OOC:  Again, I'm sorry if you get this more than once, but I have no bloody=

clue why Yahoo Groups hates my posts!

IC:

<location: sub-orbital transit terminal, Starfleet HQ, San Francisco, Sol I=
II>


The news of Captain Marshall's death and subsequent loss of the Cestus
Three colony to the Gorns hit the mainstream media like a thermonuclear
explosion, as did the assassination of Fleet Admiral Morokov. Immediately, =

every interstellar news network jumped on the stories, and the shock and
outrage resonated through every citizen of the Federation. The images
coming back from the mysterious source in the Cestus system had a ripple
effect as those who saw the news firsthand told their friends and family, a=
nd
those people in turn told their own compatriots. Soon, it was the only item=
  of
conversation on the street, and by the time the news reached Doctor
Cromwell's ears, there was not another soul on Earth that didn't know about=

how Starfleet violated the Metron Treaty and caused the hand-over of a
member planet to a foreign government. The subsequent assassination of a
high-level Starfleet official didn't help the situation.

Shock was an understatement of how Leon felt. Cestus wasn't only his
homeworld and place of birth, it hosted the residence of his immediate fami=
ly,
childhood friends, and virtually everyone he knew before enlisting in Starf=
leet
at age eighteen. When the news came of the catastrophe on the media
networks, he was at his guest domicile checking his overnight messages. His=

immediate reaction caused him to drop his mug of coffee and re-read the
headline a dozen times before the reality sank in. It was about then that a=

communiqué came in from Admiral Krockover. There was no real surprise
when she called with news for the doctor's immediate redeployment to the
Republic.

Leon had very little to pack for his trip, as he had been planetside for no=
  more
than a week, and the Republic, still gridlocked in controversy at the Cestu=
s
system, didn't have time to send his personal freight to Earth. So, as he s=
trode
through Starfleet's transit terminal, he only carried with him a cylindrica=
l
boarding bag slung over his right shoulder, and the usual standard-issue
communicator affixed to his ivory turtleneck sweater. The hastily issued or=
ders
from Krockover were verbal, and she informed him that the Runabout Tigris
was standing by at launch pad 46-A with departure scheduled in less than an=

hour. Fortunately for Leon, he had little time to dwell on the discouraging=

news from his homeworld.

As he arrived at the platform, the doctor took note of the anti-grav carts =
with
associated freight baggage being loading into the runabout's cargo hold. He=

lifted an eyebrow at the parcels, and shot a quizzical glance towards the
attending deck officer who was reviewing the cargo manifest.

"Excuse me," Leon interrupted the man. "This is supposed to be my flight, b=
ut I
didn't have any cargo to be loaded. What is all this stuff?"

For his part, the officer looked away from his PADD with slight vexation at=

being disturbed from his concentration. He considered Leon momentarily
before responding.

"No disrespect intended, sir," the officer started. "But my list shows thre=
e
passengers and a pilot for this flight. What was your name?"

"Doctor Cromwell," Leon grouchily replied, not in the mood for bureaucracy.=


"Oh, yes," the man in operations-gold replied, reviewing his manifest. "You=
're
the civilian contractor. Yes, you're correct. I have no cargo listed for yo=
u. This
freight belongs to a Commander Chen and Lieutenant Roth."

The deck officer blinked with confusion at his PADD.

"Wait . . ." Pressing a few more buttons on his handheld contraption, he
continued. "My mistake...that's Commander Roth and Lieutenant Chen."

"Who in blazes are they?" Leon asked rather perplexed. "I thought I was
supposed to be alone on this flight."

"Nope," the man replied. "I've got those two officers plus a classified
passenger with flag rank in addition to you." Looking around at the
technicians loading the parcels, he absconded from the conversation. "If yo=
u'll
excuse me, sir, I've got work to do."

"Wait a minute!" Leon shot back. "Have these people showed up yet?
Where's the pilot?"

Looking back at him with obvious conceit, the officer replied, "Lieutenant =

Chen is probably in the cockpit." The man, to Leon's dismay, disappeared to=

the other side of the vessel. With an air of impatience, the doctor walked =
up
the ramp and into the main cabin of the runabout.

