United Trek: Task Force Vanguard

Part III

Infinities Unbound

A Gibraltar / Full Speed Ahead Collaberation

by Sam Redfeather, Michael D. Garcia, and A.J. Gertner

* * *

Prologue


Amon Homeship Transcendent

The crucible pod split open with a wet crack, spilling the naked form of Donald Sandhurst onto the floor in a flood of brackish fluid. For a time he lay still, seemingly lifeless, until his body was wracked with huge, heaving coughs that seemed to be torn from the very core of him. Wave after wave of liquid was expelled as he gasped and struggled for air.

Nestrala wanted desperately to go to him, to offer him comfort and support, but she dare not. This was his path to walk alone, under the appraising eye of the tribe’s BattleMaster and the Congress of Elders.

Finally, when his lungs had cleared, Sandhurst pulled himself to his feet. His body trembled with the effort, but he would not relent, just as he had refused to yield within the crucible despite the exquisite agonies visited upon him.

“I…� he rasped in a voice that began faintly, but gained in strength and volume as he continued. “I am Zeischt, of the Amon. Though not born to our people, I was chosen by our people.�

Once he was steady on his feet, Sandhurst gestured to Nestrala, who looked to the BattleMaster for permission. Her nod of assent prompted Nestrala forward, where the woman draped a cloak over Sandhurst’s shoulders.

The grand auditorium in which they stood was adjacent to the great forested arboretum at the center of the massive cube. Formerly belonging to the feared Borg Collective, the ship had been seized by the Amon and christened Transcendent.

The interior of the cube could not have been more different from the original Borg aesthetic. The ship fairly blazed with light, the great spaces adorned in stark whites with gold and silver accents. Artwork of every imaginable kind filled the open spaces, a brilliant melange of form, sound and light infused with an unprecedented energy, that of life itself. Plants from a hundred different worlds across three galaxies filled the open spaces, bathed in artificial sunlight projected from the holographic sky overhead.

Sandhurst moved into the center of the auditorium. The great tiered hall could seat tens of thousands, but only a handful of individuals had been called upon to witness this event.

BattleMaster Audwen gave the newest Amon convert a broad smile as she announced, “You are now Amon in both name and spirit, bound to us for eternity through your most fundamental essence. When you pass, your energy will be consumed by the tribe, and so you will live on in each of us. You have become part of the eternal expression of our species.�

Thus bestowed with membership in the tribe, Sandhurst pulled the garment tight around him, fastening it at his waist. He had sacrificed his future in Starfleet for this chance, this singular opportunity to capture and redirect the energy and attention of one of the most formidable species ever encountered by the Federation.

“Now that I have earned my voice among our people, it is of evolution I wish to speak, BattleMaster,� Sandhurst espoused.

The Amon warrior-priestess deferred to him wordlessly.

“There is no evolution here,� Sandhurst called out. “Only stagnation, the slow death that consumes all that refuse to adapt. The Amon are undeniably powerful, but we are bereft of purpose. We lack a core driving force to unify us, to concentrate our collective potential. This is why our fellow tribe turned on us, breaking the most sacred of all our laws, that no Amon should make war upon another.�

The tribe’s senior leadership stood in silence, taking in the words of their newest member, the first outsider to have joined their ranks in well over a millenia.

“We strive to collect, consume, and utilize the essence. It lengthens our lives, gifts us with remarkable strength and insight, but we use these miraculous abilities for no higher calling. We squander these talents, acting as scavengers, preying upon the powerless like some great swarm of carrion eaters. Think what our people might accomplish if we were to invest in the future of this galaxy, in the success of it’s intelligent species.�

“Pretty words, Zeischt,� spoke one of the elders. “We have heard the like before. However, the success of those species, and lasting peace between them would sound the death knell of our people. War and chaos, these are the states of being that keep us fed. It is the truth of our existence.�

“Death is a constant,� Sandhurst countered. “All corporeal species meet their mortal end, and we can feed just as easily on the essence of those who die peacefully in their sleep as we can those stricken down on the field of battle.�

“Who are you to question our ways?� came the accusatory reply. “You have only just donned the robes of allegiance, and yet here you stand calling upon the leadership to justify the tenets of our culture.�

Sandhurst answered without hesitation, “I am Zeischt. I am the one being in all the universe that the Amon sought out individually. I called to you from across the gulf between galaxies. I was bound to you before I knew you existed, and my departure from the tribe at our first meeting was aligned with our betrayal by our cousins.�

He turned a slow circle, his eyes beseeching those of the Congress of Elders for understanding. “There can be only one reason I was summoned at this precise moment in our people’s history. I was meant to lead our people into the next phase of our evolution!�

* * *

Chapter One

USS Adamant
Delta Quadrant

The dream had seemed endless, yet strangely ephemeral, as though his mind had lived a thousand different lifetimes which he couldn’t fully recall. Consciousness began to reassert itself, bringing with it a renewed self-awareness. A name. He had a name. And… a title? No, a rank. He had a name and rank. It was… ‘Dom’ he heard his mother’s voice call from some distantly firing memory neurons. That was it. Dominic. Dominic Leone, lieutenant junior grade, Starfleet.

“Easy, sir,” a kind voice said softly to him. “A bit of confusion is perfectly natural when reviving from cryosleep. You’re safe and in good hands.”

Leone tried to ask a question but all that came out was a hoarse squeak. He felt a plastic straw touched to his lips, and began sipping greedily, realizing only after the fact that he was drinking a sickly-sweet solution. Having expected water, he choked on the liquid.

“Sorry, sir. I know it tastes awful, but it’ll stabilize your electrolytes.”

“How--” he croaked. “How long?”

“You’ve been asleep for nine months, sir. Adamant has arrived safely in the Delta Quadrant. You’re at Galaxy Station.”

Adamant, he remembered. Intrepid-class. Captain Caldwell’s ship. And... Vanguard… that’s right, Task Force Vanguard. He’d gone toe-to-toe with his own grandmother to secure a posting to the hazardous mission, whose first contingent had suffered a nearly thirty-percent casualty rate.

He’d been sent out on the second wave of ships from the Federation’s corward frontier, dispatched some thirteen-thousand light-years distant into the nearer reaches of the Delta Quadrant. There, an armada of starships dispersed over dozens of parsecs in various intercept groups was attempting to stem the tide of an influx of nomadic alien fleets bound for the Alpha Quadrant.

Unlike the first wave of starships in the task force, Adamant and her sister ships had been dispatched under their own power, carrying their crews in stasis. This added three months to the journey, but allowed Starfleet to outfit a more robust third wave with the same high-warp carrier sleds that had conveyed wave one. That tertiary relay of ships would arrive in another three months.

The medic helped Leone up into a sitting position as he struggled to get his bearings. He dimly recognized Adamant’s main shuttle bay where dozens of cryotanks were arranged in rows. Several of the other tanks had medtechs attending to their occupants as well, with the crew being revived in groups according to rank and function.

His last coherent memory was of falling to sleep in Starbase Bastion’s cryo-prep ward in the station’s MedCenter.

The medic pressed a hypospray to Leone’s neck, injecting a metabolic stimulator along with vitamin and mineral supplements. “You’re going to undergo an exam, sir, and then you’ll be escorted to your quarters to rest and recuperate.”

“I haven’t had enough rest already?” Leone asked groggily.

* * *

Europa limped into the system, slowing to sublight from a leisurely Warp Four, the best speed the battered starship could safely maintain.

“Secured from warp speed, Captain,” Lightner addressed Lar’ragos from the Helm.

“Galaxy Station within visual range, sir,” the rating at Ops advised.

“On screen,” Lar’ragos ordered, interested to see how much had changed since their last visit.

The hodge-podge space station appeared on screen. Significant construction had taken place in the past few weeks, though still in the same haphazard fashion that had become the sprawling complex’s hallmark. This time, however, the structure was accompanied by a number of new ancillary drydocks and over a dozen unfamiliar starships.

“Looks like reinforcements have arrived,” Liu observed from beside the captain.

Ops announced, “We’re being directed to a mobile drydock facility, sir.”

“Bring us in, one-eight impulse on docking approach.” Lar’ragos said tiredly. “Gods know we’ve earned some respite.”

Lightner shot Lar’ragos a darkly ironic look from his seat. “And which gods are those, sir?”

Lar’ragos’ reply was expressionless. “Whichever capricious deities oversee this horrid little tract of the universe, Lieutenant.”

* * *

Galaxy Station

Pava Lar’ragos sat quietly in the outer office of newly arrived Vice Admiral T’Cirya, an unused padd held in one hand as his eyes did their best to burn a hole in the opposing bulkhead from the power of his thousand-meter stare. If he’d cared to, Lar’ragos now had the ability to analyze the far bulkhead in excruciating detail, thanks to the cybernetic ocular implant that had replaced his ruined right eye.

The cabin had formerly served as VIP living quarters aboard the starship Galaxy. All that remained of that ship now was it’s saucer section, which had been integrated into an existing alien space station to create the bizarre amalgam ironically dubbed ‘Galaxy Station’ by the task force.

Lar’ragos had no desire to test the capabilities of his new optics, nor did he have a taste for much conscious introspection for that matter. Instead, he waited in silence to be summoned before the admiral, who’d been rumored to have already demoted Isaac Gareth back to captain from his field promotion to flag rank. Lar’ragos felt like a man waiting to mount the steps to the gallows.

The vice admiral's flag lieutenant moved his eyes back and forth from his desk to Lar'ragos. His stolen glances at the man punctuated only by the various calls he fielded from other officers aboard the station. When silence prevailed, he resumed his behavior as before.

The doors leading to the inner office slid open to allow a tall, muscular woman with short brunette hair exit. She nodded quickly to the flag lieutenant, who stood up out of respect, and turned to exit when she paused to look at Lar'ragos. A flicker of recognition appeared before she stopped and nearly snapped to attention. "Commander, sir," she said, as though she were a midshipman once more.

Lar’ragos stood reflexively, nodding deferentially to the woman. "I believe that’s my line, sir.”

Commander Marcia Caldwell, commanding officer of the starship Adamant, blushed lightly. "No, sir. If you'll permit me that, considering that I owe you my life, it's the least I can do until I can return the favor." She turned toward the flag lieutenant, who appeared to be listening in and doing nothing else. "Let the admiral know Commander Lar'ragos is waiting," she ordered softly.

As though he were launched from a rubber band, the small lieutenant scurried quickly to enter the inner office. The doors had barely cleared his width to let him in before they closed behind him.

Lar’ragos gave Caldwell a smile that stopped well short of reaching his eyes. "I appreciate the gesture, Captain. By all means, please pay it forward.”

"Always, sir," she replied.

The doors opened once more and the lieutenant stepped outside. "Commander Lar'ragos? The admiral will see you, now."

She turned back from the announcement and smiled. "When you're done in there, you should drop by. I brought some hooch with me that I think you'll like."

Lar’ragos actually seemed tempted. "I’ll do that. I could use a stiff drink right about now.”

"It'll be waiting for you," she promised with a grin before walking off and entering the main corridor into the rest of the station.

The El Aurian turned back to the lieutenant, nodding to him as he passed into the office beyond.

Vice Admiral T'Cirya gestured with her left hand toward the open seat in the modest reception area as she addressed an officer on the main viewscreen within the office. "I understand, Captain. I will attend to those matters, however, I will require you to immediately make your report of able officers to fill in any necessary berths left vacant by those who have fallen in the line of duty. That will be all. T'Cirya, out."

Lar’ragos came to stiff attention just before the seat, awaiting the termination of T’Cirya’s conversation before stating, "Lieutenant Commander Lar’ragos, reporting as ordered, sir.”

T'Cirya turned to fix him with an expression of stereotypical Vulcan dispassion. "I trust that your injuries have been tended to, Commander?"

"They have, sir.”

Her interest in his well-being concluded, she moved to a seat adjacent to his and took it. "I have informed Captain Gareth that I've assumed command of the task force. I will be utilizing USS Yorktown as my flag," she said matter-of-factly, whilst scanning through the display of a padd. "I have a preliminary report from the engineering section that Europa will be undergoing repairs for the next three weeks."

Still standing, Lar’ragos replied, "That’s correct, Admiral. Repairs to the ship’s superstructure and interior volume will require some significant work before she’s mission ready again.”

"Stand easy, Commander, and please seat yourself," she said, not looking up from the display. "Your latest report indicates that you are among those ships with significant losses of life. I am ordering a reconfiguration of personnel incoming from the latest arrivals, to shore up any gaps in coverage. Before we are through, my flag lieutenant, Mister Tau, will see to your requirements with my authorization."

Lar’ragos seated himself. "Thank you, sir.”

T'Cirya placed the padd atop the small end table and informed him, "I have gone over your records since Captain Gareth stood down from his temporary command, and I found your command of Europa to be laudable. I believe it is in the best interest of the task force for you to continue in your current capacity."

There was a slight pause before Lar’ragos replied, "I appreciate that, sir. That being said, I trust you do realize the danger inherent in Ramirez knowing me as well as she does, Admiral?”

"I believe that your next mission may preclude another encounter with the former Captain Ramirez," T'Cirya intoned. She located another file on the same padd, and then offered it to Lar'ragos. "Our most recent tracking information on the Amon should prove interesting, Commander."

Lar’ragos accepted the proffered device, studying its contents for a long moment. "They’ve departed the Beta Quadrant.” He looked up at T’Ciyra. "If that’s the same group that obliterated Blue Horizon and the Klingon colony, they could be headed back into the Alpha Quadrant for another attack.”

"Excalibur assures us that this is the most recent intelligence," said the vice admiral. "At least, as recent as they can make it, given the three-week delay. I will have this sent to you, and you will be included on all future briefings when they're scheduled. I suggest keeping your mornings free while in port."

"As you say, sir,” he answered distractedly. Lar’ragos glanced in her direction. "Am I to surmise you’ll be sending us to look for Sandhurst and his wayward Amon tribe, Admiral?”

She nodded once. "That is the intention, Commander."

"Might I ask to what end, sir?”

"Strategically, it is logical to attempt to make contact with Captain Sandhurst, given his relationship with the Amon," she replied candidly. "If he could be persuaded to see reason, perhaps he can do the same with his... allies. Given what we know about the Amon thus far, we will require the assistance of an equal or more powerful party. Your own reports show that Starfleet is at a severe tactical disadvantage."

"I’m gratified to hear that, sir. It’s my belief that Sandhurst’s return to the Amon was prompted by his desire to draw them over to our side, against their fellow tribesmen.”

She inclined her head. "I would agree."

"And Ramirez, sir?” Lar’ragos pressed. "She’s now in possession of TFV’s accumulated data on the incoming refugee fleets, as well as the Amon. She also has two of Europa’s Alpha Weapons, in addition to whatever advanced chronometric weaponry we witnessed her using against the Romulans.”

T'Cirya rose from her seat. "I have been kept abreast of your latest encounter, Commander." She paused when she reached the desk and placed her hand on the controls of the desktop terminal. "As I'm sure you're aware, given your high clearance as part of the SMT's, that Starfleet illegally developed a phase cloak a number of years ago?"

"I’ve heard rumors to that effect, but nothing solid.”

She tapped the control to place a new device on the screen. "The Starfleet Corps of Engineers, under the direction of your previous admiral, Krystine Leone, has been working to develop a temporal shield using the phase cloak technology as its base. The cloaking device utilized chronotons to phase the ship out of normal space-time. As it were, her mother, Vice Admiral Angelina Leone, has ordered me to make use of any technology at my disposal, including this shield technology." She turned to fix him with a stare. "It should prove sufficient against her attacks."

He studied the diagrams for a few minutes, scrolling through various graphics. "And with the cloaking field employed outwardly, it serves as a chronometric shield rather than as a prohibited cloaking device.” He offered his first genuine smile of the day. "It serves its purpose and doesn’t violate the Treaty of Algeron. Brilliant.”

"It was never my intention to send you into harm's way without outfitting your vessel with appropriate defenses," the vice admiral admitted. "Furthermore, I have directed our engineers here to determine, what if any offensive capabilities could be derived. They intend to have options to present shortly."

"I look forward to reaping the benefits of their creativity, Admiral,” Lar’ragos confessed. "May I also assume that I’ll be keeping Sandhurst’s new warp propulsion system intact?”

"Captain Gareth mentioned your reluctance to employ that system any further aboard Europa."

"The engine seems inseparable from Sandhurst’s complex equations, and so long as we’re using his programming, we’re vulnerable to any hidden code he may have left behind.”

"I understand how that may prove troubling," she considered aloud. "Have the yard engineers determine if it can be removed for a conventional system within the time allotted."

Lar’ragos countered, "Lieutenant Ashok assures me that to do so would add an additional three to four weeks to our layover, sir.”

She opened a channel. "T'Cirya to Captain Lo," she said.

"Lo, here, sir," came the reply.

"Europa's requirements have the highest priority on resources and personnel," she ordered. "I'm sending their lead engineer to confer with you as to their dilemma regarding the propulsion systems."

"Aye, sir," Lo's compliance was stressed, to betray his slight annoyance with the sudden change. "I will see to it, personally."

"That will be all, Captain. T'Cirya, out." She closed the channel and noted, "Do you have any other problems, Commander?"

"Only a few hundred, Admiral, though none that require your attention. Thank you.” Lar’ragos offered wryly.

"Then allow me one more item to tend to. I wanted to make mention that Europa is a light cruiser, requiring at least a full commander in command. Therefore, I am ordering a battlefield promotion to ensure you meet those minimum requirements. Congratulations."

Lar’ragos actually managed to look surprised. "I... ah- thank you, Admiral. This is unexpected.” He offered T’Cirya a bemused expression. "I’d anticipated being relieved of command when I stepped in here, sir. Europa is seriously damaged, dozens of her crew are dead or wounded, and a rogue Starfleet officer is now in possession of two experimental weapons of mass destruction.”

T'Cirya said nothing in response, merely fixing him with an expectant stare as she sat back down behind the desk.

"Not the most auspicious conclusion to my first starship command.” He returned her stare evenly. "I am curious, Admiral. By what metrics do you judge success?”

The Vulcan vice admiral pursed her lips together only slightly, enough for Lar'ragos to pick up on it; her hesitation so miniscule that a less observant person would not have noticed. "The completion of mission objectives against the interests of the Federation, as well as the impact or loss of life of both personnel and civilians. Metrics are at times an intangibility starship commanders must deal with, Commander... as I'm certain you have become recently aware."

The statement elicited a reluctant nod from Lar’ragos. "Only too well.” He stopped for a moment, distracted by a glimpse through the viewport of Europa cocooned within her drydock, linked to the station by a single narrow gantry. "When Ramirez died, or rather when we thought she’d died, I told Captain Sandhurst it was just such situations that prevented me from pursuing any rank greater than that of lieutenant.”

T'Cirya acknowledge him with a succinct nod. "I understand. Circumstances clearly override expectation." She continued quickly. "Is there any other business we need to discuss, Commander?"

Lar’ragos considered that. "Only one, sir. Is there any truth to the rumor that the Klingons are expected to arrive out here sometime soon?”

"May I ask how you came by that information?" she questioned coldly. Colder than before.

"I have... friends in the Sotaj. They stopped talking to me about nine months ago. Given the High Council’s somewhat justified anger over our keeping TFV secret from them initially, my guess is that they’ve got a battle fleet outbound.”

She paused to activate a new screen, which she then transferred to the larger screen upon the bulkhead. "Starfleet Intelligence, namely Admiral Nechayev, believes that the Klingons have an inbound fleet. Based on tracking data supplied by the Hubble Array, a fleet of cloaked vessels should arrive in the next three weeks."

"Shit,” Lar’ragos summarized succinctly. "I hope they’re in a mood to talk when they arrive.”

"Captain Ebnal and Venture arrived with this wave to provide on-site assistance in dealing with the Klingons," she informed him. "I will be meeting with him and his executive officer later today."

"Lucian Ebnal,” Lar’ragos remarked with a vaguely surprised look. "Well, then, God help the Klingons.”

She tilted her head. "We do not intend to engage the Klingons, Commander, but Admirals Nechayev and Leone felt it prudent to have a highly experienced commander on scene. Of course, your own expertise will be welcome when the time comes, but Europa may be tending to matters elsewhere."

He inclined his head, conceding the point. "Perhaps so, Admiral, but I hadn’t expected to engage the Romulans, either.”

"Vice Admiral Leone is providing further updates on the Rihannsu incursion into this quadrant regularly." T'Cirya deactivated the screen and asked, "Will there be anything else?"

"I’ve arranged to fill all my open senior officer posts with the exceptions of XO and Security/Tactical chief, sir. If you have any recommendations, they would be appreciated.”

"I will inform Personnel as to your vacancies, including those key positions," she assured him. "The right persons for those jobs will be selected."

* * *

USS Potemkin

Since their arrival at Galaxy Station, the corridors of Potemkin slowly filled with personnel as they checked out of the medical section fresh from the long cold sleep. Among the first to awaken was Lieutenant Commander Iris Wu, the ship's executive officer.

"Good to see you, Commander," said her Deltan commanding officer, Captain Erz Damore. He did not look up from the desk within his ready room; he scribbled furiously with a stylus upon the input sensor tied to his desktop terminal. "I trust that all is in order."

Wu replied with a padd in her hand. "Nearly all crew are awake, sir, though a quarter still have their medical checks to complete. We will sail with no complications, thus far, according to the medical staff."

Damore completed his motions without responding to her report. She thought nothing of it, as it was his custom to focus more on his writing. Wu did not look at the screen; she knew the computer was recognizing his handiwork and inputting the words automatically. Over meals, he admitted his penchant for the written word prior to his entry into Starfleet. He never let it go.

The slap of the stylus against the desk preceded his gaze upon her. "Excellent news, Iris. I suppose that it is a miracle that we managed to make it all the way here, considering that at least one ship fell out of formation and another returned to rescue her."

She maintained her stony expression. "Yes, sir," was her only response.

Damore allowed a small smirk to appear. "One of these days, someone's going to let you know that you're human, not a Vulcan. It's okay to express emotion."

"Yes, sir," she repeated. Her gaze dropped to her now-beeping padd. "We're receiving flash traffic from Galaxy Station, sir. Eyes only."

"I see it," the captain said quickly. His fingers tapped the terminal input once, then he spoke his access code aloud. "We're being assigned to an Intercept Group. We depart as soon as our crew is ready to go."

Wu nodded once. "I'll see to our departure. By your leave?"

He raised a hand. "Not so fast. There's some additional... orders." Damore reached for his stylus once more and it flowed across the desk. "Looks like someone is in need of your services more than I."

The screen on her padd flickered to present the incoming orders. Wu read them quickly and then returned her attention to Damore. "Sir."

"Effective immediately, Commander," he said, rising from his seat. He extended his hand. "Good luck to you, Iris. They're lucky to have you."

She leaned forward to accept it gingerly, keeping their contact brief. "Thank you, Captain. It has been an honor to serve under your command."

Demore returned a wry grin. "Aw, Iris... I think you might mean that." He relished that last moment of watching her squirm slightly under his light joviality. "You're dismissed."

Wu took a step back before spinning on her heels to exit the ready room.

He whispered to no one, "Damn, Europa... look out."

 

* * *

Dominic Leone made his way through the exotic alien bazaar within the commercial district of what had been In’Drahan Station until an Amon attack had wrecked over half the orbital facility. What remained of the former Husnock battle fortress had been hastily repaired in a cooperative effort between Starfleet and a half dozen local species dependent upon the outpost for interplanetary commerce.

The former USS Galaxy’s saucer section had been joined to this growing assemblage, along with sundry alien docking gantries, environment modules, and portable cargo pods. A variety of native Delta Quadrant species walked, scurried, loped, or slithered about the station, many of them horrifically disfigured through deliberate genetic mutation by the infamous and imperialistic Husnock.

The end result of all this energy was a makeshift starbase that made Deep Space Nine look like a model of efficiency and intuitive design aesthetics.

Within the souk were all manner of shops, storefronts, and kiosks. Their owners hawked foodstuffs, clothing, consumer datatronics, and a thousand other kinds of goods in demand amongst the local spacefaring cultures.

Leone found the smells of some of the foods very appetizing, while others caused his stomach to lurch alarmingly.

This, he reflected to himself, was indeed the final frontier. Tens of thousands of light-years separated himself from his relatives at Starfleet Command. Before him not only lay the breadth of the Delta Quadrant, but the oncoming waves of alien refugees bearing down on their task force and its frontier fort.

Taking in the sights of the station, Leone mentally cataloged each one so he could reference them in his first letter to Teelis. He absent-mindedly fingered the isolinear optical chip in his uniform's inside pocket as though it would conjure her from the Alpha Quadrant instantly to share the experience with her first-hand. The very nature of the station and its location is why he joined Starfleet; why he used every ounce of his will to ensure his assignment to the task force.

Leone proceeded to the docking gantry for the starship Europa, reporting early for his meeting with the ship’s captain, Commander Pava Lar’ragos.

* * *

Chapter Two

USS Adamant

Lar’ragos took another sip of Caldwell’s potent brew. He was far drunker than he’d allowed himself to get in quite some time, decades at least. “So, he tells me he’s the imperial governor, that I’ve overstepped my authority, and that I’m wearing my medals in the wrong order on my dress uniform!”

Caldwell snorted once before releasing a deep belly laugh. Her arms went to her sides quickly until she regained control of her voice. While wiping at her eyes, she shot her former comrade-in-arms a toothy grin. "I can't imagine the look on his face."

“Then try and imagine the look on his face when I shoved him over the balustrade, that smug son-of-a-bitch!” Lar’ragos mimed the shove, forgetting he had a half-full glass of Aldeberran Whisky in his hand which sloshed out onto the cabin’s carpet. “And we were only five-hundred stories up! It took me a good minute to find a pair of binoculars, and I still had time to focus in on him before he met concrete!”

She widened her smile. "Tell me you watched him hit the ground, sir. That's always the best part," Caldwell said nothing about the spilt drink, as she had slammed her glass down on the desk hard enough to spill hers. "Remember that wannabe-assassin from Arcturus that was chasing our units on Rigel?"

“The guy you gelded with that Orion pig-sticker of yours? Oh, yeah... I remember him. Mostly his high-pitched screaming after you tossed his ass out of the flyer.” Lar’ragos’ legs gave out and he stumbled backwards, falling against the front of the couch and sliding onto the floor on his butt. “Damn, you’d have enjoyed the Hekosian army, Marcia. Your team would get assigned a mission, given six months to carry it out, and that was it. As long as you got it done, there were no after-action reports, no hand-wringing.”

Caldwell reached for her glass and drained it nearly dry. She gasped loudly, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her uniform and said, "Starfleet's not so bad, once you figure out how to delegate the paperwork. I actually delegated mine to a shavetail who managed to make it out of hell week with his ass in one piece. I turned over my unit to him when he made light commander. You know, before Otex and Grazer told me to take this assignment."

Lar’ragos chuckled as he clumsily poured himself another glass of the murky green liquid. “That’s what you get for listening to one of those damned Marine officers. Join Vanguard and see the ass end of the universe.” He took another draught of the bracing spirit, which made his eyes water. “Me... I’m the fucking stand-in. Sandhurst stabbed me in the back and left me behind to clean up his mess.” He shook his head dejectedly. “You have any goddamn idea how long it’s been since I had to care? I swore I’d never leave myself open to that again... and here I am, in command of a fucking starship!”

She grunted and grabbed the bottle for herself. However, her pouring only filled the glass to just below the midway point as they had finished it. Caldwell looked inside to see if there was anymore, but dejectedly tossed it against the bulkhead with enough force to shatter it on impact. Her toss appeared effortless. "Fuck that, sir. Fuck being a ship driver, too. The best days were when we would ride fire and take lives like it was nothing. I-"

The door chime interrupted her thought, to which she angrily snarled. "What?!"

A timid voice on the other side replied, "Security, sir. Just checking to make sure everything is okay."

"I'm fine," she tried her best not to slur her words. "You may carry on."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Satisfied that they were alone once more, Caldwell continued, "This mission is the only reason I said yes. With the Romulans practically bed-buddies with the Federation, and everyone else worrying about their own backyard... there was nothing to do anymore. I wanted this one." She reached into the open case and pulled out another green bottle. "I needed this."

He nodded with exaggerated gusto. “I miss killing Jem’Hadar. Dear Gods but they were the perfect enemy. Bred for war. Better even than killing Klingons.” He sighed. “Now I’ve got a boat load of kids out here deep in the black, and I have to keep them alive. Oh,” he laughed darkly, “and I have to do it while following their goddamn rules!” He drained the rest of his glass and then stared at the empty vessel angrily.

Lar’ragos reached into his uniform jacket to produce a metal flask. He fumbled with the cap, finally unscrewing it and carefully pouring an amber liquid into his glass before offering the flask to Caldwell. “Saurian brandy. The lizards’ only worthwhile contribution to the metaculture of the Federation.”

Her whiskey-filled glass emptied immediately upon the sight of the new hooch. She pushed it toward Lar'ragos lightly, and it slid all the way to him. "Speaking of lizards... Grelk is here. He has Yorktown. I would love another shot at that Gorn bastard sometime."

Lar’ragos filled her glass, and then slid it back to her with exaggerated care before raising his own in an inebriated toast. “That is one tough fucking lizard. Credit where credit is due. Cold-blooded, egg-hatched, ensign-eating endotherm!”

Caldwell smirked. "I didn't know he was that strong when he held me down after that little side-trip to Yault for that stupid ass farming dispute? His ship was the one that gave us a ride back to base, and we got a little sauced up in their lounge. Fucker nearly broke my arm."

“He’s three meters tall and from a one-point-eight g planet! Of course he’s fucking strong!” Lar’ragos chortled.

She grabbed the brandy and sipped it . "This is the good stuff, here." She knocked back another quaff before staring into the amber briefly. "I... is it..." Caldwell hesitated, losing her confidence from just a moment before. Suddenly, she regained and spoke clearly, "I heard about Indemnity. The general brought us up to speed when we thought we were going to be your backup."

He closed his eyes briefly. “Can’t believe we really pulled that off. I thought Leone was running the show, and then to find out she stepped back and let Sandhurst step up to the plate. Never knew he had it in him to be that damned cold...” his voice faltered and he fixed his eyes on the liquid swirling in his glass. “I wanted Galmesh. I wanted him so bad that I let myself get complacent. Lost two-thirds of my Team to that ridge-headed bastard.”

"Damn, I wish they'd let us reinforce you for that one." She silently cursed thinking about how close they'd come to convincing the general to let them launch. Until Admiral Coburn issued his orders to send the fleet, instead. "We hung the stars for your crew at the base, sir. And sir...?"

He met her gaze with glistening eyes. “Yeah?”

"The general ordered us to hang one for her. Because she was with your team when it happened." Caldwell continued, "She'd chewed up enough of the same dirt with yours, mine, three others while she was doing her bit for Intel. He said it was only fair."

Lar’ragos had to look away, unable to trust himself not to lose his composure. “Thank you, Marcia. She died like a Nightstalker.”

Caldwell raised her glass in respect, and then drained it unceremoniously. "She was one of the good spooks, sir. I was happy to have her with me." Her cheeks colored suddenly. "With us, I mean."

Lar’ragos wiped at his his eyes, chuckling. “Don’t worry. Few of us proved able to resist her charms. I certainly didn’t try.”

She looked away. "She... uh, she... it was different, I think. Convenience." Caldwell coughed and sniffled. "It was pretty obvious she had it bad for someone else, but she couldn't deny who she was. I talked to her kid brother about it a little bit."

“She was a complicated woman,” Lar’ragos confirmed.

* * *

 

Sarpedion V
Cardassian Union
Alpha Quadrant

The Miranda-class starship Ascension came hard about, her sublight engines kicking the vessel up to full impulse in a matter of seconds. On the bridge’s main viewer, an ankh-shaped Cardassian cruiser followed suit, falling into a tight tactical formation with Ascension.

The two ships pulled out of their geosynchronous orbits around Sarpedion V, one of the most heavily defended planets in Cardassian territory. Home to the Twelfth Order, the Sarpedion system’s defenses boasted fields of interlocking fire from orbital weapons emplacements and manned battle-stations. A well guarded shipyard and multiple squadrons of heavy fighters and corsairs also girded the ramparts of this formidable military base.

Lieutenant Commander Judith Rigsby stepped onto the bridge in response to the red alert, still dressed in her workout sweats as she frantically toweled her long brown hair, trying valiantly to dry it. “This better not be one of Legate Vora’s damn readiness drills,” she said in a voice muffled by the towel.

“Negative, sir,” her XO called from where he stood looking over the science officer’s shoulder at their sensor returns. “Gedok Nor just sounded a priority scramble of all available ships to coordinates five-point-zero-seven AU out from defense perimeter Thet.”

Rigsby stopped toweling, leaving her hair looking like the afterimage of a warp-core breach. “And what’s at those coordinates that’s got our Cardassian friends so alarmed?”

“Their gravimetric sensor grid just detected some kind of subspace anomaly. Very localized, and very unusual for this area.”

Now the trill of a sensor alert sounded, prompting Science and Ops to lean over their displays in unison.

Science was faster on the draw. “Detecting a subspace fissure at those same coordinates, Captain.”

The towel brushed the deckplates as Rigsby’s hand fell to her side, eyes riveted to the viewer. “What kind of fissure?” she asked carefully as she slid into the vacant command chair.

“Uncertain, sir,” replied the science officer. “We’re seeing a moderate elevation in chronometric energy and Q-particle emissions, but thus far nothing in the visual spectrum.”

The specialist at Ops called out, her voice tinged with surprise. “Sir, both Grela and Sordiku are launching escape pods. Both ships are being evacuated.”

Rigby sat back in her chair, dropping her towel into her lap. “Let’s see.”

The viewer angle shifted aft, where ranks of life pods could be seen thrusting away from the two Galor-class warships that were now trailing Ascension.

The Tactical officer touched a hand to his comms earpiece. “Gul Dreilis is signaling that both ships are evacuating in preparation for a warp jump directly into the phenomena. They’re alerting us to move to a safe distance.”

Rigsby’s eyes widened even further. “Helm, give them the necessary space to complete their maneuver, and plot a course to collect their crews afterwards if our assistance is needed.”

“It’s a good bet they think this is the Amon,” the XO offered as he stepped over to the captain’s chair.

After sparing a glance at her first officer, Rigsby nodded numbly in response. “It’s an even better bet they’re right. The Cardassians have tasted annihilation too many times in the last decade to take any chances.”

With a crew of just over fifty souls, Ascension was hardly in the same league as her Cardassian escorts, but the little ship still had teeth. “Arm weapons, raise shields, and alert medical and damage control personnel to report to duty stations,” Rigsby ordered.

"Eruption,” called out the specialist at Ops. “Same location as the subspace fissure, now bleeding energy into the visible spectrum.”

“On screen,” Rigsby commanded.

It appeared as though something had torn asunder the very fabric of the universe, exposing a brilliant white light that penetrated through the rupture from whatever lay on the other side.

“That can’t be good,” someone remarked.

The Science officer’s voice had taken on a hard edge as she noted, “This phenomenon is very similar to the one identified by the Klingons. Computer estimates a ninety-four-point-four percent probability this is an Amon transit portal.”

Two orangish streaks appeared instantly, bracketing the anomaly. They joined with the flaring light of the eruption so quickly that it took Rigsby a second to realize those had been the Cardassian warships jumping to warp.

An explosion blossomed near the event horizon of the portal, the destructive wave partially obscured by the glare of the phenomenon.

Rigsby chose to add whatever they could to the effort. “Target those coordinates and open fire, all weapons.”

The Cardassian defense grid responded in kind, and suddenly that area of space was awash in weapons fire.

The white flare of the portal darkened as something extruded through it, an elongated black shape whose leading edge was awash in flame.

“Target confirmed as Amon warship,” Tactical advised. “Detecting probable Amon habitat structures slaved to a Whalesong probe.”

“Reinforce harmonic shielding to all critical systems,” the XO barked, calling into play Starfleet’s best guess for a defense against the alien probe’s incapacitating subspace transmissions.

The dark cylinder measured some seventy kilometers in length. It’s elegant symmetry was disturbed by hundreds of tumescent protrusions affixed to its neutronium shell; the habitats, docking bays, and weapons emplacements of the Amon were strewn across the probe’s surface like a parasitic infestation.

The foremost portion of the titanic craft was obviously damaged, with great gouges plunging deep into the neutronium shell to expose a soft blue light emanating from within. The radiant, vaguely organic looking spherical antenna that was lowered from the belly of the beast when it broadcast its overwhelming signal was nowhere to be seen.

Voluminous weapons fire converged on the enormous craft, with nearly one-hundred photon torpedoes impacting the probe in the first volley. Most struck the neutronium surface harmlessly, their destructive energies ineffective against the incredible density of the hull material. A handful, though, dove through the wounds created by the faster-than-warp impact of the Cardassian warships as the probe had transitioned from transwarp velocities.

Still other torpedoes hit the Amon structures studding the surface, blasting apart environment domes, weapons batteries, and launch gantries. The lighting within the Amon structures seemed to flicker randomly, and there were no shields in evidence.

“Target those hull breaches,” Rigsby called to the tactical officer. “Ready a tri-cobalt warhead and fire it into whichever breach is the largest.” A tri-cobalt device would create a self-sustaining wave of matter-to-energy conversion in any unshielded target, a process that typically progressed until the target suffered catastrophic structural failure.

“Direct phasers against the Amon structures,” she continued.

Another wave of torpedoes approached, this one numbering in excess of one-hundred fifty.

Fourteen more Cardassian ships of various classes and two dozen fighters were now inbound to join the fight.

As Ascension sent the tri-cobalt device plunging into the great probe’s innards, the XO looked to Rigsby with an expression of astonishment. “I can’t believe we’ve actually hurt them,” he said in a low tone.

Her grim smile hinted at grudging admiration. “Leave it to the Cardassians,” Rigsby noted. “Let’s not squander this opportunity.”

The Amon weapons which had remained silent until now, suddenly came to life with a vengeance. Beams, bolts, and a plethora of missiles flashed outward from the surface of the probe.

Scores of inbound Cardassian torpedoes were annihilated, and a powerful stream of collimated energy punched into Ascension’s ventral shields.

Bridge consoles sparked and flickered as a massive jolt raced through the ship’s spaceframe. The deck tilted alarmingly as inertial dampers were pushed beyond their tolerance. “How bad?” Rigsby called out, knowing there was damage without having to ask.

“Ventral grid at seventeen percent,” Tactical advised. “Hull deformation on the underside of the saucer, and engineering is having to reroute the feeds to the primary starboard power coupling.”

Rigsby grimaced. It wasn’t good, but it could have been much worse. “Helm, invert us. Engineering, auxiliary power to shields, reinforce our dorsal grid.”

Ascension was now racing down the starboard side of the probe, her phasers and torpedoes reaching out to lash various Amon structures, some shielded while others were inexplicably unprotected.

A third fusillade of photons from the Cardassian defense grid slammed home. This time, many of them had been targeted on the vulnerable cavities carved into the prow of the gargantuan cylinder. Amon return fire began to slacken as more of the predators’ guns were silenced by the blistering attack.

Three Amon missiles stuck Ascension in concert. While the first two were rebuffed by the shields, the third pierced the invisible energy curtain to strike the aft-dorsal section of the ship. The weapon tore into the superstructure and detonated inside the port shuttle bay. The hull buckled and rent as gouts of flame and atmosphere blossomed into the void.

The explosion obliterated main engineering, and only the ship’s faltering containment fields kept the core intact for scant few seconds as Ascension lost attitude control and tumbled towards the surface of the probe.

Rigsby clutched the armrests of her chair as the bridge spun around her. She dared release a hand just long enough to slap clumsily at her combadge. “This is the captain, evacuate the ship! All hands to esc--”

Ascension dove into the flank of the Whalesong probe, her detonating warp core scoring a five kilometer path of destruction directly through an Amon settlement. The clutch of industrial pods housed three bio-essence collection satellites that remained slaved to their launch gantries, unlaunched for want of power.

The great cylinder began a slow course change, coming about to flee the unrelenting onslaught from the Cardassian ships and weapons platforms. In the bowels of the juggernaut, great engines which drew their power from dimensional planes of pure energy struggled to repair themselves in the face of the unexpected damage suffered by the probe’s internal systems. Nothing had breached the neutronium shell of the device in over a million years, and those ferocious antagonists had long since turned to dust.

The mighty warship made good its escape moments later, vanishing through the convulsing aperture torn through the warp and weft of space/time.

In its wake the probe had shed a trail of debris, a mix of neutronium slag, technology, bodies, and other flotsam that represented the Alpha Quadrant’s first measurable success in the face of Amon aggression.

 

* * *

USS Europa

Ashok guided the structural support into place, directing the robotic anti-grav drones as they carefully released the duranium beam.

Lar’ragos watched the work as the engineering team painstakingly rebuilt the interior volume of the saucer where Sickbay had been. He monitored their progress via a visual scan he’d called up on the Master Systems Display board in main engineering,

He turned to examine Shanthi working at an auxiliary console, sorting through millions of lines of programming code with the assistance of several intuitive algorithms. “Any luck?” he asked, breaking the young officer’s concentration.

To his credit, Shanthi merely paused his analysis, and turned to address the captain. “I’m starting to make some headway, sir, but it’s slow going.”

Lar’ragos cocked his head. “Would a dedicated programming team be of assistance?”

Shanthi’s eyes widened a fraction, his gaze growing expectant. “Yes, sir. Tremendously. However, when I inquired with the station I was informed no experts were available.”

A thin smile alighted on Lar’ragos’ lips. “Admiral T’Cirya has granted us priority resource allocation for our refit. I’ve arranged for two programming specialists to report aboard in half an hour.”

“Thank you, sir. The extra hands will be helpful, but given the size of the task, it’ll only shave a fe--”

“They’re Bynars, Lieutenant,” Lar’ragos added.

“Oh,” Shanthi said, falling silent. A dawning expression of surprise blossomed. “Ohhh...” His subsequent smile was radiant.

“Bridge to captain,” his combadge called.

“Go ahead,” he answered reflexively.

“Commander Wu is scheduled to come aboard in five minutes, sir. Transporter room two.”

“On my way,” Lar’ragos responded, patting Shanthi on the shoulder with one hand as he deactivated his communicator with the other. “Make good use of them, Lieutenant. I’ve decided to keep the transwarp drive, provided we can get it to work. We’ll need every advantage we can get if we’re going looking for the Amon.”

* * *

Lar’ragos was standing by when Iris Wu materialized atop the transporter pad.

The blue-white beam dissolved as the petite Asian woman stepped down from the transport pad. She carried a large duffel over her left shoulder and wore the uniform vest rather than the full jacket. With a small isolinear optical chip clenched in her right hand, she came to an attentive stance and proclaimed, "Wu, Lieutenant Commander Iris Aileen Ming-Yue, reporting for duty, sir. May I have permission to come aboard?"

“Permission granted, Commander,” Lar’ragos responded, stepping forward to offer a firm handshake as Wu descended from the dais. “Welcome aboard Europa.”

She transferred the small chip to her left hand to accept the handshake with her right. Lar'ragos practically towered over her small stature, so that she needed to angle her neck up to meet his gaze. As a result, the black hair that tended to cascade around her face draped back to her shoulders. "Thank you, Captain."

Lar’ragos led her into the corridor, deftly side-stepping a repair team scuttling past with a bank of neural gel-packs atop an a-grav carrier. The El Aurian put on his best apologetic smile. “Sorry about the mess, we’re still picking up the pieces.”

Wu's eyes scanned the corridor in all directions before she followed him. Every noise given brief but silent investigation with a quick glance, every movement was accounted for. "Understandable, sir," she replied flatly, once she caught up to him. "I've taken the liberty of attending a quick technical briefing of our current status by Captain Lo before coming aboard, and I've absorbed the specifications and diagrams of the Luna-class once I learned of my transfer. I will use the next few days to gain some practical knowledge of the ship while I have this rare opportunity to do so."

Lar’ragos mused silently that Wu lived up to her icy but highly competent reputation. “Excellent, Commander. Unless I can assist you with anything further, we’ll have a senior staff meeting at oh-seven-thirty tomorrow, followed by the funeral service. The rest of my day tomorrow will be spent in strategic meetings with my replacement as StratOps. I have every confidence you’ll keep on top of our repair schedule.”

Wu nodded once. "Rest assured, sir, that we will meet or exceed expectations. With your permission, I would like to be excused from the memorial."

Lar’ragos quirked an eyebrow at the unusual request. "Unless you’ve something more pressing, I feel it’s important for the crew to see the new XO standing alongside the captain during the service. I’ll gladly let you skip the reception tomorrow night in the rec lounge.”

She pressed her lips together in a very slight expression before returning to her standard look. Lar'ragos had to observe closely to see if her mouth moved as she spoke, as it looked close to a ventriloquism act as she replied softly, "Very well, I will attend at your insistence, sir."

“Thank you, Commander.” Lar’ragos paused, allowing her wait there for just a second longer. “I’ll leave you to get settled in.” With that he pivoted smartly on one heel and departed.

* * *

USS Europa

The crew stood at parade rest, assembled in formation facing the dais situated just inside the main shuttle bay doors. They were arranged in alternating red, blue, and gold departmental colors, an unspoken testament to the reality that despite whatever division they served, their destinies were inextricably intertwined.

Between the dais and the crew lay thirty-seven torpedo tubes, each one draped with the powder blue flag of the United Federation of Planets. Most of these caskets contained the body of a fallen crewmember, while others were merely symbolic, representing a person who’d been completely vaporized or was otherwise unrecoverable.

Lar’ragos stepped up to the podium, setting his padd down atop the lectern and reaching out to ring the ship’s bell which hung next to him.

Wu called out, “Attention to orders,” with flawless precision and the crew snapped smartly to attention in unison. She waited for the order to relax to come forth from Lar'ragos, and then activated her padd to transmit data.

