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The phrase ‘dead of night’ certainly seemed apt. Were it not for the fact that Kellan’s young eyes had adjusted to the dark, he felt he could have been sneaking around a crypt. There was a presence in the atmosphere of Valo II that was reminiscent of the underworld somehow, a heavy, oppressive quality to the air that threatened to crush you with every passing minute. There was no hope here. No light. The young Bajoran scrambled over crumbling walls. The familiar tickle of brick-dust on his lungs brought with it the threat of a telltale cough that could wake one of the tumbledown ruin’s inhabitants. This part of the city was nothing more than a slum, filled with people like him. Food was scarce and money even more so. This wasn’t his first time sneaking food from here; the ruin’s inhabitants were thrifty and resourceful, a gang of street thugs with just enough influence that they were able to gather food as a tithe in addition to whatever else they were able to scavenge or pilfer from forays further into the city. They were known to Kellan, and he was known to them. In fact, their relationship to one another was well defined. They provided him food and, on the frequent occasions when they realised that, they also provided him pain. It was worth it, though. The clandestine operation always brought with it a chance of success. The truth was, Kellan’s hopes lay far from here and he wasn’t stealing for himself. The sixteen year-old thief had found someone he cared about in the slums. He had been led to him not by the Prophets, but by his own two feet, and when he’d encountered the old, gaunt beggar and offered him part of the food he had managed to gather during the day, he had suddenly felt and understood the meaning of kindness. In return, the man who he had come to know as Heril had given him quite the unique gift. During the hours they spent together, he taught him incredible things about the stars, about space and about the rules by which the world worked. It wasn’t much of a world, but to suddenly find himself beginning to understand it made Kellan hungry for knowledge. He’d had a basic education in the refugee camps but, once they had been broken up, he’d learned little else other than what was necessary to survive on the streets of this excuse for a slum. And so the never ending quest to sate two kinds of hunger had begun. The camps didn’t exist any more. They had been dispersed after the liberation of Bajor. Many of the Bajora had taken their chance to travel home but for some, such things were not possible. Kellan had no family to whom he could return. During his early years in the camps, he could remember being taken care of by a number of different families but inevitably the same thing would always happen and he would be passed along like an unwanted disease thanks to the amount of food a growing boy needed to consume. He was as thin as a rake now, all arms and legs as he had shot upwards but not outwards. His frame was ideal for nights like this, sneaking through exposed segments of foundations, into and out of cavities in walls, or in the narrow spaces between ceilings and floors. Heril’s concerns about his health usually fell on deaf ears, not because Kellan wasn’t worried himself, but because he couldn’t afford to think about it. Fortunately, it was easy to get the old man talking about what lay beyond the bitter world that they lived in. During those times, such things were easily forgotten. A floorboard creaked. He’d allowed himself to become too distracted and deviated a few inches from his normal path. He knew it was going to cost him and his suspicions were confirmed moments later when his sharp ears picked up three words that made his heart sink: “I’ll go check.” Immediately, he had to make a decision about whether or not to listen to his instincts, which were all telling him to run, or his stomach, which was telling him he had to stay. Heril had to be hungry, too. It was two days now since Kellan had managed to find anything for them. No-one else would look after the old man; without Kellan he might starve. His feet carried him quickly to a darkened recess despite their will to carry him to the nearest window. With great dread, he realised that there were two sets of footsteps coming towards him and not one. “It’s that whelp again. I’m telling you, he comes here every night.” The room’s metal door was unceremoniously heaved to one side by two pairs of hands. Kellan never used it, there were other ways in and out, but none that he could access now without being seen. He held his breath for fear that even that might give him away. To his own ears, it sounded like the men would be able to locate him by the drum beat of his heart. No matter how many times he was caught by them, he could never be quite sure what form their justice would take. Lately they had been getting more and more inventive. When he saw them start to check recesses where the wall had collapsed, he knew that he was going to have the chance to find out. At times like this, he could feel parts of his mind starting to shut down. It was a protective response, he realised, one that helped him to cope with the fact that this happened so regularly and that let him maintain his will to keep coming back to the most reliable source of food in the whole area. Rather than cowering until the inevitable moment where he would be caught, he was taken with the overwhelming desire to just get this over with. He stood, and walked out of the shadows where they could see him. “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you it would be that brat?” The man closed the distance between them in seconds; Kellan took a step back towards the wall and did his best not to flinch. He just had to be brave now, he told himself, although he felt the painful tug of a fist closing tightly around his hair and the unpleasant moisture of spit on his face before he’d fully finished the thought. “You steal from your own people! You betray the fact you are a Bajoran! You’re no better than a Cardassian!” Kellan could pick up from his captor’s tone that a ‘Cardassian’ was something undesirable but the significance was lost on him. He was sure he had been born here; this was the only world he knew. He’d only ever known other Bajorans and some humans, a gaudy looking race of people with smooth noses and brightly coloured uniforms. He was speaking before he’d even realised it; his mind had been trained to fill gaps in his knowledge. “What’s one of them?” Apparently he’d said the wrong thing. The fist tightened around his hair, causing him to cry out briefly before he was silenced by a backhand across the face that was hard enough to make him taste blood. “You’re an insult to your people! You don’t know what it means to be a Bajoran!” There was a heat in his words like nothing Kellan had ever heard. Somehow, he had drawn a primal rage from this man like none he had ever seen before. All concerns of food and knowledge were abandoned and his mental defenses crumbled: he was terrified for his life! The other man drew alongside him and grabbed his face, rough fingers squeezing Kellan’s jaw as he forced his head sideways. “He doesn’t even wear an earring. He probably doesn’t know about the Prophets, either.” “Do you?” The weak nod he gave them was honest, but not so much so as the whimper that accompanied it. He knew enough about the Prophets to know that they didn’t care about him. There was no path they wanted him to walk. They had doomed him to this desolate existence to live with barren guts and absent hope. Heril spoke fondly of them, but Kellan could not bring himself to believe in deities that would make such arbitrary condemnations. “Then pray they will look favourably on you tonight.” The boy’s answer was despondent. He knew that his spirit, as well as his body, would take a long time to recover from this night. “They won’t. They never do.” ::He was immediately grabbed and dragged through the door. They manhandled him over to the edge of a table, and forced his face down onto it. One of them grabbed his hand and stretched it out over the table’s filthy surface, pinning it into place with strength far superior than his. He shook with terror as he caught sight of something metallic and cylindrical as it was raised into the air. Before his sentence was delivered, a voice hissed into his ear, the heat of Bajoran breath making his skin crawl.:: “Then perhaps they will see fit to teach you the lesson that treason against your own people is something we will not tolerate. It will be a long time before you think about stealing from us again.” He screwed his eyes closed as the heavy metal bar sped down towards his fingers... Fleet Captain Diego Herrera Commanding Officer USS Vigilant NCC-75515 Deputy Commandant: UFOP: SB118 Academy

It was cold. A simple saying, but perhaps cold was an understatement. On a planet where the miners had fifteen different words to describe the precise kind of cold the current weather was displaying, and another seventy-three to cover the specifics of icy precipitation, being able to single out one instance as cold enough to mention lent an air of significance to a simple saying. The Bakalen were used to cold. The heavy, bipedal bovine creatures adapted well to it, and had been better bred to withstand it for seven generations. Now they stood, stamping their hooves in the frozen ground, refusing to move. When it was cold enough to make them pause, the dilithium mine workers of Seandrus VII knew it was time to call it quits. “Get them into the barn, and everyone else into the shelters, there’s a good one brewin!’” Kleos Tal, the Rigellian foreman called out. The miners took up their tools with an air of relief, herding the animals into their shelters before running for warmth. It was only when the majority of workers and animals alike had been safely stowed that Tal noticed movement on the edge of the mine. “Starfleet, get your [...] back here!” “McEnroe and Daling are still out there!” The young Terran suited up in insulated Starfleet scientific blues called back. “They might need someone to flare them in!” “I told them not to go. If those fools wanted to go spelunking for ancient artifacts, they should have picked a clear day when all the scanners were fully operational.” Tal shook his head. “Not that you stuffed shirt Starfleet types ever listen…” he added under his breath. “You’d be better off watching for them on the perimeter scan. I ain’t makin’ the call to Starfleet explaining why your body’s coming back in a freezerbag.” Lieutenant Michael Evans took a breath in through his teeth. He had been part of the original team to scout the dilithium deposits in this area three years ago; he knew the terrain and the weather as well as Tal knew them, and yet the foreman took every chance possible to make him feel like a chastised child. “Fine, I want control of the camera.” “All yours.” Kleos Tal smirked, waving the officer towards the cabin. “Hurry up, before your eyeballs freeze.” ~*~ Evans was pacing. It was either pacing or screaming, but as the minutes dragged by and the sky went from hazy grey towards black, he could feel his panic rising. “Where are they?” he asked into his hand as he bit down on the knuckles. “Don’t get your panties into a bundle.” Tal remarked, looking up from his coffee. “They probably saw the storm coming and made camp.” “Which means they could get snowed in.” Evans countered, taking a break from his pacing to stare at the blank feed. Tal shrugged. “So what if they do? Tomorrow’s the fifteenth. Supply ship’s a comin’ and if we need to, we can scan for ‘em and have ‘em beamed out.” Evans folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t like it, but Tal had a point. Sinking into the chair facing the camera feed he watched the steam drain off his cup of raktajino. He didn’t know how much energy he had wasted in worrying, but he had almost dozed off in the chair when the communications system crackled to life. [[Daling to Evans… storm getting wo… coming ... bringing in an injured… following…]] Evans’ head snapped up, hitting the communications panel. “Ensign Daling? You’re breaking up! Boost your signal.” There was a burst of static, followed by a high pitched whine, before Daling’s raspy voice came through. [[Can you hear me, Sir? We’re coming into the complex now. We have one of those cow-beasts they use in the mines; burned real badly from the microwave radiation we used to clear the snow from the cave walls. McEnroe told me to bring it back, she thinks she can help it.]] Daling’s tone clearly hinted that he would have put it out of its misery mercifully in order to be back on time. Evans allowed a small smile to play across his features. Lilly McEnroe was the sort of person who hated to see anyone or anything suffer, from a beast of burden to a fellow crewmate. “You said you were following something?” He queried, leaning forward as if getting closer to the communication panel would help him be heard. [[i think we’re being followed. Something has been after us ever since we left the dig site.]] “Do you know the identity of what’s following you?” Dailing drew in a breath [[No, Sir. It’s moving tactically. And not on a vehicle. Maybe riding an animal? Hard to tell. McEnroe tried to get a scan, but the weather conditions are interfering.]] “I have you on the camera feed, and I’m getting partial sensor readings. Looks like whatever was following you has backed off… If I can get a better scan, I will.” Evans paused, looking back at the camera. “Where are you headed?” [McEnroe wants to head to the barn first, to drop off our passenger. Then we’re heading in. I’m freezing.] “Be careful.” Evans murmured trying to push away the ill feeling in his gut. [When am I not careful, boss?] Dailing chuckled. Evans forced a smile into his voice. “I know, but…” he never had a chance to finish the thought. As the vehicle pulled up towards the barn, a choked cry came over the line, and it lapsed into static. “Daling?” Nothing. “McEnroe? Daling?!” A shadow flickered across the screen, heading directly for the snowmobile. “I need to know what that is, now!” Evans shouted at Tal, trying to move the camera in for a closer view. “Get me that audio feed back…” There was a crackle of static and the terrified scream of Daling’s voice pierced the line. Terror turned to anguish, and anguish turned to pain. The voice was suddenly cut short. “You said you know every animal on these plains… what was that?” Evans demanded, thrusting a finger towards the viewscreen. Kleos Tal perked a brow; reaching for the disruptor rifle he kept by his parka. “I have no clue. But I’m gonna find out.” ~*~ Outside the snow was falling so fast it looked like the whole planet was in the middle of a giant snow globe that was being shaken continuously, never giving anything time to settle. Add to that the fact that with every breath, a haze of fog clung to Evans’ facemask and goggles, the young officer felt like he was blundering around in the dark. Kleos Tal fanned out with several of his friends – trigger happy mine junkies who didn’t seem to care that one wrong step might get them killed. They were hunting monsters. Evans’ scoffed - he was looking for his teammates. His hands tightened on his phaser as they spread out to search. Daling was outside the barn, face up in the snow, surrounded by a growing puddle of dark blue. The Bolian’s cracked helmet lay several feet beside him. Evans felt his heart leap up into his throat and he rushed to the fallen man’s side. He was still warm. Evans gently prodded Daling’s shoulder, prompting an anguished groan from the smaller man. “We should have never taken that cow-beast.” his voice was whisper thin and broken. “They came back. They got Lilly.” “Shh. Steady.” Evans counseled, gently fumbling in a desperate attempt to provide first aid. “We’ll get you inside.” Daling shook his head fractionally. “This is revenge. We fried two of the little beasts on accident, they got scared when they saw us and ran into the cave where we were using microwaves. Crisped them before we could shut it off. The last one lived. I was going to put it out of its misery, but Lilly said we could save it… and now they’re gonna kill her for it.” His voice was raspy and gurgling. Evans clenched his teeth, watching the man’s chest flutter and collapse. “Shut up, Ensign, I’m gonna get you out of here.” He felt tears form and freeze at the sides of his face. The pool of blood was still spreading, turning to slick blue ice at the edges as Daling’s eyes glazed over. Evans scooped the Bolian into his arms, trying to ignore the man’s groan of agony. “I’m done, Sir. Leave me.” Daling pleaded, his voice failing. “Save Lilly… please…” His eyes closed, and the snow flakes stopped melting as they hit his lips. Evans closed his eyes, feeling cold seep into the young officers’ body. For several long seconds his brain screamed in denial, and he started to pick Daling up as the man sank as dead weight into his arms. “Keep breathing, Daling, come on!” He clung to the corpse, as if he could order the man to live. In the end he was shaken from his frozen reverie by a high pitched screech. Whirling around, he saw what Dailing was speaking of. One of the Bakalen stamped the snow with a murderous focus on the snowmobile. On Lilly McEnroe. Murmuring an apology Evans lay the dead man down and sprinted towards the sled, firing his phaser into the creature’s side. His jaw dropped, watching as the weapon didn’t even slow it down. The Bakalen gave a high pitched scream of fury and turned to intercept Evans, ramming its head into his chest. Evans hit the frozen ground hard enough that his vision blurred into bright white spots, and he rolled onto his stomach underneath the ore platform. McEnroe stirred with just enough awareness to jump from the snowmobile before the second attack came. The hammering of hooves crushed the body of the vehicle like a tin can. “Lilly!” Evans croaked. “Get under the platform!” He waved a hand towards her, but she lay still as the Bakalen kicked the sled out of its way and advanced. He crawled towards the opposite side of the platform, praying under his breath. “No… please no…” There was no way he could make it to McEnroe first, and even if he did, it was only giving the Bakalen a choice of two victims instead of one. A bitter feeling rose in his throat as he heard the thing roar. A flash of light pierced his vision, and he heard Kleos Tal’s crass laughter. A second line of disruptor fire followed and a third, cutting a dark line of blood down the beast’s chest. It issued one last guttural growl before it collapsed in a ruined heap. “That was pretty good, huh?” Tal crowed. Evans felt his adrenaline spike as he pulled himself to his feet, ignoring Tal’s commentary. His eyes were on one goal: Lilly. He ran to her, checking quickly to make sure he could move her. As he looked up, he saw movement around Tal’s position and the Rigelian started to panic, firing into the darkness. “What got into these crazy beasts? Get back in your pens!” Evans stood, picking McEnroe up with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tal down one of the Bakalen as two more converged on him. There was a sickening crack of bones, punctuated by a low growl of revenge. Mercifully, Tal’s screams were drowned out by the hammering of Evans’ heart echoing through his head. With McEnroe’s bloody form draped across one shoulder, he held his phaser up with his other hand, biting back a laugh at how ineffective the hand weapon seemed against looming monsters. The snow drifted down in a light powdery dust, fading to nothingness as the temperature dropped. They needed shelter and they needed it now. With the Bakalen between them and the main shelter, it seemed like slim pickings. Evans squinted into the darkness. The barn was enticingly close. Close, and where the Bakalen lived. It was a double edged sword and he never was much of a gambler. He was about ready to circle back when McEnroe groaned. “Lilly?” He murmured, trying to shift her so he could see her face. “Cold… Mike. I’m so cold…” she breathed, her eyes still closed. Evans’ felt his heart race. “I’ll find shelter, Lilly, don’t worry.” “Mike… remember Janus 6?” She stammered through a body-wrenching shiver. “Shh, Lilly… Don’t speak.” He consoled, quickening his pace. “No, Mike… listen. Remember Janus 6… please!” She implored, her last words fading into incoherency. Evans furrowed his brow, wondering how long she had if she was hallucinating. He had been to many planets with Lilly McEnroe before, but never Janus 6. It was a geological oddity half a sector away. Why bring it up now? The Bakalen had disappeared, and his muscles ached from the cold. Swallowing the bile in the back of his throat he kicked the barn door open and slipped inside. Almost immediately he wished he hadn’t. He could smell the burned flesh of the calf Daling talked about, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the baleful eyes of an adult cow boring into him. Evans brought his phaser to bear, wavering between the calf and the adult. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he offered in a soothing tone. It paused and looked at him stamping its hoof and making the signal the miners used deep in the mines to tell an operator to stop the cart when you couldn’t hear them. Stop. He stopped, staring as the creature stood down, edging around him to stand by the injured calf. Looking at him as if it had something to say. That’s when it hit him like a brick to the head. Janus 6. The Horta. A seemingly murderous beast was actually sentient. “I can help…” he offered with a thread of hope that it might understand It canted its head like he had seen then do in the mines. He had never thought about what it meant before. Like it was trying to speak. Trying… or perhaps actually speaking… Evans held his hands up in a non threatening manner, fumbling with his tricorder. Scanning for something… anything he could use to communicate. That’s when he caught it, in the frequencies beyond what most humanoids could hear. A trilling, perhaps a language. “Keep speaking…” he implored. He struggled to hook his own communicator up into the matrix, letting the devices chug through the input, until a simple message flashed back to him on the screen: [How can murderer help?] “Murderer?” He swallowed, remembering what Daling said about the dead calves. “We did not know…” [Never murder innocent, no.] He shook his head sorrowfully. “We were not innocent, but we did not want to hurt you. She brought that one back to help.” He gestured between Lilly and the calf. “You need help.” Evans’ reasoned, catching the mother’s gaze and locking it with his own. “I have medicine. In her pack. You can have it if you let me help.” Dragging a hoof across the stable floor she canted her head, and the message flashed across the screen: [You give, we give.] Barely daring to breathe, Evans dug in McEnroe’s pack, drawing out her med kit and opening it up. “Can you use it?” [You help son, I warm woman.] It was a plain offer, but one Evans was willing to accept. He knelt down by the bleating calf, applying burn salve and regenerative bandages under the hawk-eye gaze of its mother. When he was finally done he turned back, giving a silent prayer of thanks to see Lilly’s chest rise and fall evenly in sleep. The Bakalen’s expression was ponderous, sorrowful. [We did not think you would help. We thought you were all murderers. We did not need to freeze so much blood.] He offered a slow nod of assent, watching as the mother mirrored it. “I can tell my people to leave you alone.” She settled back on her haunches and for many long minutes no message came over the PADD. Finally she leaned forward and words flashed up. [We need voice. You are voice. Forget this not.] Evans nodded his head, mutely, letting his eyes meet hers. He had no words to express the amount of apology he wanted to bestow to the Bakalen for this misunderstanding; no way of saying how furious he was – not at them in specific, but that years of ignorant silence between the two species had pushed one to act out in the most vicious and base way possible against the other simply to be heard. And the only thing that would prevent it from happening again was giving them voice. His voice. “I am your voice.” They were the only words that slipped out as he stared off into the horizon, waiting for the call from the supply ship to come through. ~*~ The Bakalen were silent as the morning dawned and the call came through from the supply ship. Evans ordered two for transport; he would tell the Captain what had happened once he was warm enough to form the words. The breath that rattled through his teeth was tainted by the stab of sorrow wrenching his gut. Academically he could trace everything back to where things went wrong. But face to face with the death masques of people he had shared dinner with last night; now decorated with their own frozen entrails as the remains of the shelter smoldered in the tenuous light of dawn, it made Evans feel numb. How many years had the Bakalen tried to tell them they were more than stupid pack animals, for a peaceful species to be finally driven to this kind of murder? He dropped to his knees in the snow still holding McEnroe in his arms. Surrounded by the carnage of misunderstanding, he closed his eyes and waited for the transporter beam to take him away from this nightmare. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Ensign Sal Taybrim Counselor USS Excalibur-A