The interior of the vessel was of standard design, with a spacious passenge=
r
lounge lined with acceleration chairs at the perimeter, and a large dining =

table in the center. To the rear of the chamber, a door led to the sleeping=

compartments and restrooms while access to the control cabin was located to=

the front. The main cabin appeared empty, and Leon concluded that the other=

passengers had not arrived yet.

As the doors slid open, the doctor noted an officer in operations gold at t=
he
controls. Her long jet-black hair floated down her back as she went over th=
e
pre-flight checklist, and since her back was turned to Leon, he politely cl=
eared
his throat to announce his arrival.

"Um, hello?

"Just a moment sweetie I'll be right with you," the officer replied, her vo=
ice a
throaty purr as her fingers danced over the controls "Did you get all my sh=
oes
loaded up yet?"

Leon ground his teeth at this. Shoes?? He was being held up for shoes?
"Excuse me?" He responded, his `Command tone' entering into his voice.

The officer straightened in the pilot's seat, then turned to face the good =
doctor.
Eyes of deep sapphire looked him up and down slowly, framed within a face
of olive green. Leon's eyes grew wide in surprise as her heritage became
evident. An Orion! A green animal woman! Surprised, he almost dropped his
carry case still hanging from it's strap from his shoulder.

The Orion's eyes centered at his throat, taking note his lack of rank insig=
nia.
She realized that this must be the Republic's medical officer as noted on t=
he
passenger manifest. Lowering her head in apology, she turned her chair to
more fully face him.

"My apologies doctor," She purred again, one hand falling down to land ligh=
tly
on top of a grey furry ball resting in her lap, gently scritching it with s=
hort black
nails. "I thought that you were Ensign Morgan, He's supposed to be loading =

the cargo into the Tigris's holding bays." Then she broke out into a wide s=
mile,
her eyes full of mischief. "He didn't seem too happy when I showed up with =
my
luggage."

"You are... Lieutenant Chen--?" Leon finally managed to get out. This could=

almost be a historic event. He then saw the rank pips on her collar. Full
lieutenant. Amazing.

At the Doctor's question the young Orion's eyes flashed with anger, althoug=
h
her expression didn't change. "No. I am Lieutenant CHAN. Lieutenant CO-
Leen CHAN."

Then Coleen broke out into a wide smile, the whitness of her teeth bright
against her olive green hue to show she wasn't really mad. "Most people get=
  it
confused however. Please, feel free to call me Coleen, sweetie."

"Um . . ." The doctor looked behind himself, back towards the main door, as=
  if
half expecting someone to explain to him that he was on the wrong runabout.=

As he looked back at the lieutenant, he had a confused expression. "Is ther=
e...
supposed to be... others onboard? I thought I was supposed to be alone on
this flight."

"You might have been Sugar," the young woman blinked with an innocent
gesture. "But sometimes orders change in Starfleet and we have to adjust. I=

have orders from Admiral Kostya's office to deliver you and two officer's o=
ne of
Flag rank, to the Republic."

"Admiral Kostya?" Leon asked, his face hardening. There was something in
the doctor's expression that indicated recognition, but also concern and
suspicion.

"Yes," Coleen returned. "He'll be joining us on this flight as well as anot=
her
officer named Commander Roth."

A furrow developed in Leon's forehead as he mulled over the information.
"Who's is this Roth person?"

"I'm not sure," Coleen remarked. "I've yet to meet either of them personall=
y
myself. But I'm sure we'll both meet them within the next ten minutes."

"Why the next ten minutes?"

"Because that's when we leave sugar..." Coleen started to say something
else, but turned back to her board as it chirped. Her fingers caressed the =
dark
panel lightly as she smiled again. "It seems as if the rest of our gatherin=
g has
arrived." Moving the furball in her lap into her arms, Coleen then rose
smoothly from her seat, stepping towards the good Doctor, moving more like =
a
dancer than one would think in regulation boots. Kneeling, she deposited th=
e
furball, which turned out to be a gray raccoon, into another chair and poin=
ted
a stern finger at him. "Now you stay here Mister Locksley, and don't play w=
ith
anything that flashes!" she warned.

"Come doctor, let's go meet the admiral." Smiling, Coleen then bounced out =
of
the cockpit.

