who had added a strange ingredient to the mix.

According to the Starfleet database and the DNA sample that Kirel had taken from her water bottle, the girl was indeed the human, Lieutenant Madelyn Logan, operations officer for USS Vladivostok. But what had happened to the Vladivostok? Why had no one reported it missing? How did this girl’s stolen fighter just happen to be in the same area as Drakkor exactly when its occupant needed help? Moreover, if this girl’s record in the database was correct, she was recruited at the age of fourteen. Not unheard of, but certainly not the norm. Looking at her small frame, curled snugly in the second seat, Kirel saw a naive child more than an officer.

Then there was the little matter of the data crystal Kirel had found in the lieutenant’s tunic pocket. It was not exactly the most secure place to carry sensitive material, but if the girl’s story held true, it may have been the only place she could have stowed it during an escape. A thorough scan had verified its authenticity, it had taken several hours to decrypt, and it was proving difficult to analyze.

With a small sigh, Kirel turned back to the PADD and resumed her work.

The young officer stirred, stretched, turned, and straightened up in her seat. She picked at the ill-fitting flight suit Kirel had furnished, then looked around in confusion. "Where am I?"

“You are in my fighter en route to our destination, Lieutenant," the captain replied, casually. “We should arrive within the hour. How are you feeling?"

"Okay I guess," she said, frowning, possibly trying to remember how she got there. Then she glanced through the canopy, rubbing her eyes. “But I’m kind of hungry."

Reaching into the food locker, the captain retrieved a small, green package and passed it to her, along with another bottle of water. "Eat slowly,” the captain advised. “This has everything your body needs. And continue to hydrate."

“Thank you…." The girl stared at Kirel’s flight suit, looking for something. “I know I’m supposed to call you Captain, but can you tell me your name?”

“Chirakis.”

It didn’t seem to register.

“I am Captain Chirakis, Lieutenant.” Kirel nodded congenially.

“Oh. Okay. So, thank you, Captain Chirakis… for the food. And for well, you know, saving me.” The girl waited, seeming to want a response, so Kirel gave her customary short nod.

Madelyn fumbled with the package and eventually conquered it. She took a tentative bite, then studied the wrapper, reading the contents thoroughly. Smiling at Kirel, she took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as she regarded the captain’s PADD.

“Something else, Lieutenant?” Kirel asked finally.

“What are you reading?”

“Information possibly needed at my destination.”

“Oh.” She took another bite, then fished in her tunic pocket, finally stopping to strain her eyes toward the PADD.

“The answer to your question is yes. I took it from your pocket.” The captain’s gaze met hers. “How did you get it?”

“The captain… my captain… Captain Belton gave it to me. He said it was important. I was supposed to give it to the commanding officer at my destination when I arrived. Well… actually… he said if I arrived.”

“And what was your destination?”

She shrugged, taking another bite, then disposing of the wrapper. “I really don’t know. He just gave me some coordinates. That’s it.”

“And why did Captain Belton send you instead of your helmsman?”

She stopped chewing and stared at the floor for a moment, then swallowed hard. “He’s dead.”

After a pause, Kirel stowed her PADD and shifted her seat back to piloting position.

“We will be landing soon, Lieutenant. I suggest you prepare. Your helmet is behind the seat. Put it on and do not remove it until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. I mean… yes, Captain.”

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Holy Fighter Bay, Batman!

 

Madelyn sealed her helmet and waited. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was waiting for, but she had that sicky gross feeling she always had when the academy centrifuge alarm sounded and she was about to be spin-dried close to blackout. Kind of like she wanted to barf but couldn’t.

Then everything went dark. Black. Blacker than black. The fighter seat’s armrest almost buckled under her grip.

Relax, Lieutenant. The fighter has gone dark, which means that I can see but the passenger cannot. We are in no danger.

After a few deep breaths, Madelyn replied, “So… I guess you heard my freak-out?”

And your scream. Fortunately, I have an auditory suppressor system for such occasions, though it is meant more for explosions than for screams from my tactical officer.

“So that’s who usually sits here?” she squeaked, gripping the chair harder as the ship’s sudden course change surprised the IDS. Again. She almost lost her lunch.

That, or whoever I might need for a mission. I seldom take on passengers.”

“Then... I guess I'm lucky to get the ride."

I suppose you could say that, though ‘lucky’ is not exactly the word I would choose. As as a warning, Lieutenant, from now on the only sound you will hear will come from me over this communication system. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to concentrate.

For the next hour or so, Madelyn saw nothing and heard nothing, but she felt a whole lot, especially course changes and IDS semi-failures. Sometimes it was a gentle change, one she couldn’t feel all that much, but sometimes it was a whopper. The whole thing was freaky. For a long time she felt like she was in a dream, especially with the black fighter, the captain’s black uniform with no name and no insignia, the black flight suit with the strange black baubles she was afraid to touch because she didn’t know what they did, and the super secret stuff that you know goes on somewhere in Starfleet, but to you it’s a different world and you never think you’ll experience it… and then there you are, bam, right smack dab in the middle. And the black-out helmet? Gees… what next?

Lieutenant Logan, remove your helmet and stand up.”

“Huh?”

Remove your helmet... and stand up.”

“Why? What's going on?”

We have arrived, Lieutenant. Remove your helmet. And stand up. Do it now before someone shoots you!

Crap! Her fingers fumbled around the seal until she finally found and popped the release. Instantly, a volume of fresh air, cold and humid, swooshed in. It took her by surprise. But when the helmet came off, she got a bigger surprise.

Holy...! Her mouth dropped open and she froze half-way out of the seat.

They were in a cave. Well, kind of a cave. At least it looked like a cave. It had this weird lighting, kind of like a fighter bay. But the only thing that made it look like a fighter bay was... well... the fighters. And the plane crews. And the bay chief. And the equipment. And the floor. And the….

She blinked. There must have been over a hundred workers in the bay. Some of them were armed. And they were all standing still. Their eyes were fixed on the captain’s fighter. Oh no… they were fixed on her… and their weapons were pointed….

A firm grasp on her upper arm jerked her out of the seat.

Now, Lieutenant. State your name, rank, and posting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she squeaked, then swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the stares that came from every angle. “Lieutenant Madelyn Logan, Operations Officer, USS Vladivostok.

After a moment, “Voice print is verified, Captain,” someone said over the intercom. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Chief. Lieutenant Logan,” the captain turned to her.

Madelyn was shrinking away from one of the plane crew who stood on a platform ladder on her side, his hand extended, waiting to assist her. The rest of the crews had returned to whatever they had been doing, and the hum of activity sounded like any ordinary fighter bay. Slowly, the lighting returned to normal, and her pupils had adjusted; she was in a fighter bay, but somewhere underground, and probably somewhere super-secret, like in the movies….

“Lieutenant. Logan.”

Her head snapped to the captain. Yeah, the captain was ticked. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Sergeant Murphy will be your escort while you are here.” She nodded to the young man whose hand was still out, waiting. “He will take you to our medical personnel and then to billeting.”

“I don’t bite,” Murphy said, smiling. “Let’s get you settled in, make sure you’re okay, get you some chow. How about it?”

“Uh… yeah, okay. Murphy?” Only when she took his hand did she realize how weak she was, her legs were trembling, and getting out of the fighter would have been a major accomplishment if he hadn’t been there.

“You can call me Tim,” he said, “It’s a lot easier than Murphy.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Kirel stepped out of the cockpit and slid down her side of the fighter, landing easily on the tarmac. “Walk with me,” she said as she handed her gloves and helmet to the crew chief. “How many are we?”

“Close to four hundred by last count, Captain. More coming in every day, but we’re slow in vetting them.” He handed her a PADD, which she read through and signed, then passed back. “A lot of records were purged when they were declared persona non grata.”

“Understandable. Where is my team?”

“Deck 8, substrata.”

"And Admiral Solokov?"

"CnC, with Admiral Mulligan."

“Thank you, Chief. Take good care of Drakkor. You might be interested in her upgrades. Have a look, but don’t touch.”

“Of course, Captain. We’ll keep her secure.”

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In Plain Sight

 

Equidistant from Federation and Ferengi space, a small group of asteroids float, tethered to each other by a fragmented planet’s gravitational field. There, in collaboration with the Federation and to their mutual benefit, the Ferengi Alliance built a commercial complex where several corporations developed and tested new technology.

On the outskirts of the development, one entire asteroid was devoted to ASTech (/Aztec/), Air & Space Technology, the premiere developer of cutting-edge technology for military and civilian spacecraft. It was, therefore, not unusual to see a variety of unmarked spacecraft, especially fighters and specialized small craft, coming and going from their facility. It was the perfect place to house the base known as Rendezvous October.

On the surface, beneath a dome that furnished both atmosphere and security, ASTech’s corporate headquarters was nondescript, mirroring the architecture of other corporations in the asteroid field. Below the surface, beneath the usual storage and maintenance levels and the ASTech corporate landing bays, was Rendezvous October, with coded access through the corporate bays. Here, Drakkor had landed, only one of many fighters and other craft used by operatives from the Allied Powers, chief among them being Starfleet Intelligence and the Tal Shiar.

"Admiral Solokov," Kirel acknowledged the gray haired officer who turned as her escort admitted her to October’s Command and Control center. It was in all respects like any other CnC. Assorted screens hung strategically on every wall, displaying internal and external areas of the station and its environs. One main holographic display sat ready for activation at the center. Uniformed personnel alternately hunched or relaxed at their stations, constantly monitoring and assessing data while a few moved smoothly among them. Of them, only the security guards gave her scrutiny when she entered.

"Captain Chirakis," said Solokov, moving to meet her, then turning to gesture toward the others present. "You know Admiral Mullins of Federation Security,… Captain Raza of Starfleet Intelligence, Division 6,... and Riov t'Aldani of the Tal Shiar."