Lar’ragos began with the traditional refrain, “We are gathered here today to pay respects to our honored dead.” He paused to collect his thoughts, and then continued in his own words. “Eight of our number fell in the confrontation with the Romulans, and twenty-nine others were killed in the battle with Masada. Like you, I grieve for friends and comrades among the dead. I mourn the lost potential, the end of friendships and familial bonds. A piece of us shall remain with them always, and they in turn will reside within us. Their sacrifice will propel us forward, reinforcing our determination to see this task through to completion.

“Despite the burden of these losses, we must acknowledge that they will not be the last among us to fall. I wish I could offer you more comforting words, but the reality is that Starfleet is all that stands between the Alpha Quadrant and the horde of refugees bearing down upon our respective civilizations. We cannot rely on our traditional allies to rescue us, as we have seen with our own eyes how divided the Romulans are in their purpose, and the Klingons have yet to even arrive.

“Every life given here in the Delta Quadrant may equate to millions, or even billions in the Alpha Quadrant who will remain healthy and whole as a result of our individual sacrifices. We few who have chosen to stand shoulder to shoulder on this line knew the risks that came with this uniform. We have been tested time and again in our training and over the course of our careers. Here is where we will face our ultimate trial, the challenge of confronting this gravest of threats while keeping our morality and our ideals intact.”

Lar’ragos looked out onto the ranks of officers and enlisted personnel, his eyes scanning across their faces, many known to him while others were unfamiliar, replacements filling the positions of those they were there to honor.

“Issara Taiee was affectionately known as ‘doc’, and she was a healer in every sense of the word. Her skills as a surgeon saved my life, and perhaps more importantly, her caring nature and her generous spirit helped to save my soul. Issara possessed a wisdom far greater than her years would suggest, and given the horrors she endured and the risks she ran to treat our wounded during the Dominion War, she could have elected to work at nearly any planetary installation in the Federation.

“Instead she chose to remain aboard an outdated, outgunned escort ship that saw far more action than it should. Then she decided to join Vanguard, knowing full well the dangers involved. Her humanitarian actions aboard In’Drahn Station, working with minimal support and few resources, earned her the Bronze Cadeceus. Doc Taiee’s last action in defense of her crewmates, that of sealing Sickbay off from the rest of the ship, has warranted the submission of her name for consideration for a posthumous Medal of Valor.”

As he spoke, Lar’ragos’ eyes grew glassy with emotion, something he’d once believed far behind him, lost to the mists of time. The man who’d hardened his heart in order to perform the unspeakable, the man who’d so recently studied the intricacies of Vulcan Kolinahr in an attempt to hold his demons at bay, now felt the surge of genuine grief coursing through him.

“Olivia Juneau was a pain in my side from the moment we met. She was opinionated, stubborn, and had a mischievous streak that rubbed me raw. And yet, in the time I knew her, this shy, awkward woman blossomed into something more. She grew into a formidable presence that shepherded this crew through a hopeless battle against the seemingly unstoppable Romulans bent on our destruction.

“Juneau became more than the sum of her parts, and in so doing, she achieved a greatness none of us knew existed within her, not even herself. That will be Olivia’s enduring lesson to us all, that when called upon, there is enormous potential within each of us. We await only that spark, that confluence of circumstances to ignite our true selves.”

Lar’ragos continued, referencing his padd to draw from painstakingly researched histories to speak with surprising detail about the other fallen crew. Wu had collated these stories and anecdotes the night before during a marathon research session that would have made a Starfleet Intelligence analyst envious. Her findings complemented Pava’s inherent emotive gifts, and the result was a touching memorial that seemed to help salve the crew's psychic wounds while girding them for the challenges yet to come.

Following his words, Lar’ragos moved to join the others, falling into formation at the front of the gathering. The dais and podium dematerialized before a forcefield flickered into existence which separated the ranks from the great bay doors. Those doors opened to reveal the aft end of their drydock gantry and the stars beyond. The engines on the individual torpedoes flared, lifting them slowly off their pedestals and sending them in a staggered formation out and away from the ship. Once clear of Galaxy Station’s traffic, the flotilla of torpedoes turned gracefully and set a final course for the system’s central star.

“We commit these dead to the depths of space,” Lar’ragos announced with finality.

* * *

Chapter Three

USS Europa

“Lieutenant Shanthi and the Bynar pair are making steady progress in culling any hidden access permissions from Captain Sandhurst’s transwarp systems programming,” Wu noted as she strode along beside Lar’ragos down one of Europa’s corridors.

Lar’ragos smiled grimly. “Perfect. Inform Captain Renault that we’ll be hanging on to oh-one and oh-two for the foreseeable future, on the authority of Admiral T’Cirya. I’m sure the good captain will agree that our regaining transwarp capability trumps whatever operational needs Gwendolyn has at the moment.”

“And shall I use that exact phrasing, sir?” Wu asked as she made a notation on her padd.

“Well, no. Be… you know… diplomatic.”

“Aye, sir,” she said with a subtle clenching of her jaw. “I will employ... diplomacy.’”

He offered her a saccharine smile. “See, that’s the spirit.” He stopped in the corridor in front of the door to his quarters. “Anything else on today’s agenda? If not, I have a date with a couple of dozen heavily armed holograms.”

“Only one, sir. A Lieutenant Commander Ojana is requesting a meeting with you at your earliest convenience.”

Lar’ragos appeared nonplussed. “Pell, actually,” he corrected gently. “She’s Bajoran.”

Wu looked at him wordlessly.

“She’s Galaxy Station’s XO,” he continued.

Wu’s silence stretched on.

“And… you don’t care,” Lar’ragos assessed with a chagrined smile.

“Respectfully, sir, all I need to know is if you want to see her, and if so, when is convenient for you.”

Lar’ragos considered that for a moment. “Thirty minutes, and send her down here to my quarters.”

Wu logged the meeting on her padd. “Yes, sir.”

Lar’ragos offered Wu the Vulcan salute. “Work long and proper,” he intoned.

She didn’t even reward him with a raised eyebrow, allowing him only her infuriatingly patient stare. She lifted her hand in the same fashion and replied, "Same to you, sir."

“Careful,” he countered with a wry smile, “That’s coming dangerously close to demonstrating a sense of humor, Commander. Goodness knows we can’t have that.”

Wu looked at her hand and quickly placed it back down at her side. "Yes, sir." Though her face never expressed it, Lar'ragos picked up on her slight shift in her posture. The more time he spent with her, the easier it became to pick out her almost-imperceptible tells.

“You’d like to leave now,” he offered.

She stiffened slightly. "By your leave, of course, sir."

He stepped through the doors into his cabin, “Dismissed, First.”

The unorthodox title caused a visible twitch across her scarred cheek just before she turned to stride down the corridor. Out of her sight, Lar'ragos allowed himself an evil grin as the doors closed.

 

* * *

Precisely one half hour later, the door’s annunciator chimed.

“Enter,” he offered from where he sat behind his work desk, filing the last of the day’s datawork.

Pell Ojana entered, looking somewhat ill at ease, as though she was walking into the lion’s den.

“Come in, Commander,” Lar’ragos said, setting a convivial tone. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Pell took a seat across from his desk, her face a mask of conflicted emotions. Lar’ragos sensed a mix of anger, apprehension, and resignation.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

A petulant smirk flitted across her features. “I’m going to give you the satisfaction of hearing me beg, Pava.”

Lar’ragos leaned forward to deactivate his computer display, before sitting back in his chair to appraise Pell. In his most business-like voice he said, “Commander, I’d remind you that I’ve extended you the courtesy of this meeting on short notice. I’ve done so despite an especially busy schedule as we’re making preparations for our departure. Were our positions reversed, I assure you that the last thing I’d try to do was to belittle you, most especially while standing onboard your post. In that spirit I trust you’ll show me the respect I’m due aboard my ship.”

She gulped, “Yes… Captain. I apologize.” Pell would rather have provoked one of the old Pava’s sneering threats, and had been unprepared for the cool, reasoned response of a genuine commanding officer. “I’m here to request a transfer to Europa for the duration of your upcoming mission, sir.”

He frowned. “For what purpose?”

“You mission, as I understand it, is to make diplomatic contact with the less aggressive of the two Amon tribes, sir. I’m one of the most qualified diplomatic specialists presently assigned to Vanguard.”

Lar’ragos ran his tongue along the back of his teeth as he continued to consider the unusual request. “Ambassador Epstein is perfectly capable of handling that aspect of our assignment, Commander,” he replied evenly.

Pell continued, “It’s also obvious that you intend to exploit your friendship with Donald Sandhurst to try and sway that tribe’s loyalties to something more in line with Federation interests.”

“I don’t recall any such provisions in our mission orders,” Lar’ragos noted evasively.

Pell inclined her head. “That’s a guess on my part, but it’s an educated one. If that’s the case, my presence might prove an added inducement to Captain Sandhurst.”

“It just might,” Lar’ragos conceded.

Her eyes faltered, unable to maintain their lock on Pava’s. “I need to be there.”

“For him?” Lar’ragos asked.

“And for me,” Pell confessed. “I’ve been… unable to let go. It appears I’m in need of closure.”

Lar’ragos scrutinized her. “When the Amon made their second appearance, it was you who convinced Captain T’Ser to fire on their ship with an Alpha Weapon, knowing full well that Donald was aboard. If you’ll forgive my saying so, you didn’t appear in especially great need of closure at that moment.”

Pell’s eyes found Lar’ragos’ once again. “I’ve slept precious little since then. Under the circumstances, it was the correct course of action, but that hasn’t stopped me from agonizing over it.”

“You were correct,” Lar’ragos advised. “You made the right call then, and I was the one in the wrong.” He shifted in his chair, bracing his weight on one arm rest as he leaned towards Pell. “Please know that it’s my hope and my intent to bring Donald back into the fold. Failing that, my orders direct me to try and forge an alliance with ‘his’ tribe against the Amon that have been launching attacks against the Alpha Quadrant.”

She nodded softly. “As I surmised.”

“However, if I discover that Donald Sandhurst has himself become a danger to the Alpha Quadrant, I will not hesitate to eliminate the threat he poses.”

“Kill him, you mean,” Pell snapped.

“By any means necessary,” Lar’ragos confirmed.

Pell laughed loudly, a sardonic sound devoid of humor. “You think you could actually bring yourself to shoot him? I highly doubt that.”

Lar’ragos’ expression and voice conveyed an absolute sincerity, somehow lacking in overt malice despite the subject at hand. “Your belief is not required, Commander. I have my orders, and I’d rather Donald die as the man he was, rather than live on for millennia as some alien sycophant.”

Pell blanched, all traces of dark comedy having evaporated in the face of Pava’s stark admission.

“You still want in?” he asked sharply.

“Yes.” There had been no hesitation in her response.

“Fine. If you can sell it to Commander Worf, I’ll propose it to T’Cirya.”

“Thank you,” Pell said reflexively.

“Don’t thank me, Commander,” Lar’ragos sighed. “You may well curse me before all this is over.”

 

* * *

The Klingons arrived the next day, decloaking unexpectedly en mass within half an AU of Galaxy Station. There were a few tense minutes before Starfleet and their new allies could say with certainty that an attack was not forthcoming.

The Klingon fleet was led by one of their mammoth Negh’Var-class heavy assault cruisers, one of only a handful of the ships the Empire’s brittle post-war economy had managed to produce. Ten Vor’cha-class heavy cruisers, and twice that number of light cruisers of assorted classes rounded out their merry band of destructive potential.

Vice Admiral T’Cirya had called her two Klingon experts to her office, Captain Lucian Ebnal and Commander Worf. The Klingons had ignored repeated hails, and the admiral was right on the cusp of raising the defense condition of the station and the various starships in the vicinity when a youthful looking Klingon adorned with the rank insignia of a Brigadier General appeared on their viewscreens.

“I am Brigadier Gan’Louk of the Klingon Defense Forces. The Klingon Empire offers its warriors and its ships in the Alpha Quadrant’s defense. We are ready to assist our Federation allies, as well as those local species that have joined in that honorable cause. Whomsoever stands as an ally to the Federation shall be an ally to the Empire.” The transmission ended with the image of the Klingon trefoil.

In T’Cirya’s office, Captain Ebnal blew out a relieved breath at the brief statement. “At least they didn’t come out shooting.”

The Vulcan admiral appeared to ignore Ebnal’s observation, turning instead to address Commander Worf. “What do we know about this Gan’Louk?”

“Surprisingly little, Admiral,” Worf answered stolidly. “He has an enviable battle record, he is politically well connected within the High Council, and perhaps most importantly, all the right people appear to fear him.”

“Who constitutes the ‘right people,’” she asked, directing that query to Ebnal.

The formidably taciturn captain replied, “He beat out at least twenty-five other top military commanders to earn the honor of leading this battle fleet. That speaks to serious political clout, but Intel has next to nothing on who his direct benefactors might be. His supporters on the Council run the gamut from political conservatives to pro-democracy constitutionalists, which is nearly unheard of. The last person who was able to cobble together that broad of a coalition was K’mpec.”

“You spoke of an enviable war record,” T’Cirya noted, turning back to Worf. “How so?”

“During the Klingon/Federation war, Gan’Louk commanded a task force that pushed all the way into the Talosian Corridor before the cease-fire was signed. He participated notably in the Klingon invasion of Cardassian space, leading the assault on Udrok Nor and seizing Testamus Prime’s shipyards intact.”

“I presume he was equally fortunate during the Dominion War?” T’Cirya inquired.

“Suffice to say he earned great glory for himself, his house, and the Empire,” Ebnal summarized.

“None of what you’ve told me could not be discovered in a simple alliance datanet inquiry,” T’Cirya observed.

Ebnal nodded, “Which is unusual in and of itself, sir.” He shot Worf an almost apologetic look as he noted, “Klingons are larger than life, or at least they try and project that aura. They’re braggarts, shouting to the rafters about their accrued glory and deeds of note. Only, Gan’Louk doesn’t play by those rules. What we know of his victories are only due to their being transcribed in his house’s official history.”

Worf very nearly smiled at Ebnal’s assessment. “I cannot dispute the Captain’s interpretation, Admiral. Brigadier Gan’Louk seems to have intentionally downplayed his own accomplishments. In Klingon culture, it’s highly unusual, and suggests someone who has something to hide.”

T’Cirya considered that. “Who might be a resource in our discovering what Gan’Louk may wish to conceal?”

Ebnal shrugged, and looked to Worf. The Klingon commander responded, “I will have to do some digging. Perhaps there is a scorned member of Gan’Louk’s house who may be willing to air their dirty laundry.”

The Vulcan's agreement drew nothing more than a simple nod. "Captain, I'd like for you to liaise with the General for the forseeable future. I believe they may have expected Commander Worf, but I would prefer to disappoint them." Her gaze shifted to Worf. "Commander, you will continue to advise and report to Admiral Brotman."

Ebnal nodded curtly. "Aye, sir."

Worf stood. “Yes, Admiral. I will have estimates on Klingon capabilities and force strength to Strategic Ops as soon as I’ve compiled the data.”

 

* * *

 

Bazaar Commercial Zone, Galaxy Station

The name of the establishment was an unpronounceable garble to humanoid tongues, a Habertaem expression that translated roughly to ‘The Drinking Hole.’ It was to this tavern-like locale that Lar’ragos brought Europa’s senior officers, sans Wu and Counselor Liu. Wu had already established that she wasn’t the social type, and Lar’ragos had been unable to convince the reticent Liu to leave the holodeck where the man had been fly fishing a remote North American river.

Europa’s relaunch was only two days away, and as the crew had been working long hours to have the ship ready in time for that deadline, Lar’ragos had wanted both to celebrate the achievement as well as foster camaraderie amongst the reconstituted senior staff.

It was evident that Starfleet engineers had exercised some influence on the formerly Habertaem design of the bar, adding more humanoid-friendly chairs and tables to the existing lounging troughs that the scorpion-like aliens rested in.

Lar’ragos was dressed casually in civilian clothing that seemed to defy categorization to any single era, but had replicated a Terran World War II-style bomber jacket for just this occasion. The back of the jacket was emblazoned with a ferocious looking cartoon rendition of a Luna-class starship, reminiscent of the design-team logos favored by the SCE. Around the image were the words, ‘U.S.S. Europa. Mess With The Best, Burn Like The Rest.’

The others were dressed in a mishmash of uniforms or civilian attire, or a combination of the two. Ashok was clad in engineering overalls that still bore holes and stains from his day’s exertions in the ship’s access tubes, while Leone was dressed in a Starfleet Academy hooded sweatshirt and matching sweatpants.

The ship’s new Ops Chief, Lieutenant Georgia Kirk, wore a sleeveless t-shirt and jeans, her mannish figure further accentuated by her closely cropped red hair. The great granddaughter of Peter Kirk, Georgia was the first of the family lineage to pursue a Starfleet career in the past seventy-five years. She had done everything in her power to disassociate herself from her family’s legacy within Starfleet, and had joined Task Force Vanguard with an eye toward making a name for herself separate that of her nearly deified great-uncle.

A Habertaem server scuttled over to their table, taking drink orders as the creature’s glassy black eyes seemed to stare vacantly into their very souls. Those recent arrivals to the Delta Quadrant were still coming to terms with the horrific disfigurements the now deceased Husnock had inflicted on their slave species.

Kirk shook her head as the server moved off to another table. “You’re telling me you folks have grown used to that?”

The tall, ebony skinned Kuenre Shanthi smiled. “We’re getting there. The pheromone inhibitors we helped them to manufacture have taken the edge off the outright revulsion AQ’s typically feel when first meeting the Habertaem.” He craned his neck to look back at the entrance as a trio of large silhouettes darkened the doorway. “The fact that they’re genuinely the nicest people helps, too,” he added.

Lar’ragos gave Kirk a look that suggested he was assessing her. “They were slaves for untold generations, Lieutenant. Despite all they suffered under the Husnock, they’ve made every effort to welcome us to this region, even when their warm welcome invited attack by the Amon.”

Kirk didn’t shrink from his gaze. “I didn’t suggest they weren’t a trustworthy people, Captain. I’m merely noting that this part of the galaxy seems home to a higher-than-average number of exotically non-humanoid species.”

“By design,” Lar’ragos countered. “The Husnock wanted to defile them so completely that they would always be remembered. In that, at least, they succeeded.”

“Speaking of defilers,” Leone muttered, nodding his head towards the doorway.

The hulking trio stepped into the dim light of the bar, revealing themselves to be swaggering Klingon warriors. They pushed past a Habertaem attendant as though the creature wasn’t there, moving farther into the room where they spied a table occupied by a quartet of Yaoshan traders.

The three warriors surrounded the table, glowering at the occupants until the delicate, willowy Yaoshan decided to find a less hostile location to host their social gathering. The merchants beat a hasty retreat as the laughing Klingons seated themselves into their still-warm chairs.

The server returned to deliver the Starfleet officers’ drinks, before clacking over to the Klingon table on its spindly, segmented legs. The Habertaem tried to take the warriors’ drink orders while one of their number amused himself by throwing Gramilian sand peas at the host’s head.

Kirk closed her eyes and sipped at her ale. “I can’t stand bullies,” she murmured, reigning in her emotions.

Ashok frowned but remained silent.

Leone looked away, clearly disgusted but unwilling to risk a confrontation with their newly arrived allies.

Lar’ragos exhaled slowly, and Leone observed his commanding officer’s posture shift ever so slightly, muscles relaxing in preparation for explosive movement. The El Aurian turned in his chair to address the Klingon trio. “Your brigadier claims our allies are your allies.”

The sand pea tormentor paused his snack flicking assault just long enough to snort derisively. “What of it, human?”

“I’m curious as to which of you is the liar, you or your general?”

All three Klingons stood in unison, two of their chairs toppling over. The Habertaem server wisely decided to retreat.

“Watch your tongue, Starfleet, lest I remove it,” called the Klingon that Lar’ragos had identified as the senior among them.

“I would not behave as you have while aboard a Klingon station.”

“You would not dare,” snarled the leader, his hand resting not so subtly on the handle of his d’k tahg knife.

“You’re correct,” Lar’ragos answered reasonably. “I would not dishonor my uniform or my ship by my actions towards the helpless.”

“Stand up and say that to my face, human,” the Klingon officer spat.

“I stand in the presence of warriors,” Lar’ragos said simply, “not cowards.”

The Klingon bolted forward as both Leone and Kirk began to rise from their chairs. The other officers, more familiar with Lar’ragos, remained seated. There was a flash of steel and a blur of movement, followed by a wet cleaving sound and nearly simultaneous grunts of pain.

The first Klingon sank slowly to his knees, his own d’k tahg's blade plunged through his hand, pinning it to the table top. One of the other warriors was leaning against a faux-wood support beam, his hand pressed tightly to his throat as a trickle of blood seeped from between his fingers. The third man knelt on the floor, his hands grasping his groin as his eyes watered.

“This was unnecessary.” Lar’ragos said quietly to the leader, squatting down to look at the man eye-to-eye.

“What?” the officer hissed from between clenched teeth.

“All I asked was that you comport yourselves as soldiers of the Empire.” Lar’ragos ran his finger along the curves and points of the Klingon’s family crest, seeming to admire the emblem. “When you or your friends come in here, I expect you to mind your manners. And the next time you pull a knife on me, you’d best have made reservations in Gre’thor beforehand.”

Kirk and Leone shared a surprised look before slowly resuming their seats. Shanthi leaned over to the lieutenants and whispered, “Welcome to Europa.”

Lar’ragos reached out and tapped the Klingon’s comms device attached to his gauntlet. “This is Commander Lar’ragos aboard Galaxy Station. I would cordially invite Brigadier Gan’Louk to come collect three of his ‘honorable warriors’ who appear to have had too much bloodwine.”

* * *

By the time Brigadier Gan’Louk and a host of Klingon soldiers arrived, station security had been summoned, as well as medical personnel whose ministrations the injured Klingons steadfastly refused.

Captain Ebnal had entered moments earlier, but rather than assume command of the scene, he had melted into the background to observe.

The general waved his entourage back as he stepped up to inspect the state of his three warriors. He turned his gaze on Lar’ragos, the only Starfleet member from Europa’s contingent not seated. “Your work, I presume?” he inquired in a disinterested tone.

Lar’ragos leaned against the table in a casual posture, arms folded across his chest. “Your men were abusing the Habertaem. I attempted to address their behavior, and they chose to... escalate the situation.”

Gan’Louk reached out and jerked the knife free from both hand and table, freeing his soldier. The man rose to his feet, clutching his wounded hand to his chest to staunch the blood flow. The brigadier gestured to the cadre that had accompanied him, and they moved to envelope the three troublemakers and usher them out of the establishment.

With a flick of his wrist, Gan’Louk sent the d’k tahg flying towards the deck, where it lodged tip-first in the floor barely an inch from Lar’ragos’ feet.

The El Aurian didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. He hadn’t seen that coming.

“It’s yours,” Gan’Louk offered in a neutral tone, showing none of the bluster and outrage one might expect. “You earned it.”

“Thank you, no,” Lar’ragos demurred. “I’ve had more than enough Klingon toys in my day, Brigadier.”

The comment seemed to generate the briefest flicker of anger behind the Klingon officer’s eyes. The heat had barely registered on Gan’Louk’s face before he banished it. He turned to address the Habertaem owner of the social club. “You have my apologies for the unwarranted actions of my soldiers. They have dishonored their uniform, their houses, and the empire. We will pay for the damages in the currency or trade goods of your choice.”

Then Gan’Louk stepped close to Lar’ragos, leaning in to whisper, “You never fail to disappoint, outworlder.”

Lar’ragos’ expression was hard enough to humble neutronium. He replied in an equally subdued tone, “Keep your dogs on a tighter leash, and I won’t have to repeat this lesson.”

“Next time, bring the lesson to me in person,” Gan’Louk said in a lethal purr.

A slow smile crept across Lar’ragos’ lips. “I await your invitation... General.”

Gan’Louk turned on his heel and stormed out.

Lar’ragos pulled out his chair and was about to take a seat when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Not so goddamn fast, Commander,” came the growling voice of Lucian Ebnal.

Lar’ragos favored him with an innocent expression. “Yes, sir?”

“We have an unscheduled appointment with Vice Admiral T’Cirya.”

* * *

“So Commander Twinkletoes here decides it’d be a hoot to brawl with the Klingons in the bazaar, and then drag the brigadier into the mess to highlight the oafishness of his men.”

Admirals T'Cirya listened to Ebnal's report from behind her desk with Rear Admiral Brotman standing near by. They had been mid-discussion when news of the altercation reached them. Brotman remained within the office at her insistence. "Your penchant for color notwithstanding, Captain, I prefer concise brevity when hearing from my officers," she said tonelessly.

“Very well, sir. In that case, Pava started a fucking fight with the Klinks,” Ebnal enthused.

Brotman began a chortle, but it bit off into a sudden coughing fit. "Pardon me, sir."

T'Cirya paid Brotman no attention. She rose from her seat and approached the viewscreen on the left side of the desk. "Captain Lar'ragos?"

Lar’ragos was seated with his legs crossed, looking rather disinterested in the proceedings. When addressed by T’Cirya, he stood. “Sir?”

"Rear Admiral Brotman and I would appreciate a verbal report on your assessment of General Gan'Louk," she said. "It's timely, considering we were just discussing their strength. It would be helpful to know his character."

“Yes, sir,” Lar’ragos answered crisply. “The brigadier came to the bazaar straightaway and apologized for his mens’ actions. He even offered restitution. It’s likely the three soldiers involved are already dead for having shamed their general.”

Brotman scoffed. "That's to be expected, isn't it? Their idea of maintaining discipline has little to do with discipline at all." His demeanor and reaction betrayed his prejudice toward the Klingons. "Their style of military function is archaic. It's a wonder they've survived this long."

"Thank you, Admiral," T'Cirya nearly cut him off, then turned back to face Lar'ragos. "And thank you, Captain. That's a rather interesting and useful bit of information about him. I daresay you've managed to uncover precisely what we were looking for."

Ebnal stood with arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Lar’ragos. “They way you two spoke, I’d wager that wasn’t your first encounter. Where do you know Gan’Louk from?”

For the first time since arriving in T’Cirya’s office, Lar’ragos appeared vaguely uncomfortable. “Metralus II. He led the Klingon contingent that ransacked our colony there when the Empire invaded. I was captured just before the armistice, and Gan’Louk and I had words. We’re not each other’s biggest fans.”

That drew the very Vulcan expression of the lifted eyebrow from T'Cirya. "Indeed," she said. She returned to her desk and touched the control panel. "Lieutenant, please inform Captain Grelk that I will be delayed in meeting with him. And then, send for Commander Worf. Thank you." She addressed the group once more. "Captain Lar'ragos, Admiral Brotman will be in touch with you regarding any information that you can provide about the general. Furthermore, I believe that Brigadier General Bainbridge may see fit to receive you. He is here with Teams Six, Eight, and Nine."

Lar’ragos inclined his head. “Good timing, sir. Additional assets from the Teams will be a definite force multiplier out here.”

Ebnal continued to give Lar’ragos a skeptical look as the two men exited the office. “I don’t mind you slapping around a few Klingons for a good cause, Pava, but calling Gan’Louk out in front of his people risked kicking over the hornets’ nest.”

Lar’ragos turned to face him. “I’ll keep that in mind, Captain. Thank you.”

“See that you do,” Ebnal retorted. “I know you're a demon of hand-to-hand combat, but if you’d fucked up and the Klingons had gone to disruptors, you’d have only been the first person they shot, not the last. You’ve got a crew to think about now, so no more of this interstellar cowboy shit.”

“Less me, more Sandhurst?”

Ebnal grunted. “Something like that.”

* * *

 

USS Europa

The holodeck had been laid out in an exacting replica of Europa’s briefing room, as to make best use of the chamber’s holographic capabilities.

Lieutenant(j.g.) Lightner was making his first presentation as the ship’s newly appointed Strategic Operations Officer. At Lar’ragos’ encouragement, he’d taken on that new assignment in addition to his helm duties. The captain hoped that it would become a first step for the young man into the larger world of command.

The starship was underway at Warp Eight, on course for a system two sectors distant, the farthest push yet into the Delta Quadrant by a participant of Vanguard. En route, they would carry out tests to determine if the transwarp drive could be restored to operability.

A bright yellow line traced its way through the starscape above their heads, denoting Europa’s present course to its ultimate destination. “This is us,” Lighner began. “As you can see, we are only one of a number of vessels undertaking operations in this theater at present.”

An orange line arcing in the opposite direction was highlighted as Lightner narrated. “This is Valiant escorting the Gilsan Aggregate convoy to a Class-M planet that Giacobini surveyed six weeks ago in System D-463/8. Valiant will be helping them to establish a colony site and an orbital defense grid. That mission will likely keep Valiant's crew occupied for most of the next three months.”

A green line, some parsecs distant, indicated yet another TFV vessel. “Ascendant is presently shadowing the alien fleet formation designated UIF-6 as it approaches the coreward-most shelf of the Norma Arm. We don’t know their intentions, as it appears most if not all the lifeforms aboard their ships are in cryonic suspension and the vessels aren’t responding to linga-code hails.”

Lightner continued, detailing the assignments of a half-dozen other starships before moving on to address Europa’s latest mission.

“Our task out here is two-fold. Our secondary assignment is to try and get the transwarp drive working again. Our primary task, however, is to attempt to locate Captain Sandhurst’s tribe of Amon who are believed to be operating somewhere in this region. Their pattern to date indicates they prey on the resulting confrontations between the incoming alien fleets and those settled societies in the refugee’s path.”

The overhead image shifted, speeding ahead of Europa’s golden course marker to their destination sector. “One of our advance reconnaissance probes has been tracking two incoming fleet formations in close proximity to one another and traveling at identical warp velocities. From the probe’s observations, it appears their technology is sufficiently dissimilar to suggest they are separate species, and detectable damage to both fleets and recurring energy blooms believed to be weapon exchanges are indicative of sustained warfare between the two groups.”

A red line charting the shared course of these two entwined formations traced towards a nearby star. “They are heading for a system containing a Class-M world that another of our probes identified as being home to a sentient species. The planet-bound species is estimated to have a level of technology analogous to that of mid-nineteenth century Earth. However, indications of derelict high-orbit artificial satellites and abandoned lunar installations suggest that the native species achieved some level of technological sophistication before a general societal collapse prompted their backslide.

“The resulting struggle that we anticipate over this planet and its natural resources by these two more advanced cultures will likely involve in a significant death toll, which is why we believe it may be an opportune target for Amon ‘harvesting.’”

With a nod, Lightner turned the briefing over to Shanthi. The tall Zulu stood, calling up an enhanced image of the bluish-green sphere. “This is Alanthal, the planet in question. We’ve begun attenuating our sensors to detect the dimensionally offset collection arrays the Amon typically place in orbit around worlds they’re feeding on. We haven’t identified any yet, but we’re still a long way out from the system.”

“We’ve all read the brief,” an agitated Georgia Kirk remarked, holding up her padd. “And if we find the Amon, what then?” She was obviously unwilling to sit passively through the rest of Lightner and Shanthi’s scripted presentations. “What if they don’t want to talk? Have you seen the tactical specs on that souped-up cube they’re flying?”

Shanthi looked down at her with hooded eyes. “Actually, Lieutenant, I’ve stood toe-to-toe with it. Many of those around this table have as well.”

Lar’ragos considered intervening, but ultimately took a page from Sandhurst’s leadership guidebook and allowed the two officers to grind down one another’s rough edges via friction. He could sense Wu’s frustration with the ongoing interplay, but disciplined as she was, Wu refrained from looking to Lar’ragos or showing any visible sign of her irritation.

“We’ll have an ‘in’ with Sandhurst,” Shanthi pointed out.

“He’s one man,” Kirk replied disbelievingly. “And based on how he fought his way off this ship, they’d pretty well pickled his brains on life-essence already. You really think one AWOL Starfleet officer with a monkey on his back that size is going to sway an entire nation to our side?”

A flicker of uncertainty clouded Shanthi’s expression. “We’ll have the captain… and Commander Pell,” he continued haltingly.

Kirk waved one hand dismissively. “Oh, well then, by all means. Just so long as we’ve got a duranium-clad plan in place.”

“That’s enough,” Wu called, verbally stepping in between the two.

Kirk turned her gaze on the XO. “Respectfully, sir, you should be the one pointing all this out. I realize that most of the senior-staff have served together for years, and that to them this scheme might make some kind of sense, but to me it sounds like a blindly desperate stab in the dark.”

“It’s the plan we have,” Wu uttered in a frosty voice. “This is where you shut up and listen, Lieutenant.”

Kirk raised her hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Aye, sir.”

Shanthi directed a question towards Leone. “I trust you’ve had the chance to look over the tactical profile of the Amon vessel?”

“I have,” Dom replied seriously. “My assessment of their capabilities would be that anything short of a devastating sneak-attack with an Alpha Weapon would leave us completely at their mercy. They’re hundreds of times our mass with the firepower to match.”

The science officer’s response was a patient, “We’re not planning on fighting these Amon.”

Leone held the taller man’s gaze effortlessly. “And have these Amon acknowledged receipt of that memo, Lieutenant?”

Shanthi turned his back dismissively on Leone and looked to Lar’ragos. “A little help, sir? I don’t see that I have to justify our mission to anyone.”

“No, of course not,” Lar’ragos agreed, sitting forward. “For those of you who are new here, I understand that I can’t expect the same confidence that I do from those I’ve served with previously. We’ve been through a great deal together, and that underlying trust is something that can’t be replicated quickly. I’ll have to ask each of you to extend me a certain amount of faith that I and those above me who planned this mission are more familiar with the circumstances and the players than you.”

There was a grudging expression of acceptance from Kirk, and Leone appeared skeptical but resolute.

“Sandhurst’s presence carries great weight among the Amon,” Lar’ragos explained. “It’s true that we don’t fully understand his particular significance and all it portends, but we hope that it can be exploited in order to foster an alliance between our peoples.”

That seemed to quell the figurative murmurs of dissent from the newcomers, and Shanthi picked up where he’d left off. “The approach of the alien species to Alanthal will also give us better opportunity to observe their tactical strengths and weaknesses, should we eventually have to oppose either or both groups down the line.”

“Dare I ask as to the fate of the indigenous population?” Counselor Liu inquired. “May I presume the Prime Directive is being invoked here?”

“Yes,” Lightner confirmed, fielding the query for Shanthi who again wore a pained expression. “They have no weapons advanced enough to allow for any kind of effective defense. The best case scenario for them would be to hunker down and try to stay out of the way while the two spacefaring species plunder their world for natural resources.”

Jaws set and eyes hardened around the table.

Lar’ragos spoke up to dissuade another round of fruitless inquiries. “Tragic though it is, the plight of the native Alanthians is not our concern. We are interested in this world because it fits the profile we believe most tempting to the Amon.”

“Collateral damage, then?” Liu said acidly, his unmistakable pout of distaste aimed directly at Lar’ragos.

“Natural selection,” Lar’ragos countered without missing a beat.

“Easy for you to sa—“ Liu began, only to be cut off in mid-sentence by Pava’s fist crashing down onto the table top.

“Stop acting like a goddamn child, Counselor!” Lar’ragos barked, startling more than one person at the table. “A first-year cadet understands the why’s and wherefore’s of the Prime Directive, and I won’t waste my breath debating the subject with you out here on the bleeding edge of the Delta Quadrant. And while we’re on the subject, next time you want to flaunt your moralistic hand-wringing over the fate of a helpless victim species, perhaps you shouldn’t try it with someone whose whole race was annihilated by the fucking Borg!”

A shocked silence followed and Liu appeared to be expending a great deal of energy on inspecting his hands resting in his lap, as everyone else wished mightily that they were exactly anyplace other than here.

“We’ll try this again in two hours, people. When you return, leave your bleeding hearts at the door. We’re here to prevent a giga-deathcrime from being visited upon the Alpha Quadrant, and I’ll thank all of you to remember that.”

Lar’ragos’ eyes scorched across everyone at the table. “Everyone except Commander Wu is dismissed.”

After the others had beat a hasty retreat from the holodeck, Wu gazed impassively at Lar’ragos from across the table. “That may be one of the best impressions of Lucian Ebnal I’ve ever seen employed, sir,” she remarked dryly.

Lar’ragos smirked. “It did the trick. I need them all focused on the big picture here, not obsessing over those we can’t save.”

“Just between us,” Wu inquired blatantly, “just how much of a gamble is our present mission?”

“A blind man grasping at straws blown by gale-force winds would stand a better chance of success than we do,” he answered with equal candor.

She digested that in silence for a long moment. “Why me?” Wu asked.

“You’re a soldier, like me,” he replied. “Come what may, you’ll follow orders and complete the mission, if at all possible.” Lar’ragos stood, turning away from her. “Before this is over, we may well be called upon to do… unspeakable things, Commander. I needed a hard hand, and a harder heart from my XO.”

“You’ll have both,” Wu answered sincerely.

“I know.”

* * *

Chapter Four

Captain’s Personal Log.

The board is set; all the pieces are in place for the coming contest. Europa is as ready as we can make her, and the crew is single-minded in their focus on the mission ahead. I wish I were as well… but I’m plagued by doubts and fears of what lies in wait for us. My concern isn’t merely for the crew, but for what failure on our part could mean for the Alpha Quadrant.

Standing on my own two feet, responsible for none but myself, I am undeniably formidable. This isn’t hubris, but hard fact underscored by my still drawing breath after everything the universe has thrown at me. Yet, I feel as though I must expand beyond myself and spread all that I am into an impossibly thin layer in an effort to encompass and protect this ship and crew. In so doing, I become vulnerable. Decades of refusing promotion, of deferring responsibility, all to avoid this damning weakness that now consumes me.

The system and situation we’re heading for are promising, obviously, but something deep in my marrow tells me that we’ll find Donald there with his warrior clan. I’m not sure how or why, but it’s a sense of certainty that I’m unable to shake.

Even if we locate him, will anything remain of the man I remember… of my friend? I fear that I may find him only to discover he has become as twisted by the Amon as Ramirez has been by the Baron. And if so, what then? Could I bring myself to destroy Donald Sandhurst?

Deities, I can’t even bring myself to say the word in reference to him… me, of all people! Kill. Will I be able to kill the only true friend I’ve known in the last hundred years?

Before this confrontation… this Dark Contact, I must put my house in order. I have neglected members of my senior staff, some out of convenience, and others out of anger. We must form a united front if we are to survive the Amon, and that effort begins with me.

End Entry

 

* * *

Pell glared across the ready room desk at Lar’ragos, her flinty gaze causing the exhausted El Aurian to look away first. “Pouting won’t change matters, Ojana,” he offered a bit too flippantly, even for his taste.

“You bring me on board and then restrict me from your senior staff meetings,” Pell countered in an even voice that belied the hard set of her features. “Please explain to me how that makes any sense whatsoever?”

“You’re not serving in the capacity of a senior officer here,” Lar’ragos explained as he struggled to collect the shredded remains of his patience. “You’re a diplomatic advisor in case we make contact with the Amon.”

“So, in the meantime I do what? Sit in the TOC and polish the consoles?”

“How you spend your time is your affair, Commander,” Lar’ragos deflected. “If I were in your boots, I’d be spending all my available time collating everything we know about the Amon in preparation for our genuine First Contact with them.”

Pell’s eyes remained fixed on Lar’ragos. “I did that before we’d left Galaxy Station, sir, and as I sent you my compilation of all relevant records prior to our departure, you already know that.” She sat forward in her chair, her posture inviting a candid reply. “What’s really going on here, Pava?”

He hesitated, but finally answered. “We’re heading for an inhabited planet that’s about to be overrun by two warring intruder species. The mission profile has certain… similarities to Velkohn.”

Pell nodded her understanding. “You wanted to avoid my causing a scene en route to the planet. I can respect that.”

Lar’ragos threw her a surprised look, clearly caught off guard by Pell’s sedate reaction.

“I was forced to learn a good deal of pragmatism as Worf’s XO, Captain,” Pell said by way of explanation. “The mass migration is a tragedy for everyone involved, and I’m not so naive as to think we can save everybody.” She gave Lar’ragos a sanguine expression. “It’s important to me to be of real value on this mission, aside from just being leverage to influence Donald.”

Lar’ragos raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Then I owe you an apology, Ojana. Given our strained history, I thought it was better to handle you with kid gloves.”

“I can be an asset, if you’ll let me,” Pell offered.

The El Aurian inclined his head. “I’d welcome that.”

* * *

Lar’ragos hopped from one river-wetted rock to the next in order to get close enough to Counselor Liu to be heard over the burbling river and the chattering of swooping bullet-head sparrows.

Liu stood waist-deep in the water, wearing hip waders. He cast the line from his fly-rod in gentle, swishing arcs above his head.

“This another North American river?” Lar’ragos asked, forced to raise the volume of his voice to be heard over nature’s cacophony.

“No,” Liu called back. “It’s a tributary of the Cochrane River on Alcent.” He gestured offhandedly to the reptilian bullet-heads that flitted back and forth above the river. “Not so many flying lizards on Earth anymore.”

Lar’ragos nodded distractedly, the gesture lost on Liu. “I’ve never been to Alpha Centauri.”

Liu continued fishing, and an awkward silence followed before Lar’ragos was moved to say, “I wanted to apologize for snapping at you during the staff meeting. It was out of line.”

Liu shrugged. “I did lay it on a bit thick, but I’d be lying if I said the moral ramifications of this mission didn’t bother me.”

“It’s a shit mission,” Lar’ragos admitted, “for all of us.”

“Apology accepted,” Liu said. “I’m sorry if I struck a nerve.”

“Some nerves are especially sensitive, even after four-hundred years.”

Another silence followed, this one more comfortable, leaving both men alone with their thoughts for a few minutes.

“You’re not Sandhurst,” Liu said finally.

“I never claimed to be.”

Liu turned to glance at Lar’ragos. “You keep trying to be, though. You played by Sandhurst’s rules in the engagement with Masada, and they handed us our asses.”

Lar’ragos’ expression soured. “I’m well aware of my failings, Counselor.”

“Then play to your strengths,” came Liu’s response. “You’re a bloodthirsty, cold-hearted bastard, Captain. That’s not a criticism, by the way, so much as an acknowledgement of your gifts. When you play against type, you stumble. When you’re so focused on following in Sandhurst’s footprints, you lose sight of the objective.”

Lar’ragos bit back an acidic reply as he was forced to concede the truth of Liu’s words to himself. “What would you recommend?”

“Be what you are,” Liu pressed.

“And what’s that?”

“They don’t send a man like you to make treaties, Captain. You’re not a scalpel for precisely excising a cancer. You’re the last option, the doomsday weapon launched to lay waste everything in your path.”

Lar’ragos digested that. “That’s quite the backhanded compliment.”

“If you want someone to blow sunshine up your ass, look elsewhere,” Liu sighed.

“You’re suggesting they sent Europa out here to do… what? Destroy the Amon outright?”

“And Sandhurst, if necessary,” Liu added. “I think Command is hoping you’ll convince Sandhurst’s tribe to make war against their countrymen, before wiping out whoever’s left standing at the end of that fight.”

A thrill of realization arced up Lar’ragos’ spine as Liu so effortlessly articulated what Lar’ragos had been unable to verbalize for days.

“When they replenished the Alpha Weapons Ramirez made off with, did Command issue us anything new?”

Lar’ragos closed his eyes, cursing his own lack of imagination. “As a matter of fact… yes.”

Liu called out, “Computer, end program.”

The idyllic environment vanished, leaving both men standing within a naked holodeck.

“There’s your answer then, Captain.” Liu walked towards the exit, pausing as the heavy doors parted with a pneumatic sigh. “If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one,” Liu quoted from the Bhagavad Gita. “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

He left Lar’ragos alone on the holodeck, the younger man’s prophetic words ringing in his ears.


* * *

The main viewer was awash in the swirling infinity-point perspective of transwarp as Europa tunneled through the void between dimensions at nearly a dozen times her rated maximum speed.

“Two minutes until deceleration marker,” Lightner advised from the Helm.

“Acknowledged,” Lar’ragos replied evenly, sparing an approving glance toward Ashok at the Engineering board. “As good as your word, Lieutenant.”

The Bolian looked up from his panel to receive the praise with his typical reticence. “You may want to wait until we’ve successfully translated back to normal space, Captain.”

“I’d call shortening an eleven day trip at warp nine-point-nine to a little over eight hours a success, Mister Ashok. You’ll have to forgive my enthusiasm.”

Ashok turned back to his readouts. “So noted, sir.”

“Shields on hot standby, precautionary,” Wu alerted from her seat to Lar’ragos’ right. Cool and efficient, Wu remained the crew’s stolid anchor, balancing Pava’s impetuousness.

“Mister Shanthi, status of our sensor grid?” Lar’ragos queried.

“Standing by to scan known Amon subspace frequencies for any signs of their energy collection satellites, sir,” came the young scientist’s prompt reply.

Unlike typical warp propulsion, travel through transwarp space left a vessel immune to the potentially devastating shear of planetary and stellar gravity wells. Thus, a ship could drop out of transwarp in orbit of a planet instead of limping into a system at impulse speeds or risking a potentially lethal warp-engine imbalance.

Europa had successfully tested the drive on two shorter jumps in preparation for this, the final leg of their outbound journey to the system containing the Class-M world of Alanthal.

“Here we go,” Lightner urged. “Hang on to your hats.”

The viewer blinked from the shifting kaleidoscope of a transwarp corridor to the orbital view of a mottled, blue-green sphere. A collision alarm wailed unexpectedly, Europa’s automated systems throwing the ship hard over into a half-impulse turn far faster than humanoid reaction time would have allowed.

“Report!” Lar’ragos called out.

“Debris,” Kirk advised from Ops. “Duranium and tritanium elements… “

“It’s a wing,” Shanthi finished. “Contemporary Klingon design, from a Bird-of-Prey, B'rel-class.