Leon turned to the side, watching Coleen quizzically as she slid past him i=
nto
the main compartment. Instead of following, he couldn't help but to look ba=
ck
at the odd creature she had placed in the copilot's seat. It stood up on it=
s hind
legs, with it's furry, black-masked face boasting a pair a beady eyes that =
met
the doctors gaze. It chittered at Leon as if saying "Well? Go on!" He took =
one
last uncertain look at the raccoon before leaving the cockpit.

"You have a Raccoon in the cockpit with you?" Leon called after Coleen as h=
e
exited.

"He knows the way better than I do," Coleen called back, "Now hurry up!"

As he re-entered the main cabin, he caught sight of Chan, as well as Admira=
l
Kostya. Next to the Admiral stood a middle-aged woman in command red,
and sporting a commander's rank. Leon assumed that this must be the
mysterious Roth. She carried a small parcel in her left hand that appeared =
to
be a translucent animal cage. It contained a tiny mammal resembling a
kangaroo with long ears and a tuft tail. Wearing an anxious expression, Rot=
h
was stern but quiet as if waiting for the admiral to introduce her.

"Admiral, Commander, it's very nice to meet you." Chan greeted the three
assembled officers, bowing to them with her hands folded before her. "I am =

Lieutenant Coleen Chan, and I will be your pilot for this journey. Please f=
ollow
me and I will show you to where you may secure your baggage." As she
turned and led the officers into the passenger lounge, she continued to spe=
ak
with her eyes holding a look of mischief.

"We will be departing for the Cestus system momentarily, starbase control
reports that local travel conditions are free and clear. If you would care =
to
make yourselves comfortable, we have a very fine green tea and biscuits set=

out, or if any of you prefer a different selection please let me know and I=
'll see
what the replicator has." With that, Coleen opened the secured compartment =

for them in the back of the lounge, then stepped to the side, hands folded =

before her as she tossed her hair back with a flip of her head.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the admiral replied, gesturing to Commander Roth
for her to relinquish her animal cage.

"If I may Admiral Sir..." Chan said as she stepped back up, gesturing towar=
ds
the animal carrier, "A wall safe may not be the most comfortable for the li=
ttle
one. If you like, I can put him back with my own pets." Coleen smiled prett=
ily
as the Admiral thought it over, then took the offered cage from his hands, =

peeking in as the small animal peeked back.

"Charlie is just going to love to meet you lil one," Chan murmured as she
headed towards the back. "You are just so cute!"

"You have more than just the raccoon?" Leon asked Coleen. Although the
veterinary and medical fields merged long ago, the thought of a menagerie i=
n
sickbay during an interspecies viral infection flashed through the doctor's=

head.

Coleen's head peeked back around the corner as she beamed at the good
Doctor.

"You'll see that I'm just full of surprises."

Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Chan sat in the pilot's seat, Mister Locksley=

sitting atop the board and watching her.

"Starfleet control this is Runabout Tigris requesting permission for depart=
ure,
over." Coleen called over the comm panel, readying the maneuvering
thrusters.

=^= "Runabout Tigris this is Starfleet control... Chan, is that you?" =^=

"Yes Troy, it's me. Got a deep space assignment finally, guess you're gonna=

have to find another partner for bridge now."

=^= "What are we ever gonna do without you Lieutenant?" =^=

"I don't know Sugar..." Chan broke out into a wide grin. "Fall asleep on
somebody else's couch? I need to go Troy, have I got permission?"

=^= "Aye Tigris, you have permission to depart. And as it's you behind the =

controls I've cleared a wide path to the spacelanes. Safe journey." =^=

Chan simply rolled her eyes. "Luv you too, sugar. Tigris departing."

With a flare of the thrusters the Runabout rose, heading towards the main
hanger doors. Soon the Tigris was at high warp outside the Sol system
enroute to Cestus Three. Coleen, in her smooth, graceful demeanor, stepped =

out of the cockpit and joined the three other officers in the main cabin af=
ter
setting the autopilot.  After gathering a cup of tea and taking a seat, Adm=
iral
Kostya nodded a silent greeting at her as he cleared his throat to begin
speaking.