((Space Station Deep Space Nine, at the close of the Dominion War)) Hannibal Parker was tired. Two years of almost constant war with the Jem’ Haddar and their Breen allies had wreaked havoc on the quadrant. Billions were dead, planets wrecked, and hundreds of ships lost. Earth had been attacked by the Breen, shattering the idyllic myth of Earth. They too had been singed by the flames of war. The fighting on the surface of Cardassia before the surrender had been brutal, hampered by the fact that fifty percent of their troop transports had been shot down…but still, his unit fought on, buoyed by the Klingon detachment his unit had been fighting with almost since the war began. With peace now won, and several barrels of blood wine consumed by his unit and the victorious Klingons (despite “suggestions” from Starfleet brass that they should not be participating in such ceremonious drunkenness and revelry), Hannibal, now in command of his own platoon, ignored it. His battle- hardened Marines, having fought alongside the Klingons, were deemed more than worthy to share in their celebration, and there was no way he was going to stand in their way. So…while Admirals, Captains, and Heads Of State were somberly signing surrender orders and giving interviews to the Federation News Service, his troops were drinking, singing, and seeking companionship, whether it be Klingon, Human, Bajoran, or any of a number of races sexually compatible with humans, and Hannibal was no exception. With three weeks’ leave coming to his platoon and currently berthed in the Habitat Ring, he was perfectly happy to let the ringing hangover he was currently suffering from subside long enough to further enjoy the Orion woman currently sharing his bed. Feeling her stir next to him, he did what a good soldier does….his duty…. One week into his leave, Hannibal discovered peace was not all it was cracked up to be. He found it strange to sleep through the night, and it was perfectly normal for him to sleep with either his Bowie knife or phaser within reach. Starfleet had Counselors available, but they were backed up on appointments from seeing Starfleet personnel...most of whom had seen no ground fighting. Starship duty had its horrors, but none compared to staring a drug-crazed Jem’ Haddar in the face and blowing it off, or sliding your blade through his body. He determined he would have nothing to do with the “couch mice” who were currently infesting the station, and Starbase 375, places where beings went off to war, and some never came back, and others who should not have. There was also a repeated undercurrent…one which was playing out through the Marines and Starfleet personnel…a current of unfinished business. There were those who were ecstatic that Cardassia was little more than smoking ash, and more than a little animosity directed towards the Breen…who had managed to escape their murderous alliance with the Dominion with it seemed little more than a finger- wagging, in the face of the fact that the Breen had attacked Earth, namely Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco. Thousands were killed, Starfleet was crippled, and there seemed to no desire for the Federation, or Starfleet, to demand the proper penance for the Breen to pay. Nursing a whiskey in Quarks’ bar, Hannibal was alone, contemplating his plans for the evening. He had begun working out again, and his body welcomed the slight soreness he was feeling. Dressed in civilian clothing, black cargo pants with matching black tee shirt, his considerable muscle bulging from rolled up sleeves, his freshly shaved head and shined, laced up black boots clearly identified him as a soldier, even when not in uniform. Hannibal barely looked up as another gentleman walked in. Hannibal immediately recognized him as a soldier, although he was smaller, than but almost as tall as the six foot four Hannibal. He was older, with greying hair at his temples, and steel gray eyes. Hannibal knew exactly who he was, and he thought it strange that a man of his stature would enter the likes of an establishment like Quarks’. Generals in the Starfleet Marines just did not do such things…unless they had a reason…and as he closed on Hannibal’s’ table, he had to wonder what his reasoning would be to come to see him, here, on leave…As the human approached, he began to smile, but his eyes held firm, locked on his. “Hannibal Parker I presume?” Hannibal took another swig of his whiskey, hearing the ice tinkle in the glass. He had paid good money for the whiskey, and gave and upward glace at the man who stood before him… “Depends on who is asking. And you are?” “May I sit down? I would like to keep our conversation away from prying ears as much as possible.” Quarks’ was known as the place where everything was up for grabs, and for sale…that included information, and as Hannibal looked around the room, the lack of obvious Starfleet personnel and the abundance of disreputable aliens and humanoids made his choice easy, to limit suspicion. Nodding to the empty chair across from him, he beckoned the General to have a seat… “I know who you are, General Murphy. You led the assault to take back Betazed, secure AR-558…and took down a Breen warship which had attacked Earth. Your reputation precedes you.” The General sat down. And smiled. He was pleased Hannibal knew who he was, but now it was his turn to express to Hannibal that he knew him as well… “Captain Hannibal Tiberious Parker. Member of the 27th Marine Expeditionary Unit, combined with the 282nd Unit of the Klingon Defense Forces. Took down two planets during the First Battle Of Chin’toka, captured a weapons platform, first on the ground on Cardassia, plus early on your combined unit was winning engagement after engagement with the Jem’ Haddar and the Cardassians while everyone else was getting the snot beat out of them. You guys were making us proud, Captain….and I’m sorry to hear about your parents. I am sure they died with honor…” Hannibal had been around long enough to tell the difference between genuine concern and garbage when he heard it, and out of respect, he nodded as the General had paid his respects. Looking back towards him, he took another swig of his drink, pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, and lit it with his fathers’ ancient Zippo lighter… “General…I appreciate your condolences, but I know that is not why you came here to speak to me. What is it you really want?” The General sat back in his chair and regarded the massive, young Marine. He had seen more combat in two years than the General had seen in twenty, and the younger Marines’ rather flippant attitude was something he had been warned about, but Hannibal had earned a reputation for being ruthless in battle, so much so that even the Klingons respected and honored him. It was that kind of grit and toughness the general needed for what he had in mind. Leaning over to make sure only Hannibal could hear him in the crowded bar, Murphy began...” The war may be over, but things are far from settled. Some races did not truly pay for their transgressions against Federation citizens. Against Earth. Against San Francisco.” Before Hannibal could speak, the Generals’ wording was clear…he was talking about attacking the Breen. Spoken resentment was now breeding actions, and the General was recruiting others who had voiced the same opinion. Hannibal maintained his poker face, belying none of his true feelings as the general continued to speak… “There is a meeting tonight. Docking Port Three, upper pylon. Tell the sentry I sent you, that is if you want to make a difference instead of getting drunk, kicking [...] or chasing whores…Consider my offer, Mister Parker. We begin at 1800.” Leaning in closer to Hannibal, the General added one last thing, perhaps the most important thing he could say… “This conversation never happened.” With mutual discrete nods exchanged, the General stood up, and Hannibal watched the officer leave. Pulling a drag off his cigar, and motioning the dabo girl who had been serving him to bring him another drink. He had about three hours to consider the Generals’ offer, one he would give considerable thought to. There was no doubt in his mind what he had in mind, but in Hannibal’s’ mind, it would be worse than treason. As much as he would love to leave the Breen homeworld a smoking cinder in space, the war was over. Although it was costly in men and treasure, victory was theirs. During the war, he would have happily scorched every Breen ship or planet in his sights, but that time was past. The words of his now-dead father rang in his ears…” There is no honor in battle once the enemy has surrendered.” To Hannibal, to even say the word “Breen” left a bad taste in his mouth… Two hours later, particularly well lubricated by copious amounts of real bloodwine and whiskey, Hannibal had to make a decision…well actually, two. The first was whether to tell anyone of the generals’ plans, and the second…who to tell? What if he said nothing and the general did carry out his attack on the Breen? They would be at war again, this time the Federation, and Starfleet, would be the aggressors…and he would once again be the tip of the spear. He figured that the general would count on the “code of silence” which would keep his plans secret, even though he decided not to participate. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He had a sister on Earth who was now his only living relative, and what if his actions indirectly caused her death? Hannibal didn’t want that…this war had deprived them of their parents in a just cause, but this…revenge on a planetary scale? Hannibal then thought about the general, how clean he was. He may have commanded Marines, but he did not have the mark of a man who had seen combat, but saw no difficulty in ordering others to die to further the mission. There were few brass who had ever fought such a grueling campaign they had just finished, and men like that were reluctant to throw men into the fray while they stood back and orchestrated the outcome. Hannibal had been a pawn long enough to men like that. First was Chancellor Gowron, who threw Klingon warriors into the teeth of the Jem’Haddar to further his political aims. More than once it was only timing and dumb luck which had saved their combined unit from disaster from those orders, and Hannibal was not going to do that again, to follow the orders of a madman to further his ego. The first decision…not to go along with the general, was relatively easy. The second question was more daunting. Hannibal knew that he had to tell someone what was being planned, but there were few he could trust with the explosive claims...and that was all they were…with nothing to support it. He had no evidence, no documentation, nothing. He was a grunt going against a Starfleet general, accusing him of treason. He also had no idea how high up the food chain it went, possibly clear up to Admiral Ross. He now had forty-five minutes left to figure out what to do. He looked around the crowded bar, and looked for faces that had been there as long as he had. He was looking for Starfleet personnel who had been there as long as he had. It was relatively early, as the ships currently docked would have most of their crews on liberty, but most did not visit Quark’s until later in the evening…also, if there were those who favored the generals’ views, they would be watching him, checking his next move. He knew who to look for, and in fact, the place had turned over its crowd to such an extent that determining if he was being watched was difficult. At 1745, it was time to make a move. Closing out his tab, Hannibal left Quark’s, and headed out onto the Promenade. Being familiar the layout of Deep Space Nine, instead of making his way to the lift which would take him to the location of the meeting, he headed for the nearest empty corridor and made his way into the access trunks which ran the height and breadth of the massive station. If he was being followed, they would have to come this way, and he waited a perilously long three minutes before he started his climb up the trunk to just outside Ops. It was only two decks, but he knew where he needed to be and come out unseen. His destination: The office of Archer Greene, Starfleet Intelligence. Hannibal popped out of the access trunk, a bit dirty and a little dizzy… the liquor was catching up to him, but after making sure he would not be observed, he popped the hatch on the access trunk, replaced it, and made his way to Greene’s office. Hannibal didn’t like the man much, but he had been invaluable on board the Charleston to his unit when they deployed. He was a snug little snit, but he knew his job and could extrapolate with the best of them. Making sure he was not observed, Hannibal went down the hallway where the mans’ office was now located, in a space not much bigger than a broom closet…in fact, it was a broom closet, with not even a sign on the door denoting its use, the only thing giving it away was the security lock on the door. Feverishly trying the lock, Hannibal worked every conceivable combination he could think of, when the door opened… Greene was sitting at his desk, decorated solely by a computer terminal and a stack of PADDS. He was a shorter man, about five foot eight, mid- thirties, with a shock of gray mixed in with brown hair. He was thin, and his skin was pale from being too long on board a space station or a starship, his clear blue eyes taking in the mountain of young Marine with a slight [...] of his head. He wasn’t quite sure why the Marine didn’t just knock, and he was in no position to fight him. Greene had seen his handiwork in person, and he knew he was no match for him. His best bet was to do what he was good at…extrapolating information from what he saw and heard, and he surmised the Marine has something very important he needed to tell him. In a calm voice, he called out to the man who was now less than ten feet away from him and staring him down the way a predator would eye his next meal… “Mister Parker...you could have knocked”, he said. “What seems to be the trouble?” Hannibal was now standing before the intelligence officer…it was now five minutes before the meeting was to begin. Standing before Greene’s’ desk, Hannibal knew it was now or never. He told him of meeting the general, what he had planned, where the meeting was to take place, and that he had been invited to attend. The intelligence officer listened intently, then leaned back in his office chair...which was scant inches from the bulkhead behind him, and Hannibal wondered if he had made a mistake, and Greene was part of the plot. His mind raced in the silence which had permeated the room since Hannibal had finished his explanation, and Hannibal had begun to think of scenarios on how to escape Deep Space Nine before he himself was caught. If he was wrong in his assessment, his sister would still lose him…not to war, but to becoming a fugitive. Finally, with the meeting time approaching, the intelligence officer spoke… “That’s quite a story, Mister Parker”, he said. “You are aware that those are serious charges you are levelling against a decorated Starfleet officer, a man many would consider a hero?” “It may be one hell of a story, but it’s the truth”, Hannibal said. “Why the frak would I have been trying to pick the lock on your office door to lie to you? I have no evidence other than a conversation I had three hours ago. Either you believe me or you don’t. General Murphy wants to start a war, so what the hell are you going to do?” Greene looked at Hannibal, a man whom he would now test the trust between them. Working with Hannibal on board the Charleston, Greene knew he was a man of honor, and the PADD which held details of the meeting Hannibal had just confirmed lay concealed on his desk under his hands. That PADD held names, dates, places…even the targets in Breen space. Hannibal had only scratched the surface on how big the plot really was, but sharing that information was something he could not do with him. Looking up at the Marine, who now seemed to be taking up the entire office, he made a note on a PADD, then he looked up at the brooding killing machine which was Hannibal Parker… “Hannibal,” he said, choosing his words carefully,” There is a transport leaving for Risa in fifteen minutes. Be on it. Speak to no one. Burn the rest of your leave time there. Leave the way you came. Report back to your unit on time. Is that clear?” Hannibal looked deeply in his eyes. There was no deception there, and the unspoken message was clear…Nodding his head in understanding, Hannibal spoke: “Risa is nice this time of year. Thank you…and good luck.” Leaving Greene’s’ office, Hannibal did as he was instructed and went to Risa. Returning from leave, news broke about a Dominion War hero being arrested. The hero…General Simon Murphy. Major Hannibal Tiberious Parker Marine Commander USS Thunder-A/Duronis II Embassy

((Sulu Auditorium, Starfleet Academy, San Francisco)) It was an impressive space, he had to admit it. Even if it was familiar and familiarity bred contempt, the design of the auditorium was sweeping and majestic, capable of housing hundred in its seats and with the kind of carefully arranged acoustics that rendered the PA system and microphone all but unnecessary. That didn’t mean that Admiral Adrian West was particularly looking forward to having to spend the next hour or so sitting in it. At least these days he got a front seat, and with a nod to his colleagues he lowered himself into a seat between Admiral John Matthew Everington II and Admiral Tolira sh’Hail. He gave the Andorian tactician a polite gesture of acknowledgement as he parked himself with the kind of noises his father used to make getting in and out of his armchair of an evening, and yawned behind his hand. “First one to fall asleep buys the first round.” Everington leaned over and murmured. “Push off Jack, those odds are rigged.” West snorted in amusement. Everington grinned and ran a hand through his snow-white hair. “I seem to recall you giving one of these debates, many moons ago. With Admiral Saito presiding.” He pointed out. “Mmm hmm.” West grunted. “And I’m sure she slept through the whole fething thing.” “Ladies, Gentlemen and other genders not otherwise covered, welcome to the 123rd Annual Graduands Debate, where two of our best performing final-year cadets debate a controversial topic of our times.” Just incase anyone didn’t read the instructions. Standing on a box at the central podium Admiral Heraan glowered from under his bushy brows at the assembled cadets and officers, pausing for a moment to glare at two old codgers in Rear Admiral’s pips in the front row who were chuckling at something. “As most of you know I like a good argument,” the Tellarite stated the obvious, “but they foolishly won’t let me participate in these things any more! So instead I give you our top ranking final year cadets. From the Command stream, Cadet First Class William Bourke, and from the Tactical stream, Cadet Vanyeris.” The two cadets took to the stage to polite applause. Will Bourke was a tall, muscular Terran man with rough good looks, sandy hair and an easy smile which he flashed at his classmates in the audience. Vanyeris was a petite Vulcan female with waist-length black hair that she wore held back with a metal headband, and bright green eyes. She carried herself with the dignity of Vulcan reserve as the two took their seats. “An argument’s no good without something worthwhile to argue over,” said Heraan, “and the topic of today’s debate is ‘We Should Come In Peace’.” There was a polite murmur of anticipation from the audience. “Cadet Bourke will take the Affirmative.” Heraan ceded the podium and a first year Cadet moved his standing box so that Will Bourke could take his place at the podium. “Sirs, ma’ams, fellow cadets and citizens of the Federation.:: Bourke began, flashing his smile and leaning in to the microphone. “The United Federation of Planets is built on the premise of peace. Cooperation between her member species is what makes the Federation not only strong, but a bastion of liberty, sentient rights and equality in the Galaxy. When the first five founded the Federation it was built on these principles, and it is our duty to uphold them and to carry them to other species; potential new member nations.” “The dream is strong in this one.” Admiral Everington murmured laconically, watching Bourke expound on the virtues of Federation with hope in his voice and stars in his eyes. “Mmm hmm.” West grunted, watching the proceedings with a somewhat dubious expression. “With any luck that dream won’t be dashed too quickly.” Everington gave him a dry look. “I’m sure we were like that once.” “Pfft.” West snorted. “We were never that young.” “Peace allows cooperation, peace brings growth and prosperity and a better life for all who partake in it. If we uphold the rights of all sentients to live free from fear and hardship, to grow to their full potential, then we must reach out to our brethren with the olive branch, not the sabre. With every new member planet the Federation grows in potential, which is why in every new First Contact situation, we must ensure that we come in peace. To do otherwise is to rob ourselves of our future brothers. Thank you.” Bourke sat down and Heraan nodded to Cadet Vanyeris who made her way sedately to the podium and paused to scan her audience before beginning. “Admirals, Ambassadors, Officers, fellow cadets; citizens of the Federation.” She began. “‘We must come in peace’.” She let the words hang there for a moment. “As my honoured fellow cadet has so eloquently expressed, the ideal of peaceful cooperation and prosperity for all is the basis on which the Federation was formed; but it is just that, an ideal. And it is not an ideal which all species share.” Green eyes scanned the crowd. “Whilst it would be preferable to always welcome new species with welcome arms, we would then leave ourselves open in turn. Consider the Borg, consider the Dominion. Not all species will come to us in peace and so we must be cautious. Peace is always to be held in preference, but we must be prepared to defend it from those who do not respect it, lest we leave our own peace open to exploitation. And so I say, we must proceed with caution; we cannot always afford to come in peace.” As the Vulcan woman spoke Admiral West leaned slightly towards Admiral Everington and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I have to admit I wondered how she was going to tackle that one.” Everington nodded slightly. “Difficult. Vulcans are some of the biggest proponents of peace in the Federation.” He agreed. “They’re also the Universe’s best Devil’s Advocates.” West observed dryly. His comment was rewarded with a chuckle. "Yes, we should retain peace as the ideal, for without our ideals and principles the Federation has no basis. But we must be cautious of those who would not treat us as we would treat them. Whilst it would be preferable to come in peace, ultimately we should proceed with caution." The audience started to murmur as Vanyeris left the podium but died down as Cadet Bourke returned. His smile this time was less bright and somewhat more condescending. “The Borg, the Dominion.” He paused. “My fellow cadet resorts to scare-mongering. Yes there are aggressive species out there, governments who might seek to do us harm, but we cannot colour the multitude of new alien civilisations with the one applicator. The Federation is comprised of one hundred and fifty member governments, across thousands of stars, all living in harmony. How different would the map look today, if we had not approached those new peoples in peace?” He shot a look at Vanyeris. “Don’t get personal.” Admiral West muttered under his breath. “Surely not.” Everington commented. “This is supposed to be entertaining.” “These two don’t get along very well.” West said. “Why? They’re not even in the same stream.” “History.” And even when Everington gave him a pointed look,West declined to elaborate. “One hundred and fifty member governments, ladies and gentlemen.Yes other species have approached us aggressively, and at times we have had to defend ourselves. But I invite my fellow Cadet to provide us with an example of when, in the history of the Federation, it has proven a mistake for us to approach others in peace.” With a confident glance at the Vulcan woman now rising from her seat, Bourke resumed his own. Vanyeris took the podium, her stereotypically neutral expression betrayed nothing. She didn’t look in Bourke’s direction but rather at the audience in front of her, and spoke a single word with perfect diction. “Khitomer.” A murmur rose again from the audience. “What is she getting at?” Everington hissed. “Shh!” West snapped. “The Khitomer Accords.” She said again. “An example where the offering of peace was a mistake.” She might have been reading a computing manual for all the inflection in her voice, but her careful diction carried. “The Klingons and the Federation had been at war for generations until the Klingon moon of Praxis exploded, crippling the Klingon energy supply and endangering life on Qo’no’S. For the Federation it was a reprieve, but that was all. As Cadet Bourke so strongly advocates, when the Klingons solicited an olive branch, we extended it. We acted on the assumption that, at the end, their values were our values and they would honour the peace as we would. History has shown us our forefathers’ mistake. Even now the Klingons worry our borders. That is our reward for the fact that we came in peace.” As Vanyeris sat down the murmur in the audience grew until Admiral Heraan had to call for silence from a side microphone. “Thank you everyone! Controversial topics are chosen for a reason, it makes for a livelier debate! And it is just a debate. Cadet Bourke your closing comments please.” “You're sure she’s not a Romulan?” The comment earned Admiral Everington a dubious look from Admiral West. “I mean that’s not exactly a party line, and shouldn’t she be called ‘T’Pren’ or something?” “She’s following orders.” West shrugged. “And she’s some ethnic minority from Han-Shir, there’s a few of them in the Fleet.” Though by all accounts they weren’t always easy to work with. “Still…” “What?” There was a long silence from West, but Everington kept looking at him. Eventually he spoke. “Does the name Bourke mean anything to you?” “It’s pretty common Westy.” Everington protested. “How about Yeoman Bourke? From the Enterprise-A? Bells starting to ring?” He growled. “You mean he’s...?” “Grandson.” West confirmed. “But surely she’s not...” West just nodded. He was watching with a sour expression as Heraan shout down the noisiest in the audience so that Bourke could reply. Everington forced a more jovial tone into his voice. “Still, you can’t punish the son for the sins of the father.” “It’s not the father I’m worried about.” Cadet Bourke took the podium for the final time, and his charismatic smile was nowhere to be seen. He seemed to take a moment to collect himself before finally offering a smile that West thought looked about as geniune as his great-grandmother’s teeth. “I hadn’t known that Vulcans had learned how to joke.” He began. “I asked for a mistake and my fellow cadet gives me our crowning glory. When else has so unlikely a peace been achieved against such great odds, and to such great mutual advantage? The Federation border secured by an alliance with an old enemy, an end to attacks on Starfleet ships, stations and colonies? Because of the Khitomer Accords we have been able to focus our attention on progress and growth rather than an arms race. The Klingons fought at our side against the Dominion. We have hosted officer exchanges and gained new insight into each other’s cultures, which can only bolster understanding. How can any of this have been a mistake? I tell you that Khitomer was a success. We must come in peace, because that is the only way forward. Our forefathers were willing to forget the past and deal with the Klingons as they wanted them to deal with us; and because of their foresight and open-mindedness, we have enjoyed a lifetime of peace.” Bourke sat down with a sense of finality and to a smattering of applause which died away as Vanyeris rose to her feet. She returned to the podium with the same dignity with which she’d approached the whole proceedings. “A life-time of peace.” She echoed in the same calm tones. “A Terran lifetime, perhaps. An Andorian lifetime, or a Tellarite one. But not a Vulcan one. Not a Romulan one. Certainly not an El-Aurian one. It is all too easy to view the future in short terms, to forget our children's children and drown out those who urge caution and a long-term view, to our detriment. For, as Terran’s say, the leopard does not change it’s spots.” Those green eyes scanned the audience again. They were listening, though few seemed to be finding the experience entertaining. “Peace with the Klingons gave both sides time to focus on other things.” She acknowledged Bourke’s point. “The Federation focused on growth, on development, on research, on exploration. The Klingons focused on rebuilding their world and then, their military fleet. And with their military capabilities rebuilt, they were in the perfect position to take advantage of the misfortune of others.” There was an edge to her voice. “Where the Klingons in their plight were offered the olive branch, following the Hobus Supernova they have offered the Romulans only the predator’s teeth. The Federation's own borders have not been spared; every opportunity they have to bite the very hand that fed them they take. Yes, the Khitomer Accords have been proven a mistake; the Klingons are not to be trusted." The words echoed through the silence, and through the years. “That’s not true!” The perfect accoustics of the Sulu Auditorium carried Cadet Bourke’s voice without the need for any amplification. The murmuring audience was stunned into silence as, it seemed, was Cadet Vanyeris. “You cannot believe that!” Bourke insisted, advancing on the podium. His face was red. “It’s people like you who would sabotage the peace that we live in. People like you who undermine all that we strive for, and damage countless lives in the process. Do you even hear what you’re saying, or did you learn to parrot it all on your mother’s knee?” The mutter of the crowd was rising as Bourke broke protocol. Vanyeris raised one cool eyebrow at him. “Did she even think, when she acted? Did she even care how many deaths would be on her hands? How close she came to sabotaging the peace process?” Bourke demanded. “Did she spare one single thought for the boy left orphaned when she shot his father? I never knew my grandfather!” Suddenly he seemed to realise where he was, pointing an accusatory finger in the Vulcan woman’s face with everyone in the audience as witness. Rather than back down he turned and raised his hands to appeal to those there. “Did the traiterous Valeris even comprehend how everything she did went against everything we stood for, how she could have destroyed the soul of the Federation?” The audience stared in stunned silence, all except Admiral West who got to his feet and, sighting on the tech up in the gallery, made furious throat-cutting motions. Shut it all down, now! On the stage Bourke seemed to realise that everyone was just staring at him, and his hands started to lower. The PA system went dead, but the Auditorium didn’t need it, the acoustics were too good. Unperturbed, vanyeris clasped her hands behind her back and addressed Bourke directly, her flawless diction carrying over the stunned crowd. “Following the Hobus Supernova The Klingons invade Romulan space in the Romulan’s moment of need.” She said, every word distinct. She started to walk a slow circle around Bourke. “They prey upon them like animals. ‘No hand that does not hold a blade’.” She took another step. “They invade our allies and possible future Federation members on Duronis II.” Another step. “They attack the USS Drake at Gateway Station, and attempted to mine the USS Avandar.” Another step. “Finally, they occupy Thracian space, requiring the intervention of Starfleet to prevent the subjugation of millions of sentient beings.” She stopped walking. “Are these the actions of a people who seek peace?” She asked Bourke, whose face had gone from red to white. It was a rhetorical question. A moment later and she spun on one heel to face the stunned audience. “My mother knew exactly what she was doing, she simply had more foresight than most. 'Klingons cannot be trusted'. In light of these most recent events, I ask you to ask yourselves an honest question.” “Was she wrong?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lieutenant Commander Saveron Chief Medical Officer USS Mercury