Kirk’s sudden intake of breath drew Lar’ragos’ attention. “Multiple sensor contacts, sir. Klingon warships, numerous classes and configurations.” Her hands flitted across her control board. “Picking up additional debris in significant quantities.”

Lar’ragos appeared at a loss for words, but finally managed to blurt, “What in the hell is going on here?”

Shanthi turned towards the captain from his place at the Science station. “I’m seeing signs of intensive space combat in the vicinity of the planet, sir. The flotsam is consistent with the constituent elements of vessels from both intruder formations as well as Klingon technology.”

Lar’ragos turned to Wu, his expression one of uncharacteristic confusion. “I don’t understand,” he hissed in a low tone. “How did the Klingons get here before us?”

“Immaterial,” she countered in an equally subdued voice. “We must respond to the fact that they are here, and have apparently initiated hostilities with the intruder groups.”

“There’s an audio message in linga-code broadcasting in the open from the planet, Captain,” Kirk noted.

“I thought they were pre-warp,” Pell Ojana offered from the seat to Pava’s left. “Now they’ve suddenly got subspace radio technology?”

Lar’ragos waved a hand dismissively, becoming overwhelmed at the influx of conflicting information. “Let’s hear the message.”

“Be it known to all who approach this world, Alanthal is now under the protection of the Klingon Expeditionary Force. Its people and resources are guarded by the full faith and arms of our empire. If you wish to die with glory, we await you. Otherwise, seek your resources elsewhere.”

Lar’ragos winced, holding a hand to his head as if suffering the onset of a sudden headache. “This doesn’t make any damn sense,” he murmured. Then, louder, he ordered, “Get me some answers, people.”

“That’s quite a bit more articulate than I’d expected,” Counselor Liu remarked from where he sat at an auxiliary console. In response to Lar’ragos’ baleful glare, he added, “The Klingon transmission, I mean, sir. Typically they don’t say more than ‘stay out or die.’”

Wu turned a concerned expression on Lar’ragos, who seemed increasingly addled. “Sir, are you…”

Lar’ragos extended an unsteady hand to clasp Wu’s upper arm gently. “I—I’ll be fine. Something’s… wrong, though.”

“Incoming transmissions on multiple Starfleet emergency frequencies.” Kirk glanced over her shoulder to where Lar’ragos struggled to get his bearings. “Inquiries, status requests, and even an emergency beacon remote activation code.” She frowned in confusion. “Some of these were sent weeks ago.”

Lightner glanced over at the Ops station from his position at the Helm. “What’s the time stamp on those—oh.”

“Shit,” Kirk breathed, finishing the sentiment for him.

“Report,” Wu ordered as Lar’ragos fought to find his voice.

“According to the time-beacon imprint on these transmissions, it appears we’ve arrived in the system approximately thirty-seven days later than we projected, Commander.”

Lightner looked back from the Helm. “We’ve lost… more than a month?” His voice was incredulous.

“That would explain my temporal hangover,” Lar’ragos muttered. He forced himself to his feet, walking unsteadily to brace his hands on the backs of the Helm and Ops seats. He called back to Ashok without looking in the Bolian's direction. "Lieutenant, it appears either your calculations were off or my praise was premature. Either way, I’ll expect a full report in no less than six hours.”

Lar'ragos turned his attention to the Ops officer. “Identify the flagship,” he ordered, sounding as though he already knew the answer.

Kirk sorted through the active transponders of dozens of Klingon vessels sharing Alanthal’s orbit. “The She’v-Ja, sir.”

“Legacy,” Lar’ragos translated, his expression growing taut. “Gan’Louk’s ship.” He looked back to Shanthi at the Science station. “Kuenre, where’s their command-and-control located?”

A moment passed as Shanthi swept the planet and inner system with Europa’s potent sensor array. “I’ve detected Klingon C-&-C communications and data traffic coming from what appears to be a nation-state capital on the surface. I’m also reading several hundred Klingon life-signs in the vicinity of the control center.”

Lar’ragos began making his way shakily towards the turbolift.

Wu stood, clearly uncomfortable with Lar’ragos’ intended departure. “Captain? Your orders, sir?”

Lar’ragos braced himself against a support column just shy of the turbolift doors. “Bring us within transporter range. I’m going down there to have a private conversation with the brigadier.”

The XO moved close to Lar’ragos, whispering, “With all due respect, Captain, I think our priority should be making contact with Galaxy Station and checking in.”

Lar’ragos snapped his fingers in Kirk’s direction. “Ops, what’s our subspace time-debt to Galaxy Station?”

The woman’s reply was swift and succinct. “Comms time delay is two hours, twenty-seven minutes, sir.”

Lar’ragos gestured in Kirk’s direction. “See, you can call HQ and let them know we’re back in play while I’m attending to business planet-side. It’ll be five hours before we receive a reply and new orders, anyway.”

Lar’ragos turned to step into the lift, and was momentarily startled to see Counselor Liu standing in the car awaiting his arrival. He was not an easy man to sneak up on, and Liu knew Lar’ragos must be very out-of-sorts for him to have been caught so unawares.

The doors slid shut and Liu took the opportunity to speak before Lar’ragos could silence him. “You’re being somewhat rash, sir. Perhaps unnecessarily so.”

“Captain’s prerogative,” was Pava’s only reply before ordering the ‘lift to Deck 5.

“It’s clear you’re feeling the effects of something, sir,” Liu observed. “Is now really the best time to be making impulsive decisions regarding the Klingons? I’d remind you that you recently sullied the personal honor of three of them, as well as publicly embarrassed the very general you’re so set on confronting at the moment.”

“The Klingons have made a hash of this whole First Contact,” Lar’ragos practically snarled. “They’ve violated the Prime Directive by revealing themselves to a pre-warp civilization, and they’ve completely undercut any opportunity of our making diplomatic overtures to either of the encroaching alien fleets.”

Liu nodded reasonably, as if giving Lar’ragos’ words due consideration. Then he parried, “Respectfully, sir, the Klingons aren’t bound by the Prime Directive and you know that. Additionally, the inbound alien groups were due to make planetfall on Alanthal prior to our arrival, meaning that the natives would have already been made painfully aware of other spacefaring civilizations.”

Lar’ragos opened his mouth to make counterpoints, but Liu beat him to the draw.

“And we’re sitting on an arsenal of conventional and Alpha weapons that we were prepared to use against the intruder species when we left Galaxy Station, so your complaint that the Klingons ruined our chances at peaceful contact is more than a bit disingenuous.” Liu followed this up with a pleasant smile that only grated on Pava’s raw nerves all the more. “In fact, the resulting bloodbath here may make this system even more enticing to the Amon.”

Lar’ragos broke eye contact with Liu as the turbolift doors opened. “You’re not privy to the full picture here, Counselor.”

Liu followed Lar’ragos out into the corridor, falling into step beside the smaller man as the El Aurian made his way towards the nearest transporter room. “Please enlighten me, sir.”

“This is a personal matter between Gan’Louk and I. An old disagreement that he’s using as fuel to drive this little public relations stunt of his.”

Liu appeared openly skeptical. “Captain, what kind of personal feud would incite a noted Klingon hero to conquer a Level-4 pre-warp culture while simultaneously starting a war with two previously unknown intruder species?”

Lar’ragos drew up just short of the doors to the transporter room, turning a severe expression on Liu. It was evident he did not intend for the counselor to follow him inside. “Only the worst kind of vendetta for a Klingon...” Lar’ragos stepped across the threshold and as the doors began to close he added, “A family one.”

* * *

Chapter Five​

Class-M planet Alanthal

The native Alanthalians of this continent favored sweeping, palatial architecture, not completely dissimilar to Terran French Baroque or the Green Period of Efrosian construction. It was into this mélange of blocky but garishly ornate buildings and buttresses that Lar’ragos materialized.

It took him less than a second to feel the presence of others nearby, entirely too close for comfort. He spun around, reaching for the phaser sidearm he’d requisitioned in the transporter room. With the weapon not yet halfway out of its holster, Lar’ragos came face-to-face with a chagrined looking Lieutenant Leone, decked out in an unfastened tactical vest hastily thrown on over his uniform and cradling a phaser rifle. Two of Europa’s Starfleet Marine contingent flanked the young officer.

“XO’s orders, sir,” Leone launched preemptively.

“Where the hell from?” Lar’ragos asked hotly.

“Simultaneous beam-in from transporter room three, Captain.”

Lar’ragos grunted sardonically. “Well, in that case, welcome to the party.” With that he turned and walked away, his three-man security detail trailing behind him.

The locale appeared to be a central government complex, with ostentatious bureaucratic buildings interspersed with meticulously cultivated gardens and park areas. If the planet had been subject of an attack by either or both of the intruder species, it certainly hadn’t happened here. The only things that appeared out of place were mobile Klingon surface-to-orbit torpedo batteries and disruptor cannons that had been stationed in courtyards and some of the park grounds.

The complete absence of people did trigger Lar’ragos’ suspicion, however. “Take a scan. Is there anyone around or is this all for show?”

One of the Marines tapped at the combat tricorder built into his forearm gauntlet. “I’m reading both Alanthalian and Klingon lifesigns in the surrounding structures, sir.”

The Klingon security team that intercepted them was good, very good. Lar’ragos usually had a sixth-sense for knowing when he was being watched, but the stealth-suited commandos were on them in an instant without having registered on the Marine’s tricorder.

A dozen disruptor toting men became visible simultaneously as their mimetic armor deactivated.

Lar’ragos cast a suddenly mischievous glance over his shoulder at Leone and the Marines before looking towards what he assumed to be the commanding officer of the intercept cadre. In his most guttural Klingon, Lar’ragos proclaimed, “Take me to your leader!”

* * * ​

They and their Klingon escorts entered a cavernous audience chamber, now emblazoned with Klingon banners bearing the imperial trefoil.

The venue was conspicuously devoid of native Alanthalians, none of whom Lar’ragos had yet laid eyes on. Brigadier Gan’Louk was seated in a large, throne-like chair, surrounded by portable computer work-stations manned by Klingon technicians. Holographic screens projected onto the walls between the gaudy imperial banners denoted activity in orbit as well as on the planet’s surface.

Lar’ragos moved away from his escorts, making a beeline for Gan’Louk. A Klingon bodyguard who interceded crumpled to the floor so quickly Leone hadn’t the opportunity to see what his captain had done to the man.

Gan’Louk looked up from a padd, clearly unimpressed and seemingly unconcerned. “That was uncalled for, Commander,” he assessed gravely.

‘What is the meaning of this outrage?” Lar’ragos hissed, his whole frame vibrating with barely contained anger.

Gan’Louk fixed the El Aurian with an inscrutable expression. “Specify.”

“You’ve invaded and conquered a pre-warp civilization as well as started hostilities with two intruder formations!” Lar’ragos fairly shouted.

“Your ship went in to transwarp drive over a standard month ago and vanished, Commander,” Gan’Louk explained in an unaccountably reasonable tone. “Now you emerge from the ether, unaware of how events have unfolded in your absence, yet frothing at the mouth and making unwarranted accusations.”

Lar’ragos pointed a visibly shaking hand at the Klingon general. “You just couldn’t pass on a chance to try and show me up, could you?”

“Have care, Commander. My patience with your theatrics wears thin,” Gan’Louk warned. “I allowed your unauthorized intrusion into what is now Klingon territory, and have thus far been a cordial host.” Gan’Louk rose to his feet unhurriedly, his eyes locked on Lar’ragos. “I am the commanding general of this theater, and I will tolerate no more insolence from you.”

Lar’ragos was unmoved. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to gather your people and get off th—“

The crack of Gan’Louk’s back-handed strike reverberated throughout the largely stone chamber, followed by the echoing slap of Lar’ragos body hitting the floor and the surprised grunt the blow drew from him.

“Perhaps you did not hear me, Pava?” Gan’Louk stood his ground atop the dais, near the chair, looking down at where Lar’ragos lay sprawled on the ground. “You’re obviously not yourself, which is a pity. If we are going to settle our differences, I’d rather you be in full command of your inestimable abilities.”

Leone and the Marines stood by, their hands kept carefully away from their rifles as the Klingon commandos continued to hold them at disruptor-point.

Lar’ragos scrambled to his feet, his face a rictus of outrage, his eyes burning with an unnamed fury. “Get down here, and let’s do this,” he called out.

Gan’Louk threw off his outer cloak, revealing a powerful body moving beneath a thin fabric covering. Though his armor paid homage to traditional Klingon garb, it had obviously been designed to allow for ease of movement, with segmented plates that shifted fluidly with the brigadier’s frame. He spoke not another word, but stepped down to the level occupied by Lar’ragos.

Lar’ragos struck, but he seemed to be moving in slow motion in comparison to the brigadier. Gan’Louk blocked Pava’s blow and responded with a lightening-quick grab and throw that resulted in Lar’ragos rolling inelegantly across the cobblestone-like floor before finding his feet again. “You see that I did not blind you, nor tear out your throat as you taught me,” Gan’Louk spoke as if lecturing to a class of students.

Again, Lar’ragos rose to his feet, his gaze fixated on Gan’Louk. “You arrogant little shit,” he growled between clenched teeth. He moved forward with surprising speed from a dead stand-still as Gan’Louk stepped back to absorb the oncoming fury of his attack.

A flurry of blows followed, parried by equally fast defensive counters before the two men closed the gap between them and grappled furiously. Lar’ragos dropped to the ground, executing a leg-sweep that accomplished nothing more than eliciting a laugh from Gan’Louk as his leg absorbed the impact like the trunk of some great, unmoving tree.

In response, Gan’Louk reached down and snatched Lar’ragos up by the scruff of his uniform jacket before throwing him a full five meters across the chamber to collapse heavily to the floor. “Clumsy,” the brigadier assessed. “Clumsy and slow. Today, it would seem, is not your day, Pava.”

Lar’ragos let loose a guttural cry as he charged headlong towards the general. Gan’Louk stepped to the side gracefully for someone of his size, delivering a crushing closed-fisted blow to Lar’ragos’ sternum that stopped the smaller man cold in mid-stride. The El Aurian’s whole body shuddered with the force of the impact, and he sank slowly to his knees as a soft groan escaped his lips.

“I did not stop your heart,” Gan’Louk continued, “nor did I break your neck.”

Lar’ragos shook his head, rallying his reserves as he attempted to rise.

Gan’Louk touched a hand to the nape of Pava’s neck, performing a textbook Vulcan nerve pinch that immediately rendered Lar’ragos unconscious. The brigadier lowered Lar’ragos gently to the floor before standing to address the other Starfleet personnel.

“Return your captain to your ship, and tell your first officer to beam down as soon as practical,” he commanded. “Inform your ship’s surgeon that Lar’ragos is likely suffering from the aftereffects of a temporal fugue, brought on by your transwarp displacement. An infusion of neutrally-charged chronometric particles directed at his hippocampus might theoretically correct his condition.”

Gan’Louk directed his grim visage at Leone. “Do you understand your orders, Lieutenant?”

Dominic licked his lips unconsciously before replying, “I do, sir.”

The brigadier turned his back on them, waving a hand dismissively in their direction. “Then be gone.”

* * *​
USS Europa

Lt. Commander Wu stalked into Sickbay, a hint of flame in her typically tightly controlled expression. She spotted the new chief medical officer examining an unconscious Lar’ragos on a biobed as a pensive looking Dominic Leone stood off to one side.

“What happened?” Wu asked, never one to mince words.

Leone came to attention as Wu’s presence registered with him. “I’m guessing a grudge match, sir. The captain started in on the brigadier, even dropped one of his security detail, and then the two came to blows. It—uh, didn’t last long.”

Wu turned to address the boyish looking Doctor Reskos. “What’s his condition?”

There was a prolonged pause as the willowy physician studied his med-scan results on a nearby monitor. “He’ll make a full recovery, Commander,” came his casual reply. The thin, delicate looking man spared the XO a quick glance, his features registering annoyance at her interruption.

“What are the extent of his injur—“ Wu began.

“Working,” Reskos cut her off mid-sentence. “We’ll talk when I’m finished.”

Rather than take offense at the doctor’s terseness, Wu turned back to Leone. “Why didn’t you try to stop him, Lieutenant?”

Leone stiffened ever so slightly at the implied criticism. “Well, it’s a toss up between common sense and the squad of heavily armed Klingons pointing distruptors at me, sir.”

Wu blinked, seeming to assimilate and dissect Leone’s response before replying. “Understood. You’re not to breath a word of this to anyone, understood? Make sure those Marines solid copy that order as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Leone responded. “The general said he wanted you to beam down as soon as possible. Not certain it was an order, but I took it that way, sir. He also offered some possible treatment advice for the captain that I passed on to the doc.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.” Wu turned away from him abruptly and started towards the exam table.

Leone nodded curtly and stepped out the nearest exit, wisely keeping his smoldering thoughts to himself.

Wu moved closer to the exam table in time to see Lar’ragos come suddenly to life, flailing wildly, one of his hands connecting solidly with Doctor Reskos’ jaw with a resounding crack. Wu raced forward, ready to catch the doctor’s crumpling form, but the man hardly seemed to acknowledge the attack.

The doctor had absorbed the blow gamely as he pressed a hypospray to Lar’ragos’ neck, sending the captain back into the warm embrace of unconsciousness. “Unhelpful,” Reskos murmured. “Now you’ve a broken hand to go along with all your other injuries.”

He continued his examination for another five minutes before surrendering the captain’s care to a subordinate and finally acknowledging Wu’s presence. “I have an initial report for you, Commander,” Reskos announced softly.

“Go ahead.”

“His injuries are serious, but not life threatening. Blunt force trauma, likely the result of his sparring match with the brigadier.”

“He was acting peculiarly after we dropped out of transwarp, disoriented somehow...” Wu struggled to put a name to what she’d observed.

“Ah, yes,” Reskos nodded enthusiastically, motioning Wu towards a large display set into a bulkhead. He called up a rotating diagram of Lar’ragos’ brain. “The brigadier was very helpful in that respect, actually. He alerted us to a potential imbalance in the captain’s hypothalamus, which seems to have been an accurate diagnosis.”

The neurological scan expanded, zooming in on an interior portion of the brain atop the brainstem, about the size of an almond. “El Aurians' are hypersensitive to chronometric variances, such as the one we experienced when we emerged from transwarp at the wrong temporal coordinates. Such variances create a biochemical cascade in the hypothalamus, leading to the production of a number of fight-or-flight related neurotransmitters, hormones, and endorphins. That’s what caused the aberrant behavior you witnessed, sir.”

“Is there a cure?” Wu inquired.

“A treatment, yes. Bathing his hypothalamus with neutrally charged chronitons, as the brigadier recommended, has essentially reset the captain’s system. Once I’ve flushed the offending neurotransmitters from his system and he's got some rest, he should be ready to resume duty.”

Wu appeared skeptical. “So, the Klingons couldn’t have caused this, triggered it somehow?”

“I’d hardly see how,” Reskos replied. His face shifted through a series of expressions, finally settling on one that evoked dubiousness. “Is this right?” he asked.

Despite the topic of conversation, Reskos’ naïve inquiry had nearly made her smile. “Yes, that’s an adequate facial expression, given the circumstances.”

Reskos appeared pleased. “Good, thank you. I’ve been working hard at that. It’s quite amazing that I’d previously paid so little attention to humanoid non-verbal communications. Now that I’m expected to use them, I occasionally find myself at a loss as to which ones are appropriate.”

Wu shook her head. “It doesn’t help that you look like a sixteen year-old boy, Doctor.”

Reskos’ jaw dropped open in a look of abject horror. “Really?”

Wu sighed. “Too much, Doctor. That expression should be saved for when we’re boarded by the Borg. Now, if you don’t mind, back to the captain?”

“Yes, of course. Ah—where were we?”

“You were about to poke holes in my theory that the Klingons were somehow behind the captain’s biochemical crisis,” Wu prompted.

“Yes,” Reskos agreed. “I don’t see how they’d have the capability to direct such a precise reaction. Besides, it doesn’t really seem their style, does it? Subtlety, I mean?”

Wu cocked her head to one side. “The Klingons can be especially devious, Doctor. They were already practiced at cunning when my ancestors were first learning to walk upright and yours were… well, whatever the hell they were doing several hundred-thousand years ago.”

The doctor’s youthful visage smiled brightly. “We’ve been spaceborne for nearly twenty millennia, Commander. We were exploring the cosmos even then, albeit very slowly.”

It hadn’t been until his species’ First Contact with the nascent Federation that the Medusans had discovered the promise of warp drive.

“Then how can you explain why a Klingon general not only doesn’t kill the captain for daring to lay a hand on him, but then correctly diagnoses his rare condition?”

Reskos laughed aloud at that. “Why, Commander, that’s the first mystery I solved!” He walked over and lifted one of Lar’ragos’ hands. “I took genetic samples of the tissues the captain had come in contact with in order to help diagnose any possible transmitted pathogens being responsible for his condition. As you might imagine, due to their little dust up, the captain has more than a few cellular samples from Brigadier Gan’Louk on him.”

Wu was tiring quickly of the doctor’s conceited slow-reveal of his own diagnostic prowess. “And?”

“The brigadier is only half-Klingon, Commander. The other half of his genetic makeup is El Aurian.”

A long pause followed as Wu computed that new information. “You don’t suppose—“

“Oh, of course. That’s the first test I ran. Gan’Louk is confirmed as being Lar’ragos’ son.”

Wu uttered a series of colorful invectives that left Reskos clearly impressed. “Can I use some of those, by chance?”

The XO headed for the exit, not wanting to make the increasingly enigmatic Gan’Louk wait for her any longer than necessary. “Not while you’re in that body, you don’t. Honestly, Doctor, you’re over a thousand years old, I’m surprised they couldn’t find a Soong-class android body more suited to your age.”

“But…” Reskos replied to the closing Sickbay doors, “…I like this one.”

* * *​
USS Europa

The gentle daylight crescent of the planet below was visible through the observation lounge’s forward facing viewports. Two officers sat at the briefing table while Wu stood looking out at Alanthal, her back to the others.

“He’s not going to wait forever,” Counselor Liu remarked. “Especially not after the show the captain reportedly put on down there.”

“I need a game plan first,” Wu countered, her attention still fixed on the glittering ring of debris that reflected shimmering sunlight in high orbit of the planet.

“If the doctor is correct about Gan’Louk’s parentage, I’d advise that you keep away from that topic, sir.” This from Pell Ojana, seated one place over from the counselor. “Many Klingons are still highly xenophobic when it comes to matters of ‘racial purity’. It’s very likely Gan’Louk has managed to keep his mixed species origins secret, or he’d never have attained so high a rank in the Defense Forces.”

Wu turned to look at her advisors. “How far might he be willing to go in order to protect that secret?”

Liu and Pell exchanged glances and the Bajoran answered, “No telling, sir. The fact that we’re still here in orbit is a good sign. The captain’s provocation, however inadvertent, would have been sufficient reason for a less patient Klingon commander to destroy us.”

“We’re still awaiting a reply from Galaxy Station,” Liu noted, “so we don’t know if Gan’Louk and his expeditionary force even have permission to be out here in this capacity.”

Wu smiled darkly. “Klingons don’t tend to ask for permission to do much of anything, Counselor.”

Liu held up his hands in a gesture of submission. “Perhaps so, Commander, but somehow I doubt even a Klingon general wants to get on Admiral T’Cirya’s bad side.”

“Okay,” Wu nodded to herself. “I’ll go down and apologize for the captain’s actions, and seek clarification as to the Klingons’ intentions.”

“I wouldn’t apologize, sir,” Liu offered. “They might perceive that as weakness, which would be worse than the original offense of insubordination.”

"Agreed," Pell threw in.

“Then what do I say to the brigadier?” Wu snapped out of frustration.

“Ask for orders,” Pell suggested. “That infers we recognize Gan’Louk’s authority, whether or not Starfleet Command has sanctioned his presence yet.”

“Fine… good, I’ll do that,” Wu remarked as she moved for the exit.

Pell stood to intercede before Wu reached the door. “I should go with you, sir.”

Wu shook her head. “With the captain out of commission, you’re the only experienced command officer aboard while I’m planetside. Someone has to mind the store.”

In response to Liu and Pell’s earnest expressions, Wu said, “I’ll take Dominic with me, but that’s all.”

* * *​
Leone was waiting for Wu in the transporter room, and inclined her head towards the lieutenant as she entered. He was once again wearing a tactical vest and carrying a compact phaser rifle.

“Is there anything I should be on the lookout to prevent you from doing down there, sir?” he queried innocently, earning an icy look from the XO.

“Okay, I had that coming,” she replied grudgingly as she mounted the dais and took her place on a transporter pad. “I apologize for my earlier comment. After speaking with Liu and Pell, it’s clear that any further provocation would almost certainly have resulted in Starfleet casualties.”

“Nice of you to say, sir,” Leone said as he stepped atop his pad.

“If things go sideways down there, be prepared to fight our way out,” Wu instructed. “Energize.”

Leone’s response was lost in the hum of the transporter beam.

* * *​
Planet Alanthal

The Klingon command center bustled with activity as Wu and Leone were escorted to where Brigadier Gan’Louk was conferring with a number of harried looking logistics officers.

The general was delineating orbital paths on a three-dimensional wire-frame hologram of Alanthal’s immediate vicinity in-system. “The survivors from the ships we lost will need integrated into the crews of intact vessels that suffered the greatest losses,” the general ordered. “Scavenge whatever weapons and equipment we can from the wrecks and set them adrift in high orbit. We can use their hulls as bulk repair material for any future damage sustained by our larger warships.”

He dismissed his subordinates and turned to face the new arrivals. “Commander Wu, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The large Klingon extended a hand to her in an unusually human gesture.

Wu shook the hand firmly, concealing her surprise well. “Thank you, sir.” She gestured to Dominic. “This is Lieutenant Leone, our chief security/tactical officer.”

Gan’Louk inclined his head towards Leone. “We’ve met, though not officially,” he said, referencing the earlier unpleasantness with Lar’ragos. “You did well to hold your ground without inviting a response from my soldiers, Lieutenant. It is not easy to stand by and watch a well-regarded superior self-destruct.”

Leone began to reply, but Wu silenced him with a raised hand as she answered, “The incident with our captain was unfor—“

“There is no need for human apologies,” Gan’Louk interjected. “And my issues with Lar’ragos are personal in nature, not professional. He and I will settle matters between us at a later date. Until then, we have a job to do here, wouldn’t you agree, Commander?”

“Yes, sir.” Wu answered smartly.

Gan’Louk traced lines in the air with a finger, changing the holographic image to reveal four triangular markers set at equidistant orbital points around Alanthal. “We’ve identified what we believe to be four Amon satellites. Though our sensor resolution is not as fine as your ship’s, we Klingons have over a century of experience with cloaking technology.”

“Sir,” Wu interjected. “May I ask as to the nature of your presence here? We’ve not yet received updated orders from Galaxy Station.”

“All of Taskforce Vanguard’s available ships were already tasked to other vital missions,” Gan’Louk explained without a hint of annoyance. “I volunteered the Klingon Expeditionary Force to go in search of Europa, as well as attempt to carry out your mission in your absence, should we fail to locate you.”

“I see, sir,” Wu offered.

“So, yes, we have the official authorization of Admiral T’Cirya to be here, Commander,” Gan’Louk added with just a hint of a smile. “After all, we in the Empire know how secretive the Federation has been about this threat to the entire quadrant.”

“My query was intended only to gauge the level of cooperation I’m able to offer in the absence of direct orders, General.”

Gan’Louk replied with a dry, “Of course,” before adjusting the holographic image to now include the ring of debris Wu had observed from Europa. “The attack fleets of the Briari and the Mok had already engaged in a battle for domination over the planet when we decloaked. I offered both species the chance to surrender peaceably. Fortunately for us, they were too foolish to accept my generous proposal.” He directed a toothy grin at Wu. “Pity there was nobody here to inform them that Klingon mercy is almost a contradiction in terms.”

“Both groups were completely destroyed?” Leone inquired.

“Not entirely. The Briari formation fled along their original course, yet at only one-third their previous strength. The Mok proved more stubborn. The few thousands of them that survived our onslaught have been settled on a marginally Class-M moon in orbit of the system’s second planet.”

Wu drank in the graphic, asking, “No sign of the Amon as yet, I presume?”

“No,” Gan’Louk confirmed with a detectable hint of regret in his voice. “However, with the slaughter of the Briari and Mok, we must have filled their energy reservoirs to near bursting. They will come soon enough.”

“And if they don’t?” Leone asked.

“Then we’ll employ Starfleet’s tactic of threatening the collection arrays themselves.”

Leone let out a slow breath. “Because that worked so well for everyone last time…”

* * * ​
Planet Krowtanai
Delta Quadrant

“Defensive screens have failed!” barked the weapons officer, blood leaking out from under his combat helmet.

“What the four hells are they?” the archon gasped as he clutched the arm of his command chair against the listing deck as the warship’s inertial dampeners began to fail.

“They… they are Borg, Archon!” cried a green recruit sensor officer, his voice cracking with panic.

The Archon knew of the Borg, the scourge of the Delta Quadrant, having once glimpsed one of their tactical spheres at the edge of the Righteous Hammer’s sensor range. As a young novile the cruiser to which he was assigned responded to a Krowtonan colony that had been attacked by the Borg, only to find the settlement and everyone it contained had been scooped off the face of the world.

The Borg were a force of nature; plodding, patient, advancing inexorably until their opponent had ground down, overwhelmed and assimilated. Whoever was attacking the Krowtonan homeworld in the guise of the Collective were a passionate people, and if his senses were not deceiving him, they they harbored a vicious streak that rivaled that of his own race.

Another salvo of corkscrewing missiles slashed from the nearest facet of the cube, punching through the screens of a half-dozen other Krowtonan warships, sundering all but one of them as the archon looked on in horror. Collimated beams of brilliant white scorched across the mighty orbital shipyards, blasting apart those vessels unfortunate enough to have been at anchor when this assault began.

“Route all remaining emergency power to the engines,” the archon ordered. “Our lives are forfeit, so long as our gods and our nation survive!”

“Collision course set,” the helmsman announced without hesitation, prompting a swell of pride in the archon’s chest.

“Prepare to execute.” The archon punched a series of coordinates into his display with a shaking hand. “Bring us to this course, to maximize our angle of impact against the cube’s nearest face.”

As Righteous Hammer maneuvered into position, a passing missile fractured into twenty independent disks, each one affixing itself to the cruiser’s shield bubble at equidistant intervals along the deflector’s perimeter. They emitted a focused gravimetric pulse that the shields failed to recognize as hostile, and allowed to pass through the barrier. Once inside, however, the pulses overlapped and combined, creating a brief, nanosecond-long flux that instantly liquefied all organic tissue within the vessel.

Righteous Hammer now drifted, sans crew, a lifeless tribute to the macabre genius of Amon weapons design.

* * *​
The Fire Eaters of the Krowtonan Guard burned in what at least some of their many victims must have savored as an especially ironic death.

Dozens of their mighty warships drifted, some smashed beyond operability and others beyond recognition. The great conflagrations on the planet below raged so mightily that they could be seen from orbit as plumes of ash-laden smoke stabbed the sky and were swept across vast swaths of land and sea by the planet’s trade winds.

The Krowtonan Ascendancy was an autocratic theocracy that had spread from a single world to encompass hundreds of star systems. Trillions of sentient beings now lived and died under the merciless specter of the Krowtonan pantheon of deities. Those species which could not grasp the grandeur of the Krowtonans' gods because of their biological or cultural makeup had been wiped from the faces of their respective worlds in successive waves of bloody jihad in order to make room for those more malleable in their beliefs.

The dreaded Fire Eaters, the elite of the Krowtonan Guards forces, fancied themselves religious warriors whose ferocity was gifted them by these same gods. They held themselves to be the finest combatants in the galaxy, having never before met their match.

Until today.

Zeischt of the Amon directed the assault on the Krowtonan homeworld with a surgical level of precision. The mighty Amon cube devastated all ships and orbital installations in range while cadres of Amon warriors transported to the surface to engage the Krowtonan Guard in close-quarters-combat.

The newly ensconced Amon BattleMaster was flanked by a dour Vulcan, the Starfleet Lieutenant Verrik, who watched the pitched battle with undisguised distaste.

The millennia-old Warlord Jalahar looked on silently as his protégé unlimbered the full might of their tribe’s weaponry for the first time in centuries. He remained unsure and suspicious of the newcomer’s motives, but Jalahar could not deny the new energy that Zeischt and his companions had brought to the Amon people.

Zeischt toggled a close up of the gravitic pulse weapon’s deployment against Righteous Hammer, musing to himself, “I’d call that a successful test.”

“Another of your weaponized horrors?” Verrik asked with poorly disguised contempt.

“Careful, Lieutenant,” Zeischt chided lightly. “You might have an emotional episode if you keep carrying on this way.” He spared the reticent Vulcan a quick glance. “You know who these people are and what they represent. The crimes that the Krowtonan people have visited upon their subjects are nearly equal to the depredations of the Husnock.”

“And so you kill them for what? Sport?” Verrik accused.

“This tribe has not had to enter into direct combat in centuries, while our enemy has been sharpening their teeth against some of the Alpha Quadrant’s most potent nations. If they were within our range, I’d have attacked the Dominion. The Jem’Hadar would have made for an excellent opponent. As it is, we’ve had to settle for the Krowtonan Guard.”

Verrik replied, “Despots often try to legitimize their actions, striving for moral equivocation.”

Without looking in Verrik’s direction, Zeischt asked, “Tell me, Lieutenant, are you more unsettled at the fact that we’re toppling a sadistic theocracy, or that a Vulcan is leading the invasion force on the surface?”

Verrik elected not to reply, and instead turned his attention to the holograms of the pathetically one-sided space battle raging above the planet.

Zeischt triggered the comms, opening communication with their primary planetary invasion contingent. “WarCom to BattleLeader One, do you copy?”

A’lasha’s voice came in clearly, tinged with authentic glee as her forces sliced through the stunned Krowtonan opposition in the now crumbling streets of their capitol city. “What’cha got for me, Sandy?”

Zeischt couldn’t help but smile at the Vulcan woman’s persistent flippancy. “You’re really trying to make me regret my giving you a physical body again, aren’t you?”

The woman’s laugh carried across the comms. “Absolutely, BattleMaster. Look upon your works, ye mighty, and despair!”

“Well, when you’re done insulting the poetry of my birth world, be advised that you should expect stiffer resistance as your forces approach the Citadel. Comms intercepts indicate they’ve pulled back into defensive positions, rather than coming into the streets to meet your approach.”

“That would explain why we’ve met so little push back the last few kilometers. You promised me hyper-religious zealots dying with the names of their sundry gods on their lips.”

Zeischt laughed lightly. “You weren’t complaining when you beamed into the midst of their celebratory parade. I’ll say this for you; you know how to make an entrance.”

“The revolution will be televised, motherfuckers!” A’lasha cackled as her troop skimmer slalomed between burning skyscrapers.

“You’re about two kilometers from their holiest of holies, BattleLeader. Odds are, you’ll find the fanaticism you’ve been looking for.”

“And what should I do with this Oticulon artifact when I’ve pried it from their cold, dead hands?”

“Desecrate it,” Zeischt replied. “Use your imagination. The more horrific the better. I want the Krowtonan’s slave species to see how vulnerable their overlords actually are, and how their vaunted gods didn’t intercede to save them.”

“One act of breathtaking religious sacrilege coming up, oh exalted BattleMaster. And yes, I’m twirling my hair around my finger like a mischievous Terran schoolgirl when I call you that. I trust you’ll discipline me later.”

Zeischt snorted as he moved to terminate the comlink. “WarCom most definitely… out.”

He turned to face Verrik’s scalding expression. “You know, I think I’m really more of a fan of the Classic Vulcan mindset. No offense intended.”

* * *​
USS Europa, Sickbay

Lar’ragos sat up a little higher on the biobed. “So, how big a hash of things did I make with the Klingons?” he asked, his face an unaccustomed mix of contrition and embarrassment.

“The Brigadier hardly batted an eyelash, Captain,” Wu replied, seating herself on a stool next to Pava’s bed. “He says you two will have it out later. In the interim, however, he’s focused on our mutual assignment of coaxing the Amon… Sandhurst’s Amon, into making an appearance.”

“What’s Command’s take on all this?” he inquired.

“Gan’Louk has T’Cirya’s sanction to be out here, and Galaxy Station says to give the Klingon Expeditionary Force full cooperation. As for your little dust-up with him, I’ve neglected to mention that to Command.”

Lar’ragos was not one given easily to expressions of shock, but his countenance registered his surprise. “Really?”

“As far as I’m concerned, sir, it’s a personal matter between you and the brigadier.”

He took a moment to process that. “I appreciate that, Wu.”

“One thing in return,” she countered. “You can’t ever call me, ‘First’ again.”

His ironic smile was confirmation enough, but still he added, “Done and done, Commander.” Lar’ragos slid his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled himself up into a sitting position.

“Sir? Going somewhere?”

A small sigh escaped Lar’ragos. “Time to go and try to fix things with the Kling…” he trailed off. “No, that’s not right. I need to mend an old rift with my son.”


* * *​
Klingon Compound
Planet Alanthal

Lar’ragos entered, flanked by two Klingon commandos, both of whom evidenced a casual lethality that was unnerving in its subtlety. Given that their race was not partial to restraint, the silent professionalism of these men spoke volumes about their leader, Brigadier Gan’Louk.

Gan’Louk rose to his feet at the El Aurian’s arrival. The Klingon stood a good thirty centimeters taller than the Starfleet officer, and outweighed him by at least fifteen kilograms.

The general dismissed the commandos with a wave of his hand, his flinty expression regarding Lar’ragos with undisguised distaste.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Brigadier,” Lar’ragos began.

Gan’Louk merely stared, scrutinizing Lar’ragos as one might do an insect under glass.

Lar’ragos met the larger man’s gaze, and just like that, all diplomatic pretense and military protocol dropped away, collapsing into an emotional chasm half a century in the making.

“It’s time for truth between us,” Lar’ragos said simply.

“By all means,” Gan’Louk spat in Klingon. “Speak and begone!”

Lar’ragos walked across the seized office that Gan’Louk employed as the headquarters of his expeditionary force’s occupation of the alien world. He took a long moment to pour himself a goblet of bloodwine from a bottle prominently displayed on a counter top. As he did so, Lar’ragos noted, “In all my four-hundred years, I have taken only one wife. Your mother. I despair that you never knew her.”

“One of your Klingon ‘toys’?” Gan’Louk sneered, turning Pava’s own words against him.

“If I led you to believe that, then I have yet another sin to atone for.” Lar’ragos turned around to face the general, taking a draught of the bloodwine. “Good. This is the ’38.”

“You left her to die at the hands of a rogue house,” Gan’Louk countered. “Love must have a different meaning in your peoples’ tongue.”

“Our people,” Lar’ragos corrected. “You’re half El Aurian, as much as you’ve tried to hide that fact.”

“You know full well that I’ve buried the truth of my mixed heritage. Do have done otherwise would have meant certain death.”

Lar’ragos raised the goblet in a wordless concession of Gan’Louk’s assertion. “I know what you were told. However, I did not leave her to die, and she was never in the hands of House Ket. She was seized by your uncle while I was away fighting the Tholians with the Defense Forces. You only survived because your nurse and a handful of your family’s loyal bodyguards spirited you away from Qo’noS.”

“Je’Korl?” Gan’Louk frowned. “You dare accuse the man who raised me of killing his own sister?”

Lar’ragos took another long drink from his flagon of bloodwine, girding himself. “After your grandfather’s death, Je’Korl was free to act without restraint. He’d protested my marriage to Kelendra from the beginning, and only his father’s iron will stayed his hand. The old warrior died while I was away on the Gossamer Campaigns, and your uncle took control of the house.”

“Lies,” Gan’Louk seethed, but there was a noticeable trace of uncertainty in his voice.

“I can no more lie to you than you could to me. It’s part and parcel of our gift, or our curse, depending on your perspective."

Gan’Louk turned away, his body visibly knotted with tension.

“I tried everything I could think of to rescue her, and on one occasion I very nearly succeeded. Je’Korl decided…” Lar’ragos’ voice faltered. He cleared his throat and continued, “He decided that executing Kelendra was the only way to ensure I could not recover her. The dishonor of her having taken an alien into her bed and then into their father’s house was so great that Je’Korl cut her throat with his own hands.”

Still facing away from Lar’ragos, Gan’Louk asked simply. “If what you say is true, how did I come to be raised by this very same man?”

Lar’ragos finished the wine, dropping the goblet to the floor with a metallic crash. “I joined with House Ket, your family’s ancient enemy. I was blinded by anger, desperate for vengeance, so much so that I allowed myself to be manipulated by Lord Ket. I helped to raise and train an army to destroy House Rokown, an army that Ket instead used to back K’mpec’s rise to the chancellorship.” Lar’ragos stepped over to a point just a few paces behind Gan’Louk, raising his eyes to examine a replica of Kahless’ bat’leth that hung below a flag bearing the Klingon trefoil. He reflected silently on what the symbol and the Klingon people had once meant to him.

His voice lowered as his throat constricted with the memories of those dark days. “Ket betrayed me, captured the both of us, and handed you over to your uncle as a peace offering between your two houses. As it happened, Je'Korl had discovered that he could not have children of his own. So, raising his nephew allowed the family bloodline, however secretly tainted, to continue. Ket did make the fatal mistake of believing me too valuable to kill, insisting that I continue to train his personal guard. But by the time I escaped his clutches and took my revenge on him, you were already a young man, and you called Je’Korl ‘father.’

Gan’Louk turned slowly to face Lar’ragos, his arms folded protectively across his chest in an unconscious gesture of defensiveness. “You found me on H’atoria.”

“Your uncle sent you to the finest martial academy in the empire,” Lar’ragos acknowledged. “And they in turn just happened to hire an alien outworlder as an unarmed combat instructor.”

“That first day,” Gan’Louk said in a surprisingly gentle voice, “I sensed… something. A familiarity, a comfort in your presence that I couldn’t explain.”

“We had two good years together,” Lar’ragos admitted. “Being your personal combat tutor afforded me the kind of access that would have been impossible otherwise. To your credit, it didn’t take long before you guessed the truth.”

“I’d heard the rumors since I was old enough to talk, whispers of ‘halfbreed’ and ‘bastard’,” Gan’Louk confessed. “But I felt the connection between us, the bond of blood. Once you began to teach me to listen, and how to use that skill in battle, I knew I was not fully Klingon.” The general’s expression tightened, became tinged with suspicion. “After you’d acknowledged the truth of my heritage, helped me to hone my gifts, you left me. Again.”

Lar’ragos shook his head. “I had no choice. Je’Korl’s agents found me out. If I hadn’t fled, I’d have been killed.”

“You could not take me with you?” Gan’Louk inquired with the voice of a man, but the words sprung from the long-buried agony of the child deep within.

“Where, son?” Lar’ragos asked. It was the first time he had ever addressed Gan’Louk by that title. “Drag you with me as a refugee to the Federation? What kind of life could I have offered you? You were raised to be a soldier of the empire, to lead men in battle, to bear the crest of your house.” Lar’ragos dared to reach out, grasping Gan’Louk gently by the arm. The general stiffened, but did not otherwise resist the gesture.

“Rokown was a great and noble house,” Lar’ragos continued, “the power and resources of which you now wield as its head. I could offer you nothing comparable. Instead, I tried to impart to you the skills you’d need to secure a successful future for yourself. Tearing you away from your Klingon family and your culture would have been an act of pure selfishness on my part.”

“No,” Gan’Louk spoke quietly. “It would have been the act of a father.”

A long silence followed, finally broken by Lar’ragos. “I have a belly full of regrets from my life, but leaving you behind is not one of them. I look at the man you’ve become, the leader, the husband and father. You are the best parts of two worlds, Gan’Louk; you possess your mother’s soul and your father’s steel. You have all of my strengths, and none of my weaknesses.”

“Why now, Lar’ragos? What is to be served by revealing this now, of all times?”

“The Amon are coming,” Lar’ragos replied simply. “I don’t know what will happen, or that any of us will survive what’s next. I wanted you to know that whatever you think of me, I am proud to be the father of such a man.”

Gan’Louk bowed his head in acknowledgement, and when he spoke his voice with thick with emotion. “You have had your say, father. Go in peace.”

“So I have,” Lar’ragos agreed. He moved for the exit, turning back to address Gan’Louk one last time on the threshold. “May peace find us all in the days ahead.”

“Perhaps it is too El Aurian for me to say, but I wish for the same,” Gan’Louk answered.

* * *​

Chapter Six​

 

Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Krowtanai
Delta Quadrant

The Krowtonan Ascendancy had not been destroyed, but it had been humbled.

The Amon now controlled the homeworld. The species’ most venerated religious icons had been publicly destroyed, the recordings of which had been broadcast by the Amon throughout the Ascendancy over subspace.

On Zeischt’s command, warp-propulsion cargo modules had been dispatched to dozens of Krowtonan subject worlds, each containing numerous advanced weapons, replicators, and instructions on how to manufacture more. With these, it was hoped, the vassal species of the Krowtonans would be able to rise up en mass to eventually overthrow their overlords.

Verrik found Zeischt intently observing a holographic map of the surrounding sectors, the outbound trails of the cargo modules delineated in blue.

“Have you tallied the Krowtonan casualties from your campaign?” the Vulcan asked dispassionately.

Zeischt’s reply was equally aloof. “Just over seventy-thousand dead, with another three-to-four-hundred thousand wounded. From a planetary conquest perspective, that’s an admirable level of precision warfare.”

“Given that this world's population is nearly eight billion, I would have to agree,” Verrik noted reluctantly. “However, you doubtless realize that having loosened the Ascendancy’s iron grip on its conquered worlds, you are plunging eight cubic sectors of this quadrant into what will likely be decades of bloody warfare.”

“If their freedom from a genocidal theocracy is what those species desire, they will have to fight for it. Nothing worth attaining comes without cost.”