"Now that we're underway," he started. "I'm sure you've all got some
questions about the situation we're going into. However, there's a piece of=

business we need to take care of first." Kostya then pushed away from the
table saying, "if you will all stand, please."

Coleen and Leon looked at one another with confusion, but silently
acquiesced to the admiral's request. For her part, Roth appeared nervous as=

she looked to the floor while standing up. She had the expression of
apprehension mixed with anticipation, and silent folded her hands behind he=
r
back as the admiral picked up a PADD from the table and began reading.

"Attention to orders," he announced with a formal, commanding tone. "By
order of Starfleet Command: For her continued demonstration of leadership
abilities and steadfast experience in commanding a starship, Commander
Kimberly Lynn Roth is hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, and effective=

immediately, ordered to take command of the U.S.S. Republic, NCC-76241.
Signed by my hand on this day, stardate 57505.6, in the city of San Francis=
co,
Sol Three. Fleet Admiral Johan Morozov."

Kostya then reached over and pinned a fourth rank pip to Commander Roth's
crimson collar. With a shake of her hand, the admiral added his own words. =

"Congratulations, captain."

Doctor Cromwell was surprised to say the least. He did not expect Marshall =
to
be replaced so soon, let alone by Kostya himself. Bad feelings swirled arou=
nd
in his stomach as he came to terms with all the current dealings as well as=
  his
own anxiety about the Cestus situation. As everyone sat back down, Leon sti=
ll
could not shake the feeling that Marshall might have lived had he remained =

on the Republic.

"I hope," the admiral started again. "That with recent events revealed in t=
he
media, you understand the seriousness of our journey to the Republic and th=
e
reason of its clandestine nature. Therefore, if you have any questions,  I'=
d be
happy to answer them at this time."

"Actually Admiral, I was wondering if I could be briefed as to the current =

security situation at Cestus Three." Chan asked, folding her hands on the
table.

With a slight expression of foreboding, the admiral considered Lieutenant
Chan.

"Not good, I'm afraid," he responded. "I received word from the Federation =

Council just before we departed that they'll be making it public today that=

Cestus Three now belongs to the Gorn Alliance. Apparently, there was a
Starfleet Intelligence outpost operating in the system in violation of the =
Treaty
of Metron."

  Both Lieutenant Chan and Doctor Cromwell were visible disturbed by the
news.

"The Republic," the admiral continued, "was responsible for uncovering the =

operation despite some systemic problems with the ship's computer."

Leon raised an eyebrow with this news, as it was Rear Admiral Krockover
who concluded that the reason for the computer problem was likely Kostya's =

doing. However, the doctor did not want to reveal his contact with Krockove=
r,
as it might spoil any advantage he had in the current situation. Still, he =
could
see no reason why Kostya was returning to the Republic on this trip other
than to deliver the new commanding officer.

"What about the colonists?" Leon asked straightforwardly. It was clear he w=
as
worried about his family.

"They're being evacuated with permission from the Gorn governement,"
Kostya revealed. "There doesn't seem to be much more the Federation can
do other than that. I'm sorry doctor, but our hands are tied. As soon as a =
roster
of evacuees is put together, we can confirm the status of your relatives."

"Well, it seems the best thing we can do now is to simply get to the ship. =

There isn't much we can do from a tactical standpoint for the Republic from=

out here..." With that Coleen rose from her seat. "If you will excuse me...=
"  with
a nod to the senior officers, Coleen then stepped back towards the cockpit,=
  a
dank musty scent following her.

"I've had a long day, myself." Captain Roth spoke for the first time since =

boarding. She then looked at Leon. "It was a pleasure to meet both you and =

Lieutenant Chan. I look forward to working with you both. Since it's a ten =
hour
flight to the Republic, I think I'll retire."

As the young Orion officer returned to her station, and the captain went to=
  the
rear sleeping compartment, Doctor Cromwell remained at the table, as did th=
e
Admiral Kostya. After a moment of silence, the admiral spoke to Leon.

"I suppose you're wondering why you were evacuated from the Republic a
week ago?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, sir." Although Leon knew perfectly well
that he was extracted from the ship due to complications with his father, i=
f he
said so, it could reveal his contact with Krockover. So instead, he looked =
at
the table as if it were another poker night with John and Vic, and pretende=
d
he knew nothing. "With Captain Marshall dead, I can't help but wonder if he=

would have lived had I been there."