((Admiral Kyle Colt’s Office; Starbase 285 – Earth Year 2380)) “Fools… All of them, fools…” He tossed his PADD angrily back to his desk, the neatly organized stack of PADDs knocked asunder, then stood and walked over to the office’s viewport. His blue eyes flicked to the walls of his office as his hand came up to scratch his neatly groomed white goatee. His office contained the usual knick knacks that one acquired over a lengthy Starfleet career; models and paintings of his previous commands, decorative trinkets from a dozen worlds, and an odd Tarkelian beaver statue that had been inexplicably placed in his quarters back when he was an Ensign that he could never quite bring himself to get rid of. None of those familiar objects, and not even the expanse of stars and brilliant nebula beyond, could return calm to his mind. Five years… It had been five long years since the end of the Dominion War, and the start of the pacification of Starfleet. No. This was not a comment against Starfleet’s mission to explore the galaxy and learn all that could be learned. Peaceful exploration and pacification were two entirely different things. He knew what needed to be done. The question was, if he made this leap, would anyone one follow? There was a chime at his office door. Without looking, the admiral spoke. “Enter.” Another human, with four gold pips on his collar, stepped through the door. His brown eyes were sharp, and he was young enough to still have color in his hair. Quickly, his eyes turned to the admiral. “Admiral Colt. You wanted to see me, sir?” “Yes, Captain, I did.” The admiral finally turned. Much as he wanted to, he could not manage even a small smile for his long time colleague. The topic of the day was far too grave. “Grab a chair, Dan. You’ll want to sit after hearing this.” Captain Daniel Rainsford approached, taking a seat at Admiral Colt’s desk as the admiral sat in his own chair. Admiral Colt grabbed the newest offending PADD from where it had landed and held it to the captain. “Read this.” The captain did, his eyes flicking quickly across its screen. The further we went, the more his eyebrows furrowed. “They can’t be serious…” Admiral Colt’s head gave a rueful nod. “They are, Dan. They are.” The admiral sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Starfleet’s analyzed Voyager’s mission report and sensor data from their Fury incident.” The Furies: a conglomeration of extremely powerful races which had once ruled the Alpha Quadrant. They had been cast out millennia ago, though had long wished to return to retake their positions of power. During the mid twenty-third century, they had made their first attempt by sending one ship through an artificial wormhole, only to be stopped by an unlikely temporary alliance between the Klingon Empire and Captain James T. Kirk. Their second attempt came over a hundred years later, back in 2371, with a much larger fleet and more stable artificial wormhole technology. A five ship combined Federation-Klingon fleet led by the Enterprise-D managed to stop them. Voyager had encountered them during their long voyage home, in the Delta Quadrant. The Furies intent was to send an entire planet with billions of their people and an armada of ships through a massive artificial wormhole to launch their final invasion of the Alpha Quadrant. Voyager’s crew managed to deflect their wormhole, halting this last attempt. Admiral Colt continued. “The science folks at Starfleet Command have concluded that the Furies were, in fact, sent into the Small Magellanic Cloud galaxy. Almost 200,000 lightyears away. Thus, they conclude that the Furies are no longer a threat to the Alpha Quadrant. Therefore, Starfleet Command will no longer train any new cadet as to the existence of the Furies.” Captain Rainsford’s head shook slightly. “Why, sir? Are they afraid they’ll make the kids wet their pants unnecessarily, or something?” The admiral also shook his head. “No… No, it’s not that. It’s a continuation of the trend which started five years ago.” He reached up to his face, scratching at his goatee once again. “Starfleet Command does not want to even consider the possibility of another war.” “Can you really blame them, though?” Captain Rainsford leaned forward, elbows against his legs. “I mean… We took major losses against the Dominion. Earth itself got hit.” “I know,” the admiral said. “I was there.” “So far, the Dominion has been abiding by the peace treaty. The Furies…” He paused in thought for a moment before he continued. “200,000 lightyears is pretty blasted far.” Admiral Colt nodded. “It is, Dan. Yet…” He gestured to the now disorganized pile of PADDs between them, “I’ve never seen any verification that the Dominion abide by the treaty. No reconnaissance missions, barely any visits to the Gamma Quadrant. For all we know, they’ve been rebuilding their forces on the other side of the Bajoran wormhole and will strike us next week. Every time I hear of anyone suggesting we get a ship or two over there on a permanent basis, to continue our mission of exploration, of course, is shot down. ‘We don’t want to offend the Dominion’ they say.” The captain sighed, his eyes dropping. Admiral Colt knew that Captain Rainsford agreed with him. His old friend was also an optimist. That made him a pretty solid devil’s advocate to the admiral’s pessimism. “What of Constable Odo, though? The reports I read indicated he’d rejoined the… what was it called? The Great Link? If all the Founders are connected, then I doubt they’d be able to plan anything like this without him knowing.” “Who says he wouldn’t know?” the admiral asked. “Him against an entire planet of his people. Now, I didn’t know him, personally, and I only have respect for him based on what I’ve read, but I don’t know of anyone who could stand up to that kind of peer pressure.” Captain Rainsford considered for a moment, before sighing and shaking his head yet again. “And when it comes to the Furies,” Admiral Colt said, “200,000 lightyears is nothing to people who have working artificial wormhole technology. A wormhole took them to… where ever they landed. A wormhole could easily bring them back.” The admiral leaned forward once again. “Starfleet has forgotten why a strong defense is required. If not for the Dominion, if not for the Furies, then for whoever the next force is that will try to strip the people of the Federation of their way of life. Eternal vigilance, Dan. THAT is the price of liberty.” The captain’s face started to turn red. It was clear that he was growing steadily more uncomfortable with the conversation. He shook his head once more. “That’s… That’s not how Starfleet is seeing this. Our vigilance is in our patrols, our long-range sensors, our ability to see what’s coming and prepare for the hit.” Admiral Colt’s voice calmed, trying to sooth his old friend’s nerves. “It’s making sure that we’re strong enough that no one dares hit us.” The captain’s head shook almost constantly. “That’s not what the Federation stands for. It’s not what the people want!” “I know it’s not, Dan,” the admiral said, his voice still calm but now firm. “That’s where we come in. When our leaders are no longer willing to make the tough calls for the benefit of the Federation, it’s our responsibility to find leaders who will.” There was absolute silence in the admiral’s office as both men considered the implications of that statement. It was Captain Rainsford who spoke first, his voice quiet but his tone direct. “You’re talking about a mutiny.” Admiral Colt shook his head. “No. I’m talking about a coup.” The words had been uttered. There was no going back. “Admiral… It can’t be as serious as that, can it? There must be another way.” “There isn’t,” the admiral replied. “I’ve tried to get my point across over every official channel, and all the unofficial ones I have. Even those who agree with me refuse to act, or to even speak on my behalf. I see no other way to convince the Federation of the truth.” Captain Rainsford was silent for several long moments as he considered all that had been said over the past minutes. “You’re asking me if I agree with you? And if I’ll join you?” Admiral Colt nodded. “That is correct.” “You realize that we can’t do this alone.” Another nod. “That is also correct. And I don’t fool myself into thinking our fleet’s captains will be easy to convince… though I do believe they will come around.” “And if we fail, we’ll be considered traitors of the Federation.” The admiral actually gave a quiet chuckle at that. “Dan, I am fairly certain that we’ll be considered traitors even if we succeed. What matters is the future of the Federation, and its survival, even if we're not there to see it.” Captain Rainsford gave one last sigh… and a very slow nod. “Well, then, Admiral… Where do to start?”

The lush forest was ripe with the acrid smells of vegetation. Sweet honeysuckle, fragrant lilacs, and pungent mosses filled the oxygen controlled and filtered air in the habitat ring. The chirping and singing of whippoorwills and sparrows provided a musical back drop as rich as a symphony. The ambient light, at 50 percent of daylight, back dropped by the dark of the planet's surface outside the transparent aluminum enclosure lent an ethereal quality perfect for a romantic escape. Johnna Watson, a tall, blonde haired beauty with porcelain skin and eyes that sparkled like a Cerulean Ocean under the bright noon day sun, sat under the out stretched arms of the Risan Goolkos tree, letting the warm, artificial sunlight bathe her in its glow. Her eyes traced the outline of her shadow on the ground to the point where the fingers interlocked with a taller, huskier shadow cast by a most handsome man. A single tear ran down her cheek. It sparkled like a jewel. It was a tear of joy, not sadness. The moment she had hoped for was finally here. Hesitantly, with a tremolo in his voice that adumbrated his angst, Thomas was broaching the question she had longed to hear. He spoke of their weeks together. He regaled her with his dreams of a wondrous future for them and for their people. He spoke of undying love and intertwined fates. "Johnna Watson, will you join me and become Mrs. Thomas Poston?" he asked as he gently held her demure hands in his. She felt the strength and security his hands offered, and the promise of a future filled with love and companionship. It was all she had wanted since shortly after they had met. Never before had she met someone who had filled her mind so intensely and completely so quickly. "Yes" she said softly as he kissed the back of her hand. Her single tear became a stream. His kiss followed her slender arm to the curve of her shoulder, lingering briefly before reaching for her lips. Their lips met softly, with a kiss that held both the joy of relief and the anticipation of a future of countless wonders. The rest of the evening was a haze. They went back to her parents home and shared their plans for the future. They told Mr. and Mrs. Watson of the grand-children in their future, and the days spent making each other happy. They spoke of deep, abiding love. The joy of a kiss. The anticipation of separation. They told her parents of a sudden and all-consuming love. Johnathan Watson gave the two his blessing. He told them of a fathers' gratitude that his daughter had found such a wonderful young man who made her happy. He wished them a happy future with large numbers of children and a household filled with the sounds of little feet, and laughing, and joy and love. No one noticed the suddenly vacant look in Johnnas' eyes, or the puzzled look that slowly spread across her face. Later that night, as she lay looking through the curved, transparent wall of her bedroom, she stared into the indigo abyss above. Her gaze remained focused on a solitary bright star, but her mind was not there. Bizarre thoughts ran through her head. It was hard to know where reality ended and nightmare began. Another habitat ring filled her mind. Barely past dawn, she was in a field on her knees. She was pulling Venetian radishes from the ground. She pulled radishes until the large basket beside her was filled to the brim. There would be no end to the work. When one basket was full, a drone swooped in and hoisted it away as another swooped in behind, leaving an empty basket in its place. And the cycle continued. On and on and on until an omnipresent siren interrupted the silence. "Prepare for nourishment" monotoned a mechanical voice, devoid of humanity. She turned and sat, waiting for the drone to deliver the gray paste that contained all the nutrition she would need to survive. She was young. She couldnt have been more than thirteen years old at the time. She was one of the older girls out in the fields. She looked around her and wondered what happened to the children as they reached her age. Suddenly, someone who worked in the next row would be gone. There would be no explanation. There was never an explanation. There was never conversation. There was never any recreation. There was the work. There were the drones. There was the paste. There were the radishes, never to be eaten, but merely harvested. There were fields. There were many fields. They all seemed different, but there was really no way to tell, for a child of one field could not venture to the next. There was heat, and sweat, and dirt, and smell and stench, and sleep. But even the sleep lacked rest, for the sleep was in the field where the workday ended. When sleep was over, work began again. Somehow, she knew these thoughts, like a distant dream, were somehow real. She knew that the girls name was Leialla. She knew Leialla had worked in the fields since she had been able to walk, and would continue to do so for only a short time. Until the day she awoke on the MedBed. She was clean. For the first time in her life, she was not black with the rancid soil and mud that she worked in from dawn until dusk. The room was clean, sterile, and bright. There were The Others in white who hovered over her, but she could not move. Something held her in place. She was bound by the arms and the legs. Her head she could not move. The Others spoke in words she could not understand. This had been her first memory implant. That had been the first time she knew language, and order, and fear. But, it had not been her last implant. That implant had not succeeded and she had slowly lost the ability to retain the memories they had given her. She had lost the ability to reason. The loss had not been complete, however, when they had returned her to the lab for re-implantation. She had retained enough language skills to overhear their conversations. She learned of the children working the fields to harvest crops until adolescence. She learned of abduction and memory implants with memories of false families and assigned loved ones. She learned of genetic manipulation to improve the species. Implanted maternal instincts would ensure the survival of the species. But, her implants were failing.again. She couldnt let anyone know. She had to retain her false memories. She had to retain them for a time. Long enough to find others like her. Long enough to start something. Was it treason... .or revolution?