"I do," she said, greeting each superior in turn, then exchanging a look of ironic recognition with the Romulan.

One of the most impressive operatives in the Tal Shiar, Ja’lan t’Aldani had nearly pinned Kirel to the wall with her subversive strategies on several occasions, until the devastation of ch'Rihan dissolved the lines of contention. As cunning and deadly as she was beautiful, t'Aldani was also brilliant, cultured, and persuasive, resorting to torture only when all else failed. Kirel regarded her former adversary, thankful that this particular agent was on their side.

“Jolan’tru, Riov,” said Kirel in fluent Romulan, her expression soft in greeting. “We meet under different circumstances.”

"Jolan’tru, retaenir eirailho,*” t’Aldani responded in kind, clasping Kirel’s outstretched forearm in the grip of a fellow warrior. “Much more auspicious circumstances. The others I would not care to duplicate.”

“Nor would I.”

After regarding each other for a long moment, they shared reserved laughter. "It was not the best of times," t’Aldani remarked.

"Nor the worst," added Kirel as they parted.

"But to my purpose, Admiral,” she continued. “Any word from USS Vladivostok?"

Vladivostok?" A brow shot up as he gave it some thought. “Not that I am aware. She’s a science vessel, Oberth class, specially modified to explore areas of high radiation, stellar prominences, emission nebulae, that type of thing, so they are not usually in this area of space. There’s really no reason for them to contact us. Why do you ask?"

"Twelve hours ago I rescued their operations officer, Lieutenant Madelyn Logan. She was drifting in space, in a cross-platform fighter, on a direct course to Aegis, to deliver this." She handed the data crystal to Solokov.

“What kind of cross-platform?” the admiral queried, regarding the crystal.

“A strange mix of technologies and a different hull configuration, with a Klingon-Romulan console.”

His brow furrowed. “Go on.”

“She said she did not know her destination, that Captain Belton had only given her some coordinates, gave her the data crystal, and ordered her to deliver it to the commanding officer at her destination, which, of course, would have been me. Sergeant Murphy, SI-5, is escorting her. He is expert in… casual interrogation through relaxed conversation.”

The Admiral regarded the crystal again, lips tight, and gave a knowing nod.

“In any event,” Kirel continued, “the information on the crystal may or may not have something to do with Argesil. However, if the Vladivostok is missing, and if the lieutenant’s information is true, even if it is not pertinent to Argesil, we might want to investigate it.”

“Of course. Lieutenant Kapar," Solokov turned toward a prominent display, "Get me the last known location of USS Vladivostok."

"Yes, Admiral.” A few taps of the young man’s console brought a report onscreen. “Its last known location was…” he paged down, “...the outskirts of Nebula 236A. They were investigating signals in the nebula that were inconsistent with data they gathered a year ago, Admiral. Do you want me to go into the nitty-gritty and read the specifics of the science report?"

"No, Lieutenant. When was that report filed?"

"Three days ago, sir."

“Is there any evidence of weapons fire or debris?" Kirel asked.

Kapar swiveled to face her. "We can't detect weapons fire or debris at this distance, ma'am, but we haven’t received any reports from that area."

Solokov turned the crystal over in his palm several times before handing it to Kapar as he spoke to Chirakis. “I'll let you know what we find."

_____________
*admired adversary

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Misplaced Loyalty

USS Missouri
Undisclosed Mission
Sector 51, Grid Omega

 

Captain d’Ka stared at the screen as he had for the last few hours. They had been stationed there for a week and had seen nothing except for a few distant cargo ships headed in various directions - to Federation space, to Ferengi space, or to the basic cargo waypoint, Starbase 287. The cargo ships were all on standard courses within standard flight corridors. The small Starfleet task force had seen nothing out of the ordinary, nor had they detected any suspicious signals in subspace or otherwise. A few of the task force had broken off for reconnaissance beyond their area of responsibility to see if anything could be found, but they came up with nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.

“Captain,” said Commander Lei’ri, pensively, breaking the long silence, “what exactly are we doing here?”

Without turning, without losing his stoic expression, d’Ka replied, “My question as well, ‘Ri.”

No one on the bridge stirred. All attended to their assignments as they had for the last week, as though this would be their life from now until doomsday. It was a strange kind of resignation, one that was simultaneously disconcerting and comfortable, if that were possible. They were obeying orders, performing their tasks to the best of their ability, as sworn Starfleet officers. Doing nothing.

Missouri’s commander turned to watch his captain closely but drew no response. After some minutes, he broached a subject he seldom did, but he believed it was time.

“Do you sense nothing, Captain. Hear nothing?”

D’ka turned slowly and raised a weary brow. “I sense and hear many things, ‘Ri. To what do you refer?”

“Anything to do with this mission. Anything to do with why we are here and why, when there is nothing here, we stay.”

The slightest of ironic smiles appeared. “I do, ‘Ri.” He drew in a deep breath. “Can I tell you? No. Should I tell you anyway? Probably. Will I tell you?” He sighed. “Of that, I am not sure.”

“You are bound by your Sindar code.”

D’Ka nodded, his eyes the slightest shade of gold, a sign of indecision.

“And what, if I may be so bold to ask, sir, would make you break that code?”

“Something extraordinary.”

“Such as?”

The captain’s smile broadened, as though he were enjoying the exchange, or possibly challenge. “The end of the universe as we know it,” he countered, ironically playful.

“Then may I suggest, Captain,” replied Lei’ri, eyes locked with his superior’s, “that the universe as we know it is coming to an end.”

“It does every day, ‘Ri.”

“Indeed, Captain, but this time it is different.” Lei’ri leaned toward him to speak in confidence. “Something is drastically wrong.”

The captain’s eyes returned to the screen as he resumed his previous posture, the gold of his eyes deepening. “I know, ‘Ri,” he whispered. “I know.”

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The Vladivostok Maneuver

 

USS Missouri
Undisclosed Mission
Sector 51, Grid Sigma
Stardate 2388.012

 

“Commander Lei’ri?”

Missouri’s Executive Officer turned from his conversation with their Chief Science Officer to face the tall Vulcan at tactical. “Yes, Mr. Sojek?”

“I am detecting starship activity in the nearby nebula, very close to the area you are investigating. One ship that appears to be a Federation Oberth Class refit matching the description of USS Vladivostok.”

“Onscreen.” Lei’ri returned to the command chair and pulled the master command console close.

“Nebular interference is skewing the results, Commander,” continued Sojek. “With your permission, I will ask the Warren to use their advanced technology for penetration.”

“Of course, and request a direct feed to Missouri. Mr. Tan,” Lei’ri turned to their operations officer, “call the captain to the bridge and inform the fleet. Mr. Doland, hold position.”

“What do we have, Commander?” said the captain as the door to his ready room closed behind him.

“We may have found the Vladivostok, sir,” he replied, vacating the command chair, “just inside the nebula that intrigued Lieutenant Commander Stevenson. He was investigating the nebular anomaly when Mr. Sojek reported ship contact. We should have… yes,” Lei’ri flicked a finger toward the main viewscreen, “USS Warren has cleaned up the image; it’s coming through now.”

D’Ka remained standing as USS Warren’s images swept over the screen, resolution and detail slowly emerging to produce the light outline of a starship and eventually its full form, complete with Starfleet insignia, running lights and registration. Everything seemed completely normal, and that it was in a nebula was well suited to its primary purpose: nebular and stellar investigation.

Lei’ri settled into his position, but his captain remained standing, his eyes a deep purple, focused well beyond the viewscreen.

“Hail them, Captain?”

“No, ‘Ri,” d’Ka replied pensively. “Sojek, request a full list of its life forms from USS Warren, and compare them to Vladivostok’s roster.”

“Yes, Captain.” Within a few minutes, the tactical officer looked up. “The crew complement is several species, Captain, including Terran, Romulan, Klingon, Tellarite, and Andorian. It does not match the most recent roster of the Vladivostok.”

“And its Starfleet transponder ID?”

“Is active and correct, Captain.”

“Well, ‘Ri,” said d’Ka on a sigh, “It seems we have solved a very small part of the ship’s disappearance.”

“And the rest would be who has taken control, what they plan, and what they have done with the Starfleet crew...”

“...and where they are going,” d’Ka finished, settling into the command chair. “Mr. Tan, inform Starfleet of our situation. Command the task force to maintain their present posture; they are not to show any indication whatsoever that the ship has been sighted. Request an analysis from USS Warren of Vladivostok’s present course, including possible origin and destination, and alert Captain Wimsett of USS Ramius that his Marines may be very busy, very soon.”

The captain glanced aside to Commander Lei’ri’s faint grin. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“No, Captain. That should do it.”

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FROZEN ASSETS
Rendezvous October, stardate 2388.015

 

"Captain?" Admiral Solokov stepped into the corridor and motioned Chirakis into his office.

“Ensign, see that we’re not disturbed,” he said to his assistant as they passed through the reception area. This was, apparently, more than a casual chat.

Captain Raza, SI-6, stood in greeting as they entered; Solokov waved Chirakis into a chair and settled behind his desk. "You’re familiar with Drakel'a," he began, one hand resting easily on a desk monitor.

“Yes, Admiral. Drakel'a is a small non-Federation planet, mostly barren permafrost and not particularly habitable, although there are a few small towns and one city. The population is as hostile as their environment, especially when it comes to the Federation, which is understandable given their position as a way-station for organized crime."

"Yes. Small factions of organized crime," said Solokov, "not prominent or targeted by Intel until recently." He swiveled the monitor into her field of vision.