Verrik stepped forward, and now abreast of Zeischt, looked askance at the man. “Are you certain honing the tribe’s martial skills is all this campaign was about?”

A cloud of emotion briefly darkened Zeischt’s features. “I can’t abide bullies, Lieutenant.”

Verrik’s eyebrow crested inquisitively. “I trust you are not blind to the irony of that statement, given what has just occurred?”

“Of course I’m not,” Zeischt answered, a hint of irritation finding its way into his voice. “That’s the whole point behind this, Verrik. The Amon can become a positive force in our galaxy, a catalyst for change on a scale as yet undreamt of.”

“You speak of the antithesis of the Prime Directive,” Verrik observed.

Zeischt turned to face him, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Think of it! A people whose purpose is to intervene in destructive conflicts anywhere in the galaxy! Despots would be toppled, uncounted sentient species freed from the shackles of slavery and oppression.”

“Such is the ebb and flow of humanoid civilizations,” came the Vulcan’s response. “Freedom from such tyranny must be realized by each species for itself, according to its own culture, beliefs, and specific circumstances. A one-size-fits-all approach is worse than naïve, it is willful ignorance anchored in a foundation of arrogance.”

“I disagree,” Zeischt countered. “Those who would strive to become the next Borg or Dominion of this galaxy should have something concrete to fear. They should suffer the knowledge that somewhere out there is a force that can sweep down upon them without warning and lay waste their dreams of empire.”

“True freedom must be earned; it cannot be given away. History has proven that axiom time and again, on countless planets. Our Federation would not exist had it not been for the earlier conflicts between the founding member worlds. It was their desire to avoid the warfare of the past that forced our ancestors to the negotiating table, and encouraged them to place the collective good above the selfish interests of their individual species.”

Zeischt’s expression was tinged with pity, as one might direct at a child unable to grasp a particularly vexing adult concept. “I have given the Amon a purpose, Verrik. After untold millennia of aimless wandering, they have a cause to live for.”

“I am less concerned with what the Amon live for,” Verrik answered, “than how many must die to see their new destiny realized.”

The Amon BattleMaster was considering his response to this when A’lasha, the resurrected Vulcan, entered the chamber. The woman was undeniably beautiful by either Vulcan or human standards, and her new body was devoid of the sundry scars she’d suffered in her original form. Verrik turned to face her as she approached, his features hardening ever so slightly and giving voice to his disapproval.

A’lasha was adorned in Amon battle armor, the surfaces of which rippled and swirled with myriad colors and patterns. She nodded casually to Verrik in passing, knowing full well that the spontaneous gesture would cause the traditional Vulcan male added discomfort. To him, she was a throwback to a bygone age, a dinosaur from their species’ shamefully violent past. “BattleMaster, I believe someone is trying to get our attention.”

Zeischt turned to face her. “How so?”

“Someone is subjecting our collection arrays in orbit of Alanthal to transphasic probing,” A’lasha informed him. “That’s the first step in identifying the precise subspace dimensional coordinates they occupy. It’s likely a precursor to an attack on the arrays themselves.”

“Starfleet,” Zeischt assessed.

“Very likely,” A’lasha concurred. “Regardless, we’ll need the collected bio-essence from those arrays to heal our wounded from this little foray, especially since you refuse to allow us to deploy arrays around Krowtanai.”

Zeischt canted his head slightly, his piercing eyes delivering a silent rebuke to A’lasha. “We will not feed off those we slay in battle ourselves. To do so would make us no better than our cousins who’ve terrorized the Alpha Quadrant.”

“As you say,” A’lasha conceded, sidestepping the argument. “My point is that we cannot allow those arrays to be tampered with or destroyed.”

“Agreed.” Zeischt moved to a control interface, placing his hand upon its surface and closing his eyes. “I’ll notify Warlord Jalahar and the Congress of Elders and request permission to set a course for Alanthal immediately.”

Verrik took a step closer to Zeischt, prompting A’lasha to tense in anticipation of an attack. None was forthcoming. Instead, Verrik inquired, “And if Starfleet awaits us, what then?”

“Let us hope they exercise restraint,” Zeischt replied darkly. "It would be unfortunate if we had to defend ourselves."

The Vulcan officer pressed, "Europa is likely among their number. You would cut down your former comrades? Is that how you would have Donald Sandhurst remembered?"

"I can't play favorites, Lieutenant. Too much is at stake here. If we are to make war upon our fellow tribe, we cannot suffer distractions from Operation Vanguard or from anyone else." Zeischt opened his eyes to regard Verrik. "And Donald Sandhurst is no more. How he will be remembered is of no consequence to me."

* * *​
USS Europa

“I can’t fix it.”

The sturdy Bolian was never one to mince words, and these were the first out of Ashok’s mouth after he’d sat down across from Lar’ragos at the ready room’s desk.

Lar’ragos nodded fractionally. “I’d feared as much, Lieutenant. I’m guessing that our Bynars haven’t had any luck in—“

“I didn’t say it couldn’t be fixed, sir,” Ashok cut him off mid-sentence, an unheard of event for the fastidiously polite engineer. “I said I can’t fix it.”

A brief silence passed as Lar’ragos paused to absorb the full weight of Ashok’s revelation. “Then who can?”

Ashok’s bald head tilted slightly, his expression incredulous. “Respectfully, sir, we both know that only one person can make the drive work as designed. Sandhurst.”

Lar’ragos eased farther back into his chair, blowing out a slow breath. “Right. Well, that’s clearly beyond my ability to arrange at the moment.”

“There is one other possibility… though I hesitate to bring it up.” Ashok looked almost pained at his own admission.

Lar’ragos caught a flash from the ether, a split-second image of a face. “Wait… what? Really? I thought he was out. Gone, I mean, on some kind of interdimensional walkabout.”

Ashok’s eyes widened. “Sir, I really hate it when you do that. It’s like having my mind read without my consent.”

An actual blush colored Pava’s cheeks as the captain appeared suitably mortified. “Yeah, sorry… it just sort of happens. So… uh, the boy-genius is back in uniform?”

“The rumor through the fleet’s engineering grapevine is that Crusher’s just finished his academy qualifications. Of course, even if we could somehow get him assigned to Vanguard, it’d be six-to-nine months before he’d make it out here.”

“And even then we’d have no guarantee he’d be able to figure it out.” Lar’ragos drummed his fingers on the table top absently while he mulled that over. “Faster and more efficient to just request his assignment to Starbase Bastion. He can troubleshoot the drive equations from a holodeck there, and we won’t waste half a year with him on ice.”

“Agreed,” Ashok said simply.

“Here’s hoping the wunderkind lives up to his reputation,” Lar’ragos muttered.

Ashok smirked. “He’s actually thirty years old now, sir.”

“You’re all kids to me, Lieutenant.”

“Fair point, Captain,” Ashok allowed. “Permission to take the transwarp modifications offline? Even limited to conventional warp, we’re still one of the fastest starships out here.”

“Permission granted.”

The yellow alert tell-tails began to flash overhead and Pell’s voice called out, "Yellow alert. Senior staff to the bridge.”

Lar’ragos led Ashok out of the compartment and onto the bridge, assuming the command chair as Pell moved to an auxiliary console. The Bajoran reported, “Sensors have detected what looks very much like a Borg transwarp conduit forming one-point-seven million kilometers from Alanthal, Captain.”

“On screen,” Lar’ragos ordered, finding himself looking at a non-descript volume of space after a moment.

“The aperture isn’t visible yet, sir,” the ensign at the Science station noted as Shanthi stepped off the turbolift behind him.

Georgia Kirk arrived and slid into the Ops chair, checking her readings as she ran a series of diagnostics on all sensor systems. Dominic Leone manned the Tactical station just behind Pava’s seat and inquired, “Defensive posture, Captain?”

“Shields up, and bring all weapons online. Warm up one of the Alpha Weapons, one of the gravitic pulse ones…” he brought his hands together theatrically. “…the crushy thingies.”

Leone smirked. “Aye, sir. Withdrawing one gravitic distortive pulse initiator from the armory. I’ll need you and Commander Wu’s access codes.”

“Here,” Wu announced as she exited the fore ‘lift and made a beeline for her seat to the right of Lar’ragos.

“XO, enter our Alpha release authorizations while I coordinate with the Klingons.” Lar’ragos gestured to Ops. “Open a channel to their flagship.”

“Channel open,” Kirk advised.

“Brigadier Gan’Louk, our sensors indicate the likely opening of a Borg transwarp corridor near us in the next few minutes. We’re uploading our telemetry to our joint TacNet. Be advised, this is probably Sandhurst’s tribe, and our goal is to make friendly contact with them. Please order your troops to hold their fire unless fired upon.”

The general’s voice, as gruff as ever, replied, “My men have standing orders to that effect, Captain. No one dares fire without my express permission.”

“Acknowledged,” Lar’ragos replied, “Europa, out.”

A full three-quarters of the Klingon armada vanished behind their cloaking fields as they redeployed in a defensive picket opposing the projected Amon route of advance.

And suddenly, there it was, a mammoth Borg cube that seemed to have extruded into the universe with scarcely a ripple.

“Sensor contact, Borg cube,” Kirk alerted, managing to keep her voice even.

“Cube measures twenty-eight cubic kilometers in volume, sir,” Shanthi called out from Sciences. “By size, it’s identified as a standard assimilation vehicle, but its power readings are several orders of magnitude greater than other observed cubes of this size.”

“How do those readings compare with our logs of the previously encountered Amon cube?” Wu inquired pointedly.

A brief pause followed, broken by Shanthi’s assessment, “Exact match, sir.”

The cube continued to approach Alanthal at sublight, the facets of the mighty vessel radiating a riot of colors bleeding through the superstructure from deep within.

“It’s certainly more colorful than a standard Borg vessel,” Pell noted from the chair to Lar’ragos’ left.

Lar’ragos spared her a disbelieving look. “Really? ‘It’s pretty’ is your contribution to our First Contact assessment?”

Pell grinned. “We haven’t got them talking yet, Captain.”

Kirk touched a hand to the tiny earpiece in her right ear. “Incoming hail from the cube, audio only.”

“Put it through,” Lar’ragos instructed, sharing a brief, hopeful look with Pell.

“Klingon and Federation vessels, our intent is non-hostile. Do not interfere in our recovery operations, and we will leave you in peace.”

Lar’ragos toggled the comms interface on his armrest. “Amon vessel, this is Commander Lar’ragos of the starship Europa. I have been authorized by the Federation to make contact with your species and to open negotiations for a potential pact against the Amon tribe that is carrying out attacks on the Alpha Quadrant.”

A long silence followed.

A sliver of light appeared along one facet of the cube, a growing opening that revealed itself to be a docking bay. “Federation ship Europa, you may dock within our vessel after we have recalled our collection arrays. We will hear your proposal.”

Pell’s countenance was troubled, despite the invitation. “That seemed too easy.”

Lar’ragos nodded slowly. “Legitimate or not, it’s what we came here to do. Get Liu to meet us at Airlock Three.” He stood, making eye contact with Leone. “Dom, you’re coming with. No weapons,” he added.

Leone’s objection died in his throat as Lar’ragos gestured to the outlandishly large cube dominating the viewscreen. “We’re not shooting our way out of this if it goes badly.”

* * *​
Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Alanthal
Delta Quadrant

The swirling holographic sensor display would have confounded the visual cortex of most humanoid species, given the overlapping layers of compressed information contained within its helical pattern.

Zeischt of the Amon experienced no such confusion, and he could clearly discern the positions of nearly sixty percent of the cloaked Klingon warships in orbit of Alanthal. Transcendent’s translation to normal space had caused quite the commotion as the expeditionary force’s ships sought to assemble some kind of viable defense against the threat of Amon firepower.

From behind him, Nestrala whispered, “Your friends, they are on that ship?”

For a moment, Zeischt did not reply. When he finally acknowledged the question, it was as though he’d been pulled away from some matter of great consideration. “Aboard Europa, yes.”

“This will not be easy for you,” she offered, voice laden with sympathy. “They will insist on seeing you as the man you were. It is only natural. They will doubtless try and convince you to return with them.”

“They won’t succeed,” he replied heavily. “That person is gone, irretrievably.”

“That is cause for celebration, not sorrow. The essence has healed the wounds of your past, both physical and spiritual.”

He inclined his head, conceding her point. “Yet it has burdened me with this new sight, the curse of foreknowledge.”

She answered patiently, having long before accepted the role of teacher on the why’s and wherefores’ of life among the Amon for her alien mate. “The life-essence affects every individual differently, and being as you are of an entirely different species, your gift has proven far more accurate than that of native Amon prognosticators. It has been of invaluable benefit to our people. Would that you had possessed it before the betrayal of our sister tribe.”

“Woulda, shoulda, coulda,” he murmured, the merest hint of a smile flitting across his countenance before vanishing. He turned to find her looking at him curiously. “Just something Pava was fond of saying,” he explained.

“You miss him,” Nestrala observed.

“I do. In many ways, he was my mentor.”

She reached out to touch his shoulder gently, their energies merging, intertwining, as they shared thought and emotion in the delicate dance allowed by their mutual dependance on the essence. “Let us hope your mentor is willing to be taught,” Nestrala wished aloud.

"Even if he does agree to the course we've decided, the best-case scenario would involve stranding them so far from home that they could never return."

Nestrala stepped forward to embrace him. "You have told me the final outcome is far from certain. 'Too many variables' you claimed."

"I speak of potentialities," Zeischt corrected lightly. "In many of the streams, all the Starfleet participants are destroyed outright. In all that I've witnessed, the best my friends can hope for is banishment."

"Either is a small price to prevent what is to come, beloved."


* * * ​
Lar’ragos paused on the cusp of entering the turbolift, casting a look back at Wu.

“The Amon have engaged a tractor beam,” Kirk announced. “We’re being drawn into the docking aperture.”

Wu appeared hesitant to ask the question in front of the assembled bridge crew, but given time constraints, asked regardless. “Sir, why aren’t we simply beaming over? Isn’t going inside their vessel with Europa an unnecessary risk?”

“First, the Amon probably feel safer knowing the Klingons are less likely to attack with us inside,” he replied evenly. “Second, it qualifies as mutual assured destruction. We’ll be within the Amon ship itself with our full complement of Alpha Weapons.”

Wu’s eyes widened slightly as she absorbed the revelation.

Lar’ragos’ expression grew flat, as if he had suddenly banished all trace of emotion. “Commander, if we fail to return, or the Amon attempt to board the ship, I’ve pre-authorized you to detonate every Alpha device in our armory. I’d suggest you start, however, with Weapon Alpha Seven, which is located in cryogenic suspension in Sickbay. Its use may preclude the necessity of the other, more… aggressive options.”

She inclined her head fractionally in response. “I understand.”

“I know you’ll do whatever needs to be done, Wu.” With that Lar’ragos turned and stepped into the ‘lift, followed by Leone and Pell.

Wu walked over to the captain’s chair and seated herself, announcing, “Computer, log a temporary transfer of executive officer authority to Lieutenant Georgia Kirk. Authorization, Wu Epsilon-Sierra-Jyo-Suh-Yee-Uhr.”


* * * ​
Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Alanthal
Delta Quadrant

The incomparable beauty of the Amon ship was beyond Lar’ragos’ wildest imaginings. He had dreaded setting foot inside one of the Borg’s monstrous cubes, perhaps one of the very same that had assimilated his homeworld centuries earlier. Whatever the vessel's pedigree, however, no visible trace of the Collective remained within.

Gardens and forests abounded, interspersed with buildings possessing a grace and symmetry that only accentuated the pleasing aesthetic. Parks and water features glistened beneath the radiant simulated sunlight, while crowds of people shopped, ate, and recreated in an unhurried manner. This was not a vessel that appeared to be at high alert, despite the presence of a Klingon battle fleet surrounding it.

The Federation emissaries had been greeted with polite deference, as honored guests rather than as potential combatants coming to parlay. Led by an unarmed escort to an exquisitely decorated outdoor meeting venue, they were seated around a large, circular table bearing the helical crest of the Amon. Surrounding the conference area were various sculptures and pieces of statuary, nestled among the vibrantly exotic flowers of a dozen different worlds. The works of art seemed to radiate a conscious presence of their own, a subtle emotive aura, at least to those species among Europa’s away team sensitive to such phenomena.

Lar’ragos took his seat, with Pell and Leone seated on either side of him. Next came Counselor Liu and the deceptively youthful looking Dr. Reskos.

The arrival of the Amon negotiators was without ceremony, they simply approached on a stone pathway winding through the garden surrounding the conference table. Sandhurst was immediately recognizable, but Pell emitted a sharp intake of breath at the sight of him. Lar’ragos had very nearly done the same.

Since Lar’ragos had begun serving with Sandhurst some three years earlier, he had seen the captain both overweight, and after the depredations of the Baron, gaunt and nearly skeletal. Sandhurst had never quite recovered physically from that ordeal, and had remained thin and somewhat brittle looking until his apparent defection to the Amon.

Donald was now some fifteen centimeters taller, his body having filled out to embrace that inexplicably larger mass. He was clearly both bigger and more robust, his limbs and torso well muscled beneath the folds of his loosely fitted tunic. His face was full and expressive, his eyes fairly shining with vitality. His hair, which he’d typically kept shaved close to his scalp, was now a wavy brown medium length, bearing not a hint of the grey that had previously dominated his coloring.

With him were two women, one a statuesque brunette, dressed in similar attire. Her hair was cut short on one side in a severe, militant-looking style that clashed with the long tresses flowing from the other side of her head.

The other woman was somewhat smaller in stature, more compact, and clearly Vulcan. Her manner of dress favored darker colors, an almost military-style jumpsuit ensemble, though devoid of insignia. Her dark hair was colored with muted streaks of green, and was tightly coiled into a single braid in back.

Following in her footsteps was Lieutenant Verrik, still clad in a spotless Starfleet uniform, his combadge fairly gleaming in the bright sunlight.

“My friends,” Sandhurst called out in a sonorous voice that was, and yet was not his. “Welcome to the Amon homeship Transcendent.” He turned to introduce the others, “This is BattleLeader Nestrala; hers is a strong voice among our people. And this is Warrior A’lasha of Vulcan, formerly a non-corporeal katric agent of Section 31 who shared consciousness with both Olivia Juneau and Mister Verrik. And of course, Lieutenant Verrik himself, more than ready to be returned to the fold.”

A’lasha directed a mischievous look at Lar’ragos. “Looking good, Listener. Sorry about having to stun you… twice. Nothing personal, you understand, just business.”

For the first time in a long while, Pava Lar’ragos was speechless.

* * *​

Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Alanthal
Delta Quadrant

Zeischt’s introductions had begged explanation, so for the next ten minutes, the former Starfleet captain described A’lasha’s exotic origins. His tale, confusing and improbable as it was, was obviously designed to absolve Verrik of any complicity in their mutual escape from Europa.

As he observed Zeischt’s recitation, Lar’ragos trained his specially attuned senses on his AWOL friend. He discovered, as before, that when Sandhurst was in the grip of the Amon life-essence, the man was immune to Pava’s El Aurian insights. There were no images to be culled from Donald’s subconscious, no epiphanies to be had from dissecting what he said or how he said it. Sandhurst had become a cipher, a phantom.

When Zeischt had finished his remarkable tale, he looked to Lar’ragos and then cast a questioning glance at those among the party he did not know.

Thus urged, Lar’ragos introduced the others and highlighted the presence of Dominic Leone as Verrik’s replacement, as well as Dr. Reskos.

Zeischt frowned, the first demonstration of genuine emotion Lar’ragos had seen register on his old friend’s features. The Amon glanced down the table at Reskos, who was blatantly scanning A’lasha with his tricorder, oblivious to the others’ attention. “I’d hoped Lieutenant Taiee could have remained the CMO,” Zeischt spoke with a hint of sadness.

Lar’ragos shared an awkward glance with Pell before turning to face Sandhurst. “Donald…” he began.

“Zeischt,” the former captain corrected. “That is my name now, Pava.”

“Zeischt, then,” Lar’ragos continued. “I’m sorry to inform you that both Issara Taiee and Olivia Juneau are dead, both killed in the line of duty.”

Zeischt’s features grew taut, conveying both shock and anguish. “What? When—how?”

The El Aurian allowed the slightest of sighs to escape his lips. “We’ve talked before about how the Baron was plotting something…”

Zeischt’s face colored and he rose from his seat, bracing his arms atop the table with his hands clenched into tight fists. The mention of his nemesis, the being who had tortured him beyond endurance, breaking him spiritually and emotionally, had ignited something deep within whatever remained of Donald Sandhurst.

Lar’ragos continued. “His plan came to fruition while he was captive aboard Europa, after your departure. He died and nearly took the entire ship with him when he expired. However, it appears that before his death he managed to exact vengeance upon you… upon us all, really.”

“He’s dead then?” Zeischt asked pointedly. “Why do you speak of his revenge as though it’s still taking place?”

Heedless of the question, Lar'ragos continued, “He somehow abducted Liana Ramirez prior to her death. He’s twisted her into a monster, a murderous sociopath who now commands a rogue Defiant-class ship. Ramirez attacked and crippled Europa, killing Juneau and several others in the process. She allowed the rest of us to live to serve as warning to you. Ramirez intends to find you and kill you face-to-face.”

Zeischt sat heavily, as though his legs had given out. The female Amon looked at him with a mixture of concern and sadness, an expression that turned many degrees colder when it shifted to Lar’ragos.

“Gods,” Zeischt breathed, “if there was one person who could wound us from beyond the grave, it would be him.” He raised his gaze to meet Pava’s eyes. “Ramirez, where is she now?”

“Unknown,” Lar’ragos replied. “Since our last encounter there haven’t been any reported sightings of her ship. We believe hers was the Starfleet vessel that was making hit-and-run attacks on incoming alien fleets. She likely sparked the confrontation with the Voranti that cost us so dearly.”

“If that’s the case,” Pell noted, “she’s responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands.”

Zeischt bowed his head, emitting a soft moan as he reached out to grasp Nestrala’s hand, a gesture that was not lost on Pell. “I should have seen this,” he practically gasped. “Why didn’t I see this?” Zeischt looked up at Nestrala, his eyes now shimmering with tears. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Nestrala had observed enough. Prompted by her lover’s distress, she stood. “This gathering is concluded. Zeischt must rest.”

Lar’ragos stood as well, prompting Leone to rise to his feet. "This is a delicate situation, Nestrala,” Lar’ragos said, holding up a hand to delay the Amon party’s departure. “You are surrounded by a Klingon battle fleet, a fleet whose actions I can only influence, not control. The longer our negotiations drag on, the greater the chance of the Klingons overreacting to something and escalating the situation.”

Nestrala’s expression was one of iron will. “That would be unfortunate… for them.” She turned and gestured to two of her party’s escorts, who moved to spirit Zeischt quickly away, the man still visibly overcome with grief and shock.

“They should not be underestimated, BattleLeader,” Lar’ragos urged. “We are aware of your recent losses to your fellow tribe. Surely you can’t wish to provoke further unnecessary conflict with the Klingons?”

The Amon warrior countered, “We’ve no quarrel with the Klingons, Captain, but should they wish to engage in battle with us, we will accommodate them.” Nestrala appeared about to turn away, but then seemed to think better of it and directed her heated gaze back on Lar’ragos. “You came here deliberately to undermine Zeischt’s fealty to the Amon.”

Counselor Liu stood and called out before Lar’ragos had a chance to reply, “That isn’t true. All we’ve done is inform him of what’s happened in his absence.”

Nestrala pointed to Pell. “The data chip you’re carrying, what does it contain?”

Pell looked surprised, moving her hand to a pocket of her uniform trousers to produce an isolinear chip. “It is no threat to you. It holds only messages from Donald’s parents and his sister.”

“Your intentions are all too transparent,” Nestrala seethed. Armored Amon warriors stepped from the dense tropical foliage surrounding the conference table, emerging like soundless wraiths with their battle-staffs gripped tightly. “Seize them and place them in the diplomatic complex under guard.”

Leone tensed, but he was held in check by a firm hand from Lar’ragos. He turned to see the captain shake his head fractionally, the El Aurian’s expression an unreadable mask. “No resistance,” Lar’ragos announced.

Addressing the female Amon, Lar'ragos said, “You’re making a mistake, Nestrala. We’re here to help bring your cousins under control, and we have no designs on testing Zeischt’s loyalties. However, we cannot and will not be prevented from acknowledging our ties to someone so dear to us.”

Nestrala held his gaze for a brief moment before turning her back on him, her decorative robes dancing with the speed of her departure.

* * *​
USS Europa

Shanthi entered Sickbay’s cryo-stasis ward, joining Wu who was standing in front of an otherwise unremarkable stasis unit. Two security specialists stood by, armed with phaser rifles.

“The bridge says no further contact with our team and comms are still being jammed,” Shanthi updated the XO. “High powered shields snapped up around our mooring clamps, so we’re not going anywhere without a fight. No activity at the airlock, however, sir.”

“So, not an outright attack,” Wu muttered, manually inputting the last of a long string of digits into the stasis chamber’s interface. “I suppose that’s something.”

Shanthi looked on, obviously confused about their presence in Sickbay during a red alert. He was experienced enough, however, to keep his reservations to himself.

Sensing the science officer’s puzzlement, Wu explained, “Before he left for the Amon ship, the captain told me in case things went sour during the negotiations that the contents of this stasis unit should be the first Alpha Weapon I activated.”

The lanky African’s eyes widened in response. “Uh… what the hell is an Alpha Weapon doing in a stasis tank, sir? I thought they were all locked away in the torpedo magazines?”

“No idea, Lieutenant, but I wanted you here to help me assess whatever the device is.”

Shanthi studied the stasis unit’s status display suspiciously. “What kind of super-weapon needs to be kept in cryonic suspension?”

Wu met his gaze with a dark cast to her almond-shaped eyes. “My guess? A biological one.”

It almost seemed as if something died in Shanthi’s own eyes, as though the last faint glimmer of innocence was suddenly extinguished. He sighed heavily. “Right. Because we’re doing that, now.”

Wu grunted in response as the unit hissed open, white vapor escaping as the long cabinet-like container slid out of its housing.

As the cryonic vapors dissipated, a shape became visible, that of a humanoid male dressed in some manner of dark attire. Given that persons coming out of cryogenic suspension took many minutes if not hours to come around, Wu and Shanthi were both startled when the figure sat bolt upright after just a few seconds.

He appeared vaguely human, but was completely hairless and possessed a sallow complexion and deeply set dark eyes. His clothing was reminiscent of a mid-22nd century business suit, made from a black form-fitting material that gave him a strangely formal appearance.

The man swung his long legs over the side of the shelf and stood abruptly. Wu moved to support him, expecting his legs to give out so soon after emerging from cryonic-fugue, but the man remained on his feet without any sign of discomfort or weakness.

“Good day,” he spoke in a deep, resonant voice. “Please indicate the target parameters and rules of engagement.”

Wu shot Shanthi an expression equal parts wonder and skepticism. The young scientist offered only a similarly quizzical look and a subtle shrug in response. The XO turned back to the man, only to discover to her dismay that she was now facing an entirely different person.

The tall, gaunt man Wu had been addressing was now a significantly shorter, darker-skinned male with neatly trimmed brown hair. Where his eyes should have been were empty, lidless sockets. He was clad in an anachronistic suit that appeared to hail from Earth’s 19th century, if not earlier.

Wu frowned and only barely restrained herself from drawing the phaser holstered at her hip. “Who or what are you?” she demanded.

“You may address us as Mister Oddfellow,” the smaller man replied. “It has grown to become our designation over time, one we’ve come to appreciate in an ironic sense,” said the larger man, who had not so much replaced his smaller counterpart as rather having somehow been there all along.

“We?” Wu asked, struggling to control the timber of her voice. Behind her the two security specialists had raised their phaser rifles to a low ready as both of them fought to comprehend the conflicting messages their eyes were sending to their brains.

“How many people do you see?” asked the shorter man, his face radiating a pleasant, relaxed smile.

“Two,” Wu blurted. “I mean… one?” She blinked, trying to clear her head. “I’m—I’m not sure.”

“Precisely,” the taller man answered. “You may verify our security credentials, authorization code ‘Enigma five-zero-eight-nine-three-echo-echo.’”

Shanthi plugged away furiously at his tricorder before offering Wu a helpless shrug. “The security code checks out, sir, but as for scans… aside from reading the displacement of air in this compartment, there’s no readings from him… them, whatsoever.”

The sallow, towering Oddfellow looked down at Wu. “If we’ve been activated, we must assume the situation is serious and time is of the essence.” The shorter man, inhabiting the same space as his counterpart, lifted his sightless gaze and squinted at Wu. “Is that accurate?”

“Yes,” she answered numbly.

“Then please explain your predicament as quickly as possible,” they said in unison, though Wu could swear only one voice had spoken the words.

* * *​
Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Alanthal
Delta Quadrant

The Starfleet contingent was escorted under guard to what Nestrala had called the ‘diplomatic complex,’ essentially an elegant circular housing structure built around a lovely gardened courtyard.

After briefly reconnoitering the various spacious rooms, which rivaled those of any of the Federation’s finest hotels, the group met back in the atrium

Lar’ragos returned to the beautiful garden courtyard, an area favored with a small babbling brook that bisected the greenspace. Among the sun-dappled trees and flowers was a large stone patio graced with tables and chairs that appeared to have grown out of the very rock substrate itself. It was here that Lieutenant Verrik had been left in the custody of Lieutenant Leone while the others explored the structure.

“At least it’s a gilded cage,” Pell remarked dryly as she emerged from the structure into the simulated sunlight filling the atrium.

“Mister Verrik,” Lar’ragos began, “I think I’m supposed to place you under arrest at this point, given the charges leveled against you in absentia. Something about going absent without leave and assisting in the escape of a fugitive. Oh, yes, and I believe you also shot me, if I’m not mistaken.”

Verrik seemed unmoved by that declaration. “I understand, sir.”

“Therefore, I am remanding you into custody,” Lar’ragos added with a smirk. “Given that we’re all presently in custody, that really doesn’t mean much at the moment.”

Lar’ragos took a seat at one of the tables, gesturing for the others to join him. Verrik, Leone, Counselor Liu, and Dr. Reskos assumed places around the table while Pell stood off to the side, clearly fretting internally.

“Lieutenant Verrik,” Lar’ragos directed his focus on the Vulcan officer. “Counselor Liu has confirmed that you came to him prior to your assisting in Sandhurst’s escape, complaining of suffering memory lapses and memories that you didn’t believe to be your own.”

Verrik inclined his head. “That is correct, sir.”

Lar’ragos cocked his head to one side, absorbing every vocal inflection and non-verbal nuance that Verrik emitted, however unintentionally. True, Vulcans were far more in control of such tells than your average human, but if one looked hard enough, they could still be detected.

“Do you believe you were being controlled somehow by this A’lasha individual when you engaged in those illegal acts?”

Verrik met Lar’ragos’ gaze unflinchingly. “I do, sir. Without reservation.”

Images flooded Lar’ragos mind suddenly, and he saw the sun-baked Plains of Gol awash in fire, combat lasers flaring as deadly missiles lanced through the thin Vulcan air. The vision was so potent, so visceral, it was as if he himself were there, witnessing the carnage of the Vulcan Schism first hand.

“Okay…” he breathed shakily, murmuring, “…that’s good enough for me…” He blinked, missing the concerned expression being directed his way by a skeptical Leone.

“Sir,” Leone cleared his throat. “Respectfully, Captain, I’m not sure that just the lieutenant’s word is sufficient under the circum—“

“It’s fine,” Lar’ragos cut him off. “I’m the aggrieved party, after all.”

“As you say, sir,” Leone allowed, falling silent.

Lar’ragos appeared lost in thought for a long moment, and then addressed Verrik again. “Lieutenant, what level of access have you been allowed to the Amon?”

“My access has been quite extensive, Captain,” Verrik answered. “Commodore Sandhurst apparently believes that transparency in that regard would be of benefit to our forming an alliance to oppose the other Amon tribe.”

Lar’ragos nodded distractedly. “Ah, yes. As it happens, his temporary promotion to commodore was rescinded when Admiral T’Cirya assumed command of the task force.” Back on topic, he added, “Do the Amon know what’s behind the other tribe’s more aggressive posture? After he’d returned from his first abduction by the Amon, Sandhurst told me the Amon were both surprised and appalled by the ambush their cousins launched against them at In’Drahn station.”

Verrik inclined his head in response. “That is accurate, sir. One of the Amon’s highest laws is a prohibition against taking up arms against another of their tribes. When the other tribe launched its unprovoked attack on this group, they became what the Amon refer to as, ‘Skorrah’, loosely translated as ‘outcast.’”

Lar’ragos cocked his head. “Skorrah. Well, good, constantly calling both tribes ‘Amon’ was becoming confusing.” He sat back in his chair, taking a moment to drink in the surrounding beauty. Even the fierce blue sky overhead looked and felt completely realistic, like a perfectly simulated holographic environment. Lar’ragos focused his attention on Verrik once again. “Lieutenant, my chief concern with our remaining here for any length of time is our potential exposure to the life-essence energy the Amon feed on. I don’t sense any significant changes in you, which leads me to suspect you haven’t been ingesting that energy.”

“Correct,” Verrik said. “Zeischt has made it possible for me to have access to food sources uncontaminated by the life-essence.”

“Why the exception for you?” Liu inquired.

“Zeischt explained to me that he realizes that ingestion of the life-essence binds a person to the Amon irrevocably. If the exposure continues for more than a few weeks, the individual’s dependence on the life-essence becomes permanent. Once that happens, they will die without regular infusions of the energy.”

Dr. Reskos quirked an eyebrow, taking notes on his tricorder. “So, you’re saying Sandhurst is now inseparable from the Amon?”

Verrik’s expression darkened so slightly that it may have been obvious only to Lar’ragos. “Yes.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” Pell asked sharply from where she remained standing nearby, her arms folded defensively across her chest.

“Unknown without further examination and research,” Reskos replied. “We know Sandhurst was successfully weaned off the bio-essence once after a month of exposure.” He turned to look at Pell. “I’m certainly willing to try.”

“The problem is convincing Zeischt to cooperate with that process,” Liu added, looking dour.

Lar’ragos checked a thin wrist chronometer before looked skyward, as if awaiting something. He looked back to Verrik. “Tell us what you know about these Skorrah, Lieutenant. Anything you’ve gleaned from the Amon could be useful, such as their numbers and strength, relative to that of the Amon.”

“From what I’ve been told, as well as what I’ve overheard, the Skorrah have a population several times that of the Amon, and have apparently traveled throughout our galaxy for much longer than their kinsmen.”

This piqued Lar’ragos’ interest, and he leaned closer to Verrik. “Do the Amon know why the Skorrah have suddenly initiated hostilities between their tribes?”

“Zeischt and I have discussed this matter on more than one occasion,” Verrik said. “The Skorrah had developed a taste for more ‘exotic’ life-essence energy in recent times. When the Amon first discovered the Borg and seized control of this assimilation cube, the Skorrah proved endlessly fascinated with Borg research into extra-dimensional travel. The Amon had no such interest, and gave all the data gleaned by the Borg to the Skorrah. It was shortly afterward that the other tribe began to behave atypically, demonstrating heightened aggression and even paranoia.”

Liu shot a glance to Lar’ragos. “Something they ate, perhaps?”

“Precisely,” Verrik agreed. “Zeischt believes that the Skorrah consumed the life-essence energy of another species that somehow altered the very fabric of their culture. They were already more inclined to attack other civilizations in order to harvest their needed energy, but whoever the Skorrah fed on this time, it appears to have twisted them somehow, making them hyper-predatory.”

Pell scowled. “That’s a charming thought, a species so evil that even their cast off souls can poison another species. Perhaps they fed on the Cardassians?”

Lar’ragos shot the Bajoran a frosty look, but held his tongue. It was obvious to him that Pell was in distress after seeing her former lover so utterly transformed, and clearly involved with the female BattleLeader Nestrala.

“Our first order of business is escape. The longer we’re here, the more we have to depend on Klingon patience, a substance rarer than latinum.” Lar’ragos turned to Dr. Reskos, once again taken aback by the youthful android body fashioned for the Medusian physician. “Doctor, is there any chance you can use your non-corporeal form to assist us in an escape?”

Reskos’ face contorted briefly before settling on a look of vague cynicism. “Respectfully, Captain, I’m a non-corporeal entity aboard a ship of humanoids who feed on life-energy. Given that in my android housing, I probably appear to them as inviting as a can of Slug-o-Cola, I’d rather not tempt fate.” Reskos offered a wan smile, an expression he was pleased to have mastered after much practice. “Additionally, seeing one of my kind outside a containment vessel drives most humanoids into a psychotic state. Doing so conflicts directly with the Hippocratic Oath I’ve sworn.”

Lar’ragos mimicked the physician’s lukewarm smirk. “It never hurts to ask, Doc.” Again, he paused to check his chronometer.

“Expecting someone, Captain?” Liu asked.

“Let’s just say that unless Zeischt comes to pay us a visit soon and stops jamming our comms, the next hour or so is going to get very interesting.”

Pell sighed audibly. “I hate it when you say things like that,” she groused.

The peculiar little smile Lar’ragos gave her evidenced almost no humor, though it came close to standing up the hairs on the back of her neck.

* * *​
USS Europa

Wu, Shanthi, and a security team that had grown to six members escorted Oddfellow to the airlock leading to the Amon ship. Wu consciously averted her eyes from the being to prevent the sense of vertigo that accompanied his continually changing form. The closer they came to the airlock the more conflicted she became about their course of action.

“What precisely are you going to do over there?” Wu asked.

“Whatever is required,” the smaller Oddfellow replied, somehow able to keep pace with the group despite having no eyes.

“That’s a bit vague,” Wu pressed. “Our diplomatic team’s safety is of primary importance. If you destroy the Amon ship, you destroy ours as well.”

“We are capable of… finesse, when it is needed,” responded the larger of the two beings. “Though some might argue the point.”

“Ha! Yes, just so,” chuckled the smaller one, seemingly to reply to his own statement. “The Tkon, for instance.”

“Pity about their star,” the tall Oddfellow offered with what certainly appeared to be wry humor.

They came to the inner airlock hatch, itself guarded by a combined Marine and security detail.

“I’m not sure how this is going to work,” Wu said. “If we open the airlock to let you out, we may well be inviting an Amon reprisal.”

“We cannot use your transporter,” Oddfellow reiterated, a fact that they had discussed earlier. “If the Amon intended to take your ship, they would not need to limit themselves to boarding via your airlock.”

“Fair point,” Wu conceded. She turned to the Marine lieutenant in charge of the airlock security detail. “Stand ready to provide covering fire when we breach the outer pressure door.”

“That will not be necessary,” they said in unison as they stepped forward and passed through the hatch like a ghost.

“Well…” Wu remarked. “Shit.”


* * *​  

Chapter Seven
​

In my left hand there is the familiar
In my right hand there’s the great unknown
I can see the madly different grass there
But I’m drawn to wilder nights at home

Don’t listen to your friends
See the despair behind their eyes
Don’t listen to your friends
They only care once in a while

I can feel the draw
I can feel it pulling me back
It’s pulling me back
It’s pulling me
I can feel the draw
I can feel it pulling me back
It’s pulling me back
It’s pulling me

‘The Draw’ ~ Bastille - Lyrics by Mark Crew & Dan Smith

* * *​

Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Alanthal
Delta Quadrant

Nestrala had expected rage from Zeischt, so his brooding silence worried her even more.

She herself was pacing in their shared apartment, her shoes whispering across the sumptuous carpeting as she seethed at what she perceived to be the humans’ duplicity. Zeischt sat idly nearby, his head cradled in his hands as he tried to absorb the momentous news revealed by his former shipmates.

“What this Lar’ragos told you may not even be true!” Nestrala protested. “Lies designed to pry you from the Amon fold.”

“No,” Zeischt replied after a prolonged silence. “I could see it in his eyes, and in Pell’s. It happened just as he described.” He stood suddenly, turning his gaze on his lover and mentor. “How could I not have seen this coming? I’ve been gifted with this second sight, this prescience, and yet people so close to me were butchered and I foresaw none of it?”

Nestrala ceased her pacing, moving instead to embrace Zeischt. “Your gifts are manifestations of the Amon you that exists now. Perhaps the events surrounding your former comrades no longer matter to such a degree that your new insight perceives them?”

“Perhaps,” Zeischt allowed, freeing himself gently from her embrace. “But our own people were the ones who warned me of the Baron’s vengeance when you came to me in my dreams. How then is it that I couldn’t see Ramirez’s resurrection or her murderous rampage?”

“The gifts given us by the life-essence are not so easily bent to our own ends, husband. Those abilities are intended to serve the whole tribe, not the vanity of any one individual.”

“I must talk to them again, to learn more about how and why this has happened,” Zeischt said insistently.

Nestrala was not so easily swayed. “What does it matter? What do the travails of these people matter to the Amon? This Ramirez is no threat to our people.”

His expression hardened. “She’s my responsibility.”

“No, not anymore she isn’t. That life and its obligations are over, Zeischt. I will not allow you to be further poisoned by these outsiders.” The determined set of her features mirrored his own. “I have spoken to the BattleMaster and the Council of Elders on this matter, and we are in unanimous agreement. You are barred from further contact with the Federation representatives, for your own welfare as well as that of the entire tribe.”

He grabbed her upper arms suddenly in a gesture of shock and outrage. “You can’t be serious?”

Nestrala tensed, her eyes growing hooded. “Unhand me, husband, or you shall see precisely how serious I am. You forget who it was that schooled you our people’s martial traditions.”

His eyes widened in response and he reflexively released her arms. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…”

“And that, my love, is precisely the problem. Where your former friends are concerned, your heart wanders from the tribe’s path.”

“But Nestrala, I must!” he maintained.

Nestrala gave the Amon variant of a head-shake. “It is forbidden. You are wedded to the Amon, both figuratively and literally, and we will not expose you to further harm. Contact with the Federation representatives will be handled by me. A’lasha will advise me in such matters, should I require it.”

“A’lasha has her own agenda,” Zeischt countered hotly.

Nestrala raised an eyebrow in an almost Vulcan-like fashion. “Your command of the obvious does credit to your species.” Her face softened ever so slightly. “The Vulcan has not undergone the trials, and as she remains an outsider, she must earn her keep. She will do as commanded, or she will be cast out.”

Zeischt’s sour expression went slack as his eyes were drawn away from her face, focusing instead on something behind her. “What is that?” he murmured, stepping towards the grand bay windows of the apartment.

She pivoted around to see an immense shadow growing in the distance, rising to block the light touching the far bulkheads across the breadth of the cube’s great open space. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm began to wail. A tremor passed through the cube’s structure as dark tendrils began to spill from the shadowy mass, colliding with the surrounding interior of the mighty vessel.

“An attack!” Nestrala cried, her cheeks flush with sudden outrage. She glanced back at Zeischt as her decorative robes vanished in favor of her mesmerizing battle armor. “We are betrayed!”

* * *​

The sound of thunder crashing in the interior of the cube was unexpected and almost deafening. The holographic sky overhead flickered, as did the simulated sunlight. The ground beneath the Starfleet party’s feet shuddered, causing Lar’ragos to glance at his chronometer yet again as the others grabbed hold of the table or their chairs.

“What the hell?” Pell was bracing herself against a tree trunk as she looked in all directions, though her field of vision was restricted by the surrounding building.

“Punctual,” Lar’ragos muttered with resigned approval. “That’s nice.”

“Captain?” Counselor Liu stared at Lar’ragos with undisguised concern. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of us, sir?”

He looked up at the others with an expression that was strangely untroubled, given the circumstances. “In case we were cut off from the ship, I authorized Commander Wu to deploy whatever weapons were necessary to neutralize the Amon as a threat to the Federation.”

Liu’s scowl was unmistakable. “Wait… I thought the Skorrah were the threat, not this tribe of Amon?”

“True, were sent to try and convince the Amon to assist us in putting a stop to the Skorrah’s attacks. However, the Federation Security Council perceives the Amon themselves to be just as significant a threat to Federation security, and rightly so.”

Something that sounded enormous roared nearby, it’s bellowing call echoing off the nearer interior compartments of the cube. It was accompanied by a thunderous crash and more shaking.

“Pava, what have you done?” Pell asked accusingly.

Without looking toward the diplomatic officer, Lar’ragos answered, “Wu has deployed an unconventional Alpha Weapon, one designed to demonstrate to the Amon exactly how serious we are.”

“An Alpha Weapon? With us inside the ship?” Pell could barely contain her outrage. “Have you gone mad?”

“Jury’s out,” Lar’ragos replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “We won’t be ignored or dismissed. If the Amon require a demonstration of our resolve, so be it.”

Liu leaned in towards Lar’ragos. “And what happens to us, Captain?”

“We’re expendable assets, Counselor,” the El Aurian replied gravely. “We knew that when we were assigned to the task force.” He looked skyward in time to see a gigantic ink-black tendril sweep over the top of the residential structure, trailed by a cloud of debris. “Heads up, folks! Incoming!”

The Starfleet contingent bolted from their seats and scattered to the protective overhang of the surrounding building as chunks of scaffolding and other wreckage rained down into the courtyard. The sound of weapons fire nearby competed with the ear-spitting roar of whatever demonic entity had been unleashed on the interior of the Amon vessel.

Leone spared a quick glance at Lar’ragos that was laden with incredulity. “This is your idea of negotiating, sir?”

“Not really,” Lar’ragos admitted. “I took a page from Sandhurst's book, and I'm making this up as I go. This thing is what I’d intended to use against the Skorrah. Nestrala’s forced me to play my ace-in-the-hole early.”

Liu was about to offer his assessment of their situation when the flash of Amon transporters caught his eye. A cadre of armored warriors, led by BattleLeader Nestrala, had materialized in the center of the courtyard, their battle-staffs held at the ready.