"My thoughts exactly," Kostya responded. "If I had any say in the matter, y=
ou
would have stayed on the Republic, Doctor. Unfortunately, there are some
admirals in Starfleet who like to play politics when it come to defending t=
he
Federation's interests."

"So who gave the order to bring me back to Earth?"

"I can't reveal that," said the admiral. "But I will promise that if you st=
ick with
me, I'll make sure they won't pull a stunt like that on you again."

Leon looked Kostya over with stoic eyes. Although he tried to remain as if =
he
was thinking about what the admiral said, the truth was that the doctor was=

working to repress his anger. For he knew all too well that it was Kostya w=
ho
was playing politics, and lives were hanging in the balance. Leon used ever=
y
ounce of subterfuge in his social arsenal to put on a façade of complacency=
.

"Thank you, sir. I'll consider it."

"Good," the admiral replied while standing up from the table. "Captain Roth=

and I have been up since 0300 due to the Morokov assassination, and we
both could use some sleep. I think I'll turn in myself. Good night."

"Have a good sleep, admiral," Leon called after him.

Working to sort out his feelings of anxiety and resentment, Leon remained
staring at the carafe of tea and biscuits. He sat at the table for a very l=
ong time.

  OFF

  Joint post by:

  Lieutenant Coleen Chan
  Chief Tactical Officer
  U.S.S. Republic

  And

  Doctor Leon Cromwell, M.D.
  Chief Medical Officer
  U.S.S. Republic

"What's his status?"

A baritone voice entered Arthur's head as lucidity slowly returned to his mind. 
There
wasn't the luxury of immediate remembrance regarding his disposition.  In fact,
it was
more of a calm awakening, as if the voice that pierced his vale of sleep was an
intrusion
into a peaceful morning.

`Whose status?' Arthur thought, while simultaneously searching his memory for a
voice
that triggered recognition.  Finding none, he dismissed the sound as Janice at
the
communications console talking to one of her friends.  He was about to drift
back off to
sleep before another more feminine voice answered the previous.

"We've healed his wounds, but the coma-inducer hasn't worn off yet.  If you
want, we can
wake him with a stimulant."

A soft, blurry light faded into Arthur's mind as he inhaled deeply, filling his
lungs with air.
Sensitivity in his extremities returned with a tingling sensation, and he let
out a slow sigh
as his barely lucid mind processed the strange conversation.  It wasn't coming
from the
living room -- it was too close.  Perhaps in the bedroom?

"No, that's okay," the male voice replied.  "I've no idea how I'm going to write
this report.
You can't cover up phasor wounds in a medical record.  Commander Carter won't be
pleased at all."

`Carter?'  The name stirred a faint memory in the old man's head.  Something
about an
angry Andorian, a team of marines, and nearly being buried alive in the
Cornucopia waste
tunnels.

"Damn petticoat . . ." a hoarse whisper discharged from Arthur's wrinkled lips. 
Nearby, a
shadow stirred next to him as his vision slowly returned.  Turning towards the
movement,
Arthur Cromwell's eyes came into focus, revealing the aged face of Chester
"Skip"
Mannfield, his long time comrade in arms.  Skip watched Arthur as he roused from
his
slumber, smiling at his confused expression.

"Hello, old friend," Skip said.

"What the hell are you doing here?"  Arthur said before catching sight of a
black-bearded
man dressed in a blue Starfleet uniform.  He was holding a PADD in one hand, and
tending
to a man in the next bed who wore operations gold.

"Keep me apprised of Lieutenant McClintock's condition, nurse."

Arthur finally put a face to the voice he was hearing in his sleep.  The medical
officer
turned around to look at him, and gave the old man a fatherly grin.

"Well now," the bearded man beckoned.  "How's our recovering cardiac patient?"

"Who the hell are you?"  Arthur answered with bewilderment.

"Doctor Saal Yezbeck.  Senior surgeon of the Starship Republic."

"Starship?" the sixty-something refugee quizzically responded, as memories
slowly
returned.  "Where am I?  What happened?"

"Easy there, Artie."   The senior Cromwell turned to find Lindsey Davenport on
the other
side of the biobed.