“Over the last year, routine monitoring turned up an increase in starship traffic and planetside construction." The screen highlighted several areas. "Closer inspection raised more flags, so… ten months ago we sent in a deep-cover agent. Two hours ago, relays picked up an emergency extract signal from Drakel'a, originating here.” He tapped the screen and it zoomed in, revealing a low hill with barely enough cover to protect anyone from the planet’s high winds and sub-zero temperatures.

“The signal came from a Mark 1, a secure, single-use emergency extraction transmitter used by agents in deep cover. It’s unlikely that someone who is not an agent could activate it, but we’re not discounting the possibility.

“Captain…” Solokov leaned back, his expression turning dour. “We’re going on the assumption that the call is legitimate, but… we have no idea who the agent is.”

Chirakis’ eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, Admiral, but if it is an agent, why would the identity matter?”

“Various reasons, one being the question of loyalty.”

“But that is always a concern, Admiral,” she pressed. “An agent is an agent. There are…” She left off as he held up a hand, returned the screen to its original position, and nodded to Captain Raza.

“Kirel, one of our SI-6 handlers was killed last month in a tragic… accident," Raza began, leaning forward, "and all her records have mysteriously disappeared, and her backup files purged. After piecing together several fragments of information, we believe that one of her agents was sent to Drakel'a. Given the present political situation, it’s possible that it’s more than just a ruse, Kirel. It could be a setup for an attack on October.”

Chirakis relaxed into her chair, studying them. She understood the complications, but only partially agreed with their hesitation, especially when the stakes were so high. Then again, she had spent the last few years commanding a space station on the outskirts of nowhere, removed from most politics and intrigue. Except for the intrigue that come with having a pirate for an executive officer, a ninja for a security chief, a precocious child who seemed to believe she could replace the commanding officer on a whim….

“We need someone to investigate.” Admiral Solokov broke her train of thought. “Because Drakkor is the best stealth vessel we have at the moment, we want you to investigate, and extract if necessary.”

“Of course, Admiral,” she replied, quickly adding, “if there is an agent, where do it take him?"

“If the sign is recognized, and he gives the countersign, bring the agent here.”

“And if not?”

“Somewhere else.”

She stared for a moment. Of course. “And if extraction is not possible?”

“Standard procedure. Record what you can, destroy the evidence, and leave.”

She gave a cursory nod. Unfortunately, in a crisis situation, leave no man behind was not part of the covert operation code, nor was leaving evidence. In this case, the evidence was not only records and equipment, it included the agent. But a swift dispatch was often more humane than being tortured. Were she the agent, she would welcome the former.

“Leave as soon as possible.”

 

* * * * *

 

Fighter Bay Chief Tycho fell in step with Chirakis when she exited the lift. “She’s all ready for you, Captain, but I don’t see a flight plan on file,” he said.

“It is a secure systems check, Chief,” Chirakis replied soberly, signing a PADD and handing it back as they walked, “a standard, routine mission such as we have here every day.”

“Yes, ma’am," He said, lips pursed.

"Admiral Solokov will verify." After a suggestive look, he seemed satisfied.

October’s most recent arrivals berthed closest to the maintenance area. Approximately six fighter squadrons lined either side of the expansive bay, an increase of two squadrons since she arrived. A few private craft, including the admiral’s, berthed in the command area. Closer to the bay doors sat Drakkor and other craft used for Special Operations. The smell of metalworking, lubricants, fuel, maintenance equipment, and sweating bodies had replaced the humid cavern atmosphere of eight days ago. She wasn’t sure which she preferred, but the change was strangely comforting in its familiarity.

The pre-flight check passed quickly, a testimony to the detail-oriented expertise of Bay Chief Tycho. Kirel strapped in and secured her helmet while Tycho made a final check of the cockpit.

“Good hunting, Captain,” he said, and she departed.

Five hours later, Drakkor engaged full stealth mode and slid silently through the atmosphere of Drakel’a to set down behind the targeted hill. Sensors identified a human male, alone, huddled around the smoldering remains of a small fire. They also verified his identity, but given the 2% margin of error, Kirel did not trust it. The technology he carried seemed to match his profession, but the black market furnished many things. And… there was always the possibility that he had changed loyalties.

She slipped out of Drakkor, rounded the hill, and blended with the shadows to watch.

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Escape From Nowhere

 

Planet Drakel’a
Stardate 2388.015

OPEN LOG

Ops like this can take any number of turns when you least expect them. This was one of those turns. The merchants in that blistery cold city started asking too many questions. A little "I've seen him" here, a little "yea, I know him" there. When you grab enough puzzle pieces pretty soon a picture emerges. The local authorities started closing in on my little hideaway. Time to go.

A few hours and a few clicks later it was time to call for a pickup. I only have one shot at getting off this cold, dark rock; its name is October. The transmitter is a one time use device. Set it off without a clear view of the sky, and I may as well hand myself over to them.

CLOSE LOG

Wyatt placed the small recorder in his front pocket. Talking to himself was the last thing he needed. Getting out of here was the first and he only had one shot. He picked up his walking cane laying next to his pack and pointed it skyward. He twisted the large knot along its side three times, causing the tip to glow. It continued to shine for another minute, then darkened. He believed hiding his call-home device in the cane was clever, but only if someone picked up.

After the transmitter finished he returned to the small fire he cobbled together an hour ago.

These temperatures made keeping it going a trial. More comforting than the small fire was his custom particle magnum, just the way he liked it. The barrel’s alloy dissipated heat, making it as cold as the night air. Placing the handle in his right hand, he sighted down the barrel. There was nothing or noone out there, fortunately for their sake.

He'd have to do a lot of looking around, especially in the darkness. He hated the dark, the cold, but feared the light. Now time hovered over him like a hunter stalking its prey. How long would it take the signal to bound off the micro-satellite and transmit to who knows where? If the transmission had to travel via subspace, it was fair to say anyone picking him up would be light years away, ten at best. The frost could be his friend for days.

"Great," he thought. None of this had to go down this way, but a month ago signs of his handler dried up and the locals started their going away party for him. But, no time for that now; surviving the next few days was his primary concern. He shivered, tiring of consciousness, a sign of hypothermia. Getting out of the city drained his reserves. The fire would warm him; his gun would protect him.

The temperature continued to dip throughout the night, but fortunately no wind carried his warmth away. The large brown coat he'd had for years covered him. Brown blended in; dirt was the same color everywhere. Even so, he shivered and shook as the cold tried to wake him. Anyhow, the next few days would come with little rest.

The glow of city lights dimmed as its residents slept in relative quiet and comfort. Hours passed. Frost formed on his hair and face. The two moons rose in the eastern sky over the distant mountainscape. Their light was nothing to read by, but allowed the brighter outlines of the rolling snow-filled plains to step out from the shadows.

“Both moons are visible tonight, Centaur,” said a voice close by. “As the moons show, the time is close for Hunting and Harvest, and you are ill prepared.”

In one swift movement he drew his sidearm and rolled down the hill be had perched upon. His reflex action aimed the pistol toward the voice.

"I know you're there and this thing is pointed right at you," he shouted into the dark. "State your business," he demanded, keeping his weapon drawn. He looked side to side to check for others, as no one would come out here alone.

A tall, lean image dressed in black emerged from the shadows, hands raised, fingers spread in submission. “I am a hunter, looking for someone to join in the harvest. I understand you are available.” From the voice, it must have been a female, but it was difficult to tell.

It took him a few moments to review what she'd said. "Centaur you say? There may be a bull willing to pull the yoke and till the fields." He remained still, listening for footfalls in the snow, a crack of a twig. Anything. "When is this harvest?"

“It comes in the tenth month, every year.”

Wyatt rose from his prone position, keeping his sight squarely upon the face of this potential ally. He was a few meters away, but the hill proved steep. They had the advantage. He again checked his surroundings with great care as he kept this weapon trained. No one else appeared to be around. This person was alone.

"That's the ideal time for a harvest." He twisted the gun about the barrel slightly, waiting for someone else to make even the slightest sound.

“I am alone, and unarmed.” Her hands immediately clasped over her head.

He lowered his weapon, but kept it out of the holster and considered her for a moment. Bajoran. He didn't know many, but the few he did know were often a determined lot. "I was not expecting anyone for days. I presume you got my message?"

“I did. And I have my ship, if you will permit me?” One hand motioned to her belt, where a small device known as a Beckon hung, used to remotely summon a small craft. He nodded, she tapped, and Drakkor appeared, hovering silently as it rounded the hill and approached their position, stopping within easy walking distance.

"That's an interestingly small ship," he quipped. "Is that the ride away from here? Don't answer that, I just need away from Drakel’a."

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From the Depths of Perdition
Stardate 2388.017

With over a decade of fieldwork, Commander Cayne often found himself in tight situations, but not literal confined spaces of a fighter craft. Exceptions can be made. When one becomes the hunted and an angel plucks you out from danger, you don't protest. The Drakkor, with its sleek lines and agile controls, was an unexpected mode of departure and one he'd not complain about, at least out loud. One thing bugged him: the helmet. Was that really necessary? It felt tight, inclosing, but his rescuer insisted.

"So," he broke the silence, "Was it you that received my message?"

“Were you expecting someone else?” Chirakis posed a semi-rhetorical question, accompanied with a quizzical glance.

Wyatt grunted. "I was not expecting anyone. This is the ass-end of this sector, hardly worth the Federation's time in the grand scheme of the quadrant. Franky, I did not expect anyone for days." He adjusted in his seat. "Either the cold or the growing mob would find me first."

The mob that gathered in the city as he made his escape entered his mind. Had he been followed off-world? "The group of people following me out into those frosted plains has high connections on the planet. I presume we are not being followed?"

The pilot’s cautious skepticism was visible through the helmet’s clear visor. “If we are being followed, then someone needs to check the viability of Drakkor’s stealth systems. We are quite safe, I assure you. We would know instantly if we were being followed.”

"That's more reassuring than this food bar. What's in this stuff?"