Nestrala scanned the faces of the Starfleet personnel ringing the perimeter of the courtyard until she spied Lar’ragos. Raising her staff, she charged the man, whose body tensed in preparation to meet her attack.

Lar'ragos caught a fleeting glimpse across the courtyard of Verrik grappling with an Amon warrior for control of his pole-arm. Dr. Reskos, meanwhile, was using his body's preternatural strength and speed to knock one Amon after another off their feet.

A force field surrounding Nestrala's unarmored head flared to life briefly as a piece of metallic debris aimed at her face ricocheted away. This distraction, courtesy of Leone, gave Lar’ragos the opportunity to step out of the way of Nestrala’s headlong charge. However, as Lar’ragos lunged to the side, her battle-staff caught his lower leg and sent him sprawling.

Leone leapt on top of Nestrala, and was forcibly thrown off into some nearby shrubbery for his efforts. “You dare!” she roared, advancing on Lar’ragos.

Lar’ragos scrambled to his feet, taking up a defensive stance that he knew would be wholly inadequate against Nestrala’s ferocity. “Come back to the negotiations right now, with Zeischt, and I’ll call this off!” he shouted.

“We invited you aboard!” Nestrala shrieked, “and this rampage is how you repay our hospitality?”

“You cast us aside and placed us in a cage, Nestrala. You’ve forced my hand. Now you no longer dictate terms, BattleLeader, I do!” Lar’ragos barked in answer. He gestured broadly to the surrounding chaos. “Otherwise we all die together.”

Another ground tremor accompanied a monstrous cry, and something far overhead where the holographic sky had been moments before exploded brilliantly, showering the area with flaming bits of wreckage.

In response Nestrala aimed her staff’s energy emitter at Lar’ragos chest. For his part, Lar’agos spread his arms wide, facing the weapon unblinkingly. “Shall I meet you in Hell then?”

Nestrala let loose a cry of pure rage and frustration before throwing her staff aside and moving towards Lar’ragos.

He knew that against her advanced armor, his martial abilities would amount to nothing, so he offered no resistance as she grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him off his feet.

“We can help one another, or your people can die right here, right now,” Lar’ragos said in an unaccountably calm voice. “We’re both fighting to preserve our cultures, Nestrala, but your people are blinded by their own sense of superiority.”

Nestrala held Lar’ragos in the air with one hand as she drew back her other arm, her other hand clenched into a fist. “End this attack!” she demanded.

“Yield,” Lar’ragos said so quietly that it was barely discernable above the noise of the life-or-death struggle taking place all around them.

“You don’t have the stomach to sacrifice your own people to this abomination,” Nestrala shouted. However, the timbre of her voice was more plea than mandate now.

“Ask Zeischt how far I’m willing to go,” Lar’ragos replied. “Or perhaps you already have.” He craned his head forward so that he could see into Nestrala’s eyes. “Donald knows…”

An achingly long moment followed as the two warriors locked eyes, each trying to divine the other’s breaking point. Finally, Nestrala lowered Lar’ragos back to the ground, “For the preservation of my people, I submit.”

Lar’ragos raised his fingers to his uniform’s rank insignia, tapping a numerical sequence across the pips with his fingertips.

The immediate silence was deafening, and suddenly there was a tall, gaunt man in dark clothing standing before Lar’ragos.

Lar’ragos startled, clearly as surprised as the others at the man’s unannounced arrival.

“It is done,” said a smaller, eyeless individual inexplicably dressed as some courtier dandy.

He straightened his uniform jacket before replying, and Lar’ragos answered, “It is, yes.”

“Our debt to your Federation is paid then?” The tall Oddfellow asked.

Lar’ragos appeared uncertain. “I’m not privy to whatever agreement you had with my government, but from my perspective, yes. You have delivered as promised.”

Just as suddenly as he… or they… had appeared, they were gone without so much as a whisper.

Lar’ragos looked away and collapsed onto his buttocks as his legs gave out. He and Nestrala seemed unable to make eye contact for a full minute before she finally spoke. “It seems your nightmare weapon is no more.”

“Only one of many at my disposal,” Lar’ragos acknowledged heavily. “It was the only one that I could call off, however. With the others, once released, what is done… is done.”

Nestrala walked slowly over to where she’d discarded her battle-staff and stooped to retrieve it. “Where does this leave us, Federation?”

“Tired. This leaves us tired.” Lar’ragos rose to his feet, dusting off the seat of his uniform trousers.

The others in the diplomatic contingent filtered back hesitantly from the illusory safety of the surrounding structure’s circular overhang. The other Amon warriors shifted uneasily, looking uncertain. This was a day of firsts for many of their people.

“Nestrala,” Lar’ragos asked, his voice weary. “Summon Zeischt, and let us discuss what needs to be done to rid the galaxy of the Skorrah.”

 

* * *​

Amon Homeship Transcendent
In orbit of Planet Alanthal
Delta Quadrant

The party had returned to the outdoor conference area, though even here there were signs of the earlier struggle. Trees were splintered, plants uprooted, and there were deep gouges in the surface of the ornate meeting table. Borg drones labored silently to clear the accumulated debris under the watchful eye of the Amon, causing Lar’ragos’ hackles to rise. He buried his discomfort for the sake of diplomacy, given that he had been the cause of the near catastrophe.

Lar’ragos had contacted Europa and informed Wu of the Amon capitulation following the strike by Oddfellow. Her orders were to standby, but if they were to lose contact again, Wu was to deploy the remaining Alpha Weapons in their inventory immediately.

Doctor Reskos knelt next to a seated Dominic Leone, treating the lieutenant’s right arm which had been broken when Nestrala had thrown him some half-dozen meters into dense shrubbery after his bold but futile attack on her.

Lar’ragos stepped over to Leone, giving the young man a brief smile. “Good work back there, Dom. You didn’t have much in the way of weaponry, but you used what you had to good effect.”

Leone winced as Reskos manually repositioned the two halves of Leone’s fractured humerus to set them before placing an osteo-regenerator cuff on the limb. “Thank you, sir.”

With that, Lar’ragos returned to the table, resuming his seat.

Across from him, Nestrala smoldered with barely contained anger, shooting daggers at Lar’ragos and the others with her eyes. “Over a hundred of our people died today as a result of your attack,” she noted icily.

Lar’ragos returned her gaze with an expression devoid of compassion or regret. “It is unfortunate that your decisions made such desperate actions necessary, BattleLeader. Pray I do not choose to continue the assault, for all our sakes.”

“You’d sacrifice your own people in order to do us greater harm?” her sneer fairly dripped with venom.

“If you force my hand,” Lar’ragos answered in an unsettlingly reasonable tone, “I’ll kill myself and everyone under my command in order to burn you and the Amon to cinders.”

This statement elicited an uncomfortable glance from Counselor Liu, but the rest of the Starfleet contingent seemed unfazed by the declaration. Their expressions set, they seemed in accord with their captain.

Nestrala fell into a sullen silence as Zeischt rejoined the negotiations as Lar’ragos had demanded. The El Aurian immediately picked up on the growing tension between he and Nestrala, a chasm of anger and frustration brought about by current events. Lar’ragos filed that information away for future use, should he need to weaponize it later to suit his purposes.

Lar’ragos had surrendered to the inevitability of returning to his tried and true methods. He could no longer play by Sandhurst’s rules while working alongside the walking shell of that man as a mercurial ally. What was being asked of him by Starfleet was so shocking to the conscience that only the Pava of old could accomplish the dark deed.

Zeischt stood as the others took their places around the now blemished table. He called a hologram into existance, one that grew into an oblong assembly of millions of stars.

“I will now clarify our mutual objective,” Zeischt announced, tossing the image higher into the air where it grew in size and began to slowly rotate above the assembly of Amon and Starfleet personnel.

“The Skorrah presently inhabit the Large Magellanic Cloud, a dwarf galaxy that orbits our own Milky Way at a distance of around one-hundred and sixty-thousand light years. A decade ago, the Skorrah seized control of an incredibly ancient space station in the LMC that is located at the periphery of the Tarantula Nebula. This is a facility of tremendous power and influence known as Shul’Nazhar. The station has hundreds of names in as many languages, almost all of which translate to, ‘The Gateway.’

“The oldest sections of the station are estimated to have been built some three million years ago. It has been fought over and controlled by dozens of different species over the eons, many of them adding on to the structure during their periods of ownership. As it exists now, the station is enormous, measuring over a hundred kilometers at its widest point, a tangled mixture of alien technologies.

“What makes this installation so coveted by so many is that at some point one of the species in control of the station engineered something I believe to be a highly advanced wormhole generator. Using this device, whomever controls the station can open point-to-point instantaneous transit portals from place to place anywhere in the ‘local cluster’ of galaxies, to include our Milky Way, the LMC, the Small Magellanic Cloud, the Sagittarius, Sculptor, Fornax, Carina, Sextans and Bootes dwarf galaxies, as well as Andromeda.

There were sharp intakes of breath from around the table and a few muttered curses.

“It’s this capability that has allowed the Skorrah to attack worlds throughout the Alpha and Beta quadrants with impunity and without warning. To deny them this advantage, we will have to wrest control of the station from them, despite their entrenchment and numerical superiority.”

“How would we even reach them to launch an attack?” Lar’ragos inquired. “Are there Borg transwarp conduits leading out to the LMC?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Zeischt answered. “The entire Borg transwarp network was compromised during Voyager’s return to the Alpha Quadrant. As a result, the Amon are only able to use a very few of these conduits, and then only with great difficulty and significant danger. None of those available to us are capable of extra-galactic transit.”

“The question remains,” observed Verrik, “how do we reach a galactic mass far beyond the means of our existing propulsion systems?”

Lar’ragos directed a pointed look at Zeischt. “I don’t suppose you’d care to fix your transwarp drive that we inadvertently crippled?”

The former Starfleet officer appeared thoughtful. “I can do that, yes.”

Lar’ragos nodded approvingly. “That’s a good start.”

"What can you offer us?" Nestrala asked pointedly. "It seems this partnership is notably one-sided."

"Federation starships," Lar'ragos answered. "Our combined arsenal of Alpha Weapons for one." He gestured offhandedly towards the approximate location of Alanthal. "And perhaps the greatest gift of all for someone aiming to storm an inter-galactic fortress... Klingons."


* * *​

After an hour's worth of surprisingly productive negotiations, the Starfleet contingent was escorted back to the airlock leading to Europa. Lar’ragos fell into step beside Zeischt. “We need to talk,” Lar’ragos prompted. He threw a glance over his shoulder at where a steely-eyed Nestrala observed him warily. “Alone,” he added.

“Pava…” Zeischt began hesitantly, “…the situation is delicate.”

“I couldn’t be less concerned with your discomfort, Donald,” Lar’ragos said acidly. “You have things to answer for, matters that require resolution before I’m willing to trust in your and your intentions.”

Zeischt led Lar’ragos away from the rest of the party to a smaller, less ornate conference room, though one that still met with the almost disturbingly gorgeous Amon aesthetic.

“What is it that I can assist you with, Captain?”

Lar’ragos stared at man for a long moment before finding his voice. “What’s become of you?”

Zeischt spread his arms expansively. “I am that I am,” he replied without a hint of irony.

Lar’ragos offered a humorless smirk in response. “That’s funny. I see what you did there. So, you’re a god now?”

“Not a god, no. Whatever I am now, however, is greater than what I was.”

“I disagree,” Lar’ragos countered. “This… thing that you’ve become diminishes the memory of Donald Sandhurst. He was a good man, a good captain. You’re a parasite that feeds off the lives of the victimized.”

Zeischt cocked his head to one side as if scrutinizing Lar’ragos. “Brazen words for a man seeking my help as an ally.”

“You manipulated me, used me as a pawn in your twisted game, knowing that I wouldn’t catch on to what you were up to until it was too late,” Lar’ragos recounted with what he felt to be admirable composure.

“A calculated risk, Pava,” Zeischt murmured, appearing for the briefest instant to experience a twinge of regret before the expression was banished from his features. “T’Ser was too skeptical, too cautious. Your trust and faith in me were required if I were to achieve my goals.”

Lar’ragos took a step closer, his face pinched with growing anger. “Your attack on the En-Il-Que wasn’t a tactical necessity to safeguard the Alpha Quadrant. It was a hunting expedition for you, just to sate your thirst for this life-essence, this perverse energy source!”

Zeischt shook his head fractionally. “Not entirely. It had the benefit of accomplishing both goals simultaneously. I didn’t enjoy the necessary duplicity, Pava. However, the En-Il-Que were fairly warned. Woe unto them for ignoring those warnings.”

“Why?” Lar’ragos snapped suddenly.

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen,” Zeischt explained patiently. “Donald Sandhurst was just one man among trillions, as helpless as anyone to save the Alpha Quadrant. As Zeischt, I have the awesome power of the Amon at my command. I can help orchestrate the defeat the Skorrah and repel the other invading species. I can actually make a difference!”

“So you believe its all for a noble goal, then?”

“I believe that my energies are better spent in this capacity than in commanding one of dozens of starships, none of which will make any appreciable difference in the end.”

“I didn’t want this!” Lar’ragos blurted suddenly, his eyes shining brightly with tears that he refused to shed. “I never asked for this, the burden of your command. You know how such a thing weighs on me after-- after the things I've done.”

Zeischt inclined his head ever so slightly in silent acquiescence. “Just as I never asked to sacrifice all that I was to become whatever it is I am now.” Zeischt looked away momentarily. “You look at me as though I’m some kind of monster.”

“Aren’t you?” Lar’ragos pressed. "This poisonous energy infects every cell of your body. I fail to see how it's any different than being assimilated by the Borg."

Zeischt had no answer for him. After a pause he said, “You’ve had your say, Pava. Is there anything else?”

“Only one,” Lar’ragos replied, holding aloft the isolinear chip Pell had brought aboard the Amon cube. “Messages from your family. What would you have me tell them?”

Zeischt made no move to claim the chip. “Tell them Donald Sandhurst is dead.”

* * *​

USS Veðrfölnir
In orbit of Ferenginar, Ferenginar system
Alpha Quadrant

Operations Lieutenant Addison Etherby sat listlessly in the captain’s chair of the Norway-class frigate Veðrfölnir, barely a quarter of the way through Gamma Watch. The ship had just been released from a refit three weeks earlier, after completing a six-month rotation patrolling the tense Romulan Neutral Zone.

Though far less stressful, this milk run to transfer personnel and supplies to the Federation embassy on Ferenginar was hardly the kind of assignment a mid-grade officer could distinguish herself on. Regardless, Etherby was trying hard to apply herself as the duty officer in nominal command of the ship while the XO was asleep and the CO, Commander Gellek, was being wined and dined as a guest of the Federation ambassador to the Ferengi Alliance.

She’d read and initialed the division reports for Beta Watch and the deuterium fuel consumption logs, updated the official ships log, and completed the Gamma Watch duty schedule for the next two weeks. All that had occupied her for the first thirty minutes of the shift. Now, tedium was the word of the day.

Etherby was about to stand and walk another aimless circuit around the bridge when she heard a notification trill at the Operations station. The petty officer manning the console rose halfway out of his seat as he blurted, “Lieutenant, sensors detecting anomalous energy readings, range two-point-zero-three million kilometers.” Etherby noticed the slight tremor to his voice as he added, “It’s identical to known Amon transition portal emissions, sir.”

The ensign at the Tactical board confirmed it. “Looks like we’re not the only ones who’ve noticed, sir. The Ferengi orbital defense grid just powered up.”

“Red alert! Commander Friedleich to the bridge,” Etherby called out before ordering a tactical plot on the main viewer.

By now all the governments of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants knew the signs of an impending Skorrah attack. Thus, when Ferengi sensors detected the appearance of a transition portal some two-million kilometers from Ferenginar, the reaction from the planet’s defense mainframe was near-instantaneous.

It was a little known fact that among the homeworlds of the major Alpha Quadrant interstellar civilizations, Feringinar was one of the most heavily defended. Given the avarice of the Ferengi species and the degree to which they coveted their stockpiles of gold-pressed latinum, they had taken great pains and spared no expense in outfitting the planet with one of the quadrant’s most formidable defense perimeters.

Hundreds of orbital defense stations coordinated with a cloud of thousands of heavily armed weapons satellites. These were complemented by squadrons of drone fighters and all manner of warships slaved to the planet’s primary defense mainframe As the Ferengi had no social prohibitions against utilizing artificial intelligence technology, the fearsome defense grid was controlled by an impressive Class-III AI known as the CompuLux-5000. This system possessed the comparable computational capacity of sixty Galaxy-class computer cores with the ability to coordinate the actions of the entire defense grid simultaneously.

The Skorrah’s life-essence collection arrays had entered the system silently, undetectable to sensors as they were just slightly out of phase with the the time/space continuum of this universe. They’d been deposited a light year outside the Ferenginar system, and had encroached over a period of weeks. They remained as invisible to Veðrfölnir as they had to the Ferengi.

A blistering wave of phaser pulses, disruptor bolts, gravitic-warhead missiles and photon/quantum torpedoes was already on the way when the battered hulk of the Whalesong Probe emerged from the portal.

The dark behemoth’s neutronium shell had been compromised during the Skorrah attack in Cardassian space weeks earlier, and the barnacle-like clusters of habitats, factories, and hangers were now dark and empty. Gone was the cacophonous dirge, the broad-spectrum carrier wave that disrupted starship and planetary power systems alike.

The Ferengi defense grid’s opening salvo savaged the exterior of the probe, though the damage done was largely cosmetic. The probe had been accelerated to full impulse speed before translating through the aperture, and the time between detection and impact was a scant twenty-six-point-six seconds.

“Lieutenant, it appears to be the same probe that’s attacked Klingon and Cardassian systems in the past few months. It measures over five kilometers long, and one-point-five kilometers in diameter.”

“They’ve opened fire on the probe,” Ops noted, murmuring, “dear god that’s a lot of firepower.”

“Estimate twenty-three seconds until the probe impacts the surface of Ferenginar,” was the science specialist’s assessment. She gave Etherby a brief but pointed look. “Owing to the hyper-dense neutronium mass of the probe and its speed, the planet will almost certainly be destroyed.”

Etherby toggled the comms to the transporter room. “Chief Salek, I need an emergency beam-out of all Federation personnel in the embassy. Use all transporter assets to accomplish this. You have twenty seconds!”

The Ferengi AI assessed the mass and velocity of the inbound probe and correctly predicted a catastrophic impact. With less than a second’s deliberation, the AI initiated a planetary emergency evacuation.

“Switch to visual,” Etherby ordered.

The main viewscreen was awash in strobing lights and flashes as the withering firepower of the Ferengi defense grid was unleashed time and again on the inbound probe. So intense were the overlapping explosions surrounding the probe that even at maximum magnification, the dark cylinder itself was obscured by the riot of destructive energy enveloping it.

Etherby called out, “Science, how much time will we need to get to minimum safe distance when the probe hits?”

Catastrophic simulations of a planet being blasted apart played out on the Science station’s displays as the young specialist replied, “There’ll be massive gravimetric shock and debris accelerated to at least half-impulse, Lieutenant. We’d either need to break orbit now, or… our best bet might be a limited warp jump.”

“The hell you say?” Etherby snapped, her head fairly spinning with the untold dangers presented by that course of action.

“Salek to bridge,” the transporter chief reported, “We’ve recovered fifty-one personnel from the surface, but Ferenginar has just activated broad-spectrum transporter inhibitor fields over all major population centers. I’m unable to penetrate the interference in order to beam up the other three-hundred and twelve people.”

“Is the captain among the ones we’ve rescued?” Etherby asked desperately.

“No, sir.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Ops apprised.

“Keep trying, Chief. We’ll try and neutralize the interference at our end.” Etherby stood and walked on rubbery legs to the Ops station. “Why would they do this?”

“Profit,” was the petty officer’s grim reply. “It appears the planetary defense grid has been programmed to give priority evacuation access to the highest bidders, sir. They’re all bidding on a life-or-death evacuation auction.”

Etherby’s mouth dropped open before she exclaimed. “But that’s just sick!” She blinked, then forced herself back on task. “Can we burn through the interference long enough to get our people out?”

“Not enough time, sir.”

Lieutenant Commander Friedleich stepped onto the bridge as Etherby posited, “Fine, we’ll play by their rules, damn them. Tell their AI the Federation will pay out of our latinum reserves for priority transporter access.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Ten seconds,” Tactical updated the others on the bridge.

“Report,” Friedleich ordered, equal parts startled and mesmerized by the maelstrom of weapons fire displayed on the viewscreen as he exited the turbolift.

“Tactical, bring him up to speed,” Etherby instructed, unwilling to spare the precious seconds necessary to update the XO.

“No go, Lieutenant,” Ops said. “The AI says any amount we bid has to be backed by a major Federation financial institution, such as the Bank of Bolias.”

“Five seconds!”

“Shit!” Etherby exclaimed. “Tactical, can we knock out the transporter scrambler closest to the embassy?”

“Negative, too well shielded. Not enough time.”

“We have to go now, Lieutenant!” barked the science specialist.

“Helm, come ninety degrees from the stellar elliptic. Warp One, engage!”

Friedleich reached out to grab the safety railing as Etherby retreated to the captain’s chair. “Wait…”

The engines came to life and everything went very abruptly black.

* * *​

Seconds… or minutes… or perhaps years later (Etherby couldn’t really tell) consciousness reasserted itself in the young officer’s mind. She found herself face down on the deck, her nose almost certainly broken.

Etherby rolled onto her back, staring upwards at a tangle of optical cabling and shattered duct-work that dangled troublingly from the bridge’s ceiling. “R-report,” she stammered as she pulled herself painfully to her feet with the help of the nearby Flight Control console.

Around her, others were stirring as well, but nobody seemed cogent enough to respond to her query. Seeing the unmanned Operations board, Etherby slid into the seat, calling up a damage control report.

Veðrfölnir had suffered serious structural damage, especially her warp nacelles, one of which was completely missing. Engineering had been forced to eject the warp core due to the severe imbalance caused by going to warp within the overlapping gravity wells of both a star and a planet. Most primary systems were offline, but backups were running gamely, and it seemed the ship would live to fight, or flee, another day.

As a medical team arrived on the bridge and set about treating or rousing the others, Etherby organized and dispatched damage control teams throughout the ship. She was so engaged in the effort to stem the damage to ship and crew that it took her a moment to notice the XO’s hand on her shoulder.

“Addison, stand down a moment. You’ve done well.” He sat down next to her at the empty Flight Control station, turning in the chair to face her. Friedleich sported a nasty gash across his chin and his left eye was noticeably swelling. “That jump of yours put us just outside the Ferengi home system, and we’re safe for the time being.”

Etherby felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins begin to abate, making her lightheaded. She looked to Friedleich and inquired, “The captain?”

He shook his head sadly. “No, but Ambassador Tulloch and her family were among those we managed to rescue.”

“Ferenginar?”

“Gone,” Friedleich replied heavily. “It’s an asteroid field now.”

A single tear escaped the young lieutenant’s eye, cutting a clean swath through the dried blood on her cheek. “Your orders… Captain?”

* * *​

Long range sensor scans would later confirm that the overwhelming mass of the probe, accelerated to one-quarter the speed of light, had torn through Ferenginar’s atmosphere in less than a second and slammed into the crust of the planet at a nearly perfect ninety-degree angle. The explosion at the collision site measured some 1.18 x 10 to the 17th power megatons.

Ferenginar was obliterated in the blink of an eye, subjected to kinetic and gravimetric forces so awesome as to defy belief. The force of the impact pulverized the planet, sending asteroidal fragments hurtling outward into the star system, and setting the stage for the creation of an asteroid belt over the next few millions of years.

Grand Nagus Rom, his family, and the highest echelons of the Ferengi government were swept away by emergency transport some eighteen seconds before impact. All told, some thirty-five thousand individuals were rescued just moments prior to the catastrophic collision. That left seven-point-eight two billion Ferengi and eight-point-nine million alien visitors as helpless victims of the horror to come.

The political and financial repercussions of the destruction of Ferenginar would be significant, as Ferengi financial markets and investments created a web of influence throughout the Alpha and Beta quadrants. It was yet another shock to a quadrant still trying to find it’s footing in the wake of such a destructive war.

* * *​

USS Europa
Deck 2 - Executive Officer’s Office

The door to Iris Wu’s office chimed. Without looking up from her sundry datawork, she intoned, “Enter.”

Georgia Kirk stepped across the threshold, data padd in hand, bearing a curious expression as she came to attention in front of the XO’s desk.

Wu glanced up from her task. “At ease. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

Kirk relaxed slightly. “Sir, I’ve stumbled across something that’s got me concerned. I’m—I’m unsure whether it’s genuine, or a cataloguing error, or somebody’s idea of a sick joke.”

Her curiosity piqued, Wu sat back in her chair. “Explain.”

“The automated system we use to track all Alpha Weapons usage… well, while I was double-checking the reports, I found that we registered not one, but two Alpha-Weapon deployments against the Amon. The… uh, 'Oddfellow?'"

The XO gave no indication or outward sign of confusion or distress at the news. She held her typical stoic expression and informed Kirk, "That’s probably because Oddfellow was something of a dual entity.”

Kirk bobbed her head. “That was my first thought as well. However, the second Alpha Weapon has its own designation in the system report.” The Ops Manager set the padd down in front of Wu, so that it’s text was legible: “Weapon Alpha-Three.”

Wu barely glanced down at the remainder of the entry to verify the evidence before she lifted her dark brown eyes back to Kirk. She said nothing and the silence grew awkward within her office.

“This has to be a joke,” Kirk insisted.

“No,” Wu breathed. “I believe this is someone’s rational, dispassionate tactical assessment.” Wu continued to fix her glare upon Kirk. “Truth be told, I’d be hard pressed to argue their point. Can you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Kirk allowed. “No, sir. I can’t.”

“Until I've had a chance to investigate this further, it doesn’t go beyond the two of us, Lieutenant. Are we clear?”

Kirk nodded wordlessly.

“Dismissed,” Wu ordered curtly. She returned her attention to the small display on the padd for nearly thirty seconds after Kirk had left the cabin. Finally, Wu picked up the device, gave it one last look, and deleted the entry.

It read, “Weapon Alpha-Three: Lar’ragos, Pava, No Middle Initial. Category: Biological, WMD.”


* * *​

Wu stood patiently at the airlock as Lar’ragos and the diplomatic team returned to Europa from their intensive negotiations with the Amon.

The exhaustion was clearly evident in their expressions, with the notable exception of Dr. Reskos, who bore the bland mien he’d adopted as his default countenance. They’d been away from the ship for twenty-seven hours, precious little of which had been given over to sleep.

Pell seemed the most out of sorts, Wu observed. Given her personal history with Sandhurst, that was to be expected, Wu thought sadly.

Wu gave Lar’ragos an expectant look. “So, Mister Oddfellow worked out for us, then?”

Lar’ragos responded with a tired smile. “Perfect timing, Commander. My thanks.”

She fell into step with the captain as he trudged down the corridor towards the turbolift.

“Any idea what he… or they were, sir? Interacting with Oddfellow was damned surreal.”

“In fact I have no idea,” Lar’ragos responded. “I think it’s something we’ll have to chalk up to Starfleet having encountered a lot of weird shit in the past two centuries.”

Wu actually chuckled at that. “Copy that. Where are we with the Amon, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Better than we have any right to hope,” Lar’ragos answered. “They’re onboard with our plan to stop the Skorrah.”

“Skorrah, sir?”

“Oh, sorry,” he shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs of sleep debt. “A new designation for the predatory Amon tribe.” Lar’ragos shot Wu a rueful glance as he continued. “However, things regarding our mutual enemy are a lot more complicated and dangerous than we’d guessed.”

They reached the turbolift and awaited the arrival of a car.

“How so, sir?” she asked.

“It turns out that in order to confront the Skorrah, we’re going to have to take a little extra-galactic jaunt to the tune of around two-hundred thousand light years.”

The turbocar arrived and Lar’ragos stepped through parting doors. He turned to find Wu still standing where she’d been, her faced pinched in an unaccustomed expression of shock. “I thought twenty-thousand light years from home was sufficient,” she uttered softly.

“Going up,” Lar’ragos announced sardonically. “Next floor, phasers, razors, Tellarite lingerie, and Vulcan sundries.”

Now Wu looked downright baffled.

“Old-timey elevator humor, Commander…” he sighed. “Never mind. Please arrange quarters for former Captain Sandhurst and Lieutenant Verrik. Zeischt will be coming aboard to assist us with our transwarp engine modifications. I’ll want Verrik reactivated, so note his official status changed from AWOL to Repatriated Prisoner of War.”

Wu made mental notes on both. “Aye, sir. I’d advise we establish Level-One computer safety lockouts on Zeischt’s cabin, sir.”

Lar’ragos’ resulting smirk was muted. “Of course, for all the good that’ll do. He was able to program rings around us before while covering his tracks almost perfectly.”

“I can have engineering sever the ODN trunks leading to his quarters and establish a Level-Three containment field that would prevent wireless data transfer?”

A brief nod and a genuine smile emerged from her commanding officer. “Good thinking, make it happen.”

“And Lieutenant Verrik, sir? In what capacity should I assign him? I’d think Mister Leone would be rather put out to be seconded to Verrik after holding the department head post.”

“No, Leone stays in place, he’s more than earned it. List Verrik as a tactical adviser for the time being, until we can find a more permanent assignment for him. His knowledge of the Amon should prove especially valuable.” He glanced at his wrist chronometer. “I’ve got to go clean up. Meet me on the bridge in twenty minutes. We’re going to undock from the cube, and I need to get close enough to Galaxy Station to confer with Admiral T’Cirya in real-time.”

* * *​
Lar’ragos stepped into his quarters and promptly sank to his knees, a soft groan escaping his lips as the wave of agony he’d been holding at bay for hours was finally released. He unzipped his uniform jumpsuit, and collapsed onto the deck on his back as he struggled out of the top and the command red shirt underneath.

His breath came in great gasps as another searing wave of torment caused him to writhe across the carpet, his hands clawing at the air as he sought some kind of purchase to propel him away from the mind-rending torture.

After a moment that seemed an eternity, it had abated sufficiently that Lar’ragos was able to roll over and rise shakily to his hands and knees. He crawled with careful deliberation into the sleeping cabin of his quarters, reaching up with a tremulous hand to clumsily retrieve a hypospray from a drawer of his bedside nightstand.

Another paroxysm seized him, and Lar’ragos collapsed onto his back again. He cried out wordlessly as his chest and abdomen began to glow a dull red, as though he was being lit from within. The hypospray had fallen from his convulsing hand and lay there, just out of reach as Lar’ragos managed to gasp, “No -- Not yet!”

It took every iota of strength he had remaining to hold the terrible mechanism in check, and as he felt that last portion of control slipping, the pain eased just enough for him to grab up the hypospray and touch it to his neck. He felt himself begin to cool, the blistering agony that had suffused his entire being was easing, becoming once again a more tolerable level of persistent discomfort.

Once he had composed himself enough to speak coherently, Lar’ragos activated the comms to the bridge. “Commander Wu, I may have… underestimated my level of exhaustion. Please oversee our departure from the Amon ship, and set course for Galaxy Station, best speed.”

After Wu had acknowledged the order, Lar’ragos rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, working on regulating his breathing as his Vulcan kolinahr teachers had instructed him. He reflected that it had been a very near thing, far too close to completely upsetting what was likely their final contingency.

* * *​

Chapter Eight

 

USS Europa
Deck 7 - The Monico

The stars streaking past the forward-facing viewports of the ship’s lounge held no interest for Dominic Leone, who’d become inured to such sights growing up aboard starships and Starfleet outposts.

Leone stared instead at his glass of synthale held in both hands atop the table. He’d managed to get seven hours uninterrupted sleep after returning from the Amon ship, and was now spending his first free time since Europa had arrived in the Alanthal system.

He had come down from the incredible adrenaline high of the confrontation aboard the Amon ship, and was now feeling drained and lethargic, despite having slept like the dead. It was, Leone thought, not unlike the post-exam let-down after finals at the academy. His arm was mended, though it still ached, and Leone had steadfastly refused to take any of Dr. Reskos’ prescribed painkillers for the discomfort. The pain, he told himself, was a reminder of how dangerous a situation he’d got himself into.

An unused padd sat idly atop the table, discarded by Leone after several fitful starts on a letter to Teelis Tei. He wanted to write her to explain to his best friend all that had transpired since reporting aboard Europa. Leone had fought tooth and nail to earn a spot on the task force, even going toe-to-toe with his own fearsome grandmother, a high-ranking Starfleet admiral who’d wanted him to remain on Earth.

“Is this the legacy table?” Georgia Kirk’s voice startled Dom from his reverie with a sharp intake of breath.

“The what?” He blinked, then pushed back slightly in his chair gesturing to the seat across from him. “Oh, yes… please, by all means.”

Kirk settled into the offered chair. “Sure I’m not intruding?”

The corner of Leone’s mouth quirked in a hint of a smile. “It’s just me and my thoughts tonight, and an interruption right now would be welcome.”

Kirk took a sip of something that swirled electric blue in her glass. “Sounds like things got pretty intense aboard the Amon ship.”

Leone’s laugh was sharp, suggesting her assessment was a gross understatement. “I’m still not entirely sure what happened over there. I do know that we’re all lucky to be alive.” He raised his now lukewarm drink to his lips, taking a mouthful of the vaguely peaty synthale. “What did you call this… the ‘legacy’ table?”

She nodded, grinning. “Well, sure. A Leone and a Kirk? All we’d need is a Paris, Aspinall or Stiles to round out the set.”

Leone chuckled in reply. “Amen to that, Lieutenant.”

“Call me Georgia,” she offered. “Unless you’re one of those annoying-as-hell sticklers for protocol and tradition?”

“No, no,” he demured, raising his glass in a mock salute to his guest. “Please, call me Dominic, or Dom.”

“You must have had a similar academy experience to mine,” Kirk noted. “I swear that having a famous name is curse there. I actually considered changing my name prior to starting my plebe year.”

“Right?” Leone agreed wholeheartedly. “At least you didn’t have your mother and grandmother breathing down your neck the entire time, checking in with your instructors, even the damn academy commandant.”

“Fair enough,” Kirk countered. “But how many buildings on campus carry your family name? I had a dormitory, a lecture hall, and the whole damned Tactical Studies wing!”

Leone took another draught in response before he offered a slight grin. "None, actually. I may be a legacy, but the Leone name isn't anywhere close to elevated as Kirk. I don't honestly think it ever will be." Off of her look, he raised a hand, "Don't get me wrong, I like it that way."

She nodded agreeably. “Suffice to say we both bore heavy burdens during our academy years.”

Dom continued to smirk and then inexplicably began laughing aloud, setting down his glass to wipe at his eyes.

“What?” Kirk inquired, clearly at a loss.

Leone tapped his combadge. “Leone to Lieutenant Shanthi.”

After a moment’s pause, Shanthi’s voice responded. “Shanthi here, go ahead.”

Kirk’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to stifle her own fit of laughter.

“If you’re not too busy, Lieutenant, why don’t you join Kirk and I at the Legacy Table in The Monico. We’re exchanging tales of woe about our respective academy experiences.”

There was a discernible chuckle over the comm-link, followed by, “Sounds like something I’d know a bit about. I’ll be right there.”

Kirk took another drink after managing to catch her breath. “I can’t believe we forgot about the guy…”

“...whose mother is a Fleet Admiral,” Leone finished for her, prompting another round of mirth from the both of them.

* * *​

From: Lieutenant Dominic Leone, USS Europa, Delta Quadrant

To: Lieutenant Teelis Tei, Utopia Planitia Yards, Sol System, Alpha Quadrant

I put those replicator patterns you gave me to very good use here in the Delta Quadrant. They might have had the opposite effect, though, because every time I get homesick and I want to have a little taste of San Francisco, the meal seems to remind me of how far away I am from you and everyone else. I hope that you're taking advantage of being so close to the source because sometimes it takes a situation like this to make you appreciate all the little things you took for granted.

And in that, I mean that I wasn't fully prepared to not have you around for a real time conversation via subspace. It's difficult, sometimes, to really go through the day without having that contact. I've tried my best to get back with my shipmates, but they're a poor substitute. I'm sure by now, your family's probably already moved in to their new home on Beta Zeta VI. When I left, they'd just completed the negotiations, so I'm left to wonder what the Tei family home looks like now.

As for me, things in the Delta Quadrant have been very busy. Thankfully so, because if they weren't, I'd be left with my own thoughts all the time. I've been reassigned to a new ship as the chief tactical officer and being thrust into the senior staff has had one of the steepest learning curves of my career. Definitely the most action I've ever seen in my life, and I'm including the three years aboard Farragut. I'd be more specific, but I'm not sure how much I can get away with on a personal message... even though you have the proper clearances, I'm going to err on the side of caution. Suffice to say that there's never a dull moment on this ship and with this crew. The missions we go on will make for some very interesting reading, I promise you.

Sincerely, Dominic.

* * *​

The holographic environment in Europa’s holodeck was a perfect representation of Vice-Admiral T’Cirya’s office aboard Galaxy Station, and Lar’ragos’ image stood at attention in front of her desk.

“Commander Lar’ragos reporting in, sir. I’ve concluded preliminary negotiations with the Amon. The information garnered from this contact was in the brief I submitted to you via subspace yesterday, Admiral.”

She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement of his presence. "Please stand easy, Captain. Firstly, what is your current status?"

Lar’ragos assumed a parade-rest stance. “Europa is fully operational, and crew status is optimal sir. Former Captain Sandhurst is presently aboard, advising my chief engineer on how to reinstate our transwarp capabilities, and Lieutenant Verrik has been repatriated from the Amon.”

"It appears that you exceeded expectations, Captain. I am gratified that this mission did not result in the worst case scenario presented by Admiral Brotman," she tilted her head toward the mentioned admiral, seated in the corner of her office. "It is my hope that he comes to count on your success, as I do."

Lar’ragos glanced towards the other flag officer present before replying. “With respect to Admiral Brotman, it was a very near thing, sir. The Amon are at a delicate, very critical juncture in their species’ evolution. If we hadn’t deployed the rather… unorthodox Alpha Weapon you’d provided us, I likely wouldn’t be here speaking with you now.”

Brotman cleared his throat and turned his head away from the both of them, finding the bulkhead more interesting. T'Cirya's eyes shifted over toward Brotman before returning to Pava. "The admiral also felt that was a mistake, but you vindicated that decision very well. What is your current course?"

“I’ve brought Europa within real-time comms range to report in, but I’d rather not leave the Amon cube alone with Brigadier Gan’Louk and his expeditionary force any longer than necessary, sir.”

"Understood," T'Cirya replied. "Admiral Brotman has some questions for you regarding Commodore Sandhurst." She turned her attention toward the rear admiral, "Admiral?"

Brotman rose and gave Pava a clear inspection of his uniform and stance. "Yes, sir. Captain Lar'ragos, your brief mentioned that the… uh, Commodore is maintaining his status with the Amon, is that still the case?"

Lar’ragos’ expression grew taut. “I regret to report that Sandhurst has gone completely ‘native’, sirs. He appears inseparable from the Amon, and has even taken a wife, their BattleLeader Nestrala. If Dr. Reskos’ findings are accurate, separating Sandhurst from the life-essence energy that the Amon ingest would kill him.” He let out a short breath, seeming to hold his emotions in check before adding, “In my opinion, he’s been completely compromised.”

Rear Admiral Brotman shot a concerned glare at T'Cirya. "Sir, this is completely unacceptable. Sandhurst should be transferred to Galaxy Station and put under armed guard. Lar'ragos should alter course to arrive here immediately." He dropped the use of rank completely, showing his disdain outwardly now.

"I fail to see the logic in that request, Admiral," she replied evenly. "Were I to put that order to Captain Lar'ragos, he would most certainly disobey it. And I would agree with his reasoning."

Lar’ragos looked between the two senior officers, confusion and consternation evident on his features.

T'Cirya continued, "As Captain Lar'ragos has stated, Commodore Sandhurst is fully integrated into Amon society at a level that would require a response should we move to incarcerate him here. I see no outcome in direct confrontation with the Amon by provoking them with such a drastic measure. Given that he is willingly cooperating with Europa at the present time, I believe that it would be prudent to allow the captain to operate at his own discretion."

Brotman nearly sputtered. "Sandhurst is a danger to Europa, sir!"

"We require his assistance, Admiral," T'Cirya's tone chilled the room considerably. "I trust Captain Lar'ragos to ensure that his first duty is upheld."

Brotman frowned, but acquiesced with a muttered acknowledgement. He returned to his seat and seemingly lost interest in the rest of the conversation.

"Captain," she said, "what are your next steps?"

Lar’ragos paused a moment to consider his next words. “Sir, even with our highly unreliable transwarp drive functioning perfectly, it would be a twenty-six year round trip to the Large Magellanic Cloud at the cost of several times our storage capacity of fuel and replicatable matter stores. Sandhurst… or Zeischt as he prefers to be called, believes we may be able to goad the Skorrah into opening a transit portal at a place and time of our choosing that a battle group could then use to enter the LMC and engage their forces.”

T'Cirya tapped her desktop terminal to activate the display. "Have you determined the size of the force you require for such an engagement?"

“The larger the better, sir. The Skorrah have an installation of enormous size and power, plus a number of other warships besides that monstrous probe of theirs they used to destroy Ferenginar. The Klingon Expeditionary Force numbers some thirty ships, but we’d also need whatever Starfleet can scrape together from the closest Vanguard assets.”

"I may not be able to allocate appropriate resources and assets at your disposal, Captain," T'Cirya admitted as her fingers touched the control panel before her. "Starfleet transferred a mere twenty vessels with the second wave, and we have already distributed them as reinforcements to the intercept groups that formed under Admiral Jellico's command of the task force." She offered, "I can provide no more than a dozen starships."

Lar’ragos nodded soberly. “Then that will have to do, sir. Also… it needs to be said that this may well be a one-way trip. If we can avoid Voyager’s fate at the array that stranded them in the Delta Quadrant, we will, but I have no idea if we’d be able to decipher the technology aboard Shul’Nazhar in order to make a return trip possible. And that’s if we’re not forced to simply destroy the installation outright.”

T'Cirya lifted her eyes and stared into Pava's deeply. "The first duty, Captain. You know what is at stake, here." She waited patiently for his acknowledgement.

“Understood, sir. We’ll make it happen,” Lar’ragos offered without hesitation.

"Furthermore, you're authorized to ensure your victory under any means necessary," she said pointedly. "I'll leave the details of such up to you. In order for you to maintain command of this new task group, I'm noting in my log that you're to receive a battlefield promotion to the rank of Captain. For the duration."

Brotman's head turned on a swivel. He nearly jumped out of his seat, his jaw dropped wide open. "Sir! I must protest-"

T'Cirya's raised hand silenced him. "Admiral Brotman, one more word from you and I'll assign you as his subordinate. I will not tolerate any further interruptions. Do you understand?"

His response indicated he had no interest in going anywhere with Pava, and Brotman closed his open mouth and nodded. "Aye, sir," he said, then began to clench his teeth visibly.

"Captain Lar'ragos, do you require anything further from me?" asked T'Cirya, as though Brotman had said nothing.

Lar’ragos appeared almost startled when T’Cirya addressed him again, so surprised was he at the awesome responsibility that had just been thrust upon him. He’d genuinely believed another more senior commanding officer would lead the attack against the Skorrah.

“No… no, thank you, Admiral. I’ll hash out the logistical details with the appropriate personnel and have a preliminary action plan to you by fifteen-hundred hours tomorrow.”

T'Cirya rose from her desk and approached him. "I empathize with the burden I'm asking you to take on, Captain, but I feel… I believe that you will see the mission to its success, at all costs. Should you find yourself without the cooperation you need, please do not hesitate to use my name."

“Thank you, Admiral.” A small, troubling smile graced Lar’ragos’ lips for the briefest moment. “I shall return with my shield, or upon it.”

She drew her hand up into the Vulcan gesture. "I prefer with your shield, Captain. Live long, and prosper. T'Cirya, out."

The office surrounding Lar’ragos vanished to reveal the naked grid of a holodeck. He reached up to brush the three rank pips adorning his collar, fingering the spot that would soon hold a fourth. He uttered a long string of profanity in his native language, followed by a heavy sigh.

“I hate you so much right now, Donald,” he whispered as he walked towards the exit.

* * *​
Kyana Prime
Krenim Imperium Space
Delta Quadrant

The Krenim homeworld was had been at war for two decades against the barbarous and expansionist Rilnar Horde, and as a result the Krenim Imperium had built up formidable defenses around their central planet.

The world of Kyana Prime, however, was a far-flung colony of the now waning imperium. Though prosperous and well populated, its defenses were nowhere near as potent. That had made Liana Ramirez’s task all the easier.

A burning Krenim defense cutter succumbed to its catastrophic wounds, imploding silently in the cold vacuum as the starship Masada thrust away at three-quarters impulse. The colony’s orbital defense grid over the Olerta continent had been decimated by the Defiant-class ship, which now escaped under the guise of her cloaking device, a technology as yet unknown to the Krenim.

“Secure from battle-stations,” Ramirez ordered, rising from the captain’s chair. “Set a return course to the Borg transwarp conduit and engage.” She shot a meaningful look to her android first officer. “Parlan, keep me apprised of any developments. I’ll see to our guests’ accommodations.”

Moments later, Ramirez entered the converted cargo bay, stepping through the Stygian blackness to where a shaft of bright white light held a middle-aged man floating in mid-air.

He was baseline humanoid, light-complected with a receding hairline. His skin was mottled with darker spots along his temples and scalp, giving him a similar appearance to either a Trill or Kriosian. However, two circular blister-like sensory organs, one on each temple, gave the members of the Krenim species a more concrete awareness of their place in the time/space continuum than most humanoids would ever experience.

It was this ‘sixth-sense’ that had gifted the Krenim a particularly rare relationship with space-time, an intrinsic understanding of those phenomena that in some ways defied scientific explanation. It was a sensitivity shared by only one other race they knew of, the now scattered remnants of the El-Aurian civilization.