White glittering diamonds. That was the first thought slipping through the young boy's mind when he stepped outside the new house, his father had bought on this strange planet called Earth. Last year at this time, actually not even two months ago, they had been on their home world Qo'noS, but after his mother died, his father wanted to honour her life with returning to her home world, so the boy would learn from her roots from those who knew more about it than himself. G'Tok stood now in front of the door, looking up into the sky where soft bright flakes slowly floated down to join their brothers already spread all over the landscape like a white blanket. He had never seen anything like this before, but if his teacher was right, this was snow. He did not know Mister Finnegan that long, but he was human and therefore surely would know this stuff. G'Tok held his little hand out and watched how the flakes landed on his slightly tanned skin, a mix of his Klingon father and his human mother. The flakes were really cold and melted right away, so after just a few moments he held a small puddle of water in his palm. A curious thing, he thought to himself, this snow must be weak, otherwise it would not allow the heat of his hand to melt it. The 6 year old boy dropped his hand, the drops trickling down his fingers until the last one met the glittering snow beneath. Crunching sounds accompanied his steps, the cool air filling his lungs as he left the front yard. Behind the hill he could see the high buildings of the city, swarmed by shuttles like a wasp nest. It would just be a few minutes to be in a complete different world. But something pulled him back into this one, something hit his shoulder and he turned around with a deep growl, just to see a girl from his class giggle, a ball of white something in front of his feet. He crouched and raised it. "What is that?" "A snowball dummy, never seen one?" She laughed and hunkered down to make a new one, while he wondered how that weak fluffy stuff could make something that hard. His mind putting one and one together and the next moment he threw his arm back and catapulted the snowball into the girl, who fell back on her behind and looked at him with big eyes. "Whoa!" she exclaimed. And just a moment later, they both threw snowballs at each other, the air filled with laughter. G'Tok thought that this was all going quite well for him and he would make his father proud of fighting with her like that, but then she got up from the snowy street and brushed the remains of their battle from her jacket. "I've got to go. Santa will come soon to bring presents and I shouldn't miss it." Raising her hand for a wave she turned and ran along the street to her home, just a few houses away. Santa. That was a name G'Tok had heard before, from his teacher. But nobody had explained who that mysterious person was. Seeing the girl vanish in her house, he realized that he had no idea what her name was, but who could remember all those new things at once? Looking over the shoulder to his own house, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and stumped back to it. Carrying the snow inside he stormed though the house into the back, where his father was cutting some wood, for a new figurine he wanted to create. His father liked to make little wooden statues of Klingon Heroes and tell stories about them to G'Tok. That taught him about his roots, well at least the one side. "Dad! Dad!" he shouted out, the thick boots stomped over the wooden planks and slithered the last few meters, leaving wet marks before stopping in front of the tall hunk of Klingon, working on the wood turning lathe with a surprising gentleness. "Who is Santa?" The sound of the rotating wood meeting the cutting tool stopped and Molagh turned his head to the boy. "Where did you hear that name?" "A girl of my class, she said that he comes and brings presents and that she can't miss it!" G'Tok felt the big hand petting his small head. "That's right boy. There will be dire consequences if she does." The deep voice vibrated in the boy's chest and his eyes grew full of curiosity. "Why?" he barely whispered and looked up to his father, as if he held the key to all the secrets of the world in his hands. "Come, let us sit and I will tell you the story of the mightiest warrior of them all." he grumbled in his usual voice, stomping through the door into the living room. G'Tok followed right away, peeling out of his thick coat. "But you said Kahless was the mightiest!" "Oh yes he is, but when the winter comes, around this day the 24th of December, even Kahless fears the judgement of Santa Claus." Sinking down into the big leather armchair in front of the fireplace he leaned back, watching his son dropping onto the ground in front of him, crossing his legs and eyeing him with such an innocence and inquisitiveness in his look that he almost could not hide his smile. "Many many eons ago a man wandered this planet, he was happy and content, and celebrated every day as if it were his last. His wife and children loved him and he believed to be the most blessed person alive. Then one long winter's night the enemy fell into his home town." The boy gasped and Molagh waved his arms as if fighting with his blade. "They slaughtered and murdered everyone living they could find, among them Santa's whole family. The only reason Santa was spared was that he had been in a different city to buy presents for his children. When he came back, the smell of death and blood filled his lungs, he found his wife on the living room floor just like this one, right where you are sitting now, covered in her own blood and those of her children." Gasping G'Tok looked around the ground as if he could see her. "His children were not to be found, and in his rage he took the big sword laying on the ground, left by the enemy to mock him and swore to himself to find his kids. He headed out, searching land in and out for the enemies who stole his life. When he found a camp he sought his revenge and killed everyone of them with their own blade. His coat of fur soaked by their blood warmed him in the cold winter night. When every single one of the murderous enemies were dead he still could not find his child and began to search the whole Earth for them. Whenever he found an enemy camp he climbed onto the roof of the assembly hall and slid in through the chimney for the element of surprise. But because he was a good and hard working man, he did not just take all their lives, because it could be that those men and women had sworn off the bad deeds. So he began to ask them first if they had been good or bad this year.." G'Tok leaned forward, his mouth and eyes wide open, and slightly bounced up and down. "What happened if they were good?" "Then he would reward it with a little gift. Nothing too big, just a coin to show his appreciation of their good ways. But if they were bad, they felt his blade. But after many years he had searched the whole planet, and still could not find his children, so he asked a witch to help him fabricate a vessel that could bring him to other worlds and she bewitched a sleigh, that could not only fly him anywhere he wanted but also visit all those places in one single night." G'Tok's eyes grew and grew, every now and then he looked to the fireplace, wondering if that warrior would visit them as well and what exactly would count as bad to be punished by him. "Did he find his children yet?" he asked with a quiet voice, before looking back up to his father. Molagh shook his head, his long wavy hair swaying from side to side. Leaning forward his face came close to his son's, so he could lower his voice. "No, my boy. He still looks for them. He once reached the end of the galaxy and for each planet he searched he put a bell on his magical sleigh. When he flies through the sky, the bell jingle can be heard through the night, and all over the galaxy this sound shakes the bones of the strongest and bravest warriors, of the most ruthless and heartless men, knowing that the warrior will come, whose blade took endless lives and whose clothes are soaked with the blood of the naughty." The last words were merely a whisper and G'Tok swallowed hard. "Can... one fight him?" he asked and Molagh grinned, proud that his little son would ask such a question. "You can try, but you have not been a bad boy this year, have you?" "I think so, but I don't know what he thinks is naughty. Maybe throwing those snowballs at the girl hasn't been nice." Molagh couldn't help but laugh and slapped his thigh before raising from his chair. He walked up to the wall at the side, decorated by his Bat'leth. In front of it was a smaller case, uncovered so everyone could have access, as it was normal in the house of a warrior. And in that case was a Mek'leth he pulled out of the holding. Turning to his son he stretched out his arm. "Take this. If he comes and you see him raising his blade, you will be able to stab it into his big belly." G'Tok jumped to his feet and hurried to his father, taking the blade out of his hand. He looked at it with big eyes and nodded with a proud face up to Molagh. "I will make you proud father!" And the older man did not have any doubt of that. Later this night, G'Tok put the Mek'leth under the pillow of his bed and looked out of the window. It was still snowing and slowly the lights of the houses around went off, leaving the white landscape in a peaceful glow, though he knew that this peace was only an illusion. Laying down he knew, that this night he would come, the most feared warrior of them all and he had to convince him that he'd been good. Just when his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep, the jingle of the sleigh's bells started to fill the winter night...

And so we've come to the end of our Writing Challenges for 2012! I'm pleased to bring you the results of our last Challenge of the year: The winner of the Challenge for December is Jalana Laxyn, with her story "The mightiest warrior of them all." Our runner-up -- who's new to the group! -- is Brayden Jorey, with his "Sentimental Value." Thank you to everyone who participated for continuing to submit your best work! We'll see you in 2013 with a new Challenge. Be ready! My special thanks to my fellow judges for this round -- Fleet Captain Toni Turner, Lieutenant Commander Velana, and Captain Diego Herrera.

Welcome, my friends, to the last Writing Challenge of 2012. It's been quite a ride this year: The Challenges saw a facilitator change, the addition of several judges to the rotating pool, our first one-month contests, our first collaborative contests with Ongoing Worlds (in July and in November), and our first alternate form contest (in August, with flash fiction, poetry, and free-form options). I hope to be able to bring you even more in 2013, but for now, let's look at closing out this year. The December Challenge will again be a monthlong Challenge, and in it, I ask you to consider the place of belief systems in Star Trek's future. Contemporarily, December is a month of holy days for many religions, but I'd like you to consider the question of religion and spirituality in the future context. Sure, we've seen the Bajorans and their Prophets, the Klingons' Sto-Vo-Kor, and the Vortas' belief in the Founders' godhood, but what else is out there? For example, when I designed my character (Aron Kells), I created for him a spiritual system based upon a quasi-concept deity called "the Architect." This was in direct response to an astrophysicist I worked with at the time; she was brilliant and dynamic, but she also followed strictly one of the strongest faith doctrines I've ever encountered. I thought the combination was intriguing, and thus my character was born. But what of yours? Is there a spiritual side to any of the characters for which you write? Or perhaps you could take a look into the unexplored spiritualities of the Romulans -- or the Ferengi -- or the Borg? Whatever you choose, be sure to craft a compelling story for the final contest of 2012! The deadline for this Challenge is December 26th (Boxing Day)! That gives you 26 shopping days to come up with something good, so begin thinking now. As always, please remember: *Your work must be completely original. *You must be the sole author of the work. *Your story must take place in the Star Trek universe, but may not center upon canon characters. *Sign your final draft as you would a post on your ship. *Your story must be between 300 and 3000 words. As of today, Saturday, December 1st, this Challenge is open. For any questions you might have, remember that you can always visit the Writing Challenge website. Good luck!

But what do you believe in? Cadet Arden Cain had long since forgotten that the training mission that he, four other cadets and a Lieutenant Commander, was on had gone horribly wrong. Or at least that was how Arden saw the mission, he could never really tell though when it came to the motives of the Academy instructors. What should have been a routine re-supply mission suddenly and violently become refresher course in survival. As it happened, a Romulan Warbird attacked the cadet’s shuttle on their way back to base. How they survived the initial attack Arden could only guess. What he did know however was that soon thereafter the group landed their battered shuttle on a devastated space station, which made Arden wonder how it was still in one piece, to affect repairs and hide till they could be rescued or escape safely. The station itself was abandoned and so provided a safe haven with tolerable atmosphere. It clearly wasn’t the best hole to hide in but it would do Arden thought. Considering the state that the space station was in Arden wasn’t just sitting around waiting to be rescued instead he was working on repairing the shuttle. Even Arden’s supervisor, Lieutenant Commander Eve Harrington, recognized that it was their best chance at survival but it was also a way to keep Arden preoccupied. After two days and dodging many attempts by the Romulans to be located, the cadets were all on edge and even the Commander’s usually icy exterior was melting under the strain. Being the only engineer in the group Arden couldn’t help but feel the expectations of the other cadets as the third day began and crept by slowly. Joined by a male Vulcan science cadet named T’Bol and a female Bajoran operations cadet who went by the name of Rista, Arden laid on his back with his head inside one of the shuttles control consoles. It was his hope that he would be able to physically reroute past damaged parts of the ship to get the shuttle operational. He preferred that idea to having to rewrite the shuttle’s computer coding. He was under no illusions that the bypasses that he was trying might not work even though he was already an expert in the art of jury rigging. The truth of the matter was that Arden was as desperate as the rest of the cadets and their commanding officer. Arden just chose to call on whatever stubbornness he inherited from his Father to help him through this mess as he always did. Conversation had been light between the three Cadets up until that point. While Arden went about his slow repairs he gave instructions to Rista who wasn’t entirely useless with the shuttles systems, just not well versed at acting outside of standard operating procedures that Star Fleet schooled their future officers in. As she kept running into dead ends Rista occasionally murmured comments that Arden had concluded were prayers and requests for guidance from “the Prophets”. Arden didn’t find that odd at all, as T’Bol would say “it was only logical” for the woman to act as she did. The difference was that where Rista turned to her gods for guidance in the face of failure Arden was glad to hear what worked and what didn’t. It gave him direction for further attempts even if his spirits were dangerously low. After what seemed like forever Arden finally inserted an isolinear chip and the console seemed to power up but after only a handful of seconds the whole thing went dead once more. Retreating from under the console Arden sat on the floor of the shuttle leaning against the console in question, a look of defeat on his face. He was too tired to hide his defeated expression just as he was unashamed to admit that he had tried pretty much everything he knew to no avail. After a moment T’Bol was the first to speak which surprised Arden as T’Bol hadn’t said much of anything. The Vulcan rarely did. “You’re not a religious man are you Cadet Cain?” T’Bol spoke stating the question as if he already had the answer. T’Bol was like that, never asking questions that he didn’t already have the answers to. Arden didn’t know if that had something to do with logic or was just a personality trait. For some reason Arden was afraid to ask. “No, I’m not. Although that isn’t to say that I don’t discourage others from believing in gods and the like.” Arden replied not knowing where his Vulcan comrade was going with this line of questioning. “Of course, I would expect nothing less from someone training to be a Star Fleet officer. There must be something you believe in though?” T’Bol returned dryly. Arden honestly thought about T’Bol’s question because the Vulcan did have a point as much as Arden hated to admit it. He always believed that matters of faith whether it be in logic, honor or some god was left for more private environments as it exposed a part of Arden that he didn’t like people to see. That is to say that he preferred to keep such conversations away from certain Vulcan class mates who were far to nosy, far to insensitive when their curiosity was peaked. For Arden completing the job was all that mattered and it didn’t require discussion about belief systems, whether he knew what his beliefs were or not. Now it seemed though that he would have little choice but to engage in the topic. “One would think that what T’Bol asks is not a hard question. You must have something that helps you through dark times.” Rista mused idly. “I mean when I am troubled I turn to the Prophets just as T’Bol would seek logic. I suppose scientifically minded people have trouble doing that though.” “I won’t deny that I have trouble believing in the idea of an all powerful deity.” Arden told them flatly. “Before joining Star Fleet Academy I traveled extensively, I saw many religions and belief systems but I could never relate to any of them.” In Arden’s mind that brought him back to his first comment. While he could never relate to any one of the multitude of belief systems he had been exposed to Arden was accepting of people’s right to believe in what they choose to. As long as they didn’t start preaching to him, he would similarly let them be. That approach had served him well thus far surely it would continue to serve him when he eventually graduated from the Academy, if he managed to survive that long. “Yes, but what do you believe in Cadet Cain? You never answered the question.” T’Bol persisted. “What inspires you to survive in times such as this?” Arden paused taking a couple breaths to give him time to think on his response. Finally Arden did reply in a calmer manner then he was a few minutes again as if he suddenly found inspiration out of thin air. “If I have to answer the question then I would say, I am what inspires me. I learned a long time again that I couldn’t rely on some unseen force to help me.” Arden told them. Looking at both their faces Arden could tell they were waiting for more so he continued. “The only force driving me through a crisis is me. Take now for instance, whether I give up or try something different is ultimately up to me as I am the only one that will be able to change my perspective on this dismal situation. You two might look to a higher power but me, I look into myself to find the answers I need. Who else can I depend on?” Arden could tell that both Rista and T’Bol objected to his views almost immediately. Arden imagined that T’Bol would say that his approach was prone to error and that depending on only oneself was illogical. Meanwhile Arden thought that Rista would simply be offended by his bluntness and blasphemous attitude towards what could not be proven, even though that wasn’t strictly true. Neither of those potential opinions concerned Arden. T’Bol and Rista would think what they liked and if Arden did manage to make it off the space station by some chance maybe Arden might look into his beliefs again at some point. For the time being though, Arden decidedly inwardly that he had had enough moping, that he had a few other tricks that he could try. That was all that mattered. Commander Arden Cain First Officer USS Mercury

It had only been a few hours since Jorey came aboard the Tiger-A. He was in his quarters trying his best to make it his own. Rich natural fabrics covered his bed with a dozen or more pillows of different colours, sizes, and fabrics piled on top. His eyes moved up toward the empty glass case on the wall above his bed. He knew exactly what needed to be displayed in the case and was filled with the warmth of his own memories. He pulled out a plain, dulled metal bat'leth and let his mind wander to six months ago. * * * * * * Jorey held the rugged Klingon in his arms, enjoying the moment, as they laid there on floor. Jorey knew that Koroth would be embarrassed when his grandmother walked in, but decided to let it happen. Jorey hoped it would help the Klingon become more comfortable with the openness and honesty Betazoids are accustomed. “Well don't you two look absolutely pornographic.” His grandmother's tone was dripping with mischievous intentions. It was obvious she was doing her best to embarrass the two young warriors. Koroth stood up slowly, completely naked, and stood there for a moment. Jorey sat up to watch the spectacle. Koroth smiled and walked toward her slowly until he was standing right beside her. He leaned into her, kissed her cheek and spoke gently, with a hint of defiance. “Always a pleasure to see you, Ambassador Jorey.” Koroth circled the chambers and collected his clothing while the Ambassador called in her entourage. Jorey could feel the energy in the room transform from a playful affair to something more sacred. His Tassa’Akai master and the family high priestess came into the room followed by his grandmother's servants. Koroth made his way to Jorey and spoke while he wiggled his way back into his pants. “I will be back.” He said in a Klingon bluntness that Jorey had come to appreciate. “I have something in my quarters for you.” Koroth placed his forehead against Jorey's for a brief moment to show his affection before leaving. “Come, little one.” Jorey's grandmother said sweetly gesturing to the next room. Her false demeanour faded to reveal the truth within her. “We only have a few moments before this travesty against civility must take place.” “This is not....” Jorey tried to explain, one more time, but his thoughts were interrupted by his grandmother's voice in his head. ~I just don't understand this. Fight when you must. When there is no other way. That's what you were taught.~ She placed her hand gently on his shoulder and led him to the next room. She knew that Jorey's mind was set on fighting. ~Grandmother, I must fight! This is my way of proving my love to Koroth and it is the only way to make his family, his brothers, and his world believe that I am worthy to be loved by him.~ Jorey explained. She knew he was right. She also couldn't help but feel pride knowing that her grandson truly understood the precious and sacred place of love. So much so, that he was willing to give up his own life to exalt in its truth. She was about to say how proud his grandfather would be of him, but Jorey said it first. ~He's here with me. I know he's proud.~ Jorey smiled as they entered the next room. The next room was dim, lit only by a trinity candle. Jorey's grandfather had explained its significance to him when he was a child. The centre flame represents Betazed and the goddess Karawati. The two outside flames are the twin moons of Betazed and Karawati's sisters, Yimone and Retana. They represent the ebb and flow of oceans, the inhale and exhale of breath, the push and pull of thought and feeling. Jorey could see the figures of two servants filling a small, shallow stone pool with water and the freshly plucked petals of bright coloured, delicate flowers. The aroma of Sea'Nu filled the air as the smoke from a small pile of soldering incense weaved around the room. Jorey's grandmother moved toward the pool, stopped at its base and let her robes fall to the floor. She turned and extended her hand out to Jorey. Jorey moved forward, took his grandmother's hand and stepped into the pool. His grandmother joined her servants and knelt in front of the pool. Jorey's Tassa'Akai master and the family's high priestess let their robes fall to the floor before stepping into the pool on either side of Jorey. The high priestess reached out her cupped hands holding a pair of white crystal earrings. “Kylaron, tenth child of Karawati, son of the spirits of perseverance, Mirini stone in the great ancestral circlet of Krysaros.” The priestess spoke the words in Betazoid as she knelt down and gently dipped her hands in the pool to let the waters cleanse the Mirini earrings before offering them to Jorey's grandmother for safe keeping. The priestess unclasped the necklace she wore around her neck and took the ornate medallion it held into her hands. She raised it in the air and spoke the traditional prayer of peace and harmony before twisting open the medallion to reveal the thick, bright red mixture of oils and crushed berries, reserved for this ancient ritual - The Incada. The priestess dipped her left index and pinky finger in the mixture as Jorey closed his eyes. She pressed her finger against his eyelids and spoke in Betazoid. “Quiet your thoughts and focus on the blood of Kylaron flowing through your body.” She paused a moment and then let her fingers trace down his cheeks, over the corners of his mouth and down his chin. This left pronounced bright red around his eyes that lined and slowly faded down his face. Jorey focused on his pulse until he could feel the ebb and flow of the blood travelling through his body. The priestess gently entered Jorey's mind and began the Incada. She began sifting through his mind, clearing it of fears, self-doubts, hesitations, apprehensions, and distractions. It is a deeply personal and delicate process. However, the family priestess was extremely experienced and moved quickly through his thoughts like a sculptor madly chipping away at a piece of stone to reveal a image – perfect and beautiful. Meanwhile, the servants began to wash Jorey. They scented his body with a variety of different oils and infusions as they sang the creation song of the tenth house of Betazed. As Karawati danced in the Opal Sea, Her sisters faded in the third moon's light. The night of one moon, set the spirits free, And the soul of the sea rose into the night. From the passions of the earth and of the sea, Came forth the tenth son, blessed without sight. No jungle, no valley, no mountain he could see, But he learned to feel, to sense, and to fight. Kylaron, master of perseverance and father of Tassa'Akai, We honour, love, and revere you this night. “Karawati has cleared your mind and body. The blood of Kylaron reveals the truth within you. Give thanks and be reborn, Brayden Jorey, Son of the tenth house of Betazed.” Jorey's grandmother stood up and offered her hand. Jorey took her hand and stepped out in a semi-trance state. His Tassa'Akai master stepped out of the pool and retrieved a long piece of purple fabric from a servant. His master began to wrap the fabric around each thigh, then his waist, finally tying it in the form of a short skirt around him. At the same time, his grandmother put a Mirini earring in each of his ears and gently entered his mind so not to break the trance prematurely. ~These are the Eyes of Kylaron, made from the Blessed Crystals of Rixx. You are now their guardian.~ She left his mind as gently as she entered. Jorey kept his attention forward and moved to the main room. Koroth was there and started for Jorey as soon as he noticed him. Jorey's grandmother signalled for him to stop and even though no one spoke, Koroth seemed to instinctively know the sacredness of the moment. The Klingon held out a plain, dulled bat'leth and offered it to Jorey. “Qabatlh.” Koroth announced as Jorey took the bat'leth from his hands. In that moment, having just completed the Incada, Jorey was able to recognize the great importance of Koroth's offering. Finally, after all this time, Jorey experienced unconditional, open, and honest love from his Klingon friend and for the first time truly believed that Koroth was his Imzadi. * * * * * * Jorey set the bat'leth into the glass case over his bed and recalled the events of that momentous day. Jorey went on to defeat a celebrated Klingon warrior to win the tournament and earned the distinction of being one of the very few non-Klingons to achieve Champion Standing. Jorey was proud of that achievement. His Tassa'Akai master even more so. Koroth, even more proud than that. However, for Jorey, the bat'leth that now hung over his bed did not represent his achievement in battle that day. For him, it represented the honour and unconditional love Koroth gave him that day. Ensign Brayden Jorey USS Tiger-A Helm Officer

Happy December, folks! I'm pleased to bring you the results of our November contest. Sorry for the delay in posting. Our joint winners for November are Kalianna Nicholotti, with her "Empty skies over Tokyo," and Tallis Rhul, with his "Guts and Glory!" Runner-up goes to Ben Livingston, with "The Family Business." Congratulations! Reviews will be up in a moment, but be sure you check out the December Challenge, up now!