“Everything you need to survive. I find it’s best not to go beyond that thought, and I suggest you do not read the list of ingredients.”

Another grunt. "That explains it," he sighed as he looked out to the stars passing at warp.

“I imagine that after starving for a few days you would appreciate anything, Commander,” she said, returning her attention to the primary flight display.

He smiled, out of her view of course. "I'm a constant complainer, one of my many charms.”

“Really?” the pilot quipped. “I hardly noticed.” Then she pulled the fighter suddenly into a sharp dive, rolled, then swerved at a 45° angle, straining the IDF enough to call attention to the seat’s extra padding.

"Hey, what gives?" If she wanted to keep him awake turns like that would do it.

“A precaution,” she replied. Though her head was turned, Cayne was sure he saw a grin spread across her face. "It was a random, abrupt course change,” she continued, barely hiding a chuckle, “one of many we will make in the next few hours. And since we have several more hours of travel,” relaxing into her seat, she turned toward him. The smirk was gone. “Chirakis Kirel, SI-5,” she said in greeting.

Her name did not register, but his face did not show it. "Alright," he acknowledged with a nod. "Wyatt, Wyatt Cayne, SI-6." He took a moment, through his smile, to pour over his memories of the rare other agents he heard about. This "Chirakis" was not one of them. He knew from her expression she knew more of him. For now this interaction seemed no more than a rescue by a friendly. If this was an agent from that planet, he indeed had been very well played.

“Tell me how you came to be on Drakel’a.”

"A series of unfortunate events in Starfleet Intelligence's scheduling." He sighed and looked into the distance. "As to why I'm here, sadly the usual, bad people causing trouble for Federation interests in this system. They send me to look, dig a little deeper than what appears on the surface. Well, that was the plan anyhow." He yawned as sleep escaped him while on the run on that icy planet. Here, sitting in the Drakkor, the heat provided a pleasant respite from the cold. Though he had yet to be debriefed, the pressure was largely off his shoulders. His body relaxed and for a moment he wondered if there was something in the air.

* * * * * * *

Cayne’s hand went limp, his head lolling forward, pressing his face awkwardly against the helmet’s visor seal. The remnants of his energy bar clung to his outstretched fingers. Kirel tossed it into the recycle bin, then set the seat’s position controls to recline into what the computer determined to be the optimal sleep position for his height, weight, and body type. She closed, sealed, and darkened his visor, then engaged intercom communications in preparation for landing. It would be several more hours, but she doubted he would even stir.

Though his identification was positive, the man in Drakkor’s second seat was a shadow of the Commander Wyatt Cayne whose dossier she had open before her. His record showed a human in his 40’s, 180 Terran pounds, slightly-graying sandy brown hair, and medium build. In contrast, the man sleeping next to her registered 152 pounds, and his build was more slight than medium. Ten months of stress and isolation in stark, unstable conditions had definitely taken its toll.

Listed as a Tier-1 agent, the words “energetic, capable, quick-witted,” and any number of other descriptors appeared frequently in his reviews. Only one CO had a negative comment, strangely scribbled in pen across a page. “Cayne is reckless, he bends the Prime Directive to achieve his goal, and is easily frustrated….” Either his captain had something against him or the captain had lost all sensibility. Possibly both. The full context of the official report read, “...is easily frustrated when pulled off a mission,” which was commonplace among agents.

His next commanding officer painted a very different picture: “Cayne is cautious, he is slow to form close relationships and prefers to work alone, though he will not refuse a team assignment if necessary. Recommended for the Distinguished Service Medal with V device for bravery in action, rescuing and defending the wounded against an overwhelming force in Operation Ganymede. Awarded Stardate 2384.320.”

What had become known as The Circle" (for lack of a better term) had tapped Cayne for inclusion, and they expected her to give an evaluation. But how could she, with only his record and a little over a day’s travel in Drakkor? The answer, of course, was that she could not.

A soft ping drew her attention to the master display. They were nearing ASTech’s facility, close to Ferengi space and active shipping lanes. The fighter changed vector automatically for a more indirect approach. Kirel put the PADD aside and took manual control of the fighter.

Because Drakkor was registered as one of ASTech’s many experimental craft, she contacted their Command and Control for entry, just as any other experimental craft would after a test run. Within the hour, Drakkor settled into the ASTech bay, and after a few minutes of scan and verification, a section of the floor lowered the ship into Rendezvous October.

“Commander,” she said, squeezing his shoulder to wake him. “Remove your helmet, stand, and state your name, rank, and posting.”

"Say what?" Quickly he got up, shook himself awake, and fumbled for the helmet release.

“State your name, rank, and posting,” she repeated.

"Wyatt Cayne, Commander, Starfleet Intelligence Division Six," he stated, a bit unsure of his spacelegs.

Identity verified, Captain,” said a voice via intercom. “Welcome aboard, Commander Cayne.”

“Thank you, Chief. Commander,” she turned toward him with the routine question, “do you need assistance, or are you able to move on your own?”

He put his arms out to steady himself. "No thanks, I'll be fine. I've just been on the ground for too long."

“Of course,” the captain replied. “Until you are fully familiar with the facility and its protocols, Lieutenant Marten will escort you.” She gestured toward a young man who stood on a stairway ladder to Cayne’s right.

“Welcome aboard, Commander,” said Marten. “The first stop is medical, then billeting. Come with me, sir, and we’ll get you settled in.”

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No Rest for the Weary

 

“Commander,” Vice Admiral Baldwin rose from his desk to take Cayne’s hand in a firm grip, then wave him into a chair before settling behind his desk. “How are you doing? Getting settled in?”

"Fine. The walls feel constrictive after all that open planet air," he quipped. "Can't say I miss the frigid conditions." He smiled and pressed his fingertips together. "Normal is just a matter of time."

Baldwin’s expression was relaxed and congenial as he nodded. He looked fairly young to Cayne, close to his own age, minus the graying hair. And he was pretty laid back, like he’d been around the block a few times. The others he’d met here seemed more preoccupied and distant. Some of them huddled in small groups, like they were paranoid. Cayne preferred to be cautious. Paranoia can get away from you and take your mind off the operation; that was the last thing they needed.

“I know Lieutenant Marten filled you in, and by now you have a pretty good idea why we’re here,” the admiral began, referring to their facility, “so I’m going to dispense with all that and cut to the chase, tell you why we’ve included you in our little circle.” He didn’t seem too pleased about calling it that, but he moved on.

“Of course I have everything you’ve ever done right here,” he continued, “right down to what kind of baby food you ate,” a finger tapped the PADD on his desk and he gave a dismissive shrug, “but I want you to tell me why you chose this line of work and what you believe you can contribute to our mission.”

"If you have everything about me surely you know why I do this, but since you asked," Wyatt got up out of his seat then sat down again. "Truth be told? I like the work. Not staying in one place, having a tiny hand in shaping larger concerns. I believe in the Federation, but you can't keep the high ideals without using lower ones to maintain them." He looked around the room a bit. "Frankly, I'm unsure how my last mission helped anyone. Surely not the handler."

Baldwin leaned forward to rest his hands on the desk and study him a minute. “It helped,” he said quietly, and with a tinge of regret. “Probably more than you’ll ever know. Think you got the short end of the stick?”

Wyatt grunted. "Yes I do, sir. My escape was nearly a frozen slumber out in their wastelands. Next time consider sending more people out there or a means of my own departure." He was frustrated. He was tired.

“And if there isn’t anybody else to send out? If you’re left on your own, to fend for yourself again?” the admiral pressed.

Cayne pressed his fingertips together as he leaned back. "I dig in and survive. Like I always have, so if you are sending me out again, I'll need backup."

“Fair enough.” The admiral’s nod was somewhat conciliatory as he shifted back a bit. “Here’s the deal, Commander. I can’t promise you won’t be left alone, and I can’t promise you’ll have backup all the time. That’s not what we’re about when we go out on a mission. It’s always about survival, and, so far, you’ve shown yourself to be a survivor.”

A few considering taps on his desk, and Baldwin met Cayne’s gaze straight on. “We need someone with your skill set to fly second seat for a reconnaissance mission. It could be a short mission, but there’s a good chance it could take up to a month or two. You’ll be gathering data, filtering it, and directing the mission for your pilot. It’s not supposed to be dangerous, but you know what they say about routine missions--there’s no such thing. Think you’re up to it?”

"Second seat? So I'm someone else's backup?"

“Second seat in name only, Commander. You occupy the second seat, but you will be team leader. You need transportation, and for that you need a pilot because we’re not about to let you fly any craft without having pair of wings pinned to your chest.” He was dead serious. “One other thing. Your pilot is a superior officer. Are you going to have a problem giving directions to a superior officer?”

"No, just as long as they know that from the get-go. It's not like I have many places to go. So who outranks me and is my flyer?"

“I believe you’ve already met. Captain Chirakis of SI-5. Her fighter has a few more bells and whistles than most of the others here. She’ll fill you in.”

"Ah yes, the one that likes to pull a hard bank and not warn the old man. She'll do. I owe her for the withdrawal at any rate."

Unsuccessfully suppressing a grin, the admiral nodded. “Good. Mission brief is in 30 minutes, sublevel 7, room 0702. I hear you’ve already made a trip to the quartermaster, so bring your seabag. If there’s anything else you need, let Ltn Marten know and he’ll bring it to you. Do you have any questions, Commander?”

"No, but I'm sure the briefing will provide more questions than answers."

“If that’s the case, just blurt them out and the mission commander, SubCommander t’Aldani, will answer. If she doesn’t know, she’ll find someone who does.” Baldwin stood, rounding his desk. “Welcome aboard, Commander, and good hunting.”