“Who are you?” the man croaked, blinking futilely against the harsh glare of the shaft of light that encased him like a fly in amber.

“Think of me as an admirer,” Ramirez replied coyly. “An old friend of mine shared your keen interest in temporal mechanics. He believed you might be of use to me.”

“I… I don’t understand,” the man fumbled, still trying to come to terms with having been beamed out of his own home without warning.

“I’ve come an incredible distance to find you, Doctor, so that you could help me build a weapon,” Ramirez purred, her voice tinged with a predatory elation. “You remember, the one you’d designed to thwart the Rilnar.”

Annorax struggled feebly against the iron grip of the suspensor field. “It-- that monstrosity was never built! It would have been a nightmare, a doomsday weapon. I couldn’t be responsible for that, no matter how savage the Rilnar’s crimes.”

“We’ll be hunting much more dangerous quarry than the Rilnar, Doctor.”

“Never!” he shouted valiantly. “I refuse! I’ll tell you the same thing I told our military… I’d rather die than help you build such a horror!”

Ramirez bobbed her head thoughtfully before looking back up at where Annorax floated, immobilized. “I’d rather figured that might be your answer.”

She touched a finger to her wrist-mounted interface, calling two additional shafts of light into being. Suspended in one beam was Annorax’s beloved wife, and in the other, their young daughter.

“Will you prove so cavalier with their lives, I wonder?” she posited grimly.

Annorax stared, mouth agape, quite unprepared for this turn of events. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he realized for the first time just how far he might go to protect those he loved most… and given his expertise, at what price.

“Whatever your darkest, most tormented nightmares, Doctor Annorax, I am capable of that, and so much more,” Ramirez said softly. It was a promise writ in blood and anguish, and he knew in his bones she spoke the truth.

* * *​
Holodeck - USS Europa

Lar’ragos looked around at the thirteen other commanding officers of the respective ships that had been assigned to what was now named OPPLAN DISTANT SHORE. It was, he thought, the most desperate gambit Starfleet had authorized since the darkest days of the Dominion War.

The expressions on display around the shared holographic briefing room ran the gamut from skeptical, to sanguine, to openly hostile. Lar’ragos had his work cut out for him here, and he knew it.

“In conjunction with our battle group, we’ll have the support of Brigadier Gan’Louk’s expeditionary force. This will bring our operational strength to some forty-four ships, supporting the Amon cube.”

“Before we jump into tactical planning and logistics, I’d like to beg your indulgence for a moment.” Lar’ragos stood to address the assembled officers. “I didn’t ask for command of this task force, and I understand that there are any number of you here today who are far more qualified than I to do so. Regardless, Admiral T’Cirya has placed me in charge, and as I realize the responsibility that this places on me, I want to assure you that Europa will be the first ship into battle, and it will be the last to leave the field. Should it become necessary for a ship to remain behind in order to see the others safely back to our galaxy, it will be my ship and my crew that undertake that task.

“That being said, I choose to believe I’m leading this battle group because I have a reputation for getting the job done. To be blunt, that’s all that matters here. Protocol, policy, and our own individual egos are irrelevant to the task at hand. We are not going to the LMC to negotiate an armistice, nor will we be making any diplomatic overtures to the Skorrah. This species killed seven-hundred thousand Klingons on Kitumbra II, over two-million Federation citizens on Blue Horizon, and laid waste the Ferengi homeworld at a cost of nearly eight-billion souls.”

Lucian Ebnal, the legendarily acerbic captain of Venture, expounded, “There are those among us who believe that the admiral placed you in command because this is a one-way suicide mission.” Ebnal scrutinized Lar’ragos closely, awaiting his reaction to the inflammatory accusation.

For his part, Lar’ragos merely bobbed his head in assent. “That could well be true,” he confessed. “The Skorrah are enormously powerful, as their attacks throughout the Alpha and Beta Quadrants have proved. I can’t promise that even if we make it through a transit portal into the LMC that we won’t be immediately annihilated the instant we arrive.”

Ebnal snorted. “Aren’t you just a basket of summer flowers?”

Lar’ragos fixed the more senior commander with an incredulous look. “If you’d rather I blow sunshine up your ass, Captain, that can be arranged. Myself, I’d like to go into something like this with my eyes open.”

That comment received a smattering of laughter from around the table, and even garnered an amused head-nod of acknowledgement from Ebnal.

Captain Lockett of the starship Samarkand raised two fingers up until Lar’ragos gestured towards him. “What, if anything, do we know about the LMC? I mean… with the exception of Endurance in Andromeda and a brief extra-galactic jaunt by the Enterprise-D courtesy of the Q Continuum, no Starfleet vessel has been outside the Milky Way. Do we even know if our physics apply there?”

Commander S’Rael of the Amel-Saff thanked her Vulcan discipline for allowing her to avoid the look of abject disbelief that was Lockett’s due. “The physics we experience in our galaxy apply equally to the LMC, or anywhere else in the known universe for that matter, Captain. Where physics as we understand them break down is when we’re conceptualizing other realities, such as contiguous subspace domains or alternate dimensions.”

Lockett blushed fiercely, having realized his gaff. He tried to shrug nonchalantly with middling success. “Hey, so long as our phasers and torpedoes still work, I’m good.”

The commanding officer of the Defiant-class USS Gallant raised a hand, and spoke when Lar'ragos acknowledged her. "Sir," began Lieutenant Commander Pellew, "while I'm sure that we all appreciate your intent to lead the charge, Gallant stands ready to assist as a screening force for the fleet." In other words, she volunteered her ship to join the tip of the spear.

Lar’ragos inclined his head at her gesture. “It’s appreciated, Captain. My thanks.”

Cudgel's skipper rolled his eyes, but raised his hand, not wanting to be outdone. "I think Gallant's going to need some help with that duty, Captain," said Lieutenant Commander Norman. "We can lend a hand."

Captain Stanley Broadalbin muttered, "They say that corvette captains have to be a little touched in the head to assume command. I guess they're right." Sheffield One's words brought smirks to the lips of his fellow heavy cruiser captains. "Captain Lar'ragos, I'm sure that these younger captains are in awe of your methods, but I prefer to see this brilliant strategy before I go any further." He eyed Pellew and Norman briefly as he added, "This isn't my first time at the rodeo, see?"

Lar’ragos refused to take the bait, remaining implacable. “We’re still working out the details with the Amon and the Klingons, Captain. However, the broad-strokes of the plan are that we’ll follow the cube through a transition portal and attempt to disable Shul’Nazhar’s defenses, taking the station if possible, destroying it if necessary. We have a number of Marine elements, supported by three Special Missions Teams available to spearhead any boarding action required in order to take control of the station. If necessary, we can supplement those with our combined security personnel. Brigadier Gan’Louk’s force boasts over ten-thousand battle-hardened Klingon warriors added to the effort.”

Ascendant's Captain Endilev gestured with his open right hand and spoke without waiting to be called upon. "We're carrying two elements of the Twentieth MEU," he mentioned casually when speaking on the Marine Expeditionary Unit. "I imagine that their commanding officer would be very pleased to be included in any conflicts. They're quite hungry for battle." He wore a satisfied smirk upon his dark blue lips, and glanced around the room for signs of subtle reaction.

Lar’ragos smiled toothily. “Very good. I anticipate they’ll get their fair share on this mission, Captain.” He regarded the other officers. “We’ll also have a squadron of our new UWCV unmanned attack drones at our disposal for this assignment. They can help screen our cruisers from Skorrah counter-attack by their own vessels.”

Pellew smiled. "That will be of tremendous assistance, sir."

“Let’s cut the crap, shall we?” interjected Captain Arwen Duparc of the Istanbul. “A one-way mission aboard ships loaded for bear with Alpha Weapons. We’re talking about a mission of extermination, aren’t we? This is going to be an act of genocide.”

“Not necessarily,” Lar’ragos countered. “We don-”

“Please,” Duparc waved away his protests to the contrary. “Despite their crimes against our galaxy, I can’t justify annihilating an entire species for something that may be the work of a handful of their leaders.”

Lar’ragos’ voice dropped an octave. “The Skorrah aren’t after territory or power or wealth, Captain Duparc. We can’t negotiate with them, as they’ve never even attempted to open a dialogue with any of the systems they’ve attacked. To them, you and I are nothing but prey. We’re their food.”

Duparc broke eye contact first, her expression hard-set but her eyes gave voice to the conflict waging in her soul as her Starfleet ethics warred with her stone cold pragmatism.

“I can’t say for certain whether destroying the space station will mean killing all of the Skorrah. With Shul’Nazhar’s capabilities, they could have established colonies in any of several galaxies.” Lar’ragos briefly scanned the expressions of the other starship commanders present. “But if it comes down to it, us or them, I choose us.”

Commander Ban Uraad, the Deltan captain of the starship Carthage spoke without prompting. “Admiral T’Cirya placed you in charge because none of the rest of us… not even Captain Ebnal, could in good conscience wipe out an entire species.” The intensity of Uraad’s eyes practically burned a hole through Lar’ragos. His inference was as obvious as a supernova.

Lar’ragos held his gaze. “Am I supposed to dispute that, Captain? Under the circumstance, you may well find yourself grateful to have me leading the charge. That act, if it comes, won’t be your order to give, nor will it weigh as heavily on your conscience.”

“Cold comfort, that,” Uraad replied dourly.

“And should we refuse?” Duparc interjected.

“You’ll be relieved of duty by the admiral, and your executive officer will take your place,” Lar’ragos responded without missing a beat.

Duparc’s eyes narrowed. “What if our objection comes after the mission is underway?”

Again, Lar’ragos remained impassive, his response coolly rational. “I would hope the XO of the ship in question would move to assume command. Failing that, I would take control of the ship via their prefix codes, slaving its systems to Europa’s auxiliary bridge.”

That brought a muted eruption of coughs and muttered protests from the others.

“You really prepared to be that tyrannical, Lar’ragos?” This from Ebnal, whose arms were folded across his chest in an openly defensive posture.

Lar’ragos walked over to stand just in front of the holographic projection of Ebnal. “Captain, as you well know, the needs of the mission come first. Especially this mission. Call me tyrant if you wish, but I will be obeyed.”

“And what about Gan’Louk,” Ebnal pressed. “Given the bad blood between you two, do you expect him to follow your orders as well?”

“We’ve settled our differences for the time being,” Lar’ragos answered. “He’s a Klingon warrior, one who understands the necessity of a strong chain of command in battle. Gan’Louk has acceded to following the instructions of a ‘mere’ captain for the duration of this assignment.”

Lar’ragos looked around the room, his gaze settling upon those of the other starship commanders who’d so brazenly questioned his experience and authority. “The Brigadier will do his duty. As much as he dislikes me, he will follow my orders without question.”

Lar'ragos allowed that to hang in the air, the damning accusation issued by inference.

Ebnal glanced around the room at the others, absorbing their resistance and indecision. They had reached a tipping point. Orders or no, each captain had to decide whether they trusted in Lar’ragos enough to sacrifice themselves and their crews at his whim. Such things in Starfleet were built upon loyalty, won at the cost of years and shared experience in most cases. Ebnal knew Lar’ragos wielded neither of these.

Ebnal faced Lar’ragos and stood, making a point of coming to attention. “Venture and I stand ready, Captain.”

Duparc stared at him. As his ex-wife, she knew Lucian Ebnal better than anyone, and despite his penchant for being the most sardonic, mocking bastard she’d ever known, he seemed utterly without guile in that moment.

In ones and twos, the others stood as well, joining Ebnal in coming to attention until only Duparc remained seated.

“I can think of no better cause in which to give my life,” Ebnal explained, his tone free of pretense.

Duparc heaved a sigh, surrendering to the inevitable. She rose to her feet, nodding to Lar’ragos. “Istanbul stands with you as well.”

“Good,” Lar’ragos replied. “Let’s get to it, then.”


* * *​
USS Europa
Main Engineering

Lar’ragos looked down from atop the catwalk, standing overhead above the new, exotic looking transwarp engine core. The next iteration of Sandhurst’s original design had been brought to life by Zeischt and Lieutenant Ashok. The former Starfleet officer now claimed to be in possession of his full ‘Amon faculties’, no longer hindered by Sandhurst’s human limitations, or so he’d seemed to imply.

The El Aurian had always envied Sandhurst and his ilk, those with the seemingly magical ability to create and innovate. As someone whose specialties leaned more towards destruction and entropy, a part of him yearned to be leave something behind more concrete than the loss and bitterness that had so often been his due as a soldier.

Now Zeischt was working closely with Ashok, completing the final tests on this supposedly more reliable transwarp drive. Lar’ragos mused that ironically, Ashok and his former captain meshed better now than ever they had as Starfleet colleagues. The Bolian no longer felt overshadowed by Zeischt, and his fragile ego didn’t imped their collaborative effort as it would have before.

The Amon warrior glanced upward, seeming to sense Pava’s presence, and gestured to him to remain there.

“Status of the transwarp matrix?” Lar’ragos queried a moment later as Zeischt stepped off the ‘lift platform that brought him to the upper level.

“Nearly ready for trials,” Zeischt replied. “As we’ve discussed, this transwarp configuration will work in tandem with your existing warp system, giving you the benefit of both.”

“You’re confident Ashok will be able to maintain the system in your absence?” Lar’ragos intended to avoid the confusion and frustration created by Zeischt’s last disappearance from the ship. He would be damned if the ship’s propulsion systems were entirely reliant upon the mercurial Amon.

Zeischt held up a padd that displayed scrolling blueprints. “I have instructed him at length and provided detailed schematics, as well as a fully interactive holodeck program that he can query.”

“Good to know.”

“I would discuss Ramirez with you,” Zeischt added, sounding uneasy. It was so unlike this new version of the man to exude any kind of discomfort that Lar’ragos raised an eyebrow at the statement.

“Ramirez isn’t the issue at hand,” Lar’ragos answered matter-of-factly. “She’s a side-show, a distraction. I’m sure you’ll agree we have larger matters to worry about.”

“And yet,” Zeischt pressed, “I am driven to ask if there’s been any word of her or her ship?”

Lar’ragos cocked his head, stepping closer to Zeischt, who now stood nearly twenty-five centimeters taller than Pava following his metaphysical Amon transformation. “The Baron forged Ramirez into a weapon of vengeance against Sandhurst. You yourself have assured me that Sandhurst is, for all intents and purposes, dead. What interest could you possibly have in her?”

“She… torments me, Pava. I can’t explain exactly why.”

“That’s Captain Lar’ragos to you,” Europa’s commander rejoined icily. “Sandhurst had the privilege of calling me by my given name. You do not.”

Zeischt was visibly taken aback by that, before he regained his placid bearing. “My apologies if I gave offense, Captain. That wasn’t my intent.”

“Apology accepted,” Lar’ragos allowed dryly. “Don’t concern yourself with Ms. Ramirez any longer, she’s not your problem. In the unlikely event that she shows up prior to our departure to the LMC, I will make it a point to release her from her torment.” He reached up a hand and touched a finger just below his cybernetic eye. “I owe her that, at least.”

“I feel... responsible,” Zeischt protested. “She’s done so much harm, killed so many in her campaign to hurt Sand-- the man I was.”

“Again, not your concern. Donald Sandhurst was the target, but he’s run away. Sold his soul to a species as malevolent as the Borg; infused himself with alien energies so that nothing and no one would ever be able to hurt him again.” Lar’ragos offered the merest hint of a smile as he turned and walked towards the corridor entrance. “I recognize the impulse, because I’ve run away before myself. But here I am, four-hundred years later, and I’m still me. I know my strengths, my weaknesses, and the crimes of which I’m guilty. Some days I hurt with every waking breath because of my past sins, but I’ve never run so far away that I turned myself into someone else entirely.”

“I’ve seen the future,” Zeischt blurted suddenly, stopping Lar’ragos in his tracks.

The El Aurian cast a look back over his shoulder. “What of it?”

“All is fire,” Zeischt murmured stoically. “The closer we get to beginning this crusade against the Skorrah, the harder it becomes to see the future clearly. Too many potentialities, too many decisions made in the moment that can affect the outcome. I know this, though, many will die. A great many.”

Lar’ragos gave a short, sardonic laugh in response. “Figured all that out on your own, did you?” He shook his head derisively as he stepped through the parting doors into the corridor beyond. “Fucking amateur.”

* * *​
USS Europa
Deck 2 - Executive Officer’s Office

“Thank you for meeting with me, Commander.” Counselor Liu seated himself a chair across from the executive officer’s desk at her prompting.

“What can I do for you, Counselor?” Liu was up to her eyeballs in pre-mission preparations, but had taken the time to meet with Liu due to his position among the senior staff, and because as far as officers in general, and medical types in particular, Liu was low maintenance. Wu respected and appreciated that fact.

“Realizing that this is the worst possible time to ask this, sir, I find it necessary nonetheless to request a transfer.”

Liu’s eyes opened a fraction wider at that unexpected appeal. “A transfer where?” she asked guardedly.

“Valiant, sir,” Liu said, frowning in expectation of a sharp response.

Wu’s expression shifted from curious to dubious. “And is Captain T’Ser aware of your transfer request?”

“No, sir. I didn’t want to broach that subject with her until I’d cleared it with you and Captain Lar’ragos.”

Wu sat forward, placing her elbows atop her desk. “May I ask the reason for this request?”

“T’Ser and I are engaged, Commander. It was our intent to be married the next time Valiant and Europa were in the same sector together. This… unexpected detour to the Large Magellanic Cloud has upset those plans. Given T’Ser’s unfortunate history with her last fiance, I thought it best if I transfer to her command.”

A slow nod was Wu’s only response for the moment it took to formulate her reply. “Is there a particular reason to believe your personal situation trumps the seriousness of our upcoming mission, and the welfare of Europa’s crew?”

Liu blinked and cocked his head to one side. “Er… no, that wasn’t my consideration, sir. I thought we might swap counseling personnel with Valiant, if there was no objection from my counterpart there.”

“Counselor,” Wu began patiently, “you are intimately familiar with this crew, their psychological profiles, and you’ve gained the trust of everyone aboard from the captain on down. With the dangers we face and the potential of our becoming stranded in the LMC, you’re needed now more than ever.”

“I take your point, Commander,” Liu countered. “However, in a worst-case-scenario like that, the counselor in question would doubtless rise to the challenge, most especially if trapped in the LMC with the crew for a prolonged period.”

“Lieutenant,” Wu addressed him by rank rather than function. “Everyone aboard has loved ones, most of which are back in the Alpha Quadrant. Simply because your betrothed happens to be a member of the task force doesn’t give you any higher priority in securing a ‘safer’ berth for yourself. We both know Valiant isn’t one of the ships tasked for the upcoming strike on the Skorrah.”

Liu’s face colored in a sudden blush. “I’m not running away to safety for my own sake, if that’s what you’re implying, sir. I’m trying to spare the woman I love from losing another relationship on the cusp of marriage. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know if she could take going through that again. She’s also in no position to ask for my transfer, given the circumstances and her rank.”

“I understand your predicament, Counselor. Nevertheless, we need you, especially now.” Wu steepled her fingers together in front of her, leaning forward even further to convey sincerity. “And let me be perfectly candid, here, Lieutenant. Captain T’Ser knew the risks when the two of you became romantically involved. She’d already survived the worst-case scenario, and she made the conscious choice to roll the dice again.”

“But Commander, I--”

Wu held up a hand, and Liu fell silent, though obviously still smouldering.

“I need you here, Counselor. I’ve got our captain and what used to be Donald Sandhurst aboard the same ship, with all the bitterness and psychological baggage that entails. No other ship’s counselor, no matter how talented, has your in-depth understanding of both these men. Can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you think someone else shoehorned into your post at the last minute would be of any help to anyone where we’re going?”

Liu managed to hold her gaze for a full five seconds before looking away. “No. Sir.”

Wu sat back in her chair, giving Liu the physical and mental space he needed in that moment. “There’s more. There are things going on with the captain that I haven’t revealed to you yet. Things that concern me greatly. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I can’t do this alone.”

Liu glanced out the viewport, eyes searching the void for a vessel he knew to be well beyond visual range.

“Dao,” Wu said softly, addressing him by his first name for the first time since they’d met. “Please.”

He reached up to rub his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand. “You’re right, of course, sir. I apologize.” Liu looked up at her, his eyes bright from tears that threatened to fall. “I’m a mental health professional, Commander, a supposed ‘expert’ in the workings of the humanoid conscious and subconscious minds."

Liu stood, turning his back to Wu and walking over to gaze out the viewport. "Despite all that, when I fell in love with T’Ser, I did so selfishly because it’s what I wanted. I never gave any thought to how it might affect her to lose someone else in uniform, not until it was far too late to turn back. Suddenly, I was in the position of potentially harming the person I love... devastating her beyond imagining, and the guilt of that is tearing me apart.”

“I’m sorry,” Wu offered, and she meant it. She stood and stepped out from behind the desk. "We're in real-time subspace transmission range of Valiant, Lieutenant. And I happen to know a captain who'd have no problem holding a wedding on the holodeck."

* * *​    

Chapter Nine

 

USS Europa
Captain’s Quarters

“You’re stable,” the LMH confirmed. “Given the circumstances, that’s the best that can be said.” The hologram snapped shut its medical tricorder and replaced the scanning diode in its base.

Lar’ragos pulled his command-red shirt on, cocking his head to one side as he adjusted the garment’s collar. “That’ll have to do, I suppose.” Lar’ragos replied. “How long?” he asked guardedly.

The LMH shrugged. “Since we’re not playing with known variables, I wouldn’t dare hazard a guess. You’ll be stable until you’re not, and whether the suppressant will work again is equally uncertain.”

Lar’ragos deadpanned, “Well, you’ve been a tremendous help.”

“If I recall correctly,” the hologram parried, “I advised against this. Don’t start whining now because of a little uncertainty.”

“Touché, Doctor,” Lar’ragos dipped his head, acknowledging his symbolic surrender to the hologram’s superior logic.

The LMH handed the medical tricorder back to Lar’ragos. “Will there be anything else, Captain?”

“No, thank you. You can go. I’ll encrypt your memory from here.”

And with that the LMH vanished, leaving Lar’ragos seated atop the bed in his quarters. He stood wearily, replaced the medical tricorder in a nightstand drawer and paced across the cabin to take a seat at his desk. He activated the interface terminal atop it. A series of commands shunted the LMH’s memory files of the past twenty minutes into a protected substrate of his personally encoded command database. There would be no official record of his examination, or that the hologram had even been in his quarters.

Next Lar’ragos keyed in a lengthy encryption algorithm into the comms system, opening highly coded channel. “I have an update,” he announced.

“Go ahead,” a distorted voice of indeterminate gender answered after a moment’s pause.

“My status is unchanged, and per the doctor I should be good until we’ve reached our target.”

“Good news,” the voice replied. “However, we need to reduce the number of these conferences. The threat of discovery is growing too great.”

“Understood, though to be honest, I’m surprised we haven’t already been found out.” Lar’ragos acknowledged.

“If we’d been discovered, we’d already be dead,” the voice offered.

Lar’ragos cocked his head as if conceding the point. “There is that.” He stood and moved to a nearby table, reaching for an unopened bottle of Enolian spice wine that Sandhurst had given him when Lar’ragos had come aboard Gibraltar as his Tactical officer three years ago. Twenty years earlier, Lar’ragos had mentioned to Sandhurst that the potent Enolian beverage was the closest thing he’d found to his favorite El Aurian drink of his youth.

He opened the bottle, pouring himself a glass of the bracing spirit. Lar’ragos figured that he’d ought to at least try it, seeing as he could well be dead in the coming hours or days, along with a great many others. “Any word from the Skorrah?” he asked before taking a sip from the glass. “Zeischt still hasn’t told us how he plans to convince them to open a portal to Shul’Nazhar.”

“He’s playing that very close to his chest. Aside from the Congress of Elders and Nestrala, I doubt anyone else knows.”

Lar’ragos took another, longer drink of the spice wine, the vapors warming his sinuses in a pleasant way that he vaguely remembered from his carefree youth. “Here’s hoping I didn’t throw this party for nothing. Otherwise I’m going to look like a colossal fool, and I’ll have undermined Admiral T’Cirya’s credibility with Command in the process. And gods know the Klingons are impatient enough about this whole thing as is.”

“Trouble with junior?” the voice asked, this time despite the digitalization of the voice, the mocking tone was unmistakable.

He actually laughed aloud at that. “Why am I not surprised that you know about that? And yes, Gan’Louk is experiencing pressure from his subordinate commanders to hurry up this mission, or to seize command of the battle group.”

“He strikes me as being able to hold his own,” the voice assessed.

“No worries on that account,” Lar’ragos agreed. “But anxious Klingons are not recipe for prolonged calm.”

“Your point?”

“Sooner would be better.”

There was a pause, followed by a reluctant, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“It would be appreciated.” Lar’ragos held the glass up to the light, admiring the color and body of the wine as he swirled it around in the glass. “Tell me, if Zeischt can see the future as he claims, how come he hasn’t intuited what we’re doing here?”

“I don’t know,” the voice replied. “Perhaps he has, and he’s waiting to spring some kind of trap before we can execute our plan.”

“Or maybe he has, and he doesn’t care,” Lar’ragos countered.

“Speculation is pointless. It will work, or it won’t. We’ll destroy the station, or we won’t.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast, “Victory is life,” he quoted the Jem’Hadar.

“Fatalism,” the voice gave a digitized chuckle, “it suits you.”

* * *​

Lar’ragos was seated in the central chair of the now rarely used Taskforce Operations Center. The TOC had originally been the control hub for their intercept group’s operations, planning and cultural assessment of the incoming refugee species.

Now the compartment functioned as a Combat Information Center. It would be the command and control node for the disparate fleet of Amon, Klingon, and Federation vessels that would soon be laying siege to the Skorrah.

Wu would command Europa from the main bridge, while Lar’ragos coordinated the actions of the entire battle-group from the CIC. Tactical plot maps on both standard viewscreens as well as three-dimensional holograms littered the compartment, awarding Lar’ragos of a god’s-eye view of the nearby battlespace.

The central dais that had supported four workstations had been replaced by a single command chair, ringed by a circular interface panel supporting a host of command and control functions. On the next tier down, two chairs faced the primary trio of forward viewscreens. Seated there was Verrik, now serving as the battle-group Tactical Coordination Officer. Next to him was Pell Ojana, on hand should there be an unlikely outbreak of diplomacy.

Their eclectic battle group was standing by, divided into smaller combat wings maximizing the complimentary weapons capabilities of the Starfleet and Klingon vessels.

Lar’ragos toggled the comms, opening a private channel to Zeischt aboard the Amon cube. “We’re all ready to go over here. What’s your status?”

“We’ve opened a channel to the Skorrah, utilizing our shared comms architecture. We’ve informed them that despite their unprovoked attack on us, we’re willing to parlay with them, in the interests of peace.”

“And?” Lar’ragos reflected with annoyance that Zeischt seemed to share Sandhurst’s irritating habit of encouraging others to draw information out of him, rather than offering it upfront.

“Strangely enough, they acknowledged our signal and opened communications with us. The conversation has been… stilted, but it appears they are asking for our help.”

Lar’ragos shared a concerned look with Pell and Verrik, both of whom glanced back towards him in response to Zeischt’s pronouncement.

“This isn’t a rescue operation,” Lar’ragos reminded their mercurial ally. “We’d all do well to remember that.”

“The Skorrah implied something is very wrong with them, collectively speaking. It may have something to do with why they attacked us in the first place.”

“Aside from possibly being advantageous to us,” Lar’ragos said carefully, “I don’t see how this information would impact our mission profile.”

There was a pregnant pause before Zeischt replied, “No, of course. You’re correct. They will be opening a transit portal momentarily. I suggest you draw your ships back at least another ten-thousand kilometers, in case this is a ruse and the Skorrah intend to bombard us through the portal aperture.”

Verrik reached out to mute the comms on their end, before observing, “Captain, this may be an attempt by the Amon to take their cube through to the LMC while stranding the rest of our battle-group here. To use a human aphorism, Zeischt may be experiencing ‘cold feet.’”

The El Aurian’s eyes narrowed. “Noted, Lieutenant. Please re-open the channel.” Verrik did so, and Lar’ragos replied to Zeischt, “Understood, Transcendent. However, we’re willing to take that chance. I’d rather not risk upsetting our group’s assault configuration this close to jump-off.”

“As you wish,” Zeischt replied noncommittally. “Stand ready. Aperture formation in… ten seconds.”

Lar’ragos toggled the battle-group comms circuit to the assorted starships and Klingon warships. “Ten seconds; reinforce forward shields and stand-by weapons.”

Shanthi’s voice was piped in from the bridge’s science station, “Reading spatial distortion, five-thousand meters at bearing zero-eight-five, mark zero-two-three.”

“Launch probe,” Lar’ragos ordered, triggering the dispatch of a specially-rigged reconnaissance probe from Europa’s forward torpedo tube. A searing-white tear appeared in the fabric of space/time, spitting distance from the forward facet of the Amon cube and the Starfleet and Klingon ships that sheltered behind its gargantuan mass.

The probe vanished into the transit portal.

“Receiving telemetry,” Shanthi updated from the bridge. “Sharing sensor data and visuals to the battle-group TacNet.”

The main viewer in CIC flickered, the image steadying after a second, prompting a chorus of gasps and muttered curses from personnel throughout the compartment.

Shul’Nazhar stood there in all its harrowing glory. A colossal semi-helical structure, measuring over one-hundred kilometers in diameter at its widest point, the object dwarfed anything in Starfleet’s two-hundred-plus year experience. Its piecemeal construction over the eons had left the installation looking like something out of an M.C. Escher nightmare. Haphazard additions had accreted over time with no thought to maintaining a coherent symmetry or design aesthetic. The result was a twisted, elongated pin-wheel looking monstrosity that appeared to be spreading like an unchecked metallic cancer.

“Transit portal reads as stable,” Shanthi concluded.

Lar’ragos toggled the intra-fleet comms once more. “Operation Distant Shore is a go. All vessels, ahead one-quarter impulse. All wings, maintain station behind the cube until we can ascertain the defensive posture of the station.”

The Amon cube thrust forward, surprisingly nimble for such a large vessel, followed closely by the others. They pierced the event horizon of the brilliant aperture, and just like that they were in another galaxy, one-hundred and fifty-thousand light years from home.

His knuckles burning, Lar’ragos glanced down to realize he’d been gripping the armrests of his seat so tightly that his hands were bone white and trembling. He forced himself to relax and keyed a channel open to Europa’s bridge. “Commander, you have the conn. Fight the ship as necessary; Verrik will forward any subsequent instructions from CIC. As we’ve discussed, all Alpha Weapon deployments must be cleared through me.”

Wu’s reply of, “Acknowledged,” was expectedly terse.

“All wings maintaining formation,” Verrik reported. “No indications of target acquisition on the part of the station, sir.”

“Their defenses?” Lar’ragos prompted.

“No signs of shields or active subspace fields,” Georgia Kirk answered. She was manning the sensor station in CIC, to avoid burdening Shanthi with responding to simultaneous queries from both Wu and Lar’ragos.

“Other vessels?”

“Negative,” Kirk answered. “No – wait… I’m reading three inbound craft just cresting the station’s midline, Captain.” She looked up briefly from her sensor display to fix her gaze on Lar’ragos. “Their shields are up, and weapons are armed.”

“Transmit their coordinates and posture to the rest of the fleet,” Lar’ragos ordered. He called down to Verrik. “Order Wing Two to intercept those ships. Make certain they determine those are definitively Skorrah before taking any action.”

He opened a channel to the battle-group. “Lar’ragos to Transcendent and Wings One and Four, move to unrestricted firing positions. Identify and target Shul’Nazhar’s weapons and defensive systems. Shield generators are a priority target. Try and minimize collateral damage wherever possible.”

Lar’ragos stared at a nearly undecipherable schematic of the exotic station on a free-floating hologram in front of him. “Kirk, find me their command center. I’d prefer being as surgical about this as possible.”

* * *​

Amon Homeship Transcendent

“I confirm those targeting priorities,” Zeischt announced from where he lay atop one of the ship’s contoured control couches. “Utilize the graviton cannon to neutralize their—“

“Hold,” Nestrala called out, causing Zeischt to open his eyes and interrupting his meta-state. This momentarily severed his cerebral data-link with the modified Borg vinculum that the Amon used to collectively command their mighty vessel.

Zeischt frowned at the interruption. “What is it?”

“Our cousins have taken no hostile action,” Nestrala observed. “Earlier they begged for our help. Is it not possible that whatever afflicts them may have prompted their attacks on the Alpha Quadrant?”

“Immaterial,” Zeischt answered, his words tinged with annoyance. “We have agreed on a joint course of action with the Federation and the Klingons. The time for debate is over. Now we act.”

Nestrala turned to give a beseeching look to Warlord Jalahar, the senior member of the Amon Congress of Elders, and prior to Zeischt’s recent ascension, the leader of the tribe.

“Warlord, what if this was all some terrible mistake brought about by circumstances beyond our cousins’ control? Perhaps their attack on us was accidental? Shall we strike down our kin, violating the most sacred tenant of our beliefs, without knowing the truth?”

Jalahar looked from Nestrala to Zeischt, indecision evident on his features. “The BattleMaster’s words hold weight, Zeischt. If war between our tribes can be avoided, it should be.”

“But our allies…” Zeischt protested.

“Our allies do not command the Amon, nor may they determine the destiny of our people,” was Jalahar’s graveled retort.

“The others have opened fire on Shul’Nazhar,” announced one of the reclined systems advocates.

Zeischt rose to his feet and moved to stand before Jalahar and Nestrala. “This course of action was already agreed to! Our assault has begun!”

“Tell our allies to stand down, and that for the moment our plans have changed,” Jalahar commanded.

As another of the command coterie moved to convey Jalahar’s message, Zeischt shook his head. “They won’t listen, Warlord. What then?”

* * *​

A brilliant wave of phaser and disruptor fire flooded the space between the battle-group and the mighty structure, followed close behind by a wall of photon and quantum torpedoes. Explosions blossomed across the surface of Shul’Nazhar as weapons ports and shield emitters (or what passed for them in this galaxy) were savaged.

“Damage assessment,” Lar’ragos ordered.

Kirk compared the after-strike scans with those taken just before, noting areas of both success and failure. “They still haven’t raised shields and a number of targeted systems have been destroyed, but others seem largely unaffected, sir. It appears that differences in structural composition are the determining factor. Some of the station’s hull is comparable to our current tritanium or duranium alloys, while others are significantly more dense and damage resistant.”

“Understood,” Lar’ragos replied. “Verrik, order Wing One to continue firing on the more vulnerable areas, while Wings Three and Four concentrate their fire on the more resistant structural areas.”

Verrik’s acknowledgement of the order was cut off by Kirk’s observation. “Captain, the Amon still haven’t opened fire.”

He pursed his lips unconsciously as his hand moved to open a frequency to the Amon cube.

“Signal from Transcendent, sir,” alerted an officer at CIC’s communications station. “Warlord Jalahar is ordering the battle-group to cease fire until the Amon have determined the status of the Skorrah.”

“The hell he says!” Lar’ragos blurted. He toggled the comms to the Amon ship. “Zeischt, what the hell is going on over there? This wasn’t the plan.”

* * *​

USS Hermes

Commander Esmeralda Cavney leaned as far forward in her chair as her safety restraints would allow. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered disbelievingly.

On the main viewer, what could only be described as three improbably antiquated rocket-ships were needling towards her combat wing. The ships’ elongated octagonal bodies were a dark, coppery color, and were studded with various sensor blisters, antennae and what certainly appeared to be open weapons ports. A single large propulsion port at the aft end of each of the ships belched plasma fire into the void, thrusting the craft towards the intergalactic interlopers.

“Ops, hail Captain Proton out there and make challenge,” Cavney instructed, eliciting a few chuckles from her bridge crew.

“Challenge made, sir. No reply.”

As confident as Cavney was in the prowess of her formidable Prometheus-class starship, a career of Starfleet indoctrination made her leery of simply opening fire on an unidentified vessel, especially one that hadn’t yet fired first.

“Mister Adelbrand,” she called to her science officer, “are you picking up any life-signs from the—“

A volley of green disruptor bolts flashed past on the main viewer, screaming downrange towards the oncoming ships. The Klingons, it seemed, had reached the limit of their patience.

Cavney practically jackknifed upright in her seat, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Oh, well… never mind. I guess we’re shooting now!”

* * *​

USS Europa
Combat Information Center

“Captain Lar’ragos,” came Zeischt’s voice over the comlink, the tension in his voice unmistakable. “Warlord Jalahar has assumed command of Transcendent in order to ascertain—“

“I got the message the first time!” Lar’ragos growled, cutting him off mid-sentence. “This is the mission we all agreed on, Amon included. Now you’re suddenly claiming conscientious objector status?”

“This was not my doing,” Zeischt answered simply.

Lar’ragos released the restraints on his chair and stood. “I’m coming over there and we’re going to hash this out.”

“Jalahar is instructing you to cease fire on Shul’Nazhar,” Zeischt pressed. “After you’ve done so, he may be willing to entertain an audience with you.”

Lar’ragos’ voice took on a hard edge. “I don’t take orders from Jalahar.” He severed the comlink and then immediately opened another, this time to the starship Galaxy. “Lar’ragos to Captain Ebnal, it appears our stalwart Amon allies have just had a change of heart.”

“Well, fuck,” Ebnal exclaimed without a hint of actual surprise. “How completely unexpected. What are you going to do about it?” he inquired pointedly.

“I’m going over there to have a little Come-to-Kahless talk with our reluctant friends. In the meantime, you’re in charge of the battle-group. Maintain fire on the station’s defenses until the job’s done.”

“Oh, goody,” Ebnal enthused dryly. “What if Brigadier Gan’Louk objects to your leaving me in command?”

By this time, Lar’ragos had channeled the conversation through his combadge, and was well on his way to the nearest transporter room. “Then you tell the brigadier that once daddy is finished with the Amon, I'll be coming for him, too.”

“Uh… “ Ebnal stammered in reply, speechless for quite possibly the first time ever.

* * *​

The incoming rocket-ships weathered the storm of Klingon disruptor blasts without significant damage, their hulls somehow refracting the concentrated energy of the attacks.

One of the ships fired a bright yellow beam from the apex of what on an early human rocket would have been its nose-cone. The beam flared briefly against the forward shields of a Bird-of-Prey, before penetrating the scout’s deflectors to slice its port wing cleanly from its superstructure. The smaller ship yawed wildly to starboard, colliding with a D7 frigate whose shields had just been compromised by a beam from another of the rocket-type vessels. The Bird-of-Prey exploded against the long, graceful neck of the frigate, severing it cleanly.

“That’s enough of that,” Cavney noted. “Open fire, phasers only.”

Though seemingly impervious to disruptor fire, the alien vessels proved surprisingly vulnerable to Starfleet phaser beams. Hermes disgorged a hellish storm of phaser fire, exploding one of the rockets and crippling another with their opening salvo.

“Let’s see how they like the taste of photon torpedoes,” Cavney remarked wryly as she savored drawing first blood. “Fire.”

 

* * *

Lar’ragos headed for the shuttle bay, sending orders ahead to prep a shuttle for his use. On route, the transporter room confirmed that the massive subspace field the Amon utilized as shielding was still in place, preventing his beaming aboard the cube.

He re-opened his comlink to Captain Ebnal aboard Venture. “Give me five minutes once I’m aboard to change their minds. If you don’t hear back from me after that, or if the Amon move to interfere with our attack on the station, use of Alpha Weapons against the Amon is authorized.”

“May I remind you, Captain, that you’re leaving your post in the middle of the major offensive operation that you planned,” Ebnal replied acidly. “I vouched for you on this, Pava. This isn’t the time to go AWOL.”

Lar’ragos strode into the shuttle bay as a flight officer stepped off the rear ramp of the shuttle Lisbon. “She’s warmed up, and pre-flight’s complete, Captain. You’re good to go.”

He replied with a thumbs-up and then ascended the ramp and settled into the pilot’s seat. “Lucian, this is our only chance to avoid fighting both the Amon and the Skorrah. And let’s be honest, you’re far better qualified to lead a task force in battle than I am.”

Ebnal harrumphed in reply. “Well, that’s true enough. Fine, try not to get yourself killed. You’ve grown on me, not unlike a fungus or a pernicious venereal disease.”

Lar’ragos chuckled darkly as he fired up the shuttle’s thrusters and piloted the vessel through the permeable force field barrier and into the space beyond where a maelstrom of energy beams, torpedoes and explosions filled the void.

He turned the craft to face the cube, which appeared much less impressive when dwarfed by the almost mind-numbing mass of the alien fortress. Lar’ragos plotted a course to avoid the lanes of weapons fire that were still savaging the surface of Shul’Nazhar while toggling the encrypted comms frequency the battle-group shared with the Amon.

“Zeischt, I’m inbound to discuss the situation. I’m about thirty seconds from playing bug to your windscreen, so I’d appreciate it if you’d drop your subspace field or beam me over.”

Silence answered him as the cube grew larger through the cockpit window. “I’m not joking, Zeischt. You let me slam into your field, and you’re going to start a shooting war with your allies.”

The silence stretched on, prompting Lar’ragos to add, “Donald, you’re a fool if you think I’ve shown you all our cards. Oddfellow was nothing compared to what we’re prepared to use against your people if you betray us.”

The cube filled the cockpit window, and Lar’ragos could now make out individual sections and conduits that comprised its layered surface. He began to slow his breathing, forcing himself to relax as he fought the nearly overwhelming compulsion to alter course to avoid impact.

The shuttle’s computer announced, “WARNING: Collision imminent; advise you alter course immediately.”

Lar’ragos closed his eyes as he accepted that this would be his final battle, the capstone to his long, tortured journey as a soldier. Seeking some kind of solace or diversion, his mind reached far into the past to catch hold of memories of his first taste of combat, the crucible that had burned away the last remnants of his naiveté. It drew these recollections into the present, a last-ditch defense against the shock of his own impending death.

* * *​

Maruushta Prime
Delta Quadrant
Circa 1975 A.D., Terran Calendar

The armored flyer’s ramp slammed down with a hollow clang of metal on dirt, and Lar’ragos felt himself shoved forward as the two lines of fusiliers surged forth to exit the vulnerable craft.

“Go, you sons-of-bitches,” their platoon sergeant roared, “Move!”

As he stumbled off the bottom of the ramp, Lar’ragos emerged into an inferno of light, noise, and the concussions of overlapping explosions. He flinched involuntarily at the sudden scream from a flight of Hekosian assault-drones that flashed past, their auto-cannons seeming to rip the fabric of the air with sustained fusillades of lethal metal.

Lar’ragos gaped at the carnage surrounding him. Fifty meters away the burning hulk of another, less-fortunate flyer lay crumpled as Maruushtan anti-aircraft missiles corkscrewed through the air to savage a half-dozen others on approach to land. The load-bay of the wrecked flyer had burst open as the craft folded in upon itself on impact, spilling the smoldering, dismembered bodies of dozens of Hekosian troopers onto the gritty, unforgiving soil.

‘Gone, just like that,’ Lar’ragos mused numbly. ‘All that training, all those simulations… and they never even got to fire a shot.’

Another fusilier raised her plasma carbine, the weapon cackling as the woman fired at the scuttling form of an insectile Maruushtan warrior as it darted behind cover. Lar’ragos turned to look towards his squad leader, only to see the man’s head removed from his shoulders in a ghastly spray of blood that evulsed across the front of Pava’s battle-armor.

Someone grabbed Lar’ragos roughly from behind and shoved him down, face first onto the stoney ground, just as something sizzled close overhead. Lar’ragos could feel the hairs on the back of his neck singed off at its passing.

A body rolled off from where it had lay atop of Lar’ragos, the person gasping in shock and pain. Lar’ragos lifted his head and turned it to see the horrifically burned form of Subadhar Jorl, their platoon sergeant, writhing in agony as smoke wafted upward from dozens of charred patches across his body.

Lar’ragos scrambled to his knees, reaching for his battle-aid kit with shaking hands as Jorl bit down on his own fist to keep from screaming, eliciting rivulets of blood that trickled down a forearm the skin of which had been charred to a crisp.

He stared numbly at the contents of the kit, trying desperately to remember what of the various med-vials, bandages, or protoplasers would be of use in this situation. So fixated was he on his task that he almost failed to notice the arrival of a combat med-bot as it charged forward out of the wafting smoke and knelt beside Lar’ragos to assess Jorl’s injuries.

“Poet!” a voice yelled through his headset, shocking him out of his daze. “Leave him to the ‘bot and get your ass back in formation!” Thus prompted, Lar’ragos pushed away from what was certainly Jorl’s last moments to stagger in the general direction of his squad. The location of both Hekosian forces and their Maruushtan enemies were emblazoned on the virtual screen that seemed to be hovering in the air in front of the young soldier’s eyes.

Something exploded a few meters from him, showering him with dirt and debris as it threw him off his feet. Lar’ragos rolled down a slight incline before tumbling into a good sized crater just as a flight of something whistled viciously past, chewing up the soil at the crater’s lip.

Lar’ragos lay at the bottom of the depression, trying valiantly to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. On his eyepiece he could see green dots, signifying the positions of his comrades, winking out two or three at a time. They were being chewed to pieces, and they were only the second of six waves of this attack. An attack which was actually nothing more than a feint designed to draw the enemy’s attention away from the target of the actual invasion force. ‘Thousands of us are being sacrificed as nothing more than a diversion,’ he realize, aghast at the implications. This isn’t what he’d been promised, nor what he’d trained for.

More explosions sounded nearby as another flight of combat-drones roared overhead, screening the third wave of transport flyers that were tucked in tight behind them. Lar’ragos caught sight of columns of Maruushtan small-arms fire reaching skyward from someplace nearby, trying to bring down the flyers and their escorting drones. He girded himself to clamber up the side of the crater, extending a helmet-mounted periscope over the crater’s edge.