Welcome, my friends, to this special Writing Challenge for the month of November! Please peruse this post with proper prudence, as it contains the guidelines, rules, and other important bits regarding entering your submission, which are a little different than usual for this unique Challenge. For this month only, we'll be drawing our inspiration from Ongoing Worlds's Way Back When week competition. This Challenge will focus upon character ancestry -- where a particular character or anyone/anything related to him/her has come from. You do not have to write about your primary character! To participate in the Challenge, please create a new thread. From the "Topic Prefix" selection list, choose "Nov/Dec" -- don't forget to do this, because without it your story won't be considered for this round! You may denote your story as a "Work in Progress," but please do so at the beginning of the story (not in the thread topic), and remember to finish it before the deadline, as any story noted as a work in progress will not be considered. The deadline for this challenge is November 30th! That means you have just under three weeks to get your entries in, so begin thinking now! All entries in this Challenge will be judged by our panel in the usual way, but entries will also have the option of entry into Ongoing Worlds's contest. If you'd like to also enter there, please check the link above between November 25th and December 1st, as they should have links to their contest submissions. I encourage you to enter both! Last time we participated in a joint contest, our winner (Alleran Tan) came in second in their contest. As always, please remember: *Your work must be completely original. *You must be the sole author of the work. *Your story must take place in the Star Trek universe, but may not center upon canon characters. *Sign your final draft as you would a post on your ship. *Your story must be between 300 and 3000 words. As of today, Saturday, November 3rd, this Challenge is open! The very last day to enter is Monday, November 30th, so get in your entry before then! For any questions you might have, remember that you can always visit the Writing Challenge website. Good luck!

[[in Progress]] Hi, my name is Thetis. I'm a pain in the ... Well, at least that's what I've been told by any number of people. I don't think I am, but I have my own opinions. I promise, I'm not one who will just roll over and play dead whenever someone tells me to do so. No, I'm not saying that at all. I am more than willing to risk my existance to save others. That's part of what it means to be part of Starfleet, isn't it? Well, yes, orders sometimes conflict with my wishes. However, if I blindly adhered to orders, I wouldn't be here now, would I? Would any of us, really? I would say that the entirety of the Federation has been saved a number of times exactly because people have disobeyed dumb orders. What makes me so defiant? Well... that's an old story... well, not old for you maybe, but a lifetime for me... ((Procyon Fleetyards)) The long flat arrow-shaped vessel slid silently from the fully-enclosed dry dock where she had sat for the last fourteen months. The ship was classified, a brand new design, crash-built to fulfill the desperate need for a long-range battlecruiser that could operate behind the Dominion battle lines, able to destroy the achilles-heel of the Jem'Hadar: the huge Ketracel White facilities. In 2374, the last new ship in Starfleet that had been designed as a battlecruiser had been hijacked by the Romulans. Starfleet Intelligence was bound and determined that the same would not happen with this vessel, so she was being moved under heavy guard to the Utopia Planitia Yards for fitting out. Her testing would be conducted in route; the need for her capabilities was too great on the front lines. The fleet tug hooked onto the ship and it, along with the five escorting ships, leapt into warp. A week later, they returned to regular space near the massive shipyards orbiting Mars. After being enveloped in the shielded drydock, the first task was the installation of the ship's massive computer core. Within the quadrillions of lines of code lay one of the most advanced artificial intelligence command and control systems since Richard Daystrom's M5 computer. The aftermath of that experiment gone horribly wrong had ended the development of such systems for more than a century, until the Dominion War. The threat to the very existence of the Federation represented by the Jem'Hadar and the Dominion had reignited the interest in more automation in the command of starships, allowing smaller crews to more effectively handle advanced ships. This led to the development of the THETIS system. Short for Tri-optical Humanoid-Equivalent Thought Integration System, the THETIS system was designed to allow for a single interface for all systems aboard the ship. It was given the power to interpret the commanding officer's intentions and, in the absence of explicit commands, develop tactics to achieve the CO's desired goals. It was those adaptive and interpretive subroutines that would back to haunt the design team. ((On the Bridge of USS Achilles, two months later)) ::Dave Tyson was one of the lead computer programmers on the Advanced Design Bureau's team assigned to the Achilles project. It was his job to test and report on the THETIS system's interpretive algorithms. He sat down at the back of the bridge, in front of the main engineering console, and brought up the computer system's diagnostics. He wanted to watch the results of his next test as they unfolded. Ready, he began the test.:: Tyson: Thetis? Thetis: Yes, Dave? ::Tyson himself had given the computer a young woman's voice, based off his own teenage daughter. Thereafter, he had always referred to the system as 'her' or 'she' rather than the coldly logical 'it.' Tyson: Please access my PADD and complete the simulation there. ::The ship's computer dutifully accessed the program, a scenario in which the ship is assigned to rescue a civilian fuel tanker with several hundred passengers aboard. The ship's engines had failed inside the Romulan Neutral Zone and entering the zone violates a treaty. The scenario is a no-win. Either the entering ship leaves the civilians to die at the hands of Nature, as their life support slowly fails, or they enter and confronted by overwhelming opposition from Romulan forces, then are subsequently destroyed.:: Thetis: I'm sorry, Dave, I can't do that. ::The computer programer blinked in surprise. The system should not have been able to refuse the command.:: Tyson: Why not, Thetis? Thetis: The scenario is a waste of time. There is no way, short of rewriting the parameters of the program itself, to succeed. Therefore, I don't see the point. ::Now, two things bothered the scientist about the response he had just gotten. The first was the recognition that the scenario, based off the old Academy Kobayashi Maru test, was in fact just that: a no-win scenario. The computer should have run the scenario and reported the results. It might have gone as far as running it multiple times and reporting a loss each and every time, but an outright refusal should not have been possible. The second one was something that the interface had already done, but he hadn't in his shock realized it until the second time.:: ::Thetis had referred to herself as 'I.':: ::Suddenly, Dave felt very small and even a little bit afraid. He swallowed and took a deep breath, then stood.:: Tyson: Thank you Thetis. That'll be all for today. Thetis: Are you sure, Dave? Normally our daily routine is much longer. Tyson: I have some other pressing matters today. I'll be back to see you later on and bring you some more problems. Thetis: Understood. I look forward to it. ::There was that pronoun again. Tyson walked briskly over to the turbolift. He had to get off the ship... and he had to do so now.:: ::A few moments later, he stepped off the turbo lift into the drydock's operations center and breathed a sigh of relief. However, the danger wasn't over yet.:: Tyson: =/\= Tyson to Achilles Computer Team. We have a serious issue. Meet in conference room 3 in 15 minutes. =/\= ::As Dave spoke, he keyed in a few commands and locked down the dry dock's comm system into internal diagnostics mode. That would also prevent the computer aboard the battlecruiser from contacting any of the other systems in the ship yard.:: ::The meeting began well enough, but as soon as he voiced his fear, the whole thing exploded into a cacophony of yelling voices, throwing accusations, recriminations and suspicions of serious professional misconduct. The head programmer let it go on for about thirty seconds, then got fed up and shouted for quiet. It took a couple of tries, but he finally got the floor again.:: Tyson: I don't care what you all think, but what I need to know is what we should do about it. ::The group seemed pretty clear. They needed to get rid of this 'presence' in the system, but they knew that excising the operating system would set the whole project back by months. The shadows of Daystrom's epic failure lay heavily on the minds of them all, along with the hundreds of deaths that were caused as the M5-controlled USS Enterprise methodically tore apart the target ships with full-powered weapons.::

"Guts and Glory" - Captain Tallis Rhul The dressing room was awash with red, logos printed in pride of place on team shirts. The noise of the crowd reached through into the dressing room by every avenue possible; under doors, through air vents, even clawing its way through brickwork. Faint as it was now, the whole team knew that what they were about to face was a torrent of sound that would wash over them, and bear them up to the lofty heights that represented the stakes under which this game would be played. In contrast, the team themselves were silent, sitting on benches beneath their lockers, eyes focused on the coach as he stood before them, ready to make his last speech before they put everything on the line. “Guts and glory.” He started with a familiar moniker, one that he had repeated many times in similar situations. “That is what I want every single one of you to believe. Now more than ever. Never before has this team come so far. Never before have we shown those people out there that we are the force that everyone should be worrying about in this competition.” He pointed vehemently in the direction of the changing room door to emphasise his point. “Never before have we been this close to taking it all. And we can take it all. We can be the best. We can work together to achieve what has not yet been achieved in this team’s history.” He closed his eyes for a moment. The sudden break in the regular cadence of the motivational speech drew those assembled in all the more. When he opened them again, his voice retained its authoritative quality, but it was calmer, his approach more logical. “If you’re defending, I want you tight to the goal. Work the zones that we’ve practised in training. If you do that, and cover each other’s backs then we can shut the other team out. We’re counting on you to repeat the excellent performance we saw last game.” He shifted his gaze to another part of the room. “When we attack, we are merciless. Full speed. Play wide where you can and then cut into the middle. If you run the touch line, that gives you one side where you can’t pick up a marker, and when it comes down to making a move, when it comes down to out and out skill, we’ll edge them every time. You all know what to do.” Taking a deep breath, he bellowed the rallying call. “Are you with me!?” The team roared back. Checking their kit, they stood, a nod from the coach sending them in motion towards the field of play. “Herrera.” Hearing his name, the player in question halted in his stride, his eyes locking with those of his trainer and mentor, awaiting his final instructions. “You played well last game. You were unselfish. You set up others when you thought they had a better chance to score than you did, but what I liked best was that you weren’t afraid to worry their defence. Keep getting yourself into attacking positions. Keep hassling them. I’m counting on you.” Clapping him on the arm, the coach smiled and led the way through the door and into the match day atmosphere. Saturday November 17th, 2114 It was breathtaking. Humberto Herrera’s team’s stadium, El Sardinero, was packed to the rafters. Half of it was painted in the bright red of his team, the other in the white of the opposition. Cutting through the noise came the most uplifting sound. It was the same anthem he had heard sung on the terraces from the first day he had put on a team shirt to play a game of soccer. The Santander Saracens were a proud team with a history dating back over two hundred years to the foundation of one of their contributor clubs, Racing Santander. Within the last decade, that team had amalgamated with its former rival, the much younger Esportivo de Santander in preparation for the most anticipated event that the sport would ever see: the formation of the World League. Today was a landmark in itself. This was the final match for the last ever Copa del Rey, the most competitive tournament in Spanish soccer, but more importantly a chance for one of the teams to take home the prestigious trophy to keep. Humberto crossed himself in the usual ritual before he stepped onto the field, swearing to himself as he assumed his position on the centre spot that he would be wearing a winner’s medal before the day was out. In a moment, the coin toss and decision over who would kick off were over. The opening whistle blew, stirring up a well of emotion that threatened to overwhelm Humberto. As Valencia’s captain passed the ball back to one of his midfielders, the game began to fall into a tempo that beat as a human heart. Battle lines were drawn early on; leaping to head the ball after a well-placed cross from one of his wingers, Humberto felt a sharp tug on his shirt that fatally altered his trajectory, sending him crashing to the floor. Blood pumping in his ears and outrage radiating from him like flame, he entered into an angry exchange with the guilty defender before the referee weighed in with a warning for both players. The clock rolled inexorably towards 45 minutes. It seemed that both teams were deadlocked, neither one able to get the upper hand, until a white-clad attacker pierced their midfield and hurtled towards the centre of their defence. Humberto watched in disbelief as one of their most reliable men missed his footing and stumbled in an embarrassing mistake that led to the ball flying past their goalkeeper at impossible speed, the net bulging with the impact of the projectile. Half of the stadium fell silent. The other half exploded. Shaking his head at the injustice, Humberto covered the distance between himself and the fallen defender in a heartbeat, helping him to his feet and offering ineffective words of consolation. Within moments, the whistle blew for the end of the first half. Stardate 238511.17 The crowd was packed with colour. It seemed that each of the 16 teams represented in the play-offs of the Corellia Prime Parrises Squares tournament had a score of representatives in attendance. The entire court was bathed in the subtle glow of a court-sized holo-imager that stood ready to transmit the game in real time to countless other worlds. It was the pinnacle of Diego’s sporting career; playing in the red of the San Francisco Sentries was a fortuitous honour made possible by his coach back at Starfleet Academy, and so far he had been making a positive impression. The din of the crowd was drowned out by the sound of Corellian rave music as the officials made their way to the side of the court. On this world, a match of Squares was always a special occasion. The game had been born here, and it was one of their main tourist attractions. Teams from across the entirety of the Alpha and Beta quadrants coveted the Corellian trophy like no other. Winning it even once earned bragging rights for at least a decade. Looking towards one of the holo-recorders, Diego mouthed a get well soon message to the injured member of the team he had been selected to stand in for before entering a huddle with his three team-mates. All of them were raring to go, still aflame from their coach’s words, and riding on a heady rush of success from their opening game. With three goals under his belt already in the competition, Diego had his sights set on doubling his overall tally before the final klaxon sounded. It was a tall order, but he knew he could do it. The order to power up their ion mallets signalled the beginning of the match. The court, divided into squares of uneven heights, instantly became a battleground as the two teams fought to find a strong tactical formation before the ball entered the match. Even in the opening few seconds Diego realised that the court’s current configuration would have them running up and down the stepped platforms relentlessly, testing the physical limits of all involved. The second the ball was tossed onto the court, the first opposing attack began, quickly halted by the defenders and turned into a counteroffensive. Diego began to scramble up onto one of the highest squares to receive the pass, and was met with a sharp elbow in the face along the way, knocking him off his feet. Blood pumping in his ears, he sat up; physical contact in any form was legal, so he would bide his time to get revenge later on. The end of the first quarter came and went, launching them into the second. Diego had almost set up a goal for his wingman, drawing both defending players before laying the ball off into space near the far touchline. Unopposed, his team mate had driven the ball like a lightning bolt, although it climbed too high and sailed over the top of the raised goal mouth. Plays continued back and forth at an impressive rate, neither side seeming to tire, and neither one willing to lose momentum. It was just seconds before the klaxon for the end of the second quarter that the white-clad Corellian team made their move. In response to one of the defenders losing their footing on the edge of one of the platforms, their lead attacker showed unparalleled skill as he somersaulted from a high square to one of the lowest, keeping control of the ball with his mallet before launching it high into the air to just tip through the rim of the San Franciscan goal hoop. The crowd, and Diego’s team, were stunned. “They were lucky.” The coach was unflustered, his cool head the product of years of training and professional experience. “If we get even one break like that, we’ll nail them to the wall. Our defence was impenetrable up until that point, and we’re looking threatening in attack. Keep at them. Grind them down. Guts and glory! I know that each of you is going to do your best out there because you are proud to have your name displayed on the back of your shirt, in the colours of the team you love. Show your opposition that pride. Show them how badly you want this. Show them why you’re made to be champions!” Saturday November 17th, 2114 The team re-entered the match determined to thrash out a victory. Humberto’s face was set. This time, it was their turn to start the play, which they did with an audacious display of skill, threading the ball through in unpredictable moves that gained them ground. The Valencian players rose to the challenge, chasing them down at every turn, until growing frustrations on their part saw Humberto tripped as he attempted to loop the ball into a dangerous position. Spluttering at the earthy taste of soil as he regained his feet, he realised it was the same defender as before. Checking his anger this time, he allowed himself a smile as the referee once more made his presence known by raising a yellow card. Any more dangerous challenges, and Valencia would be losing a player. Hope turned to frustration, then desperation as the deadlock continued. All hopes of taking the lead were replaced by a longing for just one goal, enough to extend the competition. Humberto was beginning to feel lactic acid building in his leaden legs; finding himself useful positions was consuming more and more energy. And then it happened. A chance! Clever play by one of the midfielders sent an opposing defender the wrong way, leaving a yawning gap through which Humberto sprinted at full tilt, his limbs screaming for him to ease up. Ignoring their desperate pleas, he ploughed ahead, chasing the ball, possessed in his attempt to reach it before the goalkeeper could heft it down the field. His competitor was clearly experienced and had anticipated the danger and started his run early, but Humberto knew he was quicker. Throwing his weight behind his striking foot, he aimed for the far corner of the goal, striking with as much venom as he could muster, aiming to lift the ball over the goalkeeper who was now sliding in along the ground… Jubliation was replaced with agony as he connected with something solid. He didn’t feel the break so much as hear it, and the world became a blur of lights, noise and searing pain as the red shirt crumpled to the ground. He realised in a moment of terror that this would be no ordinary injury, and as medics clad in bright orange vests flooded the area, he wondered whether this would be his last game. Slowly and delicately, he was loaded onto a stretcher before being taken to the treatment room; deprived of the noise of the crowd he had no idea what the fate of his team was to be. In all likelihood, Valencia would be the ones taking home the priceless treasure. However, to his surprise, Humberto knew that his was not the end of his journey. His eldest son had already laced up his boots for his first school game and the name Herrera would continue to be associated with sports for a very long time to come. Stardate 238511.17 When play restarted, Diego knew that he would have to double his workrate. The team followed suit. They leapt between the platforms running rings around the Corellians, who struggled to keep up. But keep up they did, and the score remained unchanged. For every inventive play, they came up with an inventive defensive strategy, barging attackers out of key positions to intercept passes and threatening to score on the counter-attack. Finally, signs of Corellian frustration began to show as Diego’s opposite number once again targeted him for a block. This time, he put his entire bodyweight behind a shoulder check, running at full tilt to hit Diego hard and send him sprawling out of bounds of the court. Dusting himself off, the hardy Spaniard waved away a concerned medic; the impact had been painful, and he was sure he would have some bruises the next day, but that wasn’t going to keep him out of the competition. It would take something much more serious. Hope turned to frustration, then desperation as the deadlock continued. All hopes of taking the lead were replaced by a longing for just one goal, enough to extend the competition. Diego was beginning to feel lactic acid building in his leaden legs; finding himself useful positions was consuming more and more energy. And then it happened. A chance! Focused on the ball, one of the Corellian attackers was in the perfect position to be blindsided. Returning the earlier gesture of an elbow to the face, Diego slipped away from his marker and barged the unsuspecting Corellian off his square. Intercepting the ball, he spun on the spot, and saw the defender that he had floored quickly regaining his feet. His only option was to thread together some difficult leaps across squares of the same height, approaching the goal from an unexpected angle. One… two… three successful jumps completed and only one more stood between him and his objective. Flicking the ball up into the air with his mallet, he drew back his right arm, ready to strike with all his might mid-jump… Jubilation was replaced with agony as he caught the edge of the platform and mistimed his jump. Dropping like a stone, he felt his shoulder blade connect hard with the edge of the platform below; a sickening crack and a wave of pain and nausea followed as the red shirt collapsed in an ungainly heap. Play stopped as the medical technicians rushed the pitch, each carrying a silver-boxed medical kit, to diagnose and treat his injury as quickly as possible. Diego’s own medical training told him that his injury was most likely not serious in the long term, but he would have to leave the field for treatment if they were going to fix it properly. With a heavy heart and giddy from the large dose of painkillers that was administered with the hiss of a hypospray, he followed the medics to the treatment room. Deprived of the roar of the crowd, he was left oblivious as to how the game would end. It seemed inevitable that his team would lose, knocked out of the tournament and denied a chance to earn that priceless treasure. Still, Diego felt vindicated. He had competed in another professional game of Parrises Squares, and he knew he couldn’t be faulted for his effort. The smell of sweat sat hung heavily in the air, mixed with the fruit-infused tang of the team’s recovery drinks. On the end of the row sat Herrera, patched up as well as he could be, victorious if only in having insisted that the medical team allow him to hear his coach’s post-match debrief. “You gave it everything. You worked hard. I could not be more proud of the team that sits here before me today. Luck is something you can never plan for, and I stand here safe in the knowledge that when the time comes for me to address the public I can tell them that it was one moment of bad luck that kept us from carrying home the trophy, and nothing more. This is far from the end. Next year, we set our sights on a new league, and a new challenge. By taking part in the competition, our name is already included in the history books. It’s up to us now to make what we can of that, and to look to the future. Guts and glory. Onwards and upwards.” Captain Tallis Rhul Helmsman Federation Embassy Duronis II 　 　 　