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October Rain

The conflict dubbed Argesil was slowly and methodically unraveling personal and governmental alliances within the Allied Powers, tearing them apart at the seams and creating a void which could serve as a channel for takeover by any external force. Recently, the possibility of an external force had become more evident.

During the mission briefing for October Rain, Mission Commander Riov Ja’lan t’Aldani of the Tal Shiar had emphasized that a power vacuum did exist, but at this juncture our focus would be elsewhere, investigating signs of that external force.

Since the sighting of the USS Vladivostok in a nebula on the edge of Allied space, strangely configured alien starships have been reported in various areas of the quadrant, especially in and around nebulae. Several fighters and other small craft have been deployed from Rendezvous October, tasked with investigating the reports.

As part of that mission, Drakkor was deployed to a sector not far from Aegis, where a freighter had detected a strange ship slipping through the edge of a nebula. The strange ship’s presence created such a stir that its fuzzy image went viral throughout the quadrant. Drakkor, piloted by Chirakis and directed by her newly-acquired associate, Wyatt Cayne, was to find and observe, determine its purpose, and possibly discover another piece to the ever-growing puzzle.

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Things Seen and Unseen

~Cayne and Chirakis

 

Several fighters and other small craft had been deployed from Rendezvous October, tasked with investigating reports of alien ships moving through the quadrant. Not far from Aegis, a strange ship that slipped through the edge of a nebula created a media frenzy. Soon after that, Drakkor, piloted by Chirakis and under the direction of her newly-acquired associate, Cdr Wyatt Cayne, was sent to find the freighter, observe it, determine its purpose, and possibly discover another piece to the ever-growing puzzle. After several cargo stops along the way, their quarry landed on a small, nondescript and tectonically unstable planet not far from Aegis. As Drakkor hung in orbit, their reconnaissance seemed routine until they detected a threat other than their freighter.

 

Drakkor’s advanced sensor package revealed a cloaked ship lurking in high orbit at station keeping. It didn’t seem to be doing anything peculiar except sitting there, but the question of why there would be a cloaked ship in a nebula far from anything of particular interest was puzzling. Furthermore, Drakkor was a stealth vessel and not cloak-cable. As a precaution, the captain killed every detectable system, putting them dead in space while they waited for the cloaked ship to make its move or reveal its purpose.

 

“The ship has a general Romulan signature, and some Federation-like readings,” said Cayne, somewhat puzzled.

 

“I’m intercepting a transmission from the surface,” Chirakis added, pulling its message onto her monitor.

 

Status Normal. 1/2 rotation to next check in.

 

The captain relaxed and smiled. The message had an embedded distinctive signature that pointed to only one vessel: Aegean, an intricate blend of Joint Allied Powers’ premiere technologies.

 

Built at the Aegis Shipyard under the watchful expertise of SubCommander Tylus Petrinius Jorahl, Aegean was more Romulan than Federation, and arguably the most formidable hybrid starship in the quadrant. SubCommander Jorahl’s reverse engineering skills had earned him the title “Reaper” within Starfleet Intelligence circles. Having been given free rein in her construction, he had made Aegean a masterpiece of technology. Chirakis had no doubt that Aegean would eventually detect, and probably identify Drakkor, if they had not already.

 

“Secure from the cloaked ship; move in sync with the freighter,” she spoke evenly into her com, and in obedience the fighter drifted slowly and silently from its present position to settle some distance away, in synchronous orbit with the freighter they had been tracking through the nebula.

 

"Who do you think these people are?" Wyatt asked as he peered at his display, building a mental picture of any soft points. So much of the ship moved with automation he wondered if the onboard computer would answer first.

 

“I know who they are,” Chirakis replied casually. “We have nothing to fear. They probably have detected us, but we must not show any signs of having detected them, and we cannot interfere with them in any way. Their presence here is important.”

 

"And the freighter? I'm guessing they are not nearly as advanced?" He shook his head. "I feel like I'm just getting my space legs again." So many more missions on-world rather than off. As open as space was it always seemed claustrophobic since most ship walls were mere meters away. Space remained largely just the void on the other side of a pane of transparent aluminum.

 

“Is the freighter advanced?” said Chirakis. “That’s why we are here. So far it has registered as totally alien, and as far as its technology, all we know is what you have gathered, so...” she gestured in his direction, “...what do you have?”

 

The sensors displayed a rather raw view of the freighter from which Wyatt would have to parse. "Let me see here. Warp drive, ahh, probably about warp eight or so, forward and aft torpedoes, decent sublight maneuverability. One thing interesting is the hull color." He chuckled that a ship's color was coming up in conversation. "We like gray, Klingons and Romulans like dark greens, but this one is unique to me."

 

The captain watched him tinker, curious but unimpressed. “And color has significance?”

 

"Well, some factions paint theirs, but it also gives a clue to the composition of the alloy they employ. Let me run this by the computer." Given this was a small vessel the core could take a while loo- "Oh, it's done." He studied the results. "This can't be right, can it? An old chestnut from the Dominion War. Their method of constructing the alloy bears striking similarities to our departed friends, the Breen, but this ship looks nothing like those ships except for the hull color."

 

“An old chestnut,” Chirakis replied wryly, giving him a look. “Some would say that Drakkor is an old chestnut. She may appear old on the outside, but she is quite advanced on the inside.” The captain’s hand swept around the fighter’s pristine interior. “It’s entirely possible that other species borrowed from the Breen, or the Breen borrowed… or took… from someone else, just as we..,” she gave a minimal shrug, “...borrow from other species.”

 

"Well, the photon torpedo came from the Klingons, so sure."

 

“Is there anything else, Commander?”

 

He shook his head. "A large cargo space, but you'd expect that. Honestly there are so many things cobbled together I'm surprised the hull composition stood out." He raised a brow and turned towards her. "I'll study the data as we persue."

 

“And I will sit and watch.”

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Yes. About that…
A Cayne and Chirakis Log

Time passes slowly when you’re waiting for something to happen. It passes even more slowly if you are sitting in orbit and you have to watch that ‘something’ constantly while it is doing absolutely nothing. Terrans would compare it to watching grass grow, but in the case of Commander Cayne and Captain Chirakis aboard Drakkor, grass would grow more quickly than the freighter they were following would move, because its crew had apparently decided to take a vacation.

“Commander,” Chirakis began wearily, “since we will be here for a while, perhaps I should acquaint you with this vessel—if you are up to it?” She raised a questioning brow.

"Sure. Like you said," he smirked. "We have time to burn."

The captain removed her helmet, set it in its cradle, and retrieved a PADD from a forward compartment, handing it to Cayne.

“Your biosigns and voice print are already entered into the system, so everything in this craft is accessible to you. Familiarize yourself with all its functions immediately, especially the basic controls and the weapons system.”

What followed was a text-book recitation similar to what is often called Death by Powerpoint, minus the Powerpoint.

“Drakkor is a highly advanced stealth vehicle with an EMP suppressor system and other systems that keep it secure,” she began, pointing casually along the consoles as she spoke. “All systems have triple redundancy. The ship can function completely by voice command. If anything happens to me, the computer will know immediately and command will automatically transfer to you.

“Your flight suit is infused with biosensors that record and/or transmit your biosigns to the computer. It is fully EVA capable, enabling you to survive for approximately three hours. Alert your partner and depressurize the cabin before opening the hatch. Your helmet will alert you if it is not properly seated, but always check it anyway.

“Your helmet can be configured to completely block out cockpit activity, effectively rendering you either blind or able to sleep. It has a Heads Up Display that can be engaged by voice command or by pressing the helmet’s side firmly with either index finger. The HUD will furnish you mission data and has the full capability of the tactical and operations consoles of a starship. On command, it will read the biosigns of your partner, in case of emergency.

“The pilot has the capability of rendering the second seat’s helmet blind. If I am compromised, the AI will allow you to remove my helmet and put it on so you have security access and codes. Otherwise, you will not be able to safely find or approach a covert base such as Rendezvous October.

“Last, but most important,” her expression relaxed as she nodded in his direction, “the dials on your left armrest change the configuration of the chair from tactical mode, to normal cruising mode, or to sleeping mode.”

"So it tell makes coffee right? Because that's the most important part as far as I'm concerned." He let his bit of humor hang in the cabin air, but Chirakis didn’t seem impressed. A moment passed before he shook his head.

"So what happened to cruise around in regular attire like most in Starfleet? I mean no disrespect, but this seems a step back for many officers." Wyatt was so used to what most officers experienced while in a shuttle: just wear your uniform and go. The ship would provide your environment and protection from severe forces that would splatter your remains fore or aft.

“This is not a cruise ship, Commander, it is a highly advanced stealth fighter. ‘Cruising around’ would be a waste of the vessel’s capabilities and a misuse of Starfleet property.”

The readouts had not changed over the course of several hours. This was driving him to boredom. He smiled. "I guess this ship can do some things other's can't do if they rely on maintaining the comfort of its crew. That maneuver to wake me up was only a taste I bet." He zoomed in on his findings as the captain watched. "I've detected irregularities around alien ship's defense grid. It's a strong field, but inconsistent. I'll give this information to the Drakkor's offensive system." He cleared his throat. Chirakis nodded.

"So, do you want me to try this bird out? I'll be the first to admit it's been a few years." He exhaled slowly. It was not often he'd admit to inability. Chirakis was far too stern and the mission far too important to leave that little detail out.

“You may test the HUD, your chair, and other nonessential systems, Commander. Beyond that will have to wait in deference to the mission. There will come a time when you can ‘try this bird out.’ Then you can have fun.” Did she wink? He wasn’t sure, but it looked like a wink.

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No Reason

 

Breath came at a premium for Captain James Belton. Several broken ribs—one angled dangerously close to his left lung—hampered his breathing, abrasions swelled his face and neck, and bruises covered most of his body. But he was still alive—which is more than he could say for—how many of Vladivostok’s crew? He pushed the thought away. He had to focus on the future, absorb as much of his surroundings as possible, watch their captors, glean what he could from their language, movement, and mannerisms, and use that to survive and plan an escape.