"Lins?"  Arthur turned to her.

"You're in Republic's sickbay," she continued.  "You had a heart attack."

It was all coming back now.  The conversation in the gutted building . . . the
Gorn attack . .
. the destruction of the mountain range . . . where his wife and daughter
escaped.  The
readouts on the bio-monitors began to fluctuate as Arthur's stress level
increased.  Blood
pressure, heart rate, and respiration were all accelerated as the realization of
his
circumstances returned to his mind.  With eyes wide in horror, he began gasping
again.

"Those bastards!"

"Artie!"  Lins pleaded.  "Please!  Calm down!"

"Nurse!" shouted Doctor Yezbeck.  "Tranquilizer!  Stat!"

As the nursing staff complied, the doctor pressed a hypospray to Arthur's neck. 
In
seconds, he laid back down on the biobed, and the bio-monitors returned to
normal.
Tapping his combadge, Yezbeck called out to a colleague.

"Counselor Harris, you're needed in sickbay."

=/\= "On my way." =/\=

<open>


Doctor Leon Cromwell, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
U.S.S. Republic

Hey all-

Just wanted to drop a line here that I would be out of town unil
August 8th or so. Going on vacation to New England.

Try not to blow up the ship while I'm gone.

-EB-

OOC:  Sorry if you get this more than once, but I can't seem to figure out why
Yahoo Groups keeps screwing up the formatting in my posts.


<location: Federation Council Chamber, San Francisco, Sol III>

Over the years, member states of the United Federation of Planets have sent
their respective ambassadors to Earth for representation in council.  Managing
the legislative affairs of a vast interstellar alliance is a daunting task to
say the least, and as the Federation grew over the years, so did the number of
seats on the ruling body. This has created a need for multiple remodels of the
main chamber. Although it has retained its bare, smooth metallic look (a
deliberate design meant to assist delegates in keeping their discussions
focused on the main issues and not be distracted by décor) the council seats
now numbered in the hundreds with every planet represented as well as a
Starfleet contingency. Both sides of the room boasted the two houses of the
council, the upper and lower house, and each were composed of ten rows of fifty
seats allowing each member planet two representatives for each house.  The
entrance side of the chamber contained two, freestanding light sconces on both
sides of the main door. A three-story viewscreen remained affixed to the far
wall of the room, with the speaker podium and presidential entourage located to
either side.

Now, at the commencement of a closed-door council meeting, the screen displayed
the wreathed symbol of the Federation as the representatives engaged in dialog
regarding the Cestus Three situation. The president himself, a balding Andorian
named Wolack D'lara, stood at the podium with the standard presidential robes
and hovered over the text manifest and notepad assembled by his staff.

"The question, Senator Groth," the president addressed the Zakdorn delegate in
the upper house. "Is not whether we should respond to the Gorn aggression, but
whether the aggression was warranted at all."

"Our approach is a mistake," came the higher pitched, raspy response from the
senator. "The correct tactical answer would be to bring Starfleet to red alert
and divert every vessel in the sector, as well as adjacent sectors, to the
system."

In the front row of the upper house, four white-uniformed Starfleet admirals;
three with the collar insignia of full admiral and one with that of the fleet
admiral, Johan Morozov, sat silently while they listened to the politicians
debate. From the rear of the house seating arrangement, another officer in a
white class-A uniform made their way forward to the officers in the front row.
It was Vice Admiral Katheryn Janeway, the lowest ranking of the fleet admiral's
staff. She quietly and unobtrusively slipped into the empty seat next to the
highest-ranking admiral in Starfleet, also known as the "C-in-C", or
commander-in-chief.

"You're late," the gray-haired fleet admiral whispered to Janeway without
looking at her. It was a cold whisper, almost mocking, leaving no doubt of his
disapproval or lack of surprise at her belated arrival.

"I was delayed," she addressed the C-in-C with an equally cool, non-apologetic
manner. It was clear that the two regarded one another with something less than
that of a colleague. Indeed, the intercourse seemed more like a stern teacher
scolding an unruly student than that of a smooth-working professional staff. As
the other three admirals slid Janeway a stoic glance, the triplicate set of icy
eyes communicated a scornful, almost belligerent overtone.