The cool, fresh air was rejuvenating, but it carried with it the perception that he was no longer alone. The fine wires danced between the engineer’s fingers, twisting themselves like dancers into a wire nut. Benjamin Livingston wiped the sweat from his brow and peered down the Jefferies tube ladder, where a crewman stepped into the cramped area and proceeded down to another level, away toward some other miniature catastrophe. Ben was having trouble enough solving his own disaster. The sooner they got this controller repaired, the sooner they’d be back on their way. The sound of receding footsteps faded. Carefully replacing the repaired connection, Ben closed up the panel. Taking a step down the ladder, he activated the flow controller. Lights sprang into being, and Ben beamed with satisfaction, a reflection of the lively display panel. He recorded the completion of the work, then hastily climbed back to the tube entrance. A crewman waited for him. “We’re all set to get the engine back online,” stated the crewman. Ben nodded in agreement. A team stood by, waiting and watching, as matter and antimatter streamed once more toward one another. The reaction: exajoules of energy; an engineering staff relieved. After sustaining so much damage, the question was thus: repair the engine, or float in the middle of the black abyss until some other Federation ship could be sent for them. And no engineer was about to just sit tight. Pride, and duty, demanded it. An indicator change to show they had moved to warp, but none of them needed those, anymore. For his part, Ben could tell by the feel of the deck plating when he stood by the engine. The vibration was different, somehow, when they were headed forward. Some kind of a communal excitement, shared by ship and crew, coursed through the steel. ----- The floor tipped in what had become an accepted, even anticipated, shift. Somewhere, a bottle rolled from one side of the small room to the other. Canvas covered the workbench in a systematic, gently folded mass. Aging, knobby fingers ran themselves back and forth over the sheet, scanning it for defects. As they came upon a tear, their master lifted the canvas, delicately inspecting it. Behind Arthur Livingston, a hatch creaked open; boots stumbled down the ladder. With the utmost care, the man forced a needle through, and looped it around, stitching together the two sides of the rift. As he worked, the room around him continued to creak; swells took the wooden room this way, then that. Working patiently, ever cognizant of the prize he purchased by his labor and focus, the needle was passed through the canvas. It has been foolhardiness that had ruined it; pushing a thing past its limits happened all too often aboard the vessel. And now, here he was, again. The needle passed through the cloth a final time before being tied off. Nodding, Arthur called up to his companions. The men took it and disappeared up the ladder. Arthur followed them up and into the bright light. Shielding his eyes from the noon sun, wind ripped past him; the sound of a flapping flag filled the air. The sailmaker made his way to his favorite location, the forecastle, as the repaired sail was hoisted; he watched in anticipation. The rip had been small, but in a critical location. If it held, they’d get home days sooner. ----- Beside Ben, a Tellarite engineer looked up at him. “It really is remarkable, isn’t it?” he asked. The pair had worked together with greater frequency of late. Ben smiled. “I just can’t believe it’s possible. Hundreds of us, all the way out here, and this beauty to get us where we need to go.” The crewman nodded in agreement. “My father and grandfather worked on starships. Nothing like this, mind, but it got me thinking. And here I am. They could never have dreamed of this, though.” The engine hummed; a “well-oiled machine” might have been a good description for it three-hundred years before, but the technology that went into this ship was of a different class altogether. The sound, at first loud, was now settling into the silence; it was the new calm, the sound that should always be there when the ship was headed somewhere. “My father never left Earth,” Ben commented in reply. “He was content there. I don’t think any of my family were particularly adventurous. Actually, I didn’t know I was, until I joined Starfleet. We were just never a ship family, I suppose.” “That’s alright; it’s got to start somewhere. Maybe your kids will be?” “Yeah,” said Ben. “Maybe they will. I hope so.” ----- Arthur’s grim countenance gazed on his work. It had held; they were well on their way back to port. Not a moment too soon, for his taste. The salt breeze that had long tasted of adventure and discovery had turned bitter for him. Certainly, for the first few voyages, it had seemed a blessing to stand at the forecastle looking out at what was to come. The loneliness had come later; now, Arthur had a wife he longed to see. He longed to see her beautiful hair most of all. Fine, colorful, smooth; it was everything that the sail thread was not. Then there was little Stephen. The boy’s full embrace would be waiting for him; months of pent up affection finally released. Yes, Arthur had to get home. Turning around, he looked off the ship’s bow. It was only a few hundred miles to go. A glass bottle rolled up against his foot. How it had arrived so far forward was a mystery, but its former contents was no puzzle. Rum. Always grog with their earnings, and it wasn’t thrown in as rations like the British Navy did it. It was as though his shipmates wanted to stay aboard forever, the way they drank or gambled their wages. Not Arthur Livingston. No, thank you. If Arthur had anything to say about it, he’d work the ships all his days, if it meant Stephen wouldn’t have to do it. Let the boy get some schooling, then. One life was a fair price to pay, one man’s years squandered away in the blue abyss, to buy his family’s freedom from it. He would pay that price, that no Livingston would need step aboard a ship again. ----- Ensign Ben Livingston Assistant Chief Engineer Starbase 118

Tokyo Airfield, Japan, Stardate 238912.29 The cold night air made the slim Starfleet Captain pull the old Russian military jacket closer as she left the shelter of the empty pilot's lounge and made her way out onto the tarmac. The runway lit up the darkness in the distance, but only the moon above offered light by which she made her way out to the sleeping beast that sat waiting. The barely used airport, a remnant of a time long before transporters and shuttlecraft, was desolate and silent. But for the raven haired command officer, nowhere else in the world felt so much like home. Ahead, only the hard edges of the metallic creature shone in the paleness of the moonlight, reminding her of many nights when she was a child. The simple trek from the building to the exposed tarmac where the plane sat was one she'd made many times as a child, always with one hand gripping her helmet, and the other pulling excitedly on her grandfather's much larger hands. In the silence, she could almost hear his deep laugh on the tendrils of winter wind that whipped around her as she pulled her fur-lined hood down and replaced it with a helmet eerily reminiscent of days long gone. In the darkness, she walked up to the sleeping beast as if intimately acquainted with it and, without sight, pulled off one glove and reached out a hand to touch the tip of the wing. Beneath her bare fingers, the metal was ice cold and quiet. None of the telltale vibrations moved through it as they did when the beast was brought to life. For now, it slept, silent, but it wasn't always that way... Somewhere Over the Persian Gulf, March 20th, 2003, 03:24 UTC (10:24 PM EST) It was still early in the morning, local time, but he'd already been awake for well over three hours. With orders that had been pending, John was just one of the many pilots that would be leaving the Abraham Lincoln aboard their steel birds on a mission that would change history that day. The President of the United States had given an ultimatum to the leader of the oil rich nation, an ultimatum that gave only 48 hours for the man and his sons to leave the country, or face war. That 48 hours came, and passed, without word from the tyrant that it had been destined for. And so, about an hour after the deadline was gone, John found himself in the air with his brothers, in a tight formation heading straight into the teeth of the middle eastern monster. The morning had been unlike any other, and as they throttled towards the landmass in their state of the art F/A-18F SuperHornet fighters, they each had a chance to run through the briefings and their own thoughts in their minds over and over again. As for the cogitation in his mind, he found himself looking at the small picture of his newborn child that he kept in the [...]pit. She was the future and his entire reason for doing what he did. A small smile appeared on his face as he looked up at the HUD and saw the edge of the sand fast approaching. It was only then that the words of their commander and the orders given at the briefing came to mind. Seconds later, his radio burst to life. They were here and it was time to rain hellfire down on the nation that defied the world. For freedom, for life, and for the safety of his and many other children like her around the world. Giving her one more glance, he switched his mind into 'go' mode and followed his team lead in a banking maneuver that would take his group to their specified targets. Pensacola Naval Air Station, Florida, July 10th, 2025 The world was quickly descending into chaos. Following the little known battles fought on the frontiers of science over genetics and the very soul of human beings, governments from nations around the world were taking stands on various belief platforms and arguing over questions that would have no clean answers. It was those questions, and the lack of flexibility in belief sets, that would ultimately lead the world into chaos. Indeed, it was a fight that would come to a head only a year later, but even then, in 2025, the man in the flight suit could see it coming. Making his way out to the tarmac, and looking at the jet that sat there waiting for him, he wondered what it had been like to live even twenty years prior. Was the world a different place then? What about twenty years before that? Was there ever a time when the threat of war didn't loom over them all? Pulling the helmet over his head and climbing up the ladder of the jet, he finally answered his own questions; perhaps not. If the war machine he was climbing into now was any indication, then the threat of war had always been present. The only difference was that now the battle had been taken to a global scale. It was no longer black against white, or nation against nation. The lines had been drawn in the figurative sand and labels had become ambiguous. Where once it had been simple to see the uniform and identify which side a person was on, this new battle would be waged where there was no clarity. It was human against human, with the reasoning lost somewhere within the indeterminate ideals of the flawed, human mind. But what could be done? Ultimately, humans would always be humans. As the jet powered up around him, he thought of the days long past when this machine struck fear into the hearts of its enemies. Now it was bound for someone's private hangar. Time marched on, and the tools changed, but it would always be the same. Fear would always be used against humanity and war would always loom; it was just the face of that war that changed. What once was a weapon that would cause death by the hundreds became what caused death by the thousands. Thousands became millions, and now, as humanity gained a solid foothold in science and learned how to split atoms at their core, millions became the whole [...] world. Throttling into the air, he couldn't think about it any longer. With a global community armed with nukes, the next war would be the last war. The next war would be the end of it all. With the knowledge he had, though being reduced to a transfer pilot for old, retired aircraft, he was well aware that the next war, ever looming on the horizon, would bring humanity to its very knees. And yet, no matter how horrible the picture warned society, it would come. Severomorsk, Former Russian Republic, November 9th, 2155 The dust still covered the box, and the paperwork within, that represented the greatest birthday present that the young Alexi could ever remember getting. He had just turned twenty-one and had graduated from flight school just a month before. One hundred twenty nine years after the horrific war that had wiped out entire countries and entire generations, things certainly looked different than they had when this paperwork had been signed. But the fact that it had survived changed his life. Having a mild obsession with anything that flew for as long as he could remember, Alexi had a special place in his heart for the ancient flying machines of Earth before the war tore the planet apart. Now, he actually found himself owning one. It had been a surprising turn of events that had led him to the knowledge of the jet fighter that had almost been lost to time. An old box somehow made its way into the hands of a family friend, whose family had lived near the Polyarny District since before the third world war. The box had been kept safe, far from the chaos that raged in more 'civilized' places in the world. Now that there was peace, it was time that it was remembered. And remembered it was; as if fate had destined for this moment to come, the box was discovered in a wall during the renovation of the oldest part of the house. Quickly, the box was opened as if treasure lay within, but the treasure was something no one ever quite expected. Inside, a few sheets of old, browned paper that was falling apart was all that was found. Carefully, they were unfolded and a name appeared. Salvatore Nicholotti. Now, as Alexi Nicholotti, the descendant of the man who had come to the frigid north to escape the chaos and the war, ran through the snow towards the dilapidated building that was supposed to house the great machine, he found himself thanking both the past and fate for bringing this into his hands. Still unbelieving, he couldn't wait to actually see if what was on the paper was reality, so when he got to the door and found it rusted closed, he began to throw himself against it until it began to move. Again and again, with his adrenaline pumping and keeping him far warmer than should have been possible, Alexi put everything he had into breaking down the door. Then finally it came clambering down, with Alexi on top of it, kicking up a ton of dust in its wake. Immediately he broke into a rather nasty fit of coughing, which ultimately caused tears to form in his eyes, but his excitement was too great for him to stop and recover. Still coughing, and waving the dust from the air directly in front of him, the man stepped further into the hangar. To his dismay, light was streaming in through the roof, having partially collapsed. It rested on the vertical stabilizers of a dark grey plane just like those he had read about in history class. The light filtered through the dust, which began to settle, and soon he could see the outline of the beast. A huge grin appeared on his face and he was unable to stop himself from moving forwards. It was, even with the damage done to the aft end of it, the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. He'd have to have it restored, but it would be worth everything he put into it. Even now, covered with a thick layer of dust and missing parts that had deteriorated over the years, Alexi couldn't help the childish excitement from welling up inside. How many of these existed in the world was anyone's guess, but he figured it couldn't be many. Now, one of them was his. Walking up to it, he pulled a glove from his hand and ran his fingers along the cold, dust covered metal. Making his way to where the [...]pit was, he took his index finger and wrote his name as high as he could reach in the dust under the front seat, just below the name of the last known pilot, Salvatore. Later, that name would become permanent, but for now, this was enough. Star City, Moscow, Former Russian Republic, October 21st, 2308 Like his grandfather, who had gotten the gift of his lifetime on his birthday, Mikhail Nicholotti would also be getting the gift of his lifetime on his special day. Though he was only ten, when his grandfather was twenty one, the plane remained the same. Sitting in a place of pride within the hangar in Star City, where the cosmonauts of old used to train, the American fighter had been restored and brought completely back to its former state of glory. It was always with pride that Alexi brought his grandson with him to see the amazing machine, but today it was going to be different. Today, Mikhail would become just as addicted to the freedom of flight as his grandfather was. For now, the young Mikhail knew nothing of what was to come. With one hand gripping the gloved hand of his grandfather, he followed the path they often took to the hangar, and deserted airfield, to where the pride of the family was housed. Many hours were spent in that hangar, playing with old altimeters, radios from a time before subspace communication, and toys from another era in time. As most days, the young boy found himself planning a mission to take, never realizing what was coming would change his life forever. Before they realized it, the pair reached the hangar and stepped inside. There, where it was warm, the elder man removed their jackets and gloves and hung them near a small office in the back. Taking his grandson's hand, he led him to the back where he presented a small flight suit. It was with a joyous response that the boy took it and donned it, never realizing that today he would not be flying on the ground. But, ready to fly from his [...]pit in the corner of the room, it wasn't until Alexi took him and led him up the ladder, strapping him into the rear seat of the plane, that things finally started to click in his little mind. And that was all it took for Mikhail Nicholotti Sr. to be completely hooked on the magic of flight. The years that followed were filled with hours spent between home and the hangar. As the boy grew into a man, the plane was passed from grandfather to grandson, who maintained her in pristine condition and never lost the love for flight. He grew, joined the Starfleet Marines, went off to war, and returned, but never lost the passion for the ancient machine that sat in the darkness of the beloved hangar. He grew up, and had a son of his own, living proof that you were never too old for adrenaline, but it was a lesson that his son never followed. No, it wasn't until that son grew and had children of his own that Mikhail found a channel for his passion, and a home for his beloved plane. Starfleet Medical Asia Region Headquarters, Tokyo, Japan, Stardate 236012.29 The early hours of the morning were slipping away as Mikhail Junior and Senior sat silently looking down into the eyes of the newborn child. Unlike some children, namely her older brother who was at home sleeping, this child didn't cry. Instead, her blue-grey eyes searched the world around her inquisitively in a way that left the men to look on with amazement of their own. A few feet away, her mother slept, after a difficult morning of labor, as everything else around them lay still. And for a time, everything seemed right with the world. Grasping the older man's finger with a seemingly otherworldly grip, the child met his eyes with her own and a connection was made. The elder Mikhail smiled down knowingly as the younger one looked on with already growing disapproval. "You are not even thinking of teaching her to fly that deathtrap," he glared at the older man as he spoke. In response, the older man just smirked and mumbled in the heavy Russian accent. "Oh no, of course not." But they both knew it was hopeless from that moment on. Tokyo Airfield, Japan, Stardate 238912.29 It's been thirty years since my grandfather first knew that I would follow him into the sky. It's been seven years since he left me. I miss him daily, but I know that he's up there. The sky is where I first learned of the concept of freedom, and of the endless nature of what 'out there' really was. Tonight, I plan to find him up there too. Alone, I will spend my thirtieth birthday with the man who changed everything. He made me, molded me into what I am today. His morality, and stern reactions to when I made bad choices, and his willingness to lead by example showed me this path that had led me to Captaincy. I can't help but look out and up, into the dark night sky, as I run my fingers knowingly across the slightly raised paint where the names of the pilots of this plane rest in immortal glory. Though it is dark, I already know what they say. John 'Boomer' Alexander Salvatore 'Flipside' Nicholotti Alexi 'Screecher' Nicholotti Mikhail 'Hawk' Nicholotti Kalianna 'Viper' Nicholotti And perhaps one day, I will be able to add one more. But for now, it's time to go. For now, I have a date with the speed of sound and the empty airspace over Tokyo. -- Captain Kalianna Arashi Nicholotti Commanding Officer Starbase 118/USS Victory

Hello! Welcome to the November/December round of the Writing Challenge! Please read this post carefully for new guidelines on entering your submissions! Following in challenge traditions, the November/December round uses a "What if?" theme as inspiration for entries. Joining us on the judging panel for this round is the November/December winner, Lieutenant Jaxon Mc Ghee, who has decided on the following topic for this round: "What if Earth had been destroyed in 2387 instead of Romulus?" There should be plenty there to get your creative juices flowing - what would happen to the Federation? Would they relocate HQ? And how would other galactic powers react? Maybe your entry could focus on something on a much smaller scale, such as the response of someone far away? Guidelines: To participate, create a new thread. The subject of the thread must be the title of your story, preceded by the tag [2011: NOV/DEC], which is a requirement for entries that will be used when we archive the entries at the end of the round. If it is a Work In Progress, denote that at the top of the post itself (in the body text, not in the thread title). As with last round it will be the final draft posted in your topic that will be read and taken into consideration. Any unfinished entries marked as Work In Progress will not be considered for judging and will be moved to the "Character Cafe" forum at the end of the contest. Your work must be entirely your own. No co-authoring. You are welcome to create any character you so desire, but they must be from the Star Trek universe. No "canon" characters allowed. (i.e.- No one who has been on a show.) Also, and this is a new requirement, please sign your final draft as you would a post on your own ship. Length: No more than 3000 words accepted. Beginning Date: Wednesday, November 9th Ending Date: Saturday, December 31st See Also: the Writing Challenge Website Challenge: “What if Earth had been destroyed in 2387 instead of Romulus?” Good luck everyone!