The sudden awareness of a warm body brought him out of his thoughts. “Here, Jim,” a deep voice said softly, “we got the mylar blankets. They’ll warm you up.”

Only then did he realize he was shivering uncontrollably from the heavy dampness of the cave and the icy water dripping along the walls, running in rivulets through its tiny cracks. Aboard ship, he had almost cursed their uniform material, but now that it was keeping him from pneumonia in this hellacious atmosphere, he had changed his mind.

Two strong arms lifted him gently to a sitting position against the granite wall, wrapped the blanket around him, then carefully lifted his chin and peered into his eyes. “You’re doing okay, Jim,” he said, easing the captain’s chin back into its original position, then settling down next to him to pull a blanket around himself. Commander Alex Worley, Vladivostok’s executive officer, had been the crew’s encouragement through all this. “We’ll be outta here soon. She’ll send someone. We’ll be fine.”

“Logan?” Belton asked, confused.

“She got away,” Worley spoke quietly into Belton’s ear. “She stole one of their ships. She took the data crystal.”

“She took it to…”

“She took it,” Worley interrupted. “She’s good. We’ll be outta here soon.”

The clank of metal on granite echoed from above, and soon several guards, accompanied by what looked like servants, passed among the crew, doling out a soup that looked and smelled suspiciously like the half digested innards of some hapless invertebrate that was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Belton wanted to retch, but Worley pressed the cup to his lips before he had a chance. “Easy,” said Worley, “a few sips at a time. It’ll help keep your strength up. You’ll feel better.”

 

* * * * *

 

As soon as the captain dropped off to sleep, Worley waved a crewman over to take his place. The captain was in serious condition, but there were others who needed his attention. As a science vessel, most of Vladivostok’s crew were doctors and scientists, but their medical supplies were almost nonexistent; they made do with whatever they could scrounge from emergency kits.

Since their capture, Worley had wondered about this cavern—why it was so symmetrical, the walls so smooth, and why it seemed to lead nowhere but from the surface to a few hundred meters below. As he wandered through, he watched, listened, and encouraged the crew to stay as positive as possible in this hell hole. The remains of those who had died in the takeover of Vladivostok had been carefully laid out close to the snow-covered planet’s surface. The aliens didn’t seem to care, as long as everyone was compliant. There were no interrogations; there was no intimidation. Worley stood at the entrance, watching the snow swirl in soft eddies around the bodies, blanketing them in their sleep.

“Maddie,” he whispered across the void, “tell me you made it. Please, tell me you made it to Aegis.”

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Seek and Hide
Cptn Jerit d’Ka

 

Lt Col Victor Anastis focused on the observation monitor in USS Missouri’s Special Operations holodeck, following the progress of his reconnaissance team as they navigated a starship boarding program. Standing next to him, Cdr Mark Grigori watched his extraction team expertly slip toward a target deep within the same starship. Using body language and quick, clear hand signals, both teams maneuvered silently toward their goals.

USS Missouri had been tracking an alien ship as it slipped just as silently through a nebula, then stopped just shy of Aegis space. As the Joint Special Operations element attached to USS Missouri, the two officers' duty was to prepare for anything—including boarding that ship. As they watched, they realized that what they were doing now would probably be useless in a few minutes because they lacked basic information.

The alien ship was essentially unreadable, which meant that they had no intelligence on the internal specifications of the ship. Their training programs were no more than educated guesses, pieced together from external observation. With that in mind, the program constantly changed to reflect updates from the ship’s tactical assessment team that focused on targeting the most likely location of strategic areas: bridge, weapons control, engineering, and communications—not necessarily in that order. Still, if the teams came out with nothing else, they gained a lot of training in rapidly shifting scenarios.

“Okay,” mused Anastis, his gaze dropping from the team progress monitor to the latest report from Missouri’s engineers. “I’m going with their suggestion to push the engineering section farther forward, amidships.” He gestured at the on-screen diagram. “It’s not common, but we’re not dealing with ‘common’ anymore. There’re signs of exhaust here...” his laser pointer circled an area, “...intake here. And the way they’re maneuvering, I’d say we should go with that.”

“Um.” Gregori pursed his lips to chew on that while he watched one team approach the alien bridge and take a knee. “All teams, hold position,” he said over the team com, then turned to Anastis. “Okay, but I’m still not good with the communications area, especially if we move engineering there. What’s your take?”

“Operations says that most of the signals they’ve picked up originate here,” again the laser, “making it their transmission site, not necessarily the point of origin. But if we take that out, we still have a leg up. Let’s move the bridge here.” A finger flick relocated the bridge. “That actually makes sense. We'll put the com area here, engineering control here...” he dropped them in, “...and leave weapons where it is.”

Grigori thought for a moment, then nodded. “Reconfigure the bulkheads, ingress, egress, alarms, and security, and we’ll go with it. While you’re at it, throw in a few booby traps.”

Anastis reset the program. Grigori engaged the com. “All teams, fall back to infil. Expect a reconfiguration. Report ready and stand by.”

 

* * * * *

Though USS Missouri’s stop at Aegis was brief, Captain d’Ka’s meeting with Lt Cdr Pavilion, Officer in Command, not only gave him the opportunity to calm her nerves, it gave him the opportunity to watch her work and sense her ease with command. He had no doubt she was capable; his only concern was her confidence.

“Commander Lei’ri, take us out,” he said, striding smoothly from Missouri’s command lift onto the bridge. Has there been any change in the alien’s position?”

“No, Captain; they’re still holding,” Lei’ri replied.

“Very well. As soon as we are clear of Aegis, take a standard vector toward Valaria. Prepare for a course change beyond the nebula to reestablish our watch position.”

“Mr. Doland,” Lei’ri said to the helmsman, “you know the drill.”

After a crisp, “Aye, sir,” docking disengaged, station tenders backed off, and the Akira Class Battlecruiser eased away from Aegis, pivoted, and entered the standard corridor for departure, making it appear that it was resuming sector patrol.

“Lt Cdr Pavilion is doing well, Captain?” said Lei’ri, as concerned about her as d’Ka.

“Yes, ‘Ri,” he replied, settling into the command chair. “She knows that the Toronto will stay in the area, and that Iowa will arrive soon. She was glad to know that we were close, and monitoring the ship. She can definitely hold her own.” A satisfied nod to the Qr’var executive officer, and he moved on, tapping a small device on his belt. “My priority alert went off while on station.”

“Yes, Captain,” Lei’ri replied. “It was not flagged, so I ordered it to your console.”

Nodding, d’Ka pulled it close and scanned through, but within seconds he stopped abruptly and blanked the screen.

“Commander, the conference room, now. Mr. Tan,” d’Ka stood, speaking to the operations officer, “call Colonel Anastis and Commander Grigori to the conference room immediately. Mr. Doland, wait for my order on the course change. Mr. Tan, you have the conn.”

A series of “Aye, sir,” followed the officers as they left the bridge, the door to the conference room closing swiftly behind them.

“They have found the crew of USS Vladivostok,” d’Ka began as he rounded the conference table and tapped its top to engage the wall screen. Lei’ri’s expression lit up; he joined d’Ka at the screen, arms crossed to listen. “One of their crew escaped and delivered a datacrystal to Rendezvous October.”

“October?” Lei’ri raised a brow. “Who on Vladivostok has October clearance?”

“No one,” d’Ka replied. “According to the report, Captain Belton gave the crystal to their operations officer, Lieutenant Madelyn Logan. She stole an alien craft, entered the coordinates the captain gave her, and left, not knowing where she was going or what was on the crystal. She was bound for Sky Harbor Aegis when her vessel lost all power, and…” he paused to consider the next few words, “...was rescued by Captain Chirakis, who was flying in the opposite direction.”

Lei’ri’s arms dropped to his sides as he regarded his commanding officer. “Captain,” he began, eyes slightly narrowed, “what are the odds that Captain Chirakis would be in the exact same area of space at the exact same time?”

A slight knowing smile broke into the Sindar’s expression. “You are my ever-vigilant watchdog, ‘Ri—as well you should be. I did not break the Sindar code, I just… bent it a little. It’s wasn’t exactly a connection; it was more of a nudge, and I am fully aware of the consequences.”

“Colonel, Commander.” D’Ka and Lei’ri turned to the opening conference room door. “Join us. We are going to put aside our boarding plans for the moment; we have an urgent mission.”

The captain’s swipe along the tabletop opened several screens to show a remote area of space, images of several spacecraft, small and large, some in flight and some berthed, and a closeup of a species no one recognized, not even the computer.

“The crew of USS Vladivostok has been located on a remote nebular planetoid, here.” One screen zoomed in. "It is reported to be cold, but not uninhabitable, composed mostly of granite with little to no vegetation. We are presently en route to Valaria, but will change course within the hour and run silent at best speed for extraction.

"The aliens..." another screen took precedence, "...are believed to be humanoid. Head and face are always covered, reason unknown. We have no idea who they are, and nothing of their capabilities or purpose, but we do know what they are technologically advanced and hostile.

"Their ships..." images of various craft filled all screens, "...are similar to the one we have been watching. However, the presence of older Federation craft, Romulan warbirds, and customized small craft are noted here, and here. Where these images were taken is unknown, so we will expect at least some craft to be on planet unless we hear otherwise in the next few hours.

“Colonel Anastis, your Nightmares will conduct planetary reconnaissance. Commander Grigori, your Banshees will move in to rescue. The nebula is dense and will not allow transporter use, so it will be a shuttle recovery. Missouri’s Crusaders will provide cover. Missouri will stay within weapons range. Questions so far?"