He could just make out the frantic, gyrating movements of Maruushtan warriors in close-quarters combat with a small knot of Hekosian soldiers, both sides emptying their weapons into each other a point-blank range. Some of the clashes closed to hand-to-claw combat, savage struggles involving knives and razor-sharp mandibles. Lar’ragos gripped his plasma rifle so tightly his hands trembled as his instinct for self-preservation warred with his brief yet memorable fusilier training.

‘Just do it! Get out there and help!’ he screamed internally. But he couldn’t move. His legs felt as though they were encased in concrete, and no matter how he yearned to take the fight to his enemy, Lar’ragos remained rooted to the spot.

A grunt and the sound of rattling body-armor sounded behind him, causing Lar’ragos to spin around and discharge his rifle in a blind, stuttering arc of fire, screaming maniacally as he did so.

A booted foot kicked out and forced the muzzle of the rifle skyward as Lar’ragos came face to face with a fellow Hekosian. The older, larger man cuffed Lar’ragos roughly across the face and then pulled him to the ground by the collar of his armored breastplate. “Calm the hell down you little shit!” the man roared. “I didn’t survive all that just to get gakked by some green-ass newbie!”

Lar’ragos struggled to rise, and when he found the other soldier’s grip unbreakable, finally relented and sank back against the sloping wall of the crater. “Sorry,” he muttered quietly. “You surprised me.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” the other man relented, finally releasing his hold on Lar’ragos. “No more spastic moves, kid. I don’t want to have to shoot you, but I will if I have to. We clear?” The man suddenly raised a hand-pulser towards Lar’ragos, causing Pava to cover his face and cry out as the weapon thundered.

The sound of something sizzling above him and the realization that he was unharmed finally prompted Lar’ragos to look up and over his shoulder. There, at the lip of the crater, was the perforated remains of a Maruushtan drone-warrior, dribbling purplish blood-analogue from a dozen mortal wounds.

The older soldier gave Lar’ragos a wizened smile. “First taste of combat, eh?”

Lar’ragos allowed a reluctant nod as he finally had the presence of mind to change out his weapon’s empty power cell for a fresh one.

“The next fifty hours or so are going to be the hardest for you,” the man said. “After that, the odds of your surviving this little party begin to climb.”

“I can’t believe anyone can survive for more than a minute out there,” Lar’ragos groaned, gesturing weakly to the surrounding battlefield.

“That’s the secret,” the soldier said with a knowing smirk. “Nobody can. Not until the number of Maruushtans has been whittled down significantly. That’s why you and I are going to stay right here and cover one another until say… the fifth wave comes in. Then we’ll climb out and join the fight.”

Lar’ragos blinked at the man in disbelief. “We just sit here? Isn’t that cowardice?”

“Nah,” he answered with a sharp laugh. “It’s enlightened self-interest. Think of it as fighting smarter. Let those other idiot hard-chargers die for the honor of the Hekosian Empire. We’ll still kill our fair share of the enemy, but unlike the others, we’ll live to fight another day.”

Lar’ragos eyed the man warily, but settled back against the crater wall just the same. “That sounds oddly rational, given the circumstances.” He flinched as debris from a nearby explosion pattered down around the both of them.

The man laughed. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll make a soldier out of you yet.”

“I’m afraid,” Lar’ragos blurted, unsure as to why he made the sudden admission.

The older man nodded sagely. “That will never change.”

* * *​

The memory faded, to be replaced by a brilliant white light that infused Lar’ragos and seemed to permeate his entire being. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, stunned at this turn of events. “All those stories were righ--” The light faded, and he was chagrinned to find himself standing in the center of the Amon vessel’s austere command center. As he regained cohesion, a restraining field snapped into place around him, preventing movement.

“I’ve come to accept your surrender,” Lar’ragos announced with all the bravado he could muster.

* * *​  

​

Chapter Ten

 

USS Venture

“Status?” Captain Ebnal inquired.

“The three incoming warships have been neutralized, sir. There’s been no further signs of active defenses. So far, we’ve degraded twelve percent of the station’s defensive capacity.”

Ebnal look surprised. “Only twelve percent?”

“It’s a very big station, Captain,” his XO offered.

Ebnal pursed his lips in consternation. “Right. I sure as hell hope we brought enough torpedoes…” He turned to his Operations officer. “Bring the warp drones online and dispatch them to the far side of the station. I want to make sure there’s nothing hiding behind it that our sensors can’t detect. Also have the Hermes and Turov move to mobile position Beta-Four to screen us from any potential threat from that quarter.”

“Aye, sir.” With that, their squadron of Unmanned Warp Combat Vehicles jumped to full impulse and moved to skirt the great bulk of the alien installation.

* * *​

Amon Homeship Transcendent

Pava’s comment elicited a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan A’lasha, who stood next to Zeischt some distance away from Warlord Jalahar and his command retinue. Lar’ragos took note of the fact that Zeischt’s mate, BattleMaster Nestrala, remained with the warlord and his hand-picked representatives from the Amon Congress of Elders.

“I see your sense of humor is still as dry as ever,” Zeischt said with a perplexed frown.

“I wasn’t joking,” Lar’ragos replied. “We all agreed to this course of action, that we would engage the Skorrah no matter what we found here. Now you’re trying to renege on that promise, and prevent our battlegroup from completing its mission.”

“You do not order the Amon!” Jalahar barked, stepping out from his knot of advisors. “You do not threaten us! The tenets of our faith are non-negotiable, Outsider.”

“You’re saying that the word of the Amon has no value, then?” Lar’ragos asked.

Zeischt intervened in the exchange and stepped closer to where Lar’ragos stood immobilized. “Captain Lar’ragos,” he said formally, “Starfleet is not in the business of genocide. We have an opportunity here to assist the Skorrah, and perhaps in so doing, end their threat to the Milky Way galaxy.”

“We have the advantage right now,” Lar’ragos replied evenly, trying mightily to maintain a calm, reasonable demeanor. “This could be a ruse on their part to delay our offensive, or to trick us into lowering our defenses.”

Zeischt’s reply was equally rational. “From what the Amon know, Shul’Nazhar’s defenses are formidable enough that they could have easily wiped out our whole battlegroup as soon as we passed through the transit portal. They didn’t. What would be the point of subterfuge then?”

Lar’ragos gritted his teeth, struggling against the claustrophobic sensation of the restraining field. “Our attack on the station’s defenses is already underway. Even if I called off Starfleet, I doubt I could deter the Klingons from continuing their assault.”

“Then we will convince your Klingon allies!” Jalahar snarled, his blood still up.

The El Aurian fixed his eyes on the Amon warlord. “You are so blinded by arrogance, Jalahar. And coming from me, that’s saying something. Whatever fate has befallen the Skorrah, they’ve become a malignant force. If you fail to act now, you risk becoming contaminated by whatever twisted them.”

“Enough!” Jalahar stalked across to stand directly in front of Lar’ragos. “Contact your fleet, and order them to cease fire.”

“I will not,” Lar’ragos answered stoically. He knew what came next, given that the Amon saw themselves as standing largely above other humanoids. 'Life is cheap', he reflected, 'especially among death eaters.'

As though reading his mind, Jalahar drew a knife from within the folds of his cloak. It was a relatively small blade, quite utilitarian, so unlike the large, wicked curved knives favored by the Klingons and other overtly martial species. This blade was not meant to intimidate, Lar’ragos realized. It was meant to kill.

Zeischt stepped forward, concern furrowing his features. “Warlord, please…”

“Not another step!” Jalahar roared. “If you move to interfere, you will share his fate, Zeischt. You are Amon, now and forever, and you would do well to make peace with that fact.”

Lar’ragos looked up into Jalahar’s eyes unflinchingly, his expression tinged with an unnamed sadness. “If you do this, it will spell the end for you and your people. I ask you… I beg you not to.”

“I offer you one last chance,” Jalahar said in a more restrained tone, ignoring Pava’s entreaty. “I am not without mercy. Call off your ships, and I will send you back to your people unharmed.”

Lar’ragos inclined his head slightly. “I believe that you would, Warlord. However, I’m acting in the defense of my people, and all the other species of my galaxy. My answer is still no.”

Jalahar was a man of few words, and as there were no more to be said here, he acted. The warlord’s hand and the knife it held passed through the restraining field as if it were not there, as he drove the blade into Lar’ragos’ gut. His cuts were sure and swift, down and across, moving to open Pava’s abdomen and sever the artery within.

The El Aurian gasped and then cried out as his entrails slithered free of his mortal wounds and spilled across his boots and the surrounding floor. He looked down with disbelieving eyes as blood pooled around his feet. “N- Now you’ve gone… and done it.” Lar’ragos looked up and searched out Zeischt, whose face was fixed in an expression of shock and dismay. “I’m sorry, Donald,” he rasped weakly. “This isn’t… the way I wanted it to…”

Jalahar wiped the blade clean on his robes and the knife vanished into their folds once again. He made a cutting gesture in the air, and the restraining field surrounding Lar’ragos switched off, sending him crumpling heavily to the floor.

Zeischt shouldered past Jalahar, heedless of the consequences, to kneel beside Lar’ragos. “Pava,” he called out over and over, unable to form any other words in the depth of his despair.

Lar’ragos patted Zeischt’s shoulder in a ghastly parody of soothing, his trembling hand leaving the Amon’s robe stained with the smaller man’s blood. “It’s okay,” Lar’ragos whispered, his breath becoming labored. “It’s the… death I deserve.”

Zeischt marshalled what little remained of his self control and answered, his voice tight with grief. “Is this your way going out in a blaze of glory, you old fool?”

The light began to fade from Lar’ragos’ eyes. “No,” he sighed. “There’s no… nobility in this. Only vengeance.” He reached out fumblingly to grasp Zeischt’s hand feebly. “Get off… the cube.”

And with that, he was gone.

Jalahar looked on dispassionately, judging Zeischt’s reaction to his old friend’s death.

Zeischt stood, his face now carefully expressionless, his posture rigid. He turned to face Jalahar. “You’ve killed us all.”

A searing energy bolt from an Amon battle-staff tore through Jalahar’s chest, sending his body sliding across the floor of the command center to plow unceremoniously into the base of a reclining seat occupied by one of the Amon systems advocates.

“Not yet, but that’s the plan,” A’lasha of Vulcan announced with a savage smile as she dropped the battle-staff and vanished in the swirling pattern of an Amon transport beam.

* * *​
USS Europa

“The captain’s shuttle is away, sir,” Shanthi reported to Wu from the Science station.

Wu nodded wordlessly in response, and then directed a query behind her to Tactical. “Status of our bombardment on that shield generator cluster, Dom?”

Dominic Leone replied evenly, “Progressing, Commander. That last volley of photons compromised the generators’ shielding. I’m following up with phasers to conserve torpedoes.”

“Understood,” Wu said with an approving nod. “Good work, keep at it. Your next target is the weapons battery marked as Gamma-Seven on the TacNet display.”

The ensign who’d taken over the Operations station when Kirk reported to CIC spoke up. “Sir, the captain’s shuttle is fifteen seconds from a collision with the Amon’s ship’s subspace field.”

Wu resisted the urge to put the shuttle on the main viewer, and instead toggled the command chair’s LCARS interface, calling up a real-time sensor display of Lisbon’s progress toward the Amon cube.

By the time she’d centered the scan on the shuttle, there was less than ten seconds until impact. Wu wanted desperately to call Lar’ragos, to urge him to turn back, but she already knew he was fully committed. The captain was playing chicken with an alien dreadnaught and the turncoat former Starfleet officer among its leadership.

Two seconds before the shuttle’s collision with the subspace field annihilated the small craft, an Amon transporter signature registered from within the shuttle. Lar’ragos’ combadge transponder now broadcast from within the Amon vessel. Wu allowed a quiet sigh of relief to escape her lips as she announced, “The Amon beamed the captain aboard. Scratch one shuttle, though.”

“Shield generators confirmed destroyed, sir,” Leone announced. “Now targeting weapons emplacement designated Gamma-Seven.”

On the main viewscreen, three photon torpedoes rifled towards the mammoth space station, followed by a single quantum torpedo. Europa’s contribution added to an image replete with phaser discharges, flights of torpedoes in green, red, and white, and a multitude of Klingon disruptor blasts, all reaching out to strike the silent sentinel that was Shul’Nazhar.

Wu was relieved the station was offering no resistance, as she tried to imagine the kind of hellish firepower such an installation might bring to bear on their battlegroup.

“Mister Shanthi, how goes the mapping of the station’s internal layout?” Wu inquired.

"Nearly seventy percent complete, Commander,” the lanky young man replied. “Both Starfleet and Klingon ships are contributing to the combined effort, sir. At this rate it’ll be complete in less than ten minutes. Then I’ll be able to identify priority targets for bombardment or boarding actions.”

Wu digested that news as she took a moment to check the ship’s weapons stores, noting the significant dent they’d already put in Europa’s supply of photon and quantum torpedoes. Even now, the ship’s industrial replicator was producing components for replacement photorps, but the precious quantums could not be manufactured without highly specialized facilities. Each one they used would have to be resupplied from the Alpha Quadrant, far enough away from the nearer reaches of the Delta Quadrant, and now impossibly distant.

Operations turned to glance back at Wu, “Incoming message from Venture, sir. Captain Ebnal says to prepare to stand down our CIC. He’s transferring command-and-control to Venture’s battle-bridge until Captain Lar’ragos returns.”

“Acknowledge the order, Ensign,” Wu offered.

“Beta-Wing has neutralized the three incoming threat vessels, and there are no other unidentified spacecraft within this star system, sir.”

“Understood,” Wu confirmed.

A warbling alarm at the Science station prompted Shanthi to call up a body diagram on his primary viewer at the Science board. The young man’s voice rose an octave in alarm, “Sir, the captain’s combadge biometrics alert has activated. His blood pressure is crashing and I’m reading some kind of traumatic injury.”

Wu was up and out of the command chair like a shot. “Can we get a transporter lock?”

Shanthi’s hands flew across his panel in a flurry. “No… their subspace field is still active.”

Wu moved over to the Science station, leaning over Shanthi’s shoulder to examine the troubling readings for herself. “Do any of our Alpha Weapons have the capability of crashing their field without causing catastrophic damage to the cube?”

Shanthi cast her a brief, apologetic look. “No, sir.”

“Reskos to the bridge,” the doctor’s voice sounded on the overhead. “We need to get the captain back aboard this instant.”

“We’re aware, Doctor, and we’re working on it,” Wu’s voice was unnaturally calm, surprising even her under the circumstances.

An alarm trilled as the captain’s biometrics flat-lined. Shanthi and Wu shared a shocked look before Wu pushed away from the Science console. “Focus the primary sensor array on the Amon subspace field generators. Fry them, confuse them, I don’t care what… but find me a way through their defenses!”

* * *​
USS Venture

“Message from Europa, sir,” Ops called out to Captain Ebnal. “They say their medical telemetry indicates Captain Lar’ragos is… dead.”

The officer at Operations spoke up, her expression dubious. “Captain, the Amon subspace field has just collapsed and their weapons systems are powering down.”

Ebnal grimaced briefly before shooting to his feet from the command chair. He motioned for his Stategic Ops liaison to open a channel to the battlegroup. “Make it encrypted,” he added tersely, “a cipher the Amon don’t have.”

“Channel open, sir.”

“This is Captain Ebnal to all ships. The Amon have just killed Captain Lar’ragos. I am assuming command of this taskforce. My orders are as follows: Klingon vessels, continue fire on the station. Starfleet vessels, you are free to engage the Amon cube with conventional weapons, targeting weapons and propulsion systems only. Hold off on Alpha Weapons until I give the command. We’ll be sending special missions teams aboard to recover Lar’ragos’ remains and to capture Zeischt.”

Ebnal cut over to a priority channel routed to the transporter room housing Special Missions Teams Eight and Twenty-Three. “Did you copy all that, Commander Remington?”

“Affirmative, sir,” came the team leader’s voice.

“Bring Lar’ragos home and… “ Ebnal’s voice caught on an unaccustomed spike of internalized grief over the fate of both officers, “…and bring me the head of that sonofabitch traitor Sandhurst.”

“Should his head be attached to anything else when we take him, Captain?” she asked.

“Surprise me,” he graveled in reply.

“Sir, Europa is signaling. Commander Wu is requesting permission to send over a security team in support of the SMT’s.”

Ebnal frowned, and though he understood the overwhelming urge from Europa’s crew to take part in any recovery mission, he was unwilling to send anyone else to their deaths needlessly. “Inform Wu that Special Missions are equipped to deal with Amon warriors and have the armor and specialized weapons needed to complete the mission. I appreciate her offer, but we have it handled.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *​

Amon Homeship Transcendent

The cathedral-like command deck of the Amon cube had been thrown into pandemonium. Amon warriors swarmed the area, aiming their staffs in all directions, despite the absence of any identifiable threats.

Zeischt cradled Lar’ragos’ remains, the former Starfleet officer’s face twisted into a rictus of scarcely contained rage as he moved toward an exit to the command center.

Nestrala stood over where BattleMaster Jalahar’s still smoldering body lay, her features radiating equal ferocity. “Where are you taking that?” she snarled in Zeischt’s direction.

“The crèche,” he muttered curtly, his eyes fixed on the doors.

“BattleLeader!” one of the reclining systems advocated called to Nestrala. “Our defenses are off-line and our weapons are inaccessible.”

Nestrala stood caught between two competing demands, and was momentarily transfixed before rousing herself to act. “Zeischt, I forbid it,” she called out to him. “The crèche requires a one-to-one transfer of essence. I won’t allow you to sacrifice yourself for you misguided love of this… animal.” She turned to inquire of the system’s advocate. “Diagnosis of the problem?”

“Our security overrides have been compromised, BattleMaster. Propulsion, weapons and defenses are all offline and inaccessible.”

The BattleMaster moved with surprising speed to block Zeischt’s exit. She held a hand out to bar her mate’s progress. “How could A’lasha have known our override codes?” The accusation in her tone was unmistakable.

Zeischt’s face was a stone mask, with only his tremulous voice hinting at the fight within to contain the anger and grief that threatened to overwhelm him. “She was a spy for decades among my people, Nestrala. Perhaps you should go ask her?”

The tension between them stretched on until the sound of transporter beams filled the compartment.

“Attackers!” cried one off the warriors as photon grenades materialized throughout the command center. Those armed with battle-staffs brought the bases of their weapons down to erect forcefields around them. Neither Zeischt nor Nestrala were so fortunate.

* * *​
USS Europa

“Incoming transmission for you from Captain Ebnal, sir. It’s coded personal.”

Wu stood from the command chair. She was still smarting from being denied permission to send Leone and a security team to help wrest Lar’ragos’ body away from the Amon, but she understood and respected Ebnal’s reasoning. “Route it to the ready room.”

She strode into the cabin, purposely ignoring the decorations and memorabilia that screamed of Pava’s presence from every corner of the room. Once situated in the office’s chair, Wu toggled the interface, calling up Ebnal’s bleak expression.

“Commander, I don’t have a lot of time, but I wanted to express my condolences on the loss of Captain Lar’ragos.”

“Thank you, sir.” Wu had pushed aside her own personal feelings over the captain’s death, as well as her morbid realization that unless another commanding officer was selected to assume Pava’s post, she would likely become the fourth CO Europa’s crew had known in little more than a year of active service. Those subsumed emotions threatened to surface, and Wu’s jaw rippled with the effort to tamp them down yet again.

“That being said, I’m appointing you Europa’s acting captain. I don’t have the authority to award you a battlefield promotion to full commander, but under the circumstances that hardly matters. Pick whomever you feel is best suited as your XO and do your best. That’s all I can ask of you.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, Captain.” Wu answered numbly. A part of her mused that this wasn’t exactly the speech she’d imagined from the legendarily taciturn Ebnal.

“Your CIC is handing over operational control to mine, so as soon as that’s complete, you can shut yours down and re-task your personnel. We’ll still need Europa’s sensors and transwarp capabilities for reconnaissance, so you’re still an integral component of this taskforce.”

“Understood, sir.”

Ebnal’s workstation chimed with an incoming message, which he put on hold. “I have to return to the battle, but before I go I want you to know we’re working on recovering Lar’ragos’ remains and capturing or killing Sandhurst.”

Wu nodded distractedly, still absorbing the weight that was settling upon her. “Good to know, sir.”

“Good luck, Captain.” Ebnal severed the transmission.

“To us all,” Wu murmured, taking a long moment to collect her thoughts and center herself before returning to the bridge.

* * *​
Ebnal stepped onto Venture’s battle-bridge, the command center now serving as the battlegroup’s CIC. The room was abuzz with frenetic purpose as science, engineering, and tactical specialists analyzed volumes of information streaming in from the battlegroup’s shared scans.

“Status of the raid on the Amon ship?”

“They’re meeting heavy resistance, sir, and are reporting casualties. Commander Remington’s asked for Klingon shock troops to be beamed over to assist and Brigadier Gan’Louk has obliged."

‘Damn right,’ Ebnal thought to himself. ‘He should, seeing as the Amon just killed his father.’

Ebnal walked a slow circuit of the CIC, glancing over dozens of displays that depicted the ongoing operation. “How far along are we on mapping the station?”

“Europa’s just signaled that they’ve compiled the battlegroup’s scans and synced them with their own. We’ve identified priority areas for our boarding teams and assigned sectors of operation for those teams.”

He nodded in response. “Let’s see it.”

A wire-frame representation of Shul’Nazhar in all its massive glory came to life in midair in front of Ebnal. Arrows and primary colors indicated those locations deemed to be of greatest significance to their experts.

Ebnal gave the schematic a last look as he ordered, “Give the order for all vessels to deploy boarding teams to their pre-assigned sectors of control.”

* * *​
Amon Homeship Transcendent

What had begun as a relatively simple extraction had quickly devolved into what Lt. Commander Adelade Remington of the Starfleet Special Missions Teams classified a total Targ-screw.

Though many Amon in the cube’s command center had been rendered unconscious or dazed by the photon grenades that preceded the SMT’s boarding action, a half-dozen of their warriors had erected defensive forcefields in time to shield themselves. Those Amon, consequently, were more than ready to contest Starfleet’s incursion onto their vessel in the strongest possible terms.

Two of Remington’s team were dead before they’d fully materialized, their coalescing molecules scrambled by sustained blasts from Amon battle-staffs. Once she and her team were released from the transporter’s clutches, the fight began in earnest with vicious exchanges of energy beams criss-crossing the cavernous chamber.

The team’s heavy-gunner directed a stream of hypersonic explosive flechettes from his gauss rifle at the nearest Amon, whose body armor held up admirably to the onslaught, protecting her for a full two-and-a-half seconds before she was reduced to a pink mist.

The SMT’s pulse-phaser carbines were less effective against the armored and shielded Amon battle suits, and conversely, Starfleet’s vaunted combat armor proved vulnerable to the Amon compressed tetryon beams. Within a minute of their arrival, the Starfleet teams had taken nearly fifty-percent casualties.

“Special Missions to Klingon Command, requesting immediate emergency assistance at our location!” Remington called out over the frequency she’d arranged beforehand with their Klingon counterparts. She hated the thought of calling upon the turtle-heads for help, but there was no avoiding it under the circumstances.

“HeDaq!” was their curt reply… On the way.

Amidst the surrounding chaos, Remington spotted the insensate form of Zeischt/Sandhurst sprawled across the remains of Captain Lar’ragos. “Covering fire!” she shouted as she lobbed an explosive photon grenade from her carbine’s underslung launcher. She scuttled forward in a crouch as an Amon beam sizzled just over her to blast another of her team off his feet. The detonation of her grenade sent two of the enemy cartwheeling high into the air.

While she couldn’t have cared less about the fate of the turncoat Sandhurst, Lar’ragos had himself been an SMT operator, a legend in their small, close-knit special forces community. Remington would be damned if she would allow the Amon to desecrate his remains.

She aimed her carbine at the deck, between the feet of an advancing Amon soldier, and vaporized the plating there. The warrior plunged through the resulting hole with an almost comically surprised expression on his face. If not for the desperation of the situation, Remington might have laughed.

The Klingon shock troops coming to Remington’s assistance materialized in a red haze, their bat’leths already arcing towards their first targets as they regained cohesion. More Amon began swarming into the compartment at the same time, and the cavernous bay was filled with the crash of metal on metal, the squeal of collimated energy discharges and cries of bloodlust and pain.

Remington maximized the distraction of the Klingons’ arrival, maneuvering for her first clear shot at her targets. She ducked under the incoming blow from a Klingon sword which clashed mightily with an Amon staff just behind her as she aimed at the prostrate forms of Zeischt and Lar’ragos. Remington fired two transporter tags from an attachment to her weapon. The bodies were swept away in a transport beam. She activated her comms and shouted, “Mis-com! Repeat, mis-com; get us the hell out of here!”

* * *​
USS Europa

Wu strode into the ready room with Lieutenant Georgia Kirk close behind her. The acting captain had intended to inform Kirk of her decisions to make the lieutenant her executive officer, but all thoughts on that track evaporated at the unexpected sight of a Vulcan woman sitting behind the desk.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you here,” A’lasha said with a wry grin as the two officers tensed. The woman was clad in a form-fitting bodysuit, something akin to the undergarment worn beneath an EVA suit or combat armor.

“Security to captain’s ready room!” Wu barked, moving around one side of the desk as Kirk followed her lead and approached from the other direction. A forcefield rebuffed both women simultaneously, sending them staggered backwards away from the Vulcan.

There was a moment’s silence as it became apparent that Wu’s call for assistance had not been acknowledged. “Who are you?” Wu demanded. “What’s going on here?”

“We haven’t much time,” A’lasha explained. “I’m the one who compromised the Amon ship’s shields and weapons before beating a hasty retreat from their ship. I’m on your side, and at present I’m also in control of your security and communications subroutines.” She stood from behind the desk as she toggled an LCARS control set into the desktop. “Verrik can confirm my identity.”

A site-to-site transport engaged, and a quizzical looking Verrik materialized between where Wu and Kirk stood. As soon as he’d regained his senses, Verrik turned his head to observe the intruder. “A’lasha. Encountering you again is… disagreeable.”

Wu looked to Verrik. “You know her?”

Verrik’s countenance grew more severe. “Yes, Commander. She is an operative for Starfleet’s illicit Section 31 cabal. A’lasha was formerly a non-corporeal katric energy pattern, able to jump from one sentient being to another and seize control of their bodies at will. She inhabited Lieutenant Juneau for over a year, and briefly took up residence within me, most notably during Commodore Sandhurst’s armed escape from Europa.” He broke his gaze free from A’lasha to address Wu directly. “Following the escape, her katra was removed from me and she was given physical form by the Amon.”

“Again,” A’lasha redirected the conversation back on topic, “time is of the essence. The Amon ship will likely regain control of their systems in short order. I’d recommend beaming over some kind of long-range tracking device enabling you to locate the cube later for collection and forensic evaluation. Amon weapons systems could advance Federation defense technology by decades, perhaps centuries.”

Wu gave the Vulcan woman a curious look. “You don’t think they’ll have something to say about that? I doubt very much that the Amon would tolerate our trying to hunt them down.”

A’lasha offered a knowing smile as a flight of Klingon torpedoes raced past the viewport, the greenish light from which flashed briefly throughout the ready room. “The Amon will almost certainly escape from here, but their freedom will likely be short-lived. A time-delayed Alpha Weapon has been deployed against them.”

Wu stiffened at that revelation. “On who’s authority?” She cast a glance in Verrik’s direction, a non-verbal query to which the lieutenant merely shook his head fractionally in reply. As the ship’s Strategic Operations Officer, Verrik would be aware of any Alpha Weapons usage by the task force.

“Captain Lar’ragos, of course.” A’lasha replied. “He deployed an energy-based retro-pathogen into the Amon life-essence reclamation and ingestion cycle when he expired.”

Verrik raised a fascinated eyebrow. “You’re saying the captain essentially acted as some manner of suicide weapon?”

This news prompted Wu’s knees to nearly give out, and she sank into one of the chairs facing the ready room’s desk. She had known of Lar’ragos being listed as an Alpha Weapon in the ship’s armory inventory, a seemingly glaring oversight on the part of Starfleet logistics. She’d dared to hope that it had been a tongue-in-cheek insider’s reference to the man’s legendary lethality, but not this… never this.

“Precisely,” A’lasha confirmed, watching Wu’s reaction with a kind of detached bemusement. “Based on the information provided some months ago by Sandhurst after his initial abduction by the Amon, my cohorts were able to design an energy pattern that mimicked the one consumed by the Amon. This pattern, however, would degrade the reception points within Amon biology that allow them to metabolize that energy matrix.”

Verrik’s frown was not in keeping with his people’s customary emotional discipline, but his distaste for the act was so great he was unable to prevent it. “You seek to starve an entire species to death,” he summarized.

Her answer was accompanied by the same persistent dark smile Verrik had come to know during their time together aboard the cube. It was, he mused, likely the very one she’d worn when last she had been corporeal, over two-thousand years earlier. “Two species, actually. We have high hopes that the Skorrah and Amon are still similar enough genetically that it will eliminate both.”

Wu fought the urge to cradle her head in her hands. “How the hell did your ‘friends’ manage to cook this up?”

“We captured multiple injured Skorrah warriors left behind during their attack on Blue Horizon.”

Verrik cocked his head, as though he’d heard her incorrectly. “I’ve seen the Starfleet after-action reports from Blue Horizon. There were no Skorrah survivors located.”

“By the time Starfleet arrived on scene, we were already safely away with them,” she rejoined smoothly.

“All angles covered, eh?” Kirk spat with a sneer. “You monsters give the Skorrah a run for their latinum in the bloodthirsty department.”

“As much as I would love to debate the finer points of morality with you, Lieutenant, we don’t have the time.”

“Why come to me with this,” Wu pressed. “Why not Captain Ebnal?”

“You know as well as I that Lucian Ebnal wouldn’t hear me out in any kind of workable time frame. Your window of opportunity is swiftly closing.”

Wu directed a pointed look at A’lasha. “If you want me to order a tracker beamed over to the cube, you’ll need to deactivate your…” she waved a hand at the surrounding compartment, “…null field, subspace scrambler… whatever.”

“I need your word that I’ll have your cooperation,” A’lasha insisted.

Wu’s hesitation was necessarily brief. “You have my word.”

* * *​
Waves of Klingon soldiers and Starfleet Marines began to materialize throughout the gargantuan space station, fanning out in all directions to seize and secure those areas designated as being likely command and control nodes. Preceded by swarms of tactical drones that scouted ahead for threats, the progress of these combat teams was closely monitored by the surrounding battle group.

The spacious corridors of this section of Shul’Nazhar were dimly lit by what appeared to be bio-luminescent strips set into the ridged bulkheads. The Starfleet Marine recon team’s progress was slow, given the sensor-refractive nature of the alloys used to build this module, which housed several of the mammoth station’s Petawatt-output power generators.

The Marines played their rifle-mounted lights around as they visually scanned for hostile contacts. They were proceeding with enormous caution, given the Skorrah’s chilling reputation for brute savagery, checking every proverbial nook and cranny for anything threatening.

As they began to clear a T-junction, the sergeant at the point position held up a meaty, three-fingered fist, causing the rest of the team to halt in their tracks. “I’ve got something,” the stocky reptilian non-com assessed. “Hold this position; defensive screen. Sensors up.”

The squad’s scanning tech moved to the front as the rest of the team fanned out to cover all potential approaches to their position. On the floor of the corridor was a crystalline mass, as though something had draped an opaque, semi-organic blanket over a prostrate form lying on the deck. The crystal-like substance appeared to have grown over whatever lay beneath, and then across part of the floor itself.

A pinkish light glowed dimly from within the mass, dimming and then brightening slowly. The sensor tech detached a scanning wand from her combat tricorder and swept it over the form. She consulted her display before announcing, “Life readings, but very weak, almost as though whatever’s in here is in some kind of stasis.”

“A threat?” the sergeant asked.

“Not at the moment,” the tech replied, “but I’d suggest getting one of those egghead Fleeter science types over here. This is over my head.”

The sergeant put out a call over the Marines TacNet for a starship to beam a science specialist to their location before turning a grim expression on the tech. “If you had to guess?”

She cocked her head slightly, pursing her lips. “Something buggy?” Her expression brightened, anchored by a sarcastic grin. “Say, you remember those insectoids we tangled with on Avala Minor last year?”

The sergeant was unable to suppress a shudder at the memory. “Don’t even joke about that, Corporal.”

* * *​
Lieutenant Shanthi had been the closest science officer to the squad’s position, and thus the one selected by Venture’s CIC to assist. Reports were now flooding in from other parts of the station indicating similar phenomena were being encountered by other teams.

He studied the results on an over-sized padd as the intensive scanning armature swept back and forth over the crystalline mass. Shanthi had brought the portable sensor device with him to get a more in-depth analysis of the object than a standard tricorder could produce.

The Marine combat team had moved on to continue their sweep and clear, so Shanthi was accompanied by Dominic Leone and a security team from Europa. Leone watched Shanthi work, repeatedly resisting the urge to kick at the mass with the toe of his boot. “Looks biological,” he remarked off-handedly.

“Yes,” Shanthi replied, his gaze still fixed to his padd. “And unless I’m way off-base, this is some kind of chrysalis.”

Leone frowned. “I was afraid you’d say something like that. Let me guess, you don’t think a big, beautiful butterfly is going to crawl out from there, do you?”

Shanthi finally broke away from his readouts, favoring Leone with an equally dour expression. “Genetic markers indicate there’s a Skorrah inside here, but the DNA profile differs significantly from what we know to be baseline Amon.”

“Meaning?” Leone asked, already wincing in anticipation of the answer.

“Whatever’s inside here will emerge very differently than when it entered this transformative state. Statistically speaking, exo-biological sampling from across our quadrant of the Milky Way offers an eighty-two percent probability that the emerging creature will be larger, more complex, and more aggressive than it started out.”

Leone casually ramped up the setting of his phaser rifle as he remarked, “Has anyone ever told you what a ray of sunshine you are, Kuenre?”

Shanthi cracked a tense grin. “Constantly.”

* * *​  

Chapter Eleven

 

Ebnal had only lasted minutes in CIC before he’d returned to resume his place on the bridge. He knew he should be delegating from the task force command center, but he was loath to pass his orders through an intermediary while in the thick of things.

Venture’s Ops officer announced, “It looks like the Amon systems are coming back online, Captain.”

The Denobulan at Tactical added, “Transporter chief confirms the SMT’s are back aboard. Casualties were heavy, but the mission was a success, sir.”

“Open fire, all ships.” Ebnal stood, glowering at the viewscreen as Starfleet and Klingon weapons fire slammed into the mighty cube. “Prep one of the zero-point Alpha Weapons. I’ve already entered my security code.”

The XO quickly added his counter-authorization, arming the device. “Good to go, sir.”

“Smoke the bastards,” Ebnal growled.

At that moment, the Amon regained control of their weapons and defenses. Though the task force’s opening salvo had savaged the outer skin of the cube, most of the vessel’s weapons emplacements remained undamaged.

A searing white cutting beam lanced out from the cube to punch through the shields of a Klingon K’tinga-class cruiser, slicing cleanly through the graceful neck of the ship and causing the two halves to spin away in opposite directions.

A swarm of missiles and torpedoes raced towards the task force, some of them winking out of existence en route, only to rematerialize inside their targets. The Ambassador-class Sheffield ceased to exist as a massive explosion consumed the starship.

Other craft engaged in wild evasive maneuvers, hoping to avoid the incoming wave of projectiles. Phasers and disruptors that had been trained on the cube were now desperately trying to intercept the oncoming warheads.

Amel-Saff was fortunate to have only lost her port nacelle in a collision with the aft third of a Klingon Vor’cha-class battlecruiser blown free from another concussive detonation.

Two proto-matter missiles struck Venture, followed by a string of harrowingly potent disruptor pulses that smashed into their depleted forward shields. The great ship shuddered in a way Ebnal hadn’t felt since Venture had been sandwiched between two Dominion dreadnaughts during the Battle of Betazed.

“EPS overloads, multiple decks!” an ensign at the damage control board called out. “Hull breaches on Decks 12 and—“

Ops drown her out, “Shields down to twenty-seven percent!”

“Forward torpedo launcher is inoperative,” the Tactical officer observed. “The Alpha Weapon is still in the tube.”

Ebnal pounded on his chair’s armrest in frustration. “Get that Alpha launched! I don’t care if you have to beam it out; we can’t take punishment like this for much longer!”

“Lieutenant Jevric from Engineering is in an EVA suit, trying to clear the tube, Captain.”

He forced himself to relax, and watched as another outgoing wave of torpedoes from the task force caused explosions to blossom across the periphery of the cube’s powerful subspace defense field.

“Are any of the other ships able to launch an Alpha Weapon?” Ebnal inquired on a direct comms line to the CIC.

“Negative, sir,” came the dour response. “All ships have standard ordinance cycling through their launch systems. It will take three-plus minutes for any of them to get an Alpha Weapon loaded.”

A Klingon cruiser trailing debris and radiation from multiple hull breaches made a full-impulse suicide run on the cube, only to be shredded by a blistering Gatling-style discharge of jacketed ion pulses that reduced the warship to a cloud of expanding gas.

The Steamrunner-class Turov imploded in the lethal grip of an Amon isolytic charge that briefly subjected the starship to the gravitational forces found in the heart of a neutron star.

“Tube is clear,” the officer manning the bridge’s engineering console exhaled with relief. “Lieutenant Jevric will need sixty seconds to evacuate the tube before we can—“

“No,” Ebnal rasped. “We don’t have a minute. Fire the Alpha Weapon now.”

“But sir, he's still in…”

“Now!” Ebnal barked.

There was a deathly silence on the bridge, punctuated by the words, “Alpha weapon is away, sir.”

A Klingon frigate winged-over, gracefully outmaneuvering three incoming torpedoes, only to be caught by the forth and final one. She detonated soundlessly in a brilliant, spherical bloom of destruction.

The Amon launched a magnetometric guided charge, essentially a highly compressed wave of magnetic energy, which swept across a dozen Klingon and Starfleet ships. The impacts from this wall of energy scattered the vessels like leaves on the wind. The comms channels were flooded with urgent reports of shield collapse, sundry hull breaches and structural integrity failures.

The Amon cube appeared to flicker as a massive distortion warped light in the vicinity of the craft. The entire vessel seemed to be flung back away from the Alpha Weapon’s impact, shedding layers of glowing debris in its wake. The exterior lights on the cube as well as the persistent interior glow of the mighty craft began to wane.

“Direct hit! Reading gravimetric shearing stresses that are off the charts. I’m seeing complete collapse of their subspace field and significant damage, Captain. Power systems on the cube are fluctuating, and they’ve ceased fire.”

“Maintain fire, all ships,” Ebnal ordered.

Phasers, torpedo impacts, and disruptor blasts scoured the nearest facets of the cube, and secondary explosions began to erupt from deeper within the ship.

Ops noted, “They appear to be shifting all remaining power to propulsion, sir.”

“Target their engines, then,” Ebnal snapped.

The cube streaked away to vanish in a distant flash of light.

No one on the bridge dared voice the obvious in the face of Ebnal’s colorful invective.

“Pursuit course,” Ebnal ordered, having exhausted his impressive supply of profanity.

“Sir…” his XO broached hesitantly. “Only a handful of ships are in any shape to pursue.”

“Our warp drive is offline at present, Captain,” added Engineering.

“Sheffield and Turov have been destroyed,” the Ops manager offered. “Amel-Saff, Samarkand, Istanbul, and Lancer all report serious damage and casualties, sir. The Klingons report seven ships destroyed, several more heavily damaged.”

Ebnal slumped back into his seat, grinding his teeth at the idea of the Amon escaping their clutches yet again.

“We’ve dealt them a serious blow, sir,” his XO noted hopefully. “It appears we’re in the process of taking Shul’Nazhar without opposition, and might I add we now have an Amon prisoner aboard whom we can interrogate. Perhaps the Amon arranged a pre-set fallback position?”

Ebnal’s eyes narrowed as a dark smile spread across his features. “Yes,” he breathed. “We do, don’t we?”

* * *​  USS Europa

Wu and Kirk returned to the bridge, accompanied by A’lasha, with the commander giving only a vague explanation of who the woman was, and how she’d come aboard.

A’lasha settled into the mission specialist’s seat to the left of the captain’s chair, appearing just a bit uncomfortable being in what amounted to the public eye. She had served alongside some of these people for years, yet they’d never before met her in the flesh.

The port turbolift opened to admit Shanthi to the bridge, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied a padd on the way to the Science station.

Wu cast a glance in the younger man’s direction. “Mister Shanthi, what’s the situation aboard the station?”

Shanthi made a delaying gesture as he took a brief moment to sync his padd with his workstation, before turning in his chair to address the new commanding officer. “We’ve got a battalion of Marines and thousands of Klingon warriors beginning to clear the more critical areas aboard the station, sir. They’re supplemented by hundreds of recon probes and tactical drones that are scouting ahead of their search teams to map the installation.”

Ensign Ladrun at Ops advised, “Commander, we’ve confirmed that our transponder array made it safely aboard the Amon cube during the last wave of fire from the task force. We’re picking up a low power locator signal that indicates they’re heading for an A-Type star located six-point-seven light years distant. They’re holding steady at Warp Seven.”

At the Flight Control station, Lightner cocked his head to appraise the younger officer seated to his immediate left. “Captain,” he muttered across to Ladrun. “She’s the captain now.”

The Tiburonian blanched with embarrassment. “Apologies, Captain.”

Wu couldn’t completely suppress her self-conscious grimace. “That’s okay, Ensign. It’s… new for all of us.” Shifting gears as she assumed the center seat, Wu observed, “The Amon have transwarp capability, same as us, so we must have knocked that offline with that last barrage.”

“Their damage control assets are formidable,” A’lasha warned. “Even having suffered near-catastrophic damage, you can expect they’ll affect repairs within days.”

Kirk frowned in response to that news. “Great,” she muttered sardonically. “That leaves us back at square one, only next time they’ll have the advantage in any confrontation with us.”

“Not if you run them to ground and finish this,” A’lasha incited. “The virus Lar’ragos unleashed upon them will complicate matters. Even if it doesn’t kill them outright, it should sicken them and give your task force the opportunity it needs to exterminate them.”

An awkward silence followed the unwelcome insinuation regarding Lar’ragos. Officers cast uncertain glances at one another across the compartment.

Verrik stepped in to fill the void, offering, “I am forced to agree with our guest, Captain. Given their resources, our only viable option is to hunt the Amon down and utilize our stock of Alpha Weapons to neutralize the threat they pose.” He looked pointedly at Wu. “Now that battle has been joined, the Amon will have categorized us as a threat to be annihilated. We caught them off-guard once; they won’t allow that to occur again.”

Wu nodded slowly, then directed Verrik’s attention towards A’lasha. “Mister Verrik, I’m placing you in charge of minding our guest.” To Ops, Wu ordered, “Contact Venture and request a meeting between myself and Captain Ebnal. Let them know it’s urgent.”

* * *​
USS Venture
Observation Lounge – Deck 1

Lucian Ebnal glared across the conference table at A’lasha, who was flanked by two of Venture’s security personnel. After being informed of the Vulcan’s presence aboard Europa, Ebnal had insisted that A’lasha accompany Wu aboard Venture to explain herself.

“So,” he drawled acerbically, “I’m supposed to take you at your word that you’re part of this super-secret intel cabal?”

A’lasha offered a wry smirk as she replied, “It’s comforting to know that you’re just as big an ass as your reputation suggests, Lucian. Frankly, I don’t care what you believe.”

Wu frowned from where she sat one seat over from the Vulcan operative. “A’lasha, this isn’t helping…”

Ebnal leaned across the table, a hungry expression radiating across his features. He was legendary for both his temper and venom when provoked. “And were I to accept that claim at face value, what’s the word of a treasonous assassin worth?”

A’lasha’s mien darkened, all traces of amusement vanishing. “You may take issue with Section 31’s tactics, Captain, but we’re on the same side. Both the Amon and the Skorrah are existential threats to the Federation, threats that we’ve actively moved to extinguish.”

“You use Captain Lar’ragos as some kind of unwitting delivery system for your sadistic weapon?” Ebnal spat. “Is that supposed to engender some kind of admiration from me? Sure, I’m a bloodthirsty son-of-a-bitch, but there are lines even I won’t cross.”

She refused to be goaded into an emotional display, remaining as dispassionate as her modern Vulcan brethren. “Lar’ragos participated of his own volition. The man was a patriot in the truest sense of the word. He gave his life to safeguard the Federation. If you don’t move to finish off the Amon now, his sacrifice will have been in vain.”

“Once this station has been secured, I may just do that,” Ebnal allowed. “However, this task force’s strategy is no concern of yours, and I haven’t any more time to waste on you.” Ebnal gestured for the two security personnel to step forward.

A’lasha cocked her head thoughtfully, and then set her hand palm down atop the table. The area beneath her hand glowed briefly as the computer recognized her palm print through the table’s LCARS interface. “Computer,” A’lasha stated, “Erect a Level-10 containment field around Captain Ebnal and transport the two security staff to the brig.”

The guards vanished in twin transporter beams as a forcefield snapped into existence around Ebnal’s chair. For the second time that day, Ebnal was rendered speechless.

“Computer, place containment fields around the perimeter of this compartment to block all avenues of entrance or exit. Accept command and control inputs from myself only beyond this point.” A’lasha remained seated, staring impassively at Ebnal. “This is to settle the matter of my credentials, Captain.”

Wu jumped to her feet and moved to grab hold of A’lasha. The Vulcan, still seated, merely deflected Wu’s attempt, grabbed Wu with one hand and flung the officer the length of the conference table to crash awkwardly to the floor atop a pair of upset chairs.