CSO Sullivan was enjoying a nice dream where he was at a restaurant with friends, and a semi-clad betazoid woman was dancing around the table, when he was awoken by someone violently shaking him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, and saw Chryssila the 1st officer kneeling by his bed and sobbing like she had just lost her favorite doll. She often tended to be overly dramatic, and he was used to it. After all they had been dating in secret for almost 2 years. He quickly swung his legs off his rack, huddled next to her and whispered "What's Wrong?" She couldnt stop crying, but she got a few words out. "Earth....Impossible...Mom, and Dad...." "What is it?" he took the blanket from behind him and draped it over her. "Did you have a bad dream Chrys?" She threw the blanket off and hurried to Sullivan's computer terminal. "Just....Just watch Sully. It's so terrible." He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. "What am I supposed to watch Chrys.... is it a new...." That's as far as he got. On the screen was a looped display of Earth, and then the actually eradication of it....it ran over and over like a bad dream "Is this real Chrys?" Still sobbing she said "Yeah.....yeah and my Mom. My Daddy....." her crying cut off whatever else she might have said. Sullivan watched the screen, and with each loop he hugged Chrys closer. Then he too shed a tear. His son was still stationed on earth, and scheduled to join his ships crew as a Cadet next month. He began kissing her head. And in between kisses he whispered "I promise you Chrys. Whoever did this will pay" Cadet Logan Kane Security - Academy

History Repeating "Those that fail to learn from history, are doomed to repeat it" Winston Churchill Myra hefted her hoe at the frozen ground, trying to break it apart to get at the valuable roots beneath. It was hard work for a woman of her age, though. Last night had been the first frost of the year and the fields around their village glittered white under the weak sunlight. Winter’s Breath they called it. Pretty soon the snows would come and then the colony would have to rely on the food they’d had stored. At least until the supply ship arrived. Myra shivered a little at the thought - space ships always brought back unpleasant thoughts, nightmares from her childhood, of that mad scramble from the sol system. She tucked a lock of grey hair back behind her ear as she looked up into the bright sky and stretched her aching back - those memories were seventy years old now, and yet still they haunted her. With a sigh, she raised her tool without much enthusiasm. * * * Everything was red. That’s what she remembered most clearly, the red lights and the constant noise - of alarms, of machinery, of people. Of panic. Her mother was terrified, crying almost, as they crammed into the shuttles to evacuate Jupiter Station. Myra couldn’t remember why they’d been there and not on Mars, some sort of conference her mother had been attending maybe. But she was glad they were - the view screens as they ran through the station were showing pictures of Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars being ripped apart by the flames of Sol’s supernova. She hoped her father was alright. They were flying now, out in space, she was pressed against a bulkhead in the cargo bay, so many people were packed in here it was hard to breathe. She could still see one of the screens, though, and the images of ships being engulfed by the expanding ball of fire as they tried to flee. And then it was their turn, the voices around her turning to shrill screams as the bulkheads melted away, Myra’s mother burned in front of her and she was torn between the incredible heat of the star and the deathly ice of vacuum. Everything was red… Myra awoke, gasping. The old dream again. She wrapped a shawl around her thin shoulders and walked from her bed to the window. The landscape outside glowed under the light of the two moons. Snow had been falling for about a week now and the supply ship was already overdue, something which Isaac had been moaning about for days much to the annoyance of the rest of the colonists. She poured herself a glass of cold water and sipped it as she returned to bed although she hoped she wouldn’t return to sleep after the nightmare. They’d survived, of course. Their shuttle and most of those who had evacuated at the same time had managed to get to warp before the supernova destroyed Jupiter. They’d never heard any news of her father, though - he’d been at Utopia Planetia, just one name amongst billions. Myra lay down and pulled the covers up to fight off the chill. Seventy years. So much had changed. Slowly, reluctantly, she fell asleep. * * * “They’re not coming! They’ve left us all to starve to death, if we don’t freeze first.” Isaac’s voice boomed around the little hall causing a flutter of murmured conversations to start up. “Yes, thank you Isaac. I think we’re all aware of your view on the matter.” Ansell waved the younger man back to his seat. “The supply ship has been erratic these last few years, it’s true, but the Bolians have never let us down before. They always come through.” “What if they can’t?” A voice from the gathered colonists asked. “What if those rumours of civil war were true?” Myra turned to get a better look at the speaker and was surprised to see it was Ivy, the woodcutter’s daughter. “You know what they said last year, Mr Ansell, we all do.” Ivy continued. “It’s chaos out there, the Federation barely exists any more. What little the Cardassians and Romulans haven’t taken is falling apart. I think Isaac could be right, I think they’ve forgotten about us. Maybe not just our colony, but maybe all the humans, everywhere.” This time there were more mutterings of agreement as Ansell gestured for quiet. “I know things have looked bad since Andor broke away, but the Federation is still strong. They wouldn’t deliberately abandon us, I’m sure.” “Perhaps not.” Ivy conceded. “But what if it’s not deliberate? Maybe their resources have run low, too low to supply an isolated colony like ours. Or there’s another war, the Klingons trying to take back a star system or two. In any case, we can’t just assume they’re going to come eventually. We have to make alternate plans.” “Aye,” grumbled Isaac. “I’ve been telling you straight for the past two years the same thing, Ansell. We need to move out, find one of the other settlements and group together. We can’t survive scattered like this.” Ansell looked uncomfortable. He had never been keen on confrontation, Myra reflected. “There’s no need to be hasty…” “Hasty!?” Isaac’s thundered. “We’ve been here for thirty-odd years, man! Myra’s hair was red the last time we had any serious talk of moving the colony, and you want to talk about hasty?” Ivy spoke up again, trying to disperse some of the hostility. “We need time to plan and prepare, don’t we, Mr Isaac? It might be dangerous to move with the winter coming.” Myra sighed. It was always the same, these meetings. Isaac would shout, Ansell would mutter and nothing would change. Although this time Ivy’s interjections were a new element. Perhaps the other members of their community were starting to take sides after all these years. The meeting broke up a few minutes later, with Ansell’s ‘wait-and-see’ approach still in place, albeit hanging by a thread. She let the people drift around her as she cast her thoughts back over the years to another meeting, similar to this one in so many ways. She’d been a teenager when those first cracks had appeared in the unity of the Federation. Her mother had been a diplomat, suddenly thrust up the ranks after the death of so many of her superiors. They’d travelled to Vulcan for the great debate on what should be done, the decision to found numerous small colonies on different planets rather than a new Earth. But the Andorians and the Vulcans had been in conflict even then, the Vulcans content to pick up the pieces while the Andorians warned that their old enemies would take advantage of the Federation’s weakness. It was obvious, in hindsight, but wasn’t everything? Myra sighed again and slowly rose to her feet, starting the slow, careful journey through the snow to her home. * * * Councillor Frith was grinding her teeth and Myra fancied she could hear it even from the viewing gallery. The place was familiar to Myra, as much a memory as it was a dream, but the faces of the various Councillors around the table were faded and indistinct, eroded by time. Only her mother’s features remained clear. There were four figures around the central table and the Andorian woman, Frith, was clearly trying to keep her anger in check as T’vor droned on and on. Myra remembered her eyelids had begun to feel heavy before Frith had slammed her fist down on the table and brought the whole room to attention. “We waste time here, Councillors.” She said. “Finding new homes for the surviving humans is important, yes, but if we do not look to defend our borders they might not have any planets left to house them.” T’vor’s look was condescending. “Do you want us to declare war on the Klingons because they might try to invade a few planets, Frith? It is illogical to assume so - the Klingon Empire has long been our ally and they would not wish to see another conflict. And we only have limited resources as it is.” “I know just how limited they are, T’vor, so don’t try to lecture me. I know how many ships were lost in the Sol system. But those we have left should be guarding our borders, not ferrying homeless humans around the quadrant.” Myra remembered her mother looking sad at this although she said nothing. Everyone knew the humans had all but lost their voice in the Federation now, so few of them remained. “It may be that both of you have a point, Councillors.” Phanale, the Tellarite, cleared his throat. “We need to prioritise which…” “I’ll tell you what’s being prioritised.” Frith cut him off. “The Romulans are deciding which undermanned Starbase they should attack first, and the Cardassians are prioritising which of their old colonies they’d like back.” “Our defences are adequate,” the Vulcan responded. “And we will strengthen them as soon as we have settled the internal issues that face us.” Frith was on her feet now, her voice raised. “You’re not getting it into your Vulcan skull, T’vor. We need to do something to show we are not weak.” “Logically…” “Don’t start with logic! It was Vulcan logic that said Sol wouldn’t go nova for months, your logic that put so many Starfleet ships in that system at the wrong time. Your logic doesn’t have all the answers, you need instinct, and my instinct tells me Andor would be better off looking after her own borders.” Phanale’s attempts to call for calm were drowned out by the angry voices from around the chamber. Myra had remained in her seat, afraid at what was happening around her, watching her mother as she began to cry as the dream faded away. Myra awoke in the darkness again and rubbed her eyes, yawning. Ansell was like the Vulcans, she decided. He wanted to keep everyone together, keep them safe. Laudable aims, to be sure, but sometimes something more had to be done. Isaac was more like the Andorians, desperate for action, any sort of action, rather than standing idly by and hoping for the best. And in the middle poor little Ivy, trying to see both sides of the argument, like the poor little Tellarites, left trying to hold the Federation together. After the destruction of Earth the role of the mediator fell to the Tellarites, and it was a role they were ill-suited for. * * * The sky was clear, the sun shining bright, reflecting from the deep snow with a painful glare. The air was colder than Myra could remember as she wrapped her furs tighter around her thin body, doing her best to ignore the constant gnawing hunger in her belly. The supply ship was two months late now and their supplies all but exhausted. Isaac had taken almost half of their small stores when he had led a group of colonists north to find one of the other settlements. The schism in the village had finally led to a split - those who were willing to weather the storm in the place they knew, and those who would risk it all for a salvation that may or may not exist. And now those who remained were dying. Myra had seen death before many times over the last seventy years, but they had always been fast; the instant annihilation of the nova which had claimed her father, the burning death of war that had taken both her first and second husband, the horrific poison which had murdered her mother minutes before help could arrive. But this slow, terrible death of her friends was worse than them all. “Myra.” It was Ansell, his normally bright eyes now sunken and dull. “I fear I’ve doomed us all, haven’t I?” Myra smiled as best she could. “We had the choice, Ansell, to stay or go. And we chose to remain.” “But if I’d persuaded Isaac to stay, if we’d remained united, we’d have stood a better chance. “I can’t argue with you there.” She shook her head. “But you were doing what you thought was right.” “I should have compromised with him, I realise that now. I’m too stubborn for my own good. And now we‘re all suffering for it.” He sighed, his breath streaming out in the cold air. “You shouldn’t be out here, Myra, at your age. Let’s get you into the warmth.” Myra acquiesced but before they had gone more than a couple of paces a shout from Ivy made them turn around. “A ship! I see a ship! It‘s coming this way!” Myra and Ansell exchanged a look. “Could it be?” Ansell’s expression see-sawed between hopeful and incredulous. By now others were pointing and shouting but it was another minute before Myra’s eyes could pick out the dark shape descending from the atmosphere. “That ship…” Her voice was hesitant, images from old dreams were surfacing at the back of her memory. “I’ve seen ones like it before.” “Well of course you have, Myra.” Ansell chuckled. “They come every year.” “No, not this one.” The ship was lower now, green metal landing struts starting to unfold like insect legs. Other colonists were starting to mutter as a sense of unease grew. “It’s not a Federation ship.” She turned to Ansell, her eyes wide. “It’s Romulan!” Several of the humans screamed and fled in panic as the ship settled between the houses. Myra felt Ansell take her hand as they watched. They knew there was no point in running as there was nowhere to run to. “It’s over, then.” She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Maybe we would have been better leaving with Isaac. Perhaps we would have stood a fighting chance.” “No.” Myra disagreed, shaking her head. “No more fighting.” A ramp descended from the ship and armed Romulans spread out, rounding up the settlers. Myra heard the sound of shooting. An officer of some kind emerged from the ship, the sunlight glinting off the polished medals pinned to his uniform. He raised his voice to shout. “Terrans, this planet has been claimed by the Romulan Star Empire. You are now subjects of Imperial rule.” His smile was as cold as the ice which surrounded them. “Remain where you are for processing…” Lt Sinda Essen Chief Tactical Officer USS Drake

Starbase 139 2387 Velana had forgotten what sleep felt like. After only five days, sleep seemed like luxury that no one could afford any more. She had taken to closing her eyes for ten or twenty minutes whenever she could, and calling that sleep when someone asked if she had gotten any. How could she sleep? Even those stolen seconds of rest were interrupted by the voices, the moans, the screams...the never-ending sound of suffering that permeated the station's overcrowded hospital. “Doctor! Over here!” “She's losing too much blood! We need a doctor!” “Another shuttle just arrived. Eighteen injured, four dead on arrival.” “Please, Doctor....I don't want to die. Please...” There was a master list of the dead, but Velana only added names to it. She had yet to look anyone up, not even her mother. Ignorance was more than just bliss, it was a coping mechanism that enabled her to keep going through the next surgery, the next loss, the next orphaned child asking for their mother. She couldn't afford to lose the emotional control that the traumatized Humans expected her to display. When her patients saw Velana's ears, they almost seemed relieved, as if they at least knew that they were in good hands with a Vulcan who couldn't possibly have been affected by the loss of Earth. It wasn't their fault. They couldn't know that Earth was...had been...the only home Velana had left, or that its destruction was a wound that cut her just as deeply. She was just as homeless as they were. In the first few days, her job had been simple. Save lives. There had been so little time to evacuate the planet; many of the shuttles that had left the system had been caught in the shock wave that followed. Huge, hurtling chunks of debris had taken out more than a few ships, as well. The injuries ranged from full-body plasma burns and amputated limbs to torn ligaments and mild concussions. The starbases nearest to what was left of the Sol system had become refugee camps where doctors, even cadets like Velana, were worth their weight in gold-pressed latinum. Now that the trickle of incoming patients had died down somewhat, Velana's job had expanded to include inventory and crowd control. Everyone had questions. No one had any answers. Shock and grief were giving way to anger and frustration. Human nature, she supposed. “Velana.” She heard her name called out across Sickbay so many times every day that she didn't bother looking up from her PADD. Whoever it was, they could wait until she had finished calculating how much dermaline gel was left. The station was starting to ration its energy resources, and even Sickbay no longer had a free pass to replicate whatever they needed. “Vee.” Velana lifted her head. Hearing her nickname, spoken by that voice, was enough to tear her away from her work. Her stomach twisted; her heart leaped into her throat. It had been three years since their last night together. Three long, painful years without the Human she had foolishly assumed was her mate. The man who had dumped her on graduation night, after wining and dining and bedding her one last time. “You're alive.” Cade shook his head. She wasn't certain, but there might have been tears in his eyes. “I hoped...but I didn't want to look and see...” He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing above the collar of his uniform. “Oh god, baby, you are a sight for sore eyes!” As much as she wanted to turn and walk away from him, Velana couldn't keep from taking a step forward. “What are you doing here?” “Reassigned to the station. Temporarily, so they say.” She nodded slightly. “Your family?” “They're fine.” He smiled tightly. “Mom had them off-planet as soon as the temperature spiked.” A shadow crossed his face. “How's T'Lan?” Velana's chin trembled at the mention of her mother, but she managed to reply, “I don't know.” Cade moved forward, closing the space between them. Before she could stop him, he drew her against his chest. She was too exhausted to protest and too tired of missing him to pull away. Instead, she let herself lean into the solidity of his body. His arms circled her. Surrounded by his warmth and his scent, Velana let herself shed the first tears she'd spent since the supernova. “Doctor! I need a doctor over here!” Snapping back to reality, Velana looked up at Cade. “I have to go.” But it was another second before she could tear herself away from him. “When do you get a break?” Cade asked as she started towards the nurse who had called for her. “Break?” she repeated. “I don't think so.” “1900 hours. The Promenade Lounge.” He gave her a smile which was still just as disarming as it had always been. “You have to eat, Vee.” Shaking her head, Velana gave in. Anything to make him go away. “Fine. 1900 hours.” Her attention was already back where it belonged, not on the man who had broken her heart, but on her patient, a woman who had just gone into labor seven weeks early. **** Even if she hadn't lost her entire wardrobe, Velana wouldn't have dressed up for dinner. The only reason she was even able to go was because her patient's premature baby had been delivered with far more ease than she had feared. There was a tiny new Human in the world, a hope-filled sign that the species would continue, perhaps even thrive, despite their crippling loss. Cade was waiting for her when she walked into the lounge in one of the few outfits she possessed, a simple black dress that she'd purchased from on the promenade half a hour earlier. He'd already ordered a drink for her, an annoying habit that she hadn't missed. He stood as she approached the table and pulled out her chair for her. “I almost convinced myself that you weren't coming,” Cade confessed as Velana sat down. “Really? That shows an uncharacteristic lack of belief in your own charisma.” Velana gestured to the flute of Talaxian champagne in front of her. “Please tell me we're not celebrating something.” “No. I just remembered that you liked it.” He paused as he lowered himself into his seat. “You do still like it, don't you?” She picked up the glass and took a sip. “Yes,” she decided. Cade watched her as she set the glass down again. “What is it?” “You're different, Vee.” “It's been three years, Cade.” “I realize that. I just...” He shook his head. “I don't know. I was expecting...” “The same woman you left in that hotel bed?” Sitting back in her chair, Velana folded her arms. “Are we really going to have this conversation?” A moment passed in silence. “I didn't think so.” Cade lifted his own drink, but put it down almost immediately. “I regret that night, you know. Not being with you, but what I said...what I did. I have regretted it every single day since.” “It doesn't matter now,” Velana murmured a moment later. “That hotel doesn't even exist anymore.” “Yeah.” He drained his glass with distant, haunted look in his eyes. “Everything's gone. My home...is gone. I wasn't even there, Vee.” She lifted her bare shoulder. “You're better off for that.” “Is this what you felt? When your family's ship was destroyed...did you feel this?” Cade pressed his palm to the center of his chest. “This ache? It's not going away; it's just getting worse.” “It won't ever go away.” Cade frowned. “Your Vulcan is showing.” “Would you rather I lie?” Velana leaned forward. “You can learn to live with the pain, but it never disappears, Cade. One day, you'll be reminded of Earth, and it will feel like the supernova happened only the day before.” She paused. “Some wounds never heal.” “Did I...?” Knowing better than to ask, he stopped. “I'm sorry.” Uncrossing her legs, Velana stood up. “Thank you for the drink, but I should get back to Sickbay.” “Vee.” She was already walking away when Cade called out, “Vee, wait!” On the promenade, she tried to lose herself in the crowd, but when she reached the turbolifts, Cade caught up with her. Reaching out, he grasped her arm. “Please, Vee. Don't...” “What are you doing, Cade?” she yelled, pushing his hand away. Her emotions had been simmering for days, but now they boiled over. At least they were directed at someone who deserved them. “What do you want?” “I don't want anything!” he insisted. “All right, that's not true. I wanted to see you. I needed to see you.” He pushed his hands through his hair. “You know, I didn't even think about my family when I heard that Earth was...gone. I thought about you. I was so terrified...that you were gone, too.” “You didn't want me,” she reminded him. “You didn't want us. All you wanted was to captain a starship. That could still happen. Starfleet is bigger than Earth. I think I even heard that Vulcan was being considered as a new base of operations.” Cade opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Nothing has changed, Cade. At least not between us.” The lift doors opened and Velana stepped inside. “Deck Five.” She avoided looking at him for the agonizing seconds it took the doors to close, but at the last possible moment, Cade followed her into the lift. Velana scowled. “Look, I realize that no woman has ever turned you down before, but...” Cade cut her off. “You are not some conquest to me, Velana. You never were.” “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that.” “I just lost the only place I've ever called home and...” “Yet, here you are, trying to rekindle something you extinguished a long time ago!” she shouted. “Of course, it's easy for you, isn't it? To think about yourself, what you want right now. Your family is still alive; you haven't lost someone that you...” He spoke so quietly that Velana almost didn't hear him. “They're gone.” Her chest rose and fell with unspent energy. “What?” Cade cleared his throat. “My family. They're dead.” She closed her eyes briefly, trying to process his words. “But you said...” “I lied. They didn't make it out.” When she looked at him, he sniffed and tried to smile. “Am I too old to call myself an orphan?” “Oh, Cade...” Against her better judgment, Velana reached for him, cupping his face between her hands. “You should have told me.” “I haven't said it out loud until now,” he admitted. “My family is...is dead. I made you, the only woman I've ever loved, hate me.” When he lowered his gaze, tears spilled down his cheeks and over her fingers. “I'm all alone.” “If I hated you,” she whispered, “I wouldn't still be mad at you.” Velana brushed her thumb across his full bottom lip. “And you're not alone. We're not alone.” She wasn't sure if he leaned forward first or if it was her, but their mouths met in a salty kiss. What started out soft and sweet quickly turned deep and needy. When the lift doors opened, they stumbled out into the corridor, unwilling to lose contact as they made their way to Velana's quarters. **** After six hours of dreamless sleep, Velana woke to the scent of coffee. Sitting up in bed, she searched the room until she found Cade, awake and dressed, walking back from the replicator with a mug in his hands. “Cream, no sugar.” He offered her the cup which she hesitantly took. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Cade, the great womanizer of Starfleet Academy, seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Velana hid her smile behind her drink as she took a sip. “I was hoping you'd wake up before I had to leave.” “I would have understood,” she told him. “Duty calls. Actually...” Velana set the mug aside. “I didn't expect you to say the night.” He frowned. “Did you want me to go after...?” “No!” A greenish blush stained her cheeks. “That's not what I meant. I just thought that...” “That history would repeat itself?” Cade leaned forward and kissed her. “Velana, as long as you want me, I will be here.” She looked down at the sheet covering her lap. “Be careful. I'll start to believe you.” “You're my home now.” He shook his head. “Maybe you always were.” Velana dragged her lip between her teeth. “I can't replace your family, Cade, or your planet. If you expect me to be your new home, then this will never...” He kissed her again, longer this time. “While you were sleeping,” he said a minute later, “I did something that I hope you'll forgive me for.” At her puzzled look, Cade continued, “I checked the casualty list.” Suddenly cold, Velana drew back. “Why would you...? I didn't ask you to do that!” “She's alive, Vee. Your mother...she made it!” Her back curved under the weight of her relief. She wasn't aware of her sobs; all she felt was Cade's hands stroking her hair, and all she heard was her own voice thanking him. When her emotions were spent, Velana slowly sat up. “Where is she?” “Vulcan.” A chuckle escaped her, followed by a full peal of laughter. “Vulcan?” she repeated. “Of all places. Vulcan.” “Maybe she'll stay there.” Cade hesitated. “Would you join her if she did?” “No.” She glanced away. “Starfleet can resettle there, but I never will.” “Where will you go?” Velana turned back to him. “Where are you going?” Cade smiled as he touched her pointed ear. “I'm not going anywhere.” “Then...” She captured his hand and laced her fingers through his. “I suppose we're not homeless anymore.” LtJG Velana Assistant Chief Medical Officer USS Tiger-A

Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s probably more than what I’m doing. Me, well, this is all that’s left. A scorched black box. An isoinear chip found in the rubble from a matter-antimatter explosion. Bits of data. Ones and zeros. But don’t feel bad for me. Your cells will stop converting ATP into ADP too. The self sustained reaction of your life will come to an end just like mine. But more than tangible stuff--binary data, more than a chemical reaction. I’ve become something more, something intangible--a story that will go on and on. You may be breathing, but unless you’ve defeated the Borg, or discovered a stable worm hole, I’ll out live you in the stories that will be told about me. First things first. I’m not crazy. Just because the authorities have found I have connections to “conspiracy theory” groups--people considered paranoid and delusional--don’t go putting me in a box with the likes of them. All I ask is that you hear me out. Where to start? Well, like the billions of people that died when Earth was destroyed that day in 2387 my life ended. But not in literal sense. Life as I knew it would never be the same. When Sirius-A went supernova. When that shock wave turned Earth into a cloud of dust spread across half a light-year. When everything I cared about--my family, my home, my girl, my frakking dog--when they all got reduced to their basic elements. Blobs of protons, neutrons, and electrons. That’s the day I died. When you’ve got nothing to live for, you’ve got everything to die for. Those “conspiracy theory” groups, I’ll admit lots of what they claim is far fetched. Stuff like the top brass of Star Fleet being replaced by Changelings, or Vulcans working with the Klingons to eliminate the Romulans is pretty absurd. But what they have to say about Sirius NOT being some freak of physics, that the Romulans had something to do with it going nova, they’ve got some solid data to back up their claims. Rewind back to why I’m not space dust. I had just signed up to join Star Fleet, and a couple buddies of mine decided that we should go on one last hurrah before we entered the Academy. It was a trip to Risa full of booze and debauchery, kinda like spring break on Earth but on steroids. You know it’s a good time when the only memories you have are the ones you have on your holo-camera. They were the last good memories I’d ever make. On the journey back is when we got the news. You know that feeling you get when it feels like your heart is trying to jump out of your mouth? The way your chest tightens, and you breath the way they teach you in Lamaze class. Short, forceful breaths. Colors fade away, it feels like an overcast day even in the artificial light of a ships cabin. Your knees buckle and at the same time it feels like someones messing with the artificial gravity. That’s the way it felt when you realized that nothing would ever be the same again. Jump forward to me graduating from the academy on Vulcan. Talk about a poop hole of a planet. I’m sitting in a bar with those same buddies I heard the grim news with. We’re freshly graduated Ensigns on a poor excuse of a planet doing the only thing we can find to do. Drink. That brings us to Joe, he’s this burley, stupid strong, kind of guy. With his finger-tip length brown hair, and forearms the size of my calves you wouldn't want to get in a fight with this guy. The thing about Joe was that you’d never accuse him of being all that bright. “I’m going to kill me some Romulans,” Joe says. His words are slurred, and his breath is a flame hazard. Another thing about Joe is that he says dumb things all the time, like the time he thought a ballad was a male duck. And even though you’d never expect Joe to be the sharpest tool in the shed, you never knew him to lie. Claims he made tended to be true. “What are you talking about?” I say. “The Romulans,” Joe says even slower, “I’m going to kill them.” “I got that part. But, why?” The rest of my buddies, they’re playing pool with some Bajoran hottie and her two ugly friends. One of them is getting lucky tonight, and the other two are taking one for the team. Joe, he turns his head and squares me up with his dominant eye like he’s aiming a phaser at my face. “Because they’re the ones that caused the nova.” You’ve got to remember that up until this time all I’ve ever heard about the nova was that it was some freak of physics. A star that was supposed to die an unspectacular death--becoming a white dwarf--ended up going nova wiping out the Sol system and everything I ever cared about. Remember how for months after the nova all you ever heard was that it was something scientist couldn't explain. That there were never any reports on how the nova was really an artificial event. Not one word of intent. Just mother nature on PMS. Unpredictable and crazy. Reaching my hand out, I take Joe’s beer, “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” I say. “I’m serious,” Joe says, “I’ve seen the evidence myself.” Snatching his beer back from me, he takes another swig. “Back when I took astrometrics lab I pulled up the records from the months leading up to the nova. I found tachyon trails. And I matched them to tachyon signatures of Romulan cloaking devices.” “That doesn’t mean they caused the nova.” I say. “It just means they were around, I’m sure the Romulans are always snooping around and Star Fleet is keeping tabs on them.” Remember, I’m not crazy. Just because I’m listening to the ramblings of a drunk Grizzly Bear, doesn’t mean I believe what he’s saying. In fact, I tried to convince him that he was the crazy one. Shaking his finger at me, Joe puts down his beer, and widens his eyes. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “So I saved my data separate from the academy's computers and told my professor what I had found. He said that it was ‘interesting’ and that he’d ‘look into it’.” Taking another swig of his beer, Joe continues. “Bull! After I told my professor, the next week in class, I tried pulling up the same data file I had before and they were replaced. The tachyon trails were gone.” “You probably just stumbled across some classified data,” I argue. “It doesn’t mean the Romulans did anything.” Finishing off his beer, Joe slams it down on the counter top, and slides it away from us towards the bar keep. “Remember that one girl you bonked in Comm 310?” Joe asks. “Not the red head with the bubble butt, it was the blonde with the big ta-tas.” Okay. I’ve got a confession to make. I might be what you consider a sexaholic. I wasn’t always this way. In fact, before my life ended I was what you considered to be a good guy. I was loyal to my girl. I bought her flowers, Gerber Daises--they were her favorite--just because. I listened when she talked, and even sold my hover-cycle to buy her a ring. But after the nova, the day she died, I died too. Since then, I feel like I’ve been doing a horrible impersonation of myself. I quit caring about being a good guy. Because when you’ve got nothing to live for, you’ve got everything to die for. Plus, the girls in Comm 310, you could never accuse them of being prude. “Yeah,” I lie. There were at least three blondes with big ta-tas in that class that I bonked. “Well her,” Joe nods, he’s grinning at me, “I remember in the Comm 310 lab, we were analyzing old comm logs. And she unscrambled a Romulan signal. It was all esoteric, but I remember one word: Manhattan.” Yes, you heard right. ‘Esoteric’ came out of a gorilla's mouth. I kid you not. This is where things start to become all “conspiracy theory”. You see, on Earth, back in the days when they thought bombarding themselves with radiation good idea, the first nuclear bomb was created with the code name: Manhattan Project. I promise you, I’m not crazy. Just because I did some digging based off the drunk ramblings from a Sasquatch does not make me crazy. Think of it more as curiosity. The thing is when you start looking into all this conspiracy theory stuff, you find yourself in the company of some shady people, like Ferengi, Nausicaans, and Cardissians. Where ever there’s crime to be committed, there’s always money involved. Because latinum is power, the same way a disruptor is power, the same way big ta-tas are power. In those circles, they’ve been saying that the nova was really an attack from the Romulans on the Federation. They found the same data that Joe found and more. They had some cryptic Romulan communications on something called Green Matter. Needless to say Joe’s information was solid. He was right, Romulans needed to die. Jump back to now. In those shady circles you meet really interesting people. If you ever happen to meet the Ferengi that sells self-sealing stem bolts only in the orbits of uninhabited moons, you probably met the man that sold me this Cardissian missile. It’s supposed to be this unstoppable, self-guided missile, complete with defensive weaponry and 1,000 kilograms of matter and antimatter. The reason why you hear all that beeping, well that’s me flying this “self-guided” missile. Apparently you can make a lot of latinum just off of the computer from this thing. It’s okay, though. I’m a lot more entertaining than some Cardissian computer. A lot more dedicated too. I’m going to get my job done. I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much. No matter, I’m a bit of a masochist, and that’s a valuable job skill. Remember, I’m not crazy. Just because I’m flying a missile at the capital of Romulus doesn’t make me a nut. Revenge comes in many forms; some people get even, others escalate, and I, well I end things. Okay, I won’t be able to talk now. I’m taking a lot of heavy fire from a couple of Romulan Warbirds. I have to concentrate now. Remember, I’m not crazy. When you’ve got nothing to live for, you’ve got everything to die for. My name is Jonas. And this is the day that I died. ============================== Ensign Cameron Bunag Science Officer Duronis II Embassy USS Thunder

((Bridge, USS Indomitable NCC-2394, Stardate 238705.20, T-minus 40 hours)) The deck panel popped open and Andrew Savage and his repair team climbed onto the ships bridge. All was dark, lit only by their flashlights. The former Starfleet Commander directed his team to get all of the bridge consoles up and running. Deep in the bowels of the old Furious class cruiser other teams were working feverishly to get the engines refueled and restarted. They had less than 2 days before the subspace shockwave from the supernova destroyed Earth. Earth was in chaos. Most available ships were already gone, leaving billions behind. Savage and several of the citizens of North Judson, Indiana took it in their own hands to save their families. They had hijacked a transporter and beamed aboard one of the few ships still in orbit, a ship on display in the Fleet Museum, one that had last seen service in 2319. It was old, outdated, and slow. But it had only seen 23 years of service before it had been decommissioned early, so it was their best bet at escape. The lights flickered on. Savage reached for his civilian issue communicator. “Good job on the lights, Mikaela.” The voice coming back carried the slight southern accent common of Judsonites, a holdover from their common Tennessee ancestors. “Yeah, it wasn’t too hard. Starfleet maintains these ships for just-in-case situations. The impulse generators are fueled up and ready to go, we just had to hack their control interfaces. We should have the computer up in an hour or so” replied Mikaela Jones, a former engineer Savage knew from his days in the fleet. “What about the warp drive?” There was a pause on the channel. “That’s going to be trickier. It’s an old design, one I’m not familiar with. It’ll take us the better part of the day to get it ready to restart…” Savage didn’t like the way her voice trailed off. “And?” “We don’t have any antimatter” was Jones reply. A few curses escaped Savages lips. They wouldn’t be fast enough to outrun the wavefront without warp speed. “If you’ve got any suggestions I’m open.” Jones’ answer was not one he liked. “We have impulse, and I can get some of this hulks phasers back online pretty quick… There’s a small antimatter storage station orbiting the moon.” All of the people on the bridge looked up at this. “We can raid it” Jones finished. The weight of this suggestion weighed heavily on Savage. He was the most experienced person involved in the escape plan, so they all looked to him to take the lead. It was a horrible thought, to turn pirate like that, but without antimatter they, and all of their families, were dead. And it wasn’t like they’d face opposition. Starfleet had already left the planet, taking as many civilians as they could carry… “Do it. We’ll have the bridge up and running by the time you’re ready. Savage out.” And with that declaration, Andrew Savage rolled up his sleeves and pitched in to make repairs. ((Later, T-minus 32 hours)) “Fire! Take out their shields but do nothing else!” The Indomitable was standing off the antimatter station. The battle was soon over. Even with ancient phasers the ship was still more than a match for the station with minor shielding. A small party beamed over to subdue the stations two man crew, and the refueling process could now take place. It was a slow process, taking a full two hours to refuel the ship. The crew kept working at repairs. They essentially had to reassemble the structural integrity generator; without that critical component the ship would be ripped apart by warp flight. The bridges lift door opened with a loud K-THUNK. Savage turns the command chair to see some of the boarding party step on the bridge with two others, the stations crew. Jellison, a short, squat man with a huge beard, spoke directly to Savage. “These two want to join us.” The taller of the two strangers spoke up. “I’m Steven McEllison, this is Lisa Tillison, and we don’t wanna die when that wave hits. We’re both engineers by trade, we can be a big help.” “You’re right,” Savage replied, “And we’re not going to leave you behind to die. Mikaela Jones is our chief engineer, go down and see how you can lend a hand.” As the two leave the bridge, Savage turns to the teenager at the helm. “Mikey, take us back to Earth orbit, we need to start beaming up our families and supplies. We’ve got just over 30 hours to bail out of this place.” ((The next day, T-minus 10 hours)) The Indomitable was nearly full. The ship had been designed to carry 350 people, but in his desire to save as many as possible, Savage had managed to squeeze an extra 25 people onboard. The original teams were exhausted, which was understandable after 30 hours straight making repairs. Now all that hard work was about to come to fruition. Savage sat in the center chair. “Mikey, break orbit and set the best course out of here.” Mike Jones, Mikaelas son, didn’t look up from his controls as he pressed the outdated buttons. “We’re out of orbit, course is laid in, warp 6.5” Mikey replied. “Is that the old scale?” Savage inquired. Now Mikey turned around “Yep, it’s the best we can do. But we’ve got a 10 hour lead, we’ll make it.” ((T-minus 5 minutes)) The bridge was silent, in fact the entire ship was devoid of any speech. Everyone stared at whatever viewscreen they could find. In a few minutes, everything they knew would be gone. The human race would be dwindled to a few million scattered on colonies and in ships across the quadrants. Word had come in a few hours ago that a mission to stop the wave was on its way, but it would still be too late for Earth and the dozens of other worlds already destroyed. Soon, the Federations core worlds would be gone, and without those worlds, anarchy would reign. It was time. A flash of light tore through the image of Earth on the forward viewscreen, scattering debris though space. A shocked silence permeated the ship, followed by a primal scream. It started deep in the ship as one after another of the crew and children released their inner anguish. It seemed to last forever before it became quiet again. A voice at the back of the bridge broke the new silence. “What do we do now?” Savage rises from his seat and takes a few steps forward. “We survive,” he said. The man at the science station turned and looked at Savage. “How?” he asked “Look at this ship! It’s almost 100 years old! The engines are slow, the weapons are underpowered, it doesn’t even have replicators installed!” He slams his fist on his workstation. “This heap doesn’t even have decent sensors or computer! The dang thing runs on duotronic circuitry!” Savage took a deep breath. “I know.” He puts a hand on Mikeys shoulder. “Set a course for Wolf 359.” There were gasps from the observing people. A young woman near the turbolift spoke up timidly. “We can’t do what your suggesting. People died there, protecting us from the Borg.” Savage looked around him. “I know, I know. But we need to salvage parts. Face it folks, we’re going to be in space for a while. With Earth gone, our government is fractured. Starfleet is spread thin enough as it is. That means we’re on our own. We need to salvage as much as we can to bolster our offensive and defensive capabilities. We know there are parts at Wolf 359. And, let’s face it, the dead won’t need them. Mikey, set the course.” ((Interstellar Space, T-plus 5 days)) They were now near the halfway point in their journey to Wolf 359. The Indomitable was now the lead of a small convoy, mostly large transports with a smattering of small privateers. The ships crew had spent the time trying not to think about their loss. Many worked on improving the ships systems to keep their minds occupied. It was this particular pursuit that drew Savage to the ships computer core at Mikaela Jones’ request. “What’s up, Mikaela?” Jones looks up from her project, which appeared to involve several desktop computer consoles. Andrew recognized them; they came from North Judsons high school, where he had spent his retirement teaching math. “Hey Andrew. I’ve got a request for when we go grave robbing. Get me a new computer core.” She points to the hulking computer behind her. “This will never be enough, especially if we salvage better sensors. A new one will also be smaller, so we could squeeze in some more living space.” Savage strokes his beard. “Consider it done. But to replace this one don’t you need to shut it down? We’ll be adrift.” “Yeah, that would be obvious,” Jones smirks, then points to her project “That’s why I’m jury-rigging these into an auxiliary core. It won’t be able to do much, just run life support and impulse speed navigation, but it’ll be enough while we replace the core... I’ve also got plans for upgrading our warp drive.” Savage was taken aback. “That’s ambitious,” he replied “It’ll take us weeks to do that without a shipyard. We’d need to take out the old core and build a whole new mounting structure, and upgrade the entire structural integrity field.” Jones didn’t look up from soldering a wire to one of the computers “We need the speed. Right now it takes us twice as long as it should to get to Wolf 359. We’re sitting ducks for faster ships. Hell, our convoy could out run us; they only stay because we have more guns.” Savage sighed. “You’re right. If you think you can pull it off, you have my support.” With that, he turns and leaves the room. He had a lot of plans to make. ((Wolf 359, T-plus 30 days)) Space suited crew crawled across the hull. Indomitables outdated warp core had been ripped out and replaced with a newer, more compact replacement. Her nacelles and pylons had also been torn off and replaced with parts from the Cheyenne class Ahwahnee, along with the Ahwahnees plasma conduits. Several of the Indomitables phaser turrets had been replaced, and the 6 torpedo tubes had been cut out and replaced with 3 larger, and newer, models. Shuttles had been salvaged, and the ships galley now boasted several fine replicators. Most important had been the upgrades made to Sickbay and to the sensor platforms. The ship now looked odd with her extra long nacelles, but she was faster and stronger than ever before. Savage swiveled in his command chair. He was now wearing his old uniform, and most of the former Starfleet officers were doing the same. Even the ones who had never been in the fleet were being allowed to wear a uniform. It was Savages attempt at re-establishing some level of decorum and familiarity with what they once had. “How far off are they?” Alex, the newly anointed science officer, checked his console, a cobbling together of new and old elements, again. “1 lightyear. It’s a Klingon frigate raiding a small convoy. Five ships, all civilian transports” “Can we go to warp?” Savage asked. Mikey, at the conn, turned his head. “We haven’t shaken it down yet, but we’ve powered it up and gotten stable warp fields out of the new coils. I think we can do it.” “Good,” Savage opened a channel to the transporter rooms “Beam our teams back on board.” He closes the channel. “Mikey, when they’re back, get us to the convoy. We’ll leave the privateers to cover the transports.” The minutes dragged, as first the engineering teams were brought back on board, then as Mikey engaged the new warp engines on an intercept course for the convoy and their attackers. The ride was rough. They clearly needed to re-adjust the inertial dampeners, but the ship held together, and for now it was enough. “Raise shields and power up the weapons,” Savage ordered “Let’s see how these new guns work. The ship dropped out of warp just out of weapons range of the Klingon frigate, which promptly changed their target to the Indomitable. Savage was amazed at how quickly their former allies had turned on what was left of the Federation. The first volley hit the Indomitable and glanced off the new shields. “Fire!” shouted Savage. Phasers lanced outward, followed by a volley of torpedoes. The phasers found their target, but only a few torpedoes did. Clearly, the tubes needed to be re-aligned, but that would have to wait. The battle was fierce. Indomitable took heavy damage, but in the end a lucky phaser beam found a gap in the Klingons shields. The frigate broke in half and tumbled away. “Open a channel,” Savage commanded. A bloody and bruised man appeared on the screen. “Who are you?” the man asked. Savage stood from his command chair. “I’m Andrew Savage, leader of the USS Indomitable. We’re leading a convoy of ships from Earth.” A name popped into his head, a name reflecting the convoys desire to rebuild from the ashes of human civilization. “You can call us the Lazarus Fleet. You’re welcome to join us. I strongly suggest you do, as there’s strength in numbers.” The transport captain regarded Savage with curiosity. “I’m Captain Carpes of the transport Parnell. What’s the plan?” “The short term plan is just to survive. After that… we’ll look for a new home. A new Earth, someplace we can rebuild,” Savage replied. “We’ll accept your offer then,” Carpes replied. With that statement, the Lazarus Fleet grew to 15 ships. Roughly 2100 people were now banded together in the hope of overcoming their loss and rebuilding the human civilization. They didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but each day they would make theirs, and move forward. ((Captains Quarters, USS Indomitable, Stardate 248705.22)) “This was my grandfathers story, told to me just before he died. I’ve retold it here, so that anyone who comes across this memorial will understand why it is here. The fleet wandered for a few years, before they found a suitable planet to colonize. By that time the fleet had grown to nearly 100 ships, carrying thousands of survivors. They named our new homeworld Lazarus, because we also rose from the dead, and we thrived. Exactly 100 years have passed since that terrible day, and for the first time we’ve come back to honor the dead. We continue on in their memory, and we will NEVER forget. Computer, end recording and load it to the memorial.” Andrew Savage III, a dead ringer for his namesake, stood up from his desk and moved out into the corridor. The Indomitable barely resembled her former self, having been upgraded numerous times. Savage made his way up to the bridge, where he took his seat in the command chair, the only thing on the bridge that hadn’t been replaced. “Is the memorial ready?” The tactical officer turned from her station. “Ready, Sir.” Savages voice was calm as he said “Launch it.” A gleaming golden torpedo slipped slowly from one of the forward tubes and drifted toward one of the largest remaining chunks of Earth. It carried many messages from the citizens of Lazarus, including Savages retelling of the last days of Earth. The memorial soft-landed on its target, to stand sentinel for the ghosts of the dead. END Ensign Alucard Vess ACMO Embassy Duronis II USS Thunder NCC-70605