The two officers studied the screens, then gave a collective, “No, sir.”

“Vladivostok’s crew numbered 128. Some are known to be dead, and some are severely injured. Pull all your medical personnel into the operation. Missouri’s medical will assist—from Peacekeepers if need be—but your teams should be prepared to carry the injured out. Get with your teams, formulate your plan, and coordinate with the squadron commander. Questions?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Grigori, manipulating the planetary screen. “Do we have any more information on the planet, itself? Gravity, tectonic stability?”

“What information we have on the planet and the crew’s exact location has been uploaded to your personal slates, but we will not rely on it. When we are in range, Cdr Stevenson in science will give us a more comprehensive assessment.”

“Armaments? Ships in orbit?” asked Anastis. “Do we know where these images came from?”

“In answer to your first, we know of no ships in orbit, but we will know when we arrive. As for the images, Vladivostok’s commanding officer, Captain Belton, furnished them.” Belton's image appeared onscreen. “They were in a file delivered by an escapee. Starfleet Intelligence has examined them and determined them to be genuine. As for armaments and orbital protection, we will learn more when we arrive.”

“How long have they been there, Captain?” Grigori’s frown deepened as he read through the information on his slate.

Vladivostok entered that nebula for exploration over three weeks ago. And no,” d’Ka interjected, anticipating his question, “we do not know if they are even alive, but until we have proof that they are dead, they are alive.”

After a few moments of checking the screen and referring to their slates, the officers seemed satisfied.

“ETA to the planetoid is five hours. You will be informed as soon as updates arrive. If there is nothing else, carry on.”

A few minutes after the officers left found the Sindar captain and his Qr’var first officer staring at the closed conference room door. They remained there for several minutes more. Finally, Lei’ri broke the silence.

Are they alive, Captain?”

“Yes, ‘Ri,” he replied, his eyes a deep purple. “They are. But they may not be for long.”

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The Long Goodbye
Cdr Alex Worley
Executive Officer, USS Vladivostok

“I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars.”

― Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

 

Twilight melted into darkness as Cresta Sanchez watched the makeshift honor guard lay her husband next to the nine others who had died since the crew’s capture. When they withdrew, she knelt beside his body, but the tears that should have come did not. Frail as well as grief-stricken, she was wasting from a strange disease that threatened to run rampant through the crew unless Dr. Gardiner could stop it.

After a few minutes, Commander Worley gently squeezed her shoulders, then helped her to a stand and led her back into the comparative warmth of the cave, away from her husband. The planetary sub-zero cold, made more bitter with sunset, would keep his body intact until they were all rescued. Then he would receive the burial he deserved. They would drape his coffin with a Federation flag, render him full honors, and lay him to rest, at home.

Leave no one behind.
Put your tears in a box.
Lock them away.
Turn your grief to anger and determination.
Survive.

As soon as Worley had her settled, he returned to their temporary morgue, just shy of the cave’s entrance, where he could gaze across the wasteland, as barren and frozen as they were in time. His jaw set, he stared at the stars with a childlike hope, the belief that if he watched, if he thought hard enough and waited long enough, someone would come. Then, half believing that his thought was folly, he would remember the young operations officer, Maddie Logan, who risked her life to save theirs, daring to believe she could escape and go for help.

She made it, he told himself, beating back the doubt. He would not lose hope. They could take everything from him, even his life, but he would never lose hope.

“Commander?”

“Yes, Salak?” Worley half turned toward the astrophysicist.

“Captain Belton wishes to see you.”

Within the Vulcan’s stoic expression there was an alarming hint of sorrow, making Worley turn and dash down the slippery rock floor, stumbling a few times until he rounded the corner to the warmer area where most of the crew huddled. Jim Belton lay propped up with several blankets wrapped tightly around him, his face like wax, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his lips blue, and parted for nothing more than shallow breaths. Stacey Gardiner, ship’s doctor, knelt next to him, watching his vital signs fade.

Catching his breath, he dropped down next to her as she shook her head. “He has the disease,” she whispered in his direction. “I don’t know what to do beyond holding his hand. His injuries…” she left off, swallowing a deep emotion he knew all too well. “One at a time, I could deal with it…,” she continued, pleading, “but his injuries…. He’s just too weak, Al. He’s just....”

“It’s okay, Stace,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “I’ll take it from here.”

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Shifting Priorities
Cayne & Chirakis

 

The catchphrase for any mission that deviates from its original objective is mission creep. The phrase was despised, but its truth remained. Every mission is variable, changeable, shifting, irregular, and fluid. Like a beached carp, it can flop 180° in less than a heartbeat, and could easily cause that heartbeat to cease.

Commander Cayne and Captain Chirakis, along with several other craft, left Rendezvous October with orders to find, follow, and gather information about the alien craft that were using nebulae to slip through Allied space. It seemed simple enough, especially for Drakkor. Beneath its stealth-coated Peregrine hull, the captain’s personal craft was one of the most technologically sophisticated fighters in the fleet, so it was not long before they found an alien freighter, followed it, observed it, recorded as much information as they could, and watched it land—strangely enough—on the very same planet that Aegis’ advanced hybrid starship, Aegean, was orbiting, cloaked, apparently on a mission of its own.

It was all downhill from there.

Chirakis drummed her fingers on the armrest. “I do not like this,” she said absently, for lack of anything else to say, perhaps just to break the silence, to break the endless string of roiling thoughts that would explode if she said nothing.

"You mean these long missions with little more than watching from afar?" Wyatt said without raising his head a centimeter. "Most of my past missions involved waiting for the right moment, but more importantly, recognizing it." He appeared to be waiting for that moment.

“Watching from afar,” she replied flatly, staring through the canopy in the direction of the cloaked Aegean. “It is not the watching that disturbs me, Commander. Unfortunately, several years on a space station have taken its toll on my patience and whittled away at what used to be instinct for this line of work, and the variables that have crept into this mission are what is disturbing.” She glanced in his direction. “So tell me, Commander, when is the right moment? What are you looking for?”

"Pieces are falling into place, Captain, and quickly." He scrolled through scans taken moments ago and brought up signatures from the brief burst of energy. Brief, but significant. "That energy burst we detected earlier emerged from subspace, several layers deep. Enough for a single quantum resolution pattern." He stared a moment, wishing he'd paid more attention in subspace mechanics class. "At least this computer thinks so."

After a few moments of consideration, she said, “Assume I have no idea what that means.”

"That burst could carry enough information to transport a person if needed. Just one person." He cleared his throat. "You can't go lower than that for a life form, otherwise you are just making a very bad copy. I'm guessing someone got beamed off that ship of yours, but to where I don't know." Wyatt tapped the display in frustration, as if it responded to anger. Did it?

“What kind of device could remain undetected while targeting a life form, then beaming it through a cloak?”

"Nothing Starfleet uses that I know of," he answered, shaking his head. "There are non matter-stream methods of instantaneous travel, but most are far too dangerous or unpredictable." The Commander rubbed his temples to clear his mind. "Whenever I think of cloaks, I think of Romulans, but nothing about this fits their M.O."

“A non matter-stream method,” she mused aloud, then turned to face him. “What exactly would that be?”

"Hmm, could be a temporal vortex of sorts, more like a pocket wormhole that would not destroy living matter due to gravitational forces. Nah, that's too complicated no matter how advanced." He raised one brow quite high. "Perhaps a dimensional fold, but instead of crushing you it would be an inaccurate transfer, over time killing you at the DNA level. I'd hate to be the person transported in either case. Please tell me you have something to add."

“So, a temporal vortex would be too complicated, no matter how advanced,” the captain replied with a note of irony. “What if I were to tell you that such a thing does exist, Commander, and that it has been used in conjunction with a DNA signature, though we are not certain exactly how that factored in, but it could have been a combination of both.” She sighed.

Wyatt turned to her in disbelief. "Who in the heck would use both technologies? Open the temporal, then avoid the gravity with the dimensional shift. That's crazy. That person is likely in real danger."

“To answer your first question, it was the Breen, and they have not been seen for almost a year. Moreover, their colonies have mysteriously vanished. And I would agree that the person transported might be in real danger. So now the question is: where do we go from here?”

"Time for a grocery list," he sighed. "We have an alien craft that's resistant to scans and the computer can't make much from what we can gather, unless you want to take the Drakkor out of the dark. We need to tag this ship if it has that capability. More importantly, if they indeed beamed someone off a cloaked vessel, they can likely beam through shields with ease. Beam people away, beam boarding parties or… explosive devices." He gave this some thought, but only a moment. "I think it's time we change the mission profile upon review of this new information. This technology takes priority, Captain."

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Rage Against the Darkness
Cptn James Belton
USS Vladivostok

 

"Do not go gently into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

 

The rolling hills of New Zealand shone more vibrant than he remembered. The path was smoother, the grass more lush and full—if that were possible. The scent of new mown hay hung in the air, and hedgerow blossoms bowed, heavy with pollen and eager honey bees that darted to and fro, across the path he had wandered as a child. Herds grazed or basked in the late afternoon sun, soaking up the warmth of mid-summer, and he laughed. Here he was, making plans for the beach while the North American continent was suffering under one of the worst winters in recorded history. He shouldn't laugh, he told himself. Then he laughed again. This day, this place, was perfect. Almost too perfect.

In the distance, one long blast signaled the ferry’s last departure for the mainland. From the top of the hill, Jim Belton watched it pull noiselessly away from the dock toward open ocean, Dace Lingo at the helm, maneuvering it with the intricate skill of a master craftsman. It would be a short trip, just shy of an hour. Three related families had purposely chosen this island for their herds and crops. “Close enough for convenience and far enough away for privacy,” his father always said.

“Jimmy...."