Ebnal attempted to verbally countermand A’lasha’s orders, but the computer stubbornly refused to acknowledge him.

“I can seize control of your ship at a word any time I like, Captain. I doubt you’d believe it, but I don’t enjoy such a blatant display of our capabilities. Unfortunately, you’ve left me little choice.” A’lasha rose slowly, almost languidly form her seat. “Do we have an understanding, Captain Ebnal?”

Ebnal’s silence spoke volumes.

A’lasha released an exasperated sigh. “Captain, at present your task force is seizing control of a star fortress that has the capability to open transit portals into any galaxy in the local cluster. The answer to all our problems is staring you in the face, yet you’re too blind to see it.”

Wu clambered back to her feet, grimacing as she experimentally shrugged a shoulder nearly wrenched from its socket by A’lasha’s Vulcan strength. “Explain it then,” Wu muttered, her good hand slapping ineffectively at her non-functioning combadge.

“I’m not just talking about the Amon and the Skorrah,” A’lasha enlightened the pair. “Using Shul’Nazhar, we can redirect the alien fleets encroaching on the Alpha Quadrant anywhere we please. If we’re feeling generous, we can deliver them to Class-M worlds in any of a half-dozen nearby galaxies. Those that prove utterly predatory, like the Skorrah or the Kothlis’Ka Armada, we can maroon in the vast emptiness of intergalactic space.”

Ebnal’s eyes widened as he absorbed her words. “How do we know that we can divine the transit portal’s operating systems?”

“I’ve lived among the Amon for months. Though powerful, they are relatively simple, technologically speaking. They co-opted the Borg into maintaining their cube-ship, but otherwise their understanding of alien technologies is seriously lacking. If their cousins the Skorrah were able to figure out how to open the portals, I have every confidence that we can follow suit in short order.”

A’lasha typed a brief string of commands into the LCARS interface in the table top, releasing the containment field around Ebnal. “Think of it, Captain. With Shul’Nazhar in our possession, no one would ever be able to effectively threaten the Federation again. We could send battle fleets into orbit of any hostile planet, and bring them to their knees within minutes.”

A new light now burned behind Ebnal’s eyes, the shining idea of a secure Federation rising ascendant from the chaos following the Dominion War and the Refugee Crisis. His anger at A’lasha’s antics and impertinence vanished. “What about the Klingons?”

A’lasha’s smile returned. “One thing at a time, Captain.”

* * *​

Shul'Nazhar

Shanthi looked on as the transporter beam engulfed the crystalline mass. The Skorrah chrysalis seemed to rebuff the transporter’s efforts, causing the beam to shift and stutter until the surrounding transport pattern enhancer cylinders activated. Finally, the mass vanished, leaving behind striations and gouges in the flooring where the chrysalis had bonded to the corridor’s decking.

The young science officer gave the engineer standing next to him a surprised look. “That took a lot more power than I’d have thought necessary.”

The engineer, seconded from the starship Istanbul, nodded agreeably. “Yes,” she said. “There’s some kind of refractive resonance field infused into the chrysalis that gives the transporter fits. Thankfully, the pattern enhancers are able to overcome the interference.”

Shanthi shook his head in disbelief. “How much extra time is that going to add to the process?”

“Well,” she answered, blowing out a resigned breath, “that was chrysalis number seventeen being permanently dematerialized. We’ve got an automated transporter protocol in place now, and we’ve shaved the time down to around ten minutes per. At last report, our scouting teams had identified upwards of forty-thousand chrysalises throughout the station. There are probably more… a lot more. So, at this rate, upwards of forty years, give or take.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Shanthi continued on, making his way through a circular doorway that irised open at his approach, entering what had been identified as the primary control nexus for Shul’Nazhar’s spatial transit portal system.

The compartment was enormous, and contained numerous conical work stations, some measuring twenty meters in height, rising up like technological stalagmites. Circular walkways ringed these conical interfaces, allowing humanoid-sized beings to stand on multiple tiers to access the control consoles.

“Ah, our resident cybernetics expert arrives!” crowed an older male officer clad in a Sciences-blue undershirt in a heavy Russian accent. He gazed down at Shanthi from a control-access platform some ten meters overhead.

“Commander Yakovlev, I presume?” Shanthi asked with a broad smile as he gazed up at the elder researcher, a man who had been Shanthi’s most influential instructor and mentor at Starfleet Academy.

Surprisingly spry for an octogenarian, Yakovlev descended a rail-less circular stairway that had likely been designed for some kind of insectoid species. Reaching the bottom, he enveloped Shanthi in a bear hug and then held the younger man at arm’s length after placing kisses on both the lieutenant’s cheeks. “Da, you young mensch! How are you?”

“I’m well, Joseph Dimitrovitch. And you?”

“Oy, for six months they keep me frozen, ship me to the Delta Quadrant and then wake me just in time to cast me off into another galaxy! These old bones don’t know whether I’m coming or going.” The radiant smile on the man’s face belied his theatrical tale of woe. Shanthi well knew the man lived for new discoveries, and Shul’Nazhar was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Shanthi took another moment to admire the artistic simplicity of the surrounding interfaces. “Hard to believe that systems so radically advanced can be managed with comparative ease.”

Yakovlev bobbed his bearded visage enthusiastically. “Very much so. The axiom that the more advanced the technology the simpler the interface applies here.” The scientist paused, and then beamed at his protégé. “Your mother sends her love, Kuenre. She’s very proud of the career and reputation you’ve built for yourself.”

Thankful that his blush-response was subdued due to the darkness of his complexion, Shanthi silently basked in his mother’s praise for a moment. It was a sensation he did not often allow himself. He had tried very hard to set himself apart from his mother and her storied career in Starfleet, the bane of every ‘legacy’ officer following in a parent’s footsteps.

“How is she, Joseph?” Shanthi inquired.

“As always, she’s unwilling to remain idle. Thousana’s been out of uniform long enough now to be considered for the position of Senior Defense Advisor to the Security Council. It’s that or Undersecretary of Defense; she’s not suffering from a lack of employment offers.”

“She likes to keep her fingers on the pulse of the Federation,” he acknowledged. Turning back to the displays, Shanthi asked, “What can I do for you here, Joseph?”

“I need help cracking the logic sequencing in Shul’Nazhar’s portal-control computers. The operating system’s code is ridiculously complex, probably a necessity seeing as the hardware is a mix of over a dozen different exotic technologies spanning eons. I have months-old bio-neural circuitry interfacing with duotronic subprocessors that look to be over ten-thousand years old. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around how this all fits together, and how this marvelous device can possibly even function given it’s pedigree.”

Shanthi’s smile widened. “It sounds like a challenge.”

“Da,” Yakovlev agreed, “the kind that gives me ulcers. Captain Ebnal wants this done yesterday, and he strikes me as a man I don’t wish to disappoint.”

“I’m glad you asked for me, and as it turns out, I may be of even more help that you thought.”

Yakovlev raised a shaggy, snow-white eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

The younger man’s reply was accompanied by a broad, toothy smile. “Beware Zulu’s bearing Bynars, my old friend.”

Yakovlev’s eyes brightened. “You don’t say!”

* * *​   USS Venture
Deck 5, Security Detention Area

He hadn’t fought the containment field, he’d known there would be no point.

His dearest friend was dead. His wife was either dead or hopelessly lost to him. His Starfleet career, once the most important thing in his life, was now a shattered wreck. He was a deserter, a turncoat, a traitor, heir to the mantel of such men as Ronald Tracy, Lance Cartwright, and Michael Eddington.

“You know, I’d seen images of the ‘new’ you, but if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes I’d hardly believe it.” Those were Lucian Ebnal’s opening words to Zeischt as he stepped in front of the brig-cell’s security screen.

Zeischt sat up slowly on the cell’s bunk, stretching and rubbing his eyes. “Lucian,” he acknowledged. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Ebnal stood with arms folded across his chest, glowering at the man who had once been his first officer. “This is the first of what I imagine will be many interrogations prior to your court-martial for desertion, dereliction of duty, and assault on fellow Starfleet personnel.” Clearly agitated, Ebnal looked as if he wanted to rush into the cell and exact justice with his own two hands. “I’m tempted to come in there and kick your ass myself.”

However, Ebnal paused at the appearance of the knowing smile that graced Zeischt’s lips. “You are most welcome to try, Captain.” The Amon paused to examine his hand, which he held out, palm down. It trembled ever so slightly, and Zeischt clenched it into a defiant fist, as if trying to wish away his growing weakness.

“God, you look like you’re detoxing from Syndicate-Y.”

“It’s an apt analogy,” Zeischt admitted. “Only in my case the need is even more destructive physiologically. I’m afraid you won’t get to watch my court-martial, unless you plan on holding it within the next few days.”

Ebnal sneered. “We’ll put you in stasis if necessary.”

Zeischt shook his head in response. “Amon metabolism is more accelerated than most humanoids. Stasis or even cryogenic suspension won’t slow the deterioration of my tissues by much. I’m the proverbial dead man walking, Lucian.”

“Well, well, I guess being a traitor has consequences. Who knew?”

The former Starfleet captain stood and stepped to the field, gazing across the invisible threshold at Ebnal. “I rejoined the Amon to protect the Alpha Quadrant from them and the Skorrah. Starfleet was powerless to stop them.”

Ebnal’s retort was an acidic, “And look how that turned out!”

Zeischt inclined his head, conceding the point. “I underestimated their cultural taboo against taking up arms against another of their tribes. That was my mistake. Pava and a great many others have paid the price for it with their lives.”

“Speaking of Lar’ragos," Ebnal interjected, "you just stood by and let them execute a fellow Starfleet officer? For God’s sake, Donald, the man was your friend!”

“Of course not,” Zeischt sighed. “I moved to stop them, and they threatened to kill me, too.” His eyes glistened and his voice grew ragged. “Even after, I could have saved him, using an Amon regeneration chamber. Your SMT raid denied me the chance to use it.”

“Convenient excuse,” Ebnal replied sourly.

“A’lasha can confirm that tried to intercede, at least.” Zeischt pressed.

Ebnal rolled his eyes. “Again, the word of a spy and an assassin. I’ll grant that for the moment she has some impressive abilities to compromise our control systems, but I won’t be taking her word as gospel on any subject.”

“She also neutralized the Amon defenses,” Zeischt pointed out. “A’lasha gave you the opportunity to cripple them and save the task force. One would think that would improve her credibility.”

The captain snorted, “Well, you’d damn well better think again.”

Zeischt continued as if Ebnal hadn’t spoken. “A’lasha was never an accepted member of the Amon clan. She was an ally, to be certain, and her goals and ours often intersected, but she was never trusted with any secret information, certainly nothing that would ever compromise the Amon.”

A strained silence followed until Ebnal finally said, “Your point?”

“She’s a talented operative, to be sure, but she’s not that good, Lucian. Who do you think provided her with the Amon defense codes?”

Ebnal’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You’d never betray the hand that feeds you… literally in this case.”

Zeischt held Ebnal’s gaze unflinchingly. “Ask her.”

“It keeps coming back to me taking the word of a sociopath. That’s not an especially effective argument, Sandy.”

“You followed Pava Lar’ragos out here,” Zeischt countered. “I’d wager he’s killed more people than A’lasha. I doubt you had any heartache with taking him at his word.”

Ebnal’s expression was one of furious dismay. “What the hell did the Amon do to you? You’re spitting on the memory of your best friend who’s been dead less than six hours. Who are you?“

“I’m the man who gave you the keys to Shul’Nazhar. And if you want the Amon defanged, I’m the person to do it.”

“Kind of hard to do when you're dying.”

Zeischt cocked his head minutely, his eyes boring deep into Ebnal’s. “Europa’s database should still contain the schematics of the system I built to provide myself with life-essence. Your engineers could recreate it in a matter of hours. If you want me to run down the Amon, or hell, even if you only want me to live to stand trial, you’re going to need to feed me.”

Ebnal snarled in response, pivoted sharply on his heel and stalked out without another word.

* * *​

USS Venture

Iris Wu strode down the corridor with Lucian Ebnal, matching the captain step-for-step. “Realistically, sir, we’re your only option. Europa’s transwarp drive will cut our trip from a week to just a few hours. With a robust Alpha Weapons loadout, we’ll be able to pop in next to them, cripple or destroy their cube, a be back here in time for supper.”

They turned a corner in unison, causing a crewman walking the other direction to lunge clumsily out of the way as Ebnal’s glowering visage acted as an emotional navigational deflector. “Don’t take this the wrong way… no, scratch that, I don’t care how the hell you take it… you’re not experienced enough to lead a mission this potentially dangerous, Commander.”

“Then respectfully, Captain, why did you promote me to commanding officer?” was Wu’s all-too-reasonable reply. The logic of her argument only served to agitate the mercurial Ebnal further.

“I legitimately hate to do this, Wu, but I’m going to move my flag to Europa and command this mission myself. You’ll act as my XO for the duration of this raid.”

Wu absorbed that as dispassionately as a Vulcan. “I’m obviously in no position to contest that decision, sir, but I’d recommend against it.”

“Why?”

“You’re our resident expert on the Klingons. If you’re killed or captured on this mission, there’s a good chance Brigadier Gan’Louk will assume command of the task force. As his forces presently outnumber Starfleet’s three-to-one, were he to decide to seize control of Shul’Nazhar for the greater glory of the Klingon Empire, we’d be unable to stop him.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Ebnal refuted. “He agreed to recognize Starfleet authority on this expedition.”

The two officers stepped into Venture’s main engineering area, threading their way through various workstations until they arrived at a maintenance bay. A team of technicians under the watchful gaze of the chief engineer were busy assembling some manner of elaborate-looking conduit.

Lowering her voice, Wu countered, “Point of fact, sir, but the brigadier agreed to yield to Captain Lar’ragos’ authority, not necessarily Starfleet’s. The respect you earned with the Klingons during the war has allowed Gan’Louk to transfer that allegiance to you with no loss of face among his own troops. In the event of your death or incapacitation, it’s doubtful he could repeat that process without undermining his own authority in the eyes of his men.”

“Let’s table this for the moment, Commander,” Ebnal growled to Wu before turning his gaze on his chief engineer. “How’s it coming along?”

The Tiburonian engineer gestured offhandedly to the assemblage. “We’re following the specs exactly, but I won’t hazard a guess as to whether it’s going to work or not, Captain.”

“No telling,” Ebnal confirmed. “Sandhurst better hope it does, or he’ll have a very brief and unpleasant incarceration.”

The engineer took the pair through some of the particulars on an oversized engineering padd, and after Ebnal was satisfied the project was well in hand, he and Wu departed, resuming their earlier conversation.

“Taking your ship from you isn’t something I do lightly, Wu,” Ebnal offered, the first sign of any sort of olive branch from the man that she could recall receiving. “But if Pava’s weapon worked as advertised, they’ll be wounded and cornered with nothing to lose, making them more dangerous than ever.”

Wu nodded agreeably, again keeping pace with her superior. “Understood, sir. However, I would argue that as task force commander, you’re acting in a brevet-flag capacity.”

Ebnal looked askance at her. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Per regulations it’s incumbent upon a flag-officer to delegate their orders to their subordinates rather than executing tasks and missions themselves. Otherwise, it undermines confidence in the chain-of-command and dilutes both unit-cohesion as well as the flag-officer’s overall effectiveness.”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Ebnal’s mouth. “You’re really going to quote chapter-and-verse to me, Commander?”

Wu stopped in her tracks, forcing Ebnal to halt and backpedal a few steps.

“Let me do my job, sir,” Wu said simply.

A pregnant pause followed, Ebnal having fallen uncharacteristically quiet.

“This is new to me, Wu,” he said finally. “If you were to screw this up, it falls on my shoulders. It’s difficult for me to delegate something so vital to someone so new to the responsibilities of command.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s true,” Wu allowed. “But I know my ship, and my people. In this case, screwing it up would likely result in my death and that of Europa’s crew. I’ve got a vested interest in getting the job done correctly.”

Ebnal looked torn, but after a long moment’s consideration, he nodded fractionally. “Reconnoiter and assess, but don’t engage the Amon unless you have a clear advantage and a viable escape route.”

“Understood, Captain. Thank you, sir.”

“You can thank me by coming back alive,” Ebnal replied with a rueful smile.

Wu appeared thoughtful, causing Ebnal to give her a suspicious look. “You’re about to ask me for something I’m not going to like, aren’t you?”

It was Wu’s turn to smile. “Zeischt or A’lasha. Having someone on-scene with insight into Amon psychology and tactics would be invaluable.”

“That’s asking a lot,” he hesitated. “Both of them are dangerous.”

“They’re both zealots in their own way, but at least A’lasha seems to be dedicated heart and soul to the defense of the Federation.”

“So she says. I can’t trust either goddamn one of them,” Ebnal groused.

“Seeing as you’re already setting the dinner table for Zeischt, so to speak, A’lasha would appear to be the better candidate.”

Ebnal nodded. “And it lessens her opportunity to exert her damned Section 31 overrides on our ships. See to it, Commander.”

“Aye, sir.” Wu turned to depart.

“Wu?”

She paused, glancing back. “Sir?”

“Good hunting. Give those Amon sons-of-bitches my regards.”

* * *​  

Chapter Twelve

If this is to end in fire
Then we should all burn together
Watch the flames climb high into the night
Calling out father oh stand by and we will
Watch the flames burn auburn on
The mountain side high

~ I See Fire, by Ed Sheeran

USS Europa

“Transwarp systems reading nominal,” Askok reported stolidly from Engineering. “No fluctuations in output since that last adjustment, Captain.”

“Acknowledged, Lieutenant,” Wu replied. “Excellent work,” she added, closing the comm-link to the engine room.

“Maintaining course,” Lightner updated from the Flight Control station. “Our velocity is the equivalent of warp nine-point-nine-nine-eight. ETA to last known coordinates of the Amon cube is twenty-six minutes.”

“Fifty-five light years in a little under two hours,” Georgia Kirk murmured from the XO’s seat with a disbelieving shake of her head. “Impressive.”

“Thank you, Mister Lightner,” Wu answered smoothly, gratified at the calm and professional nature with which her people were handling this most critical mission. She had nerves enough of her own, and hiding that from the crew was taking a great deal of effort. A jittery crew would only have made the situation that much worse.

Wu turned to inspect A’lasha as the Vulcan woman perused a data padd in the mission specialist’s seat to Wu’s immediate left.

“If you keep staring I just might start to blush,” A’lasha noted laconically, still engrossed in the contents of her padd.

Wu frowned at the woman’s cavalier response to her scrutiny. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along…” her frown deepened. “I don’t even know what to call you. Do you 31 types even have ranks? Do I call you ‘agent?’”

Finally looking up from her reading, A’lasha offered what at least appeared to be a genuine smile. “My name will be sufficient, Captain.”

Wu was able to spy a glimpse of the padd’s contents, a list of Europa’s available Alpha Weapons. “What’s your assessment of which weapons system will be the most effective?”

“Personally, I’d go with the zero-point flux initiator, followed up by the gravitic shearing field, should a coup de grâce be necessary.”

Wu nodded slowly, all the while trying to feign an indifferent air about carrying out what amounted to an act of genocide. “I hope Lar’ragos’ weapon worked as advertised. I’d rather not engage the Amon at full strength.”

A’lasha cocked her head approvingly. “That’s a wise choice. At full strength, they’re the most cunningly brutal warriors I’ve ever seen. They put the Klingons and Jem’Hadar to shame. Even my own people at the height of their martial prowess never came close to Amon levels of lethality.”

With a minute shake of her head, Wu muttered soto voce, “To think Sandhurst thought he could tame them.”

“He very nearly did,” A’lasha confessed quietly. “It wasn’t until we’d transitioned into the Large Magellanic Cloud that everything went to hell, Captain. He and I… we both underestimated the Amon aversion to making war against their own kind. According to them, that trait was engineered into them by their designers. Whether that was factual or a societal legend we-”

Their conversation ceased as they both registered the sudden presence of three officers standing in front of the command center chairs. Counselor Liu, Lt. Commander Pell, and Lieutenant Kirk.

“This is a terribly inconvenient time for a mutiny,” A’lasha quipped.

Ignoring their guest’s joke, Liu fixed a serious expression on Wu. “Captain, if you have a moment, we’d like to speak with you in private. It’s important.”

Wu’s hesitation was necessarily brief, and she stood to tell Lightner that he had the conn before leading the trio into the ready room. Wu entered first, surprised to find Dr. Reskos and Lieutenant Verrik already seated and waiting in the two chairs across from the desk. Wu recovered smoothly, gesturing for the others to take seats on the couch along the wall as she slid in behind the desk. “We’re short on time, so I hope you’ll be quick about this.”

Kirk, Liu and Pell all remained standing. The counselor and diplomatic officer both looked to Kirk, and the acting first officer announced, “Captain, we’d urge you in the strongest possible terms to reconsider this course of action.”

Wu cocked her head thoughtfully. “I’m acting under orders, Lieutenant. I wasn’t aware I had any choice in the matter.”

Liu spoke up. “Your orders equate to committing genocide, sir. That act is a violation of no fewer than seventeen different Starfleet regulations, operational protocols, and Federation laws. As Starfleet officers, we have a moral obligation to refuse such illegal orders.”

“The Skorrah and the Amon declared war on us.” Wu’s eyes darted between the five officers facing her, but her voice betrayed little emotion. “The Skorrah have committed acts of wanton genocide, to include the destruction of Ferenginar. Billions have died at their hands. If you’ll recall, the Amon just ambushed us, their allies, killing over a thousand Starfleet and Klingon personnel in the process.” Wu stood slowly, planting her hands atop the desk and leaning forward towards her subordinates. This time her voice lowered a full octave. “And, oh yes… they murdered our captain.”

The last three words seemed to hang in the air, encased in a sheath of icy scorn.

Liu’s Adams apple bobbed as his next argument died in his throat.

Pell was less cowed than her compatriots by Wu’s frosty mien, and pressed on. “The whole of their species can’t be held accountable for the decisions of their leadership.”

“Unfortunately for them, the whole of their species inhabits a single ship.”

Kirk tried again. “If Section 31’s weapon worked, they could already be compromised. By demonstrating mercy, we could well turn the Amon back—“

“We’re done here,” Wu cut her off mid-sentence. “I’m following strict directives from our chain-of-command, and I had to twist Captain Ebnal’s arm to be allowed to lead this mission in his stead. As it happens, I’m in full accord with my very explicit orders. In case one or more of you are hazy on this point, let me be absolutely clear. I intend to put the Amon to the sword. All of them.”

Pell crossed her arms defiantly, her jaw muscles working furiously as she fought to reign in her boiling emotions.

“Dismissed,” Wu commanded. “Resume your battle-stations.”

Nobody moved.

Verrik spoke for the first time, “Captain, we are obligated by our oaths and our duty to refuse illegal and immoral orders. That being said, if you insist on pursuing this course of action, we will have no choice but to relieve you of command.”

“On what authority?” Wu scoffed acidly.

Reskos stood from the couch, as always appearing like a skinny teenager out of place in a Starfleet uniform. His android body however belied his millennia of experience as a healer. “As chief medical officer, I can attest that your willingness to commit an act of genocide is suggestive of a mental instability. I can and will remove you from duty pending a full psycho-physical examination.”

“One that I’d support as ship’s counselor,” Liu added.

Wu’s expression hardened and she looked pointedly to Kirk. “Regulations demand that the first officer must be in agreement with the CMO in such circumstances.”

All eyes then focused on Kirk who did her best not to shrink under the combined weight of their gaze. “I… reluctantly agree with the doctor’s assessment, sir.” She dipped her head for a brief moment before bringing her eyes back to Wu. “We can’t do this, Captain. We’re better than this. We have to be.”

Wu leaned forward farther as she barked, “The Amon are an existential threat! What don’t you understand about that?”

“As were the Xindi, the Romulans, the Klingons, the Borg, the Dominion and the refugee crisis,” Verrik recited implacably. “Yet we’ve survived them all without sacrificing that which embodies the best of the Federation.”

“Destroying them may be unavoidable, despite the best of intentions,” Wu snapped.

“It may come to that, certainly,” Liu conceded. “But at least we can say afterwards that we pursued all available alternatives before condemning an entire species to death.”

“Ebnal’s orders were explicit, I cannot willfully violate them.”

Pell observed, “Ebnal’s a warrior, or the closest thing the Federation has to one. He wouldn’t hesitate to commit genocide if he thought it was in the Federation’s best interest. If you’re trying to use him for legal or moral cover, I’d suggest you reconsider.”

Kirk held herself a little taller. “The Alpha Weapons can only be deployed with the first officer’s counter-authorization, Captain. I’ll have to be in full agreement with their use.”

Wu glowered at her assembled officers. “You could all be court-martialed for this.”

“We know,” was Kirk’s succinct reply.

In a last effort, Wu offered, “Captain Lar’ragos himself tried to destroy the Amon with his last act.”

“Lar’ragos may have been a good captain,” Pell answered, “but he was a horrible person. His life and death are a cautionary tale, not a call to action.”

The captain sat back into her chair with an air of resignation. “Fine. So, my mutinous officers, how do we play this from here?”

Verrik said, “We will not act against you so long as you pursue alternatives to annihilating the Amon in good faith, Captain. However, if you attempt to destroy them in a situation where we feel it is unnecessary, we will stop you.”

Wu cocked her head thoughtfully. “And what about A’lasha? With her Section 31 overrides she can easily take control of the ship and launch the Alpha Weapons without our help or consent.”

“She’ll have to be neutralized,” Verrik stated coolly.

* * *​

The energy bloom swept across the mighty cityscape, erasing it utterly and leaving the area that had hosted the great metropolis for millennia utterly devoid of structures. Where great towers had once reached skyward, now only meadows and meandering streams remained, pristine and unsullied by the hand of sentient ambition.

In the ornately decorated viewing bay, Liana Ramirez looked on, an expression of mild satisfaction on her features. She turned to appraise the troubled look in Romulan Admiral Ch’alveris’ eyes.

“You’re telling me the city in this simulation has been excised from our collective timeline?”

“No,” she corrected. “The entire Tenaur’i civilization has just been erased from the time-stream by a very precisely controlled causality paradox. They never were. Every molecule of every artifact is gone, every interaction their species had with any other civilization now has never occurred.”

The Romulan officer appeared to struggle with the concept. “Temporal mechanics has never been my specialty, but if this was real, wouldn’t we have been affected by the alterations as well? How could I remember destroying a species that never existed?”

Ramirez inclined her head, ceding the point to her Romulan counterpart. “In an actual deployment, your ship would be surrounded by special temporal shielding that would safeguard you from changes to the timeline.”

“Amazing,” Ch’alveris breathed, nearly overwhelmed at the ramifications of such a weapon.

Ramirez glanced back to the control station where Annorax sat, scrutinizing the simulated weapon’s readouts with his customary intensity. “Problems?”

“None so far,” he responded distractedly. “Temporal incursion appears successful. No sign of counter-indications. The temporal shockwave is spreading outward to encompass the furthest reaches of Tenaur’i expansion. Last to go will be the faintest echoes of their first, most primitive radio transmissions.”

Ramirez smiled brightly. “The swan song of a doomed people; how poetic.”

Ch’alveris suppressed a shudder at her cavalier dismissal of the annihilation of an entire people, even if it were only a theoretical exercise. The idea that she could potentially extinguish a species for no other reason than as an example of the weapon’s power, and by extension, her own, troubled him more than he would admit. “I am duly impressed, Baroness,” he offered warily. “Would it be possible to bring them back once the deed was done?”

“Back? Goodness, no!” Ramirez chortled. “That involves a far greater degree of precision, Admiral. As the old adage goes, it is always easier to destroy than to create.”

He turned slowly to confront her. “If such technology could be weaponized, it would alter the balance of power in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.”

Ramirez inclined her head towards a coterie of Romulan scientists waiting patiently to speak with Ch’alveris. “Granted, this simulation was designed to demonstrate what a fully realized weapons-system could accomplish, but if you’ll take a moment to confer with your science personnel, they’ll doubtless inform you that we’ve already achieved proof-of-concept.”

Ch’alveris stood, brooding silently as he tried to determine if such a thing were actually possible. He gestured for the lead scientist to approach. The man stepped close and then leaned in towards the admiral, keeping his voice in a low, almost conspiratorial whisper. “Sir, utilizing the photonic-isolation chamber we constructed to the Baroness’ specifications, we’ve run a full analysis of this technology.”

“And?” Ch’alveris prompted, finding himself hoping this would prove a dead-end.

The Romulan scientist struggled to contain his wonder and excitement. “They did it, sir. The temporal field they generated completely extinguished the target photon from the time/space continuum. All interactions between that photon and its quantum-entangled counterparts ceased. Most amazingly, this entanglement breach occurred both in the present and retroactively.”

“Meaning?” the admiral prompted.

“Meaning, sir, the technology checks out. Our proof-of-concept parameters have been met.”

Ch’alveris frowned. “I don’t understand, Doctor Tolann. Just because the field can compromise a single photon, how does that prove anything of note?”

The scientist spared an enthusiastic glance at his counterpart before turning back to the admiral. “Sir, the ability to selectively edit a single particle from the time/space continuum verifies that the concept is sound and can be weaponized. The only difference between deleting a solitary photon and deleting the entirety of the Klingon Empire is simply a matter of degree. It would require an enormous power source and incredibly specific targeting algorithms, but this proves that it can be done.”

The admiral found the idea highly unsettling. “What manner of power source would be required?”

“There are a number of possibilities,” Tolann replied thoughtfully. “The energy release from an intentional subspace rupture, deploying a gravitic d-sink into a naturally occurring quantum singularity, or perhaps harnessing the energy from either a collapsing or exploding star.”

Ch’alveris broke away from the scientist and once again stood facing Ramirez. “I must admit to being at a loss, Baroness. Our only prior contact with you was your attack on a number of our war-birds during the Federation’s first contact with a refugee species. Your temporal weaponry proved especially lethal in that encounter. Now, however, you peacefully invite us to this demonstration, and then offer us technology that if properly exploited could give the Star Empire unchallenged control of nearly half the known galaxy.”

Ramirez nodded in silent agreement with the admiral’s assessment.

“Why?” Ch’alveris asked pointedly. “Entropy and the pursuit of gain are the only two constants in the universe, Baroness. I do not trust in the idea of pure altruism.”

“You are most correct, Admiral,” Ramirez answered. “I am in desperate need of a fleet of warships to assist in the capture of an installation in the orbiting galactic mass known to the Federation as the Large Magellanic Cloud. I believe your people refer to it as Calanda's Eye. Control of this installation could also give unparalleled strategic advantage to whoever seizes it.”

Ch’alveris appeared nonplussed. “You wish the installation taken, but you do not want to control it yourself?”

“My interest in this whole affair is solely with the fate of a single human, Admiral. So long as I take custody of that individual, all other assets seized during this operation will be the property of the Romulan Star Empire.”

Ch’alveris considered her for a long moment, his mind awash in strategy and tactics. “Let’s say I did accede to your offer, Baroness. How do you propose we coax either the Skorrah or the Starfleet/Klingon task force to open another aperture to Calanda's Eye? We cannot communicate with them across such vast distances. Do we simply sit in the Alanthal system and hope that they return there at some point?”

“Simple,” she answered with a knowing smile. “We will cloak your ships and follow the task force through the portal when they originally departed for the other galaxy some days ago.”

His countenance suggested that the admiral thought she was raving mad. “And this would be accomplished how?” he asked dubiously.

She gestured to the surrounding temporal apparatus. “For someone who can orchestrate this, Admiral, mere time travel is child’s play.”

* * *​  

USS Europa
Main Bridge

As the Wu and the senior officers shuffled awkwardly into the ready room, the bridge fell into a tense silence. Officers and enlisted personnel absorbed the brief exchange between the senior staff. Lost in their own thoughts, they counted down the minutes until their final confrontation with the Amon.

Lieutenant Lightner stood from the flight control station as he was relieved, turning towards A’lasha to reveal a phaser brandished in his hand as he moved to assume the captain’s chair. He kept the weapon trained on A’lasha in her seat to his immediate left. “Please don’t move,” the youthful pilot said.

“Brett,” A’lasha began with a smirk. “I know you’re a terrific shot with a phaser, but please give me more credit than that. My overrides won’t allow a phaser onboard the ship to be fired at me, no matter how low the setting.”

Lightner’s expression fell. “Oh, well… damn.” He cocked his head hopefully, “Can’t blame a guy for trying, though, right?”

She had to laugh at that. “No, I suppose not. So, may I presume you and your co-conspirators are changing our itinerary? Do I need to rush in there to Wu’s rescue?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” he replied. Without warning, Lightner jabbed the emitter of the phaser gently into A’lasha’s abdomen, eliciting a quiet hiss. In response, the Vulcan jumped to her feet, knocking the phaser easily from Lightner’s hand with her own while pulling him off his feet by his collar. “What was that?” she snarled.

It was Lightner’s turn to smile. “Hypo-spray disguised as a phaser, courtesy of Dr. Reskos. We figured you’d think you were safe from shipboard phasers.”

A’lasha seemed about to strike him when she abruptly collapsed to the deck. Lightner sank to his knees as she dropped, careful to catch the Vulcan’s head before it collided with the grav-plating. “Sweet dreams,” he offered with no small amount of relief.

* * *​

USS Venture
Security Brig

Captain Ebnal entered Venture’s brig just steps behind the medical team, his expression threatening to melt neutronium with its intensity.

Zeischt stood at the threshold of the security forcefield barrier, his arm extended past the field emitter encircling the doorway to the cell. His hand was fixed firmly to the throat of a security specialist who remained conscious but unable to escape his vice-like grip. Zeischt’s right arm was scorched at the point where the forcfield barrier had been, the jumpsuit burned away to reveal blackened and blistered flesh beneath.

Two additional security staff were aiming phaser rifles at the Amon prisoner

“What the hell are you doing?” Ebnal demanded. “Let go of her, now!”

Zeischt relinquished his grip, and the woman dropped fifteen centimeters to the deck, clutching at her abused throat as her legs threatened to give way. The medical team moved to assist the specialist, as the other security officer who had been posted to the brig addressed Ebnal with wide-eyed alarm. “He reached right through the barrier, Captain. The discharge from the field was traveling through his arm and causing Cohen to convulse. I had to shut it down.”

Ebnal nodded distractedly, his eyes fixed on Zeischt. “It’s fine, Mister KwÃ…Â�n, no damage done.” He glanced around at the others before announcing, “Give us the room.”

The senior-most security officer looked as though she might protest, but Ebnal’s expression brooked no dissent. After the others had cleared the compartment, Ebnal stepped forward, his face tight with anger. “What the fuck are you playing at, Donald?”

Zeischt finally lowered his arm, heedless of his injuries, and turned slightly to face the smaller man. “I’ve been asking to speak with you for the better part of a day. I asked them to tell you it was urgent. I’ve grown tired of waiting.”

“You have my full attention now,” Ebnal said with surprisingly little venom. To Zeischt’s eyes, Ebnal appeared more resigned than anything else, a man exhausted by recent events and their resulting losses of irreplaceable personnel and ships.

“We’re in danger here, Lucian. I’ve seen things in my dreams… visions of Romulan warbirds striking our taskforce.”

Ebnal threw up his hands in exasperation. “And? You had a goddamn vision? So what? We’re on the cusp of being able to operate the gateway generator on Shul’Nazhar, to open portals to wherever we like. I don’t have time to entertain your bizarre little flights of fancy right now!”

“Not a vision,” Zeischt corrected. “A premonition. The fact that I experienced it so clearly means it will happen soon. I’m talking days, perhaps hours. Romulans will attack us, and they will have the advantage of complete tactical surprise. How many hundreds has Starfleet lost so far on this expedition? How many more are you prepared to lose?”

Ebnal’s frown was pronounced. “We’re a hundred-and-fifty thousand light-years from Romulus. Care to explain how the hell you suppose they got all the way out here?”

“They came through with us, cloaked. They’ve been hiding here the whole time, right under our noses.”

The senior captain shook his head vigorously. “And we just missed them? Europa’s enhanced sensors couldn’t see them? Your Amon ship, with all its advanced technology, you missed them too?”

“So it would seem,” Zeischt affirmed.

“That’s absurd,” Ebnal fumed. “And we’ve been here for days; why would they wait so long to launch their attack? If they’d struck us right after our fight with the Amon, we’d have been on our heels already.”

Zeischt countered, “I don’t have that answer. Perhaps they’re letting us do the work of figuring out how to operate the portals before they take the station from us?”

Ebnal was silent for a long moment, weighing the merits of the other man’s argument. Finally, he said, “There was a time, Donald, when I’d have taken your word as gospel. Given all that’s happened, your betrayal of the uniform, the possibility of your having lured us out here into a trap, I just can’t take the risk.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Zeischt sighed. “Though not as sorry as you’re going to be, I fear.”

At Ebnal’s prompting, Zeischt stepped into the next containment cell over. The captain called the security and medical personnel back in from the corridor, and had the medics attend to Zeischt’s injuries. After activating the forcefield, Ebnal ordered an engineering team to erect a second portable forcefield barrier, set to a different frequency range, immediately in front of the first one.

Zeischt looked to Ebnal through the bluish haze of the double-barrier. “When they attack, even this won’t hold me, Lucian. I won’t die here. I’m going back to my people.”

Ebnal’s eyes narrowed in response. “You don’t have a people, not anymore. If Lar’ragos’ little science experiment didn’t kill them, Iris Wu most certainly will.”

* * *​

USS Venture
System LMC-043918
Large Magellanic Cloud

“Our guest still causing us problems, sir?” Commander Zlosk, Venture’s Denobulan first officer asked as Ebnal returned to the bridge.

“He seems determined to be the screen-door on my submersible,” Ebnal growled disconsolately. The captain hesitated for a moment as he resumed his seat in the command chair. “Any anomalous activity on sensors?”

His XO looked nonplussed. “No, sir. Nothing. I’d have notified you if anything had come up.”

Ebnal nodded distractedly. “Of course.” He seemed unusually indecisive for a brief moment before adding, “Order our ships and the Klingons to sweep the vicinity of the station with antiproton beams.”

Zlosk gave him another questioning glance from the XO’s seat. “Aye, sir. And what are we looking for, may I ask?”

“Anything that’s not supposed to be there,” Ebnal answered cryptically.

* * *​

USS Europa
System LMC-043923
Large Magellanic Cloud

Wu took the captain’s chair nodding soberly to Lightner as he vacated the seat for her. “Lieutenant, please slow our approach to the target system to give us five minutes until system entry.”

“Aye, sir,” Lightner acknowledged, relieved to have the captain back on the bridge and A’lasha safely sedated in Sickbay.

Wu took a long look at those manning their posts on the bridge, her crew, entrusted to her command. She toggled the ship’s public address before she’d fully decided on what to say, but the occasion seemed to warrant something.

“This is the captain,” she began, her mind racing to provide something worthy of their time only moments before what could prove be a cataclysmic battle.

“All of you know what’s at stake here, and what the next few minutes could bring. When we put on these uniforms we knew we might be called upon to sacrifice ourselves for the safety of the Federation and those we’ve left behind at home. That moment of truth may be upon us. I know I can trust all of you to do your duty, whatever awaits us.”

She cut the feed, brushing her clammy palms on her uniform pants. “Okay, shields up, weapons hot; standby to route auxiliary power to weapons and shields.”

“Weapons and defenses active,” Leone advised from the Tactical station.

She glanced at the Science station, where Shanthi sat analyzing long-range sensor returns taken before they’d entered transwarp. “Best guess for where we come out?”

“The last hit we had on our trace-beacon aboard the cube put the Amon in a low orbit above a Class-M planet. That’s all the information we have, sir.”

Wu nodded fractionally. “Drop us out of transwarp fifteen-thousand kilometers from the cube.” She wanted to have one of their inventory of Alpha Weapons armed and in the launch tube, but she knew that would court another confrontation with her XO and the senior staff who had threatened to mutiny if Wu took unilateral lethal action against the Amon. The senior officers had insisted that the Alpha Weapons remain under lock and key until such time as there was no other recourse but to use them.

“Dropping out of transwarp in three… two… one…” Lightner announced.

“Here we go,” Wu breathed.

Europa appeared without warning in orbit of a greenish-brown planet, mottled with wispy bands of cloud cover. The bridge’s main viewscreen locked on the image of the Amon cube, sitting cockeyed in low orbit, rotating slowly.

“Status of the cube,” Wu ordered, her eyes riveted to the enormous vessel, the surface of which was still visibly pitted and scarred from its earlier battle with the combined Starfleet and Klingon task force. Its hull, usually illuminated from within, was largely dark with only scant lights hinting at remaining life within.

“Reading extensive external and internal damage, Captain,” Shanthi replied. “Their weapons systems, propulsion, life-support, and defensive subspace field are all seriously compromised.”

“Life signs?”

The ensign at Operations answered, “Hard to tell, sir. There’s significant radiation emanating from within the cube and lingering in its vicinity.” She turned to shrug apologetically to Wu. “Amon life signs are difficult to read in the best of conditions.”

Tiny dots could be seen darting away from the cube towards the planet below.

“What’s going on there?” Liu asked from the chair to Wu’s immediate left.

“Amon small-craft, Counselor, analogous to our shuttles. I’m seeing significant traffic between the surface and the cube in orbit.”

From the XO’s seat, Kirk’s brow creased as she leaned forward to inquire, “Any sign of intelligent life on the planet?”

This time it was Leone at Tactical who responded. “Yes, sir. I’m picking up signs indicative of a Level Two proto-industrialized society; technologically equivalent to early 19th-century Europe on Earth.”

Kirk’s frown increased as she asked, “Population?”

“One-point-three billion, Lieutenant.” A warbling alert from Leone’s panel garnered his attention. “Captain, we’re being hailed by the cube.”

Wu rose from her chair, steeling herself for what she was certain would be an unpleasant conversation. “Put it up on the screen.”

A jumping, wavering image coalesced into the face of Nestrala, Battle-Master of the Amon, life-mate to Zeischt and now their tribe’s defacto leader following A’lasha’s killing of Warlord Jalahar.

Through the jittery, pixilated image, it was evident that the woman’s once-radiant beauty was absent, replaced by a haggard appearance replete with open sores, scabs, and patches of missing hair marring her face and head.

“So…” Nestrala rasped, “…come to finish us, have you?”

“We’ve come to ensure your threat to the Alpha Quadrant is ended,” Wu answered, choosing her words carefully. “If you surrender your weapons willingly, we can come to some sort of agreement. A treaty, perhaps?”

Nestrala’s laughter led to a bout of harsh coughing. “Surrender, to you? I think not, human. You’ve… wounded us, certainly, but we are far from finished.”

“We don’t seek further confrontation,” Wu offered. “If you cease your attacks upon us and agree to remain in this galaxy, we can assist you with settlement upon any number of life-supporting worlds.”

A sneer marred Nestrala’s already ghoulish face. “Are we to become farmers, then? I think not. We are nomadic warriors and hunters, human. This is how we were designed to be, it is literally in our genes.”

Wu studied Nestrala’s image silently for a long moment. “Is there nothing we can offer you that would entice you to negotiate a peaceful ending to this situation?”

“Give us the Vulcan bitch that helped to design this plague you’ve inflicted on us, and help us to reverse its effects.”

It took everything Wu had to keep from wincing at this demand. “Starfleet and the Federation disavow the actions of Section 31. We have no control over or influence with them.”

Nestrala glowered balefully at Wu. “She is aboard you ship! Give her to us!”

“I will not,” Wu answered, her stomach tightening.

“Then we have nothing further to discuss,” was Nestrala’s biting rejoinder. “If you approach any closer, arm your Alpha Weapons, or take any other aggressive actions toward us, we still retain more than enough firepower to annihilate the population of the planet below us.”

“Nestrala, please listen to reas—“

The Battle-Master cut Wu off mid-sentence. “Lest you think you can vanish into transwarp and re-emerge to vaporize us with your Alpha Weapons, we have planted numerous biogenic dispersal stations on the surface. They are linked to what I believe you refer to as a dead-man’s-switch. If we are destroyed, the creatures on the planet below die with us.”

The Amon cut the signal at their end, abruptly terminating the conversation and leaving Wu staring at the image of the abused cube loitering in low orbit. Wu turned a stinging glare on her senior officers. “Briefing room. Now.”

A series of uncomfortable glances flitted between the senior staff as they began moving towards the doors to the conference room adjoining the bridge.

Wu looked to Lightner. “Lieutenant, you have the conn. Back us off at one-quarter impulse to a distance of one-million kilometers from the cube. Remain at red alert and notify me immediately of any change in behavior or defensive posture by the Amon.” She pointed at Leone at the Tactical board. “Dom, I need you here in case they start trouble.”

The moment the doors to the briefing room slid shut, Wu spun around towards her officers, some of whom had taken seats while others remained standing defensively, arms folded across their chests.

“I hope you’re happy!” Wu railed. “If we’d deployed an Alpha Weapon the moment we dropped out of transwarp, this situation would be over. Instead, the Amon now have over a billion hostages.”

Silence greeted her outburst.

“This is precisely the crisis I’d hoped to avoid by launching a preemptive strike, but you do-gooders shot that plan all to hell!” Wu spread her arms to encompass the group. “Anyone have any brilliant ideas now?”

“From a tactical standpoint, Captain, we still have the advantage.” This was offered by Verrik with his customary equanimity. “We have only the word of the Amon that they’ve booby-trapped the planet. We remain highly mobile and undamaged, while the Amon are anchored here with an impaired ship and faltering weapons and defenses.”

“I fail to see the advantage in having endangered over a billion lives, Mister V—“

“Bridge to the captain,” Lightner’s voice issued from overhead.

It seemed like Wu had to force her eyes away from Verrik. “Report.”

“We’ve just received a garbled transmission from Shul’Nazhar, sir. Venture reports our battle group has come under attack from the Romulans.”

* * *​

End Part III
The story will be concluded in
Part IV - Solitary Frontier​