His mother’s call drifted uphill on the breeze. It triggered a ravenous appetite, and he checked his chronograph, then remembered that homemade sausage, mashed potatoes with fresh churned butter, sliced deep red tomatoes still warm from the sun, and rich, dark coffee was waiting. Belton hopped the hedgerow then jogged downhill toward the main house, still amazed at his mother’s vigor and the carry of her voice, despite her age. His father was the same: strong, determined, hard-working, and openly opinionated as to how his farm, the island, the country, and the Federation should be run. They were a hearty people. Their ancestors had settled this island somewhere in the mid 19th century, and countless generations had inhabited the house, additions built as family size demanded, and pastures widened according to need.

“Tea’s ready,” said his mother as he bounded up the steps and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “I made your favorite for your homecoming. It is so good to have you home again, but c'mon now; we’ve waited long enough.”

"So've I, Mum," he sighed. "So've I."

Thankful that his arduous journey was finally over, Belton paused on the porch for a moment, then turned to watch the ferry disappear, and inhaled the crisp salt air. Only then did he notice dark clouds looming on the horizon. Coming from that direction at this time of year meant that it would not be an ordinary summer rain. In fact, it could be devastating.

Heavy, black clouds choked the setting sun, billowed into the stratosphere and took ominous aim at the island, rolling across the water with uncommon speed, churning the waves into a witch’s cauldron and spewing foam onto the shore well before the crests reached land. Mesmerized, Belton ignored his mother's plea to come in, his eyes fixed on the storm’s apocalyptic advance.

When he finally turned to lead her to safety, his hand smacked against a cold, dank wall, and the echo of a heavy drip… drip… drip came from somewhere behind him. His mother was gone, as was the house, the yard, the farm, and the roiling sea, replaced with a hell he barely remembered.

A residual slime clung to his hands as he fumbled and slipped through the darkness, feeling for an exit, or at least a handhold, fighting against confusion, disorientation, and panic. He had to go, to find her, to warn them, to get them to safety, but every effort to leave this hellacious place was rebuffed by a growing weakness in his limbs that grew as he fought it, finally sinking him to the frigid floor.

Then came the stench, and the putrid taste of death on his tongue, trickling down his throat and raging throughout his body until a surge of adrenaline opened his eyes and he stopped cold.

After several forceful blinks, his eyes focused on a strange creature kneeling beside him. One of its hands held his mouth closed, and the other stroked his head—much like a parent would a child—while it made a strange humming sound. A blanket swaddled his body, pinning his arms to his torso.

Belton swallowed, then struggled to retch in the realization that the putrid taste of death was real, coming from a mass of decayed vegetation the creature had stuffed into his mouth. His chest heaved as he choked, trying to breathe, until the creature tilted his head back to open the airway, just before he passed out.

Belton awoke… several hours later? He wasn’t sure; time didn’t seem to mean anything anymore. The creature was gone, along with whatever it had put into his mouth. But the taste was still there, like soaked dead-fall from a hundred year old forest floor where some animal had left its mark, long ago, and its droppings had made a sick infusion.

“Jim? You’re awake?” said a hesitant voice beside him.

Belton’s head lolled in that direction, but the darkness was nearly total. Still, he knew that voice… from somewhere, from another time, another place….

“Al?” Belton’s wide-eyed struggle ended as an emergency chemlight brightened the immediate area, lighting the face of his first officer, Alex Worley.

“Jim,” Worley breathed, still uncertain, and more than a little confused. “You’re alive!”

Belton stared a minute. “Yeah,” he said, “I think so.”

Then another face joined them, but it took Belton a minute to recognize Stacey Gardiner, Vladivostok’s chief physician.

“Captain!” she whispered in awe, her eyes darting from his to Worley’s and back. “What happened?”

“Happened?” Belton thought a moment. “I have no idea.”

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On The Fourth Day
USS Missouri
0100 hours, mission relative

 

Colonel Anastis and Commander Grigori flanked Captain d’Ka as a small, barren, ice-covered planet appeared on the forward viewscreen, hanging like a glistening gem against a backdrop of oblivion: an irreconcilable oxymoron. As planets go, it was on the low end of the spectrum, and perfect for a penal colony. That it was even found was puzzling, except for the abundance of heavy metals. But heavy metals abounded in other, more accessible and workable places, such as asteroids. Why this planet?

 “They haven’t done any mining,” mused the science officer with a shrug, “aside from one long tunnel where we’ve detected the life signs, there’s no evidence that they even explored.”

 “You are certain the crew is alive?” said d’Ka, pensive.

 “Not entirely, Captain. The mineral content is both blocking and creating echoes in our readings, which could falsify the results. But I would say there is a very good chance that they are alive.”

 “Temperature on the surface?”

“Negative thirty one degrees Celsius, estimated to drop another ten degrees within the operation window. The wind is presently at 25.7 kilometers from the north, holding steady, well within the tolerance of the team’s equipment.”

 A glance at his Special Operations officers for affirmation, and d’Ka nodded. “Very well. Colonel, Commander, the mission is yours,” he said returning to the command chair.

 Onscreen, two Starfleet Special Operations elements, sporting Arctic operations gear, left the safety of their runabouts and advanced in a moonless night against a cutting wind that whipped ice against their full-face visors and plastered their suits tight against their bodies as they leaned into it. Having landed in a secluded area well away from their objective, their projected ETA was well over an hour. Given the atmospheric conditions and disruption from the planet’s mineral content, they knew it could be much longer—possibly creeping into the range of two or three hours.

 Their objective was the crew of USS Vladivostok, an Oberth class science ship that had been hijacked during a routine nebula investigation. Several crew had been killed in the takeover, and the rest held captive by unknowns. No ransom had been demanded, the ship was in use elsewhere, and a number of questions beginning with the words “who” and “why” were still unanswered.

 One hour turned into two, and still the teams advanced, keeping constant contact with the ship for verification of their position. Temperatures continued to drop, but so did the wind, making progress easier. At approximately 0352, their objective came into view, and they stopped to regroup.

 

* * * * *

Commander Worley stepped wearily down the narrow path that had served the crew as a guide to their makeshift settlement within the cave. The nights on this planet were exceptionally long. When twilight came, they understood that three standard days would pass before dawn would break the horizon and the planet’s surface temperature would rise enough to survive outside the cave. Until then, they drew every blanket, emergency Mylar covering, and piece of clothing close, and huddled together in groups inside crude shelters made from rocks and the few packs they were allowed to bring from the ship. Then they slept, making the prolonged darkness easier to bear, and conserving what energy they had left. They had been gone almost ten days, and this was only their fourth night.

Commander Worley made periodic rounds, praying they wouldn’t lose any more to cold, starvation, or disease. Captain Belton and the others who had been treated by the aliens seemed to be recovering. Slowly. Doctor Stacey Gardiner’s hope that many of the crew would survive was tempered by their lack of nourishment, and that those who had been treated by the aliens would take a long time to heal from what they called “the disease.” But survival hinged largely on will, so she wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

 “Stace,” said Worley as he squeezed into a space next to her. “You holding up okay?”

 “Um…” she replied listlessly. “As much as anyone can under these conditions. What are they doing out there?”

 “Taking crates off their ship and piling them against the walls, making the outlet smaller. I think they finally got the idea that we’re cold.” His tone and smile came off as more sardonic than lighthearted, but those things didn’t seem to matter any more.

 “You don’t think they’re boxing us in?”

 “Oh, no. If they wanted to do that they’d use rocks, or maybe fuse the cave shut with… whatever those weapons are.”

 “Phasers? Disruptors?”

 Worley shrugged. “They don’t look like either. I think the name and nature’s up for grabs.” He hugged her close. “Warm enough?”

 “Warm as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

* * * * *

 

“Doghouse, this is Bulldog. In position, how copy?”

 “Copy, Bulldog,” Grigori replied to his unit commander, Lt Ed Lytle. “Copy is solid, but visual is limited; do you have eyes on?”

 “Negative, Doghouse. Requesting you verify the position of the hostile.” The lieutenant’s request had a tinge of confusion.

 “Transmitting now, Bulldog. Stand by,” Gregori replied as D’Ka pointed to his tactical officer.

 A few taps on his console, and Sojek looked up, puzzled.

 “Mr. Sojek?” d’Ka’s chair swiveled in that direction.

 "There is no sign of the alien ship, Captain, nor are there any life signs other than those below ground."

 D’Ka took a moment to process that. “Has USS Ramius detected any ships leaving the area?” he said, with not a little skepticism.

 “No, Captain. Their report clearly states that there is not even a residual emission trail. Also, both their tachyon detection grid and their graviton subspace field-current scanner show negative.”

 “Mr. Ellis?” He turned to the science officer.

 “As far as our scanners are concerned, there’s nothing there, Captain,” she replied, as puzzled as her Vulcan counterpart, “and there never has been.”

 D’Ka, Lei’ri, Gregori, and Anastis exchanged glances.

 “Watchdog, Doghouse. Do you have eyes on?” Anastis commed the recon team this time.

 “Doghouse, Watchdog, negative.”

 “What do you see, Watchdog?”

 Well, sir, a whole lotta blowing snow, ice, and rocks. HUD* shows nothing in the area, no evidence of landing, not even pod marks. We’ve been around the barn a few times, and, well, sir, there is no hostile evidence outside the cavern.”

 “Can you see anything inside from your position?”

 “Yes, sir. Nine frozen bodies, humanoid, Starfleet uniforms, and a pile of boxes with just enough opening to get in and out.”

 “What kind of boxes?”

 They look like ‘Fleet supply boxes, sir. We would have to move in to verify the contents.”

 In answer to Anastis’ look, d’Ka said, “Proceed.”

 “Watchdog, Doghouse. Proceed with caution,” said Anastis, automatically looking up at the viewscreen. The images were barely visible, but their movement patterns, enhanced by the computer, would have to suffice.

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