Looking around quizzically, Janeway scowled in puzzlement.

"Where's Admiral Kostya?" she asked Morozov, as she was used to seeing her
professional opponent along with the rest of the fleet admiral's staff.

"On a classified assignment," he whispered back.

"That being?" she continued the line of questioning.

"Classified," the Morozov replied shooting her a snobbish look. Although he knew
perfectly well that Janeway was cleared to know the whereabouts of the rest of
the staff, the fleet admiral took the motto of "need-to-know" when dealing with
classified affairs -- especially in regards to Kathryn. It appeared she was left
out of the loop yet again.

This was a normal working day in the life of Admiral Janeway. As the most junior
on the C-in-C staff, she was often on the receiving end of the rookie jokes.
However, as they tested her loyalties, and discovered her personal moral to
embrace peace above all else, the rest of the admiralty in the normally
close-knit entourage grew cold to her. Soon, she found herself an outsider
among this group of people, and it was this realization than led h=
er to the dark discovery of the hawks versus dove movement within Starfleet.
Needless to say, she was the only dove on the C-in-C staff.

Yes, it would have been easy to quit. In fact, she seriously considered it after
being promoted to this post by the Starfleet Services Committee of the
Federation Council. Kathryn got the job by being more of a celebrity than an
efficient bureaucrat, as her time in the Delta Quadrant had made her a living
legend among the council as well as the common citizen. It was this pop idol
status that forced the fleet admiral to keep her on his staff despite his
opposition to her dovish views. Still, it didn't keep him from making
Janeway's life hell.

From her point of view, Kathryn was the only dove in Starfleet that could get
this close to the hawk's inner circle. She was a diamond in the rough, andshe
knew it. It was her stubborn side that refused to allow her to resign from the
C-in-C staff.

"Our situation," a smooth Vulcan voice commented through the loudspeakers from
the lower house stand. "Is the result of miscommunication with the Gorns. Since
our long-range sensor network indicates that Gorn battleships have opened fire
on Cestus, and the Starship Republic has gone silent shortly after Captain
Marshall's reported death, the most logical outcome would be that our peace
envoy has failed. I must concur with Senator Groth that the time to hold back a
retaliatory strike has passed. We must take
action."

From the upper house, a bald-headed Deltan stood up and addressed the assembly.
"Mister President, if I may?"

"The floor recognizes Senator Jilara from Delta Four," the aged Andorian
president announced."

"I would like to call for a vote to authorize Starfleet to respond to the
unwarranted aggression."

"So noted," the president responded. In the upper house stand, Fleet Admiral
Morozov allowed a slight smile to creep across his lips while the rest of his
staff, except Admiral Janeway, relaxed their positions and looked to one
another in anticipation.

"Federation Council Decree number 1342, the authorization to use military force
against the Gorn Alliance has been brought to the floor for a vote.  We ask
that all members of the council enter their vote at this -- "

The front doors to the chamber flew open, cutting off the president in
mid-sentence. A white-robed human followed by three others in formal
gray-suited apparel, rushed into the council chamber. It was Viceroy Haakanson,
the president's public-relations attaché. Whispers of surprise murmured among
the conglomeration of delegates.

"What's the meaning of this intrusion, viceroy?" the president asked the
newcomer. "This council is convened in a critical vote! Explain yourself
immediately!"

"Many apologies, mister president," the gray-haired official replied, his voice
echoing off the chamber walls. "This couldn't wait for dissemination through
your staff. There's a situation occurring at this time that is directly related
to the council's deliberations. May I have the council's permission to present
the information?"

Whispers were shared among the crowd as the president slammed his gavel on the
podium. "Order!" he bellowed. "Viceroy, you have exactly thirty seconds before
I have the guards escort you out of the chamber. Proceed."

The viceroy quietly consulted one of his gray-suited escorts who punched several
commands into a handheld PADD. Almost immediately, the olive-wreathed symbol of
the Federation on the viewscreen disappeared and was replaced by a rocky
terrain where a Gorn and Starfleet captain were standing.  They appeared to be
engaged in combat as the two held aloft swords of alien design.

"We have breaking news at this hour at our beta-quadrant network affiliate,"
came a gruff Tellarite announcer over the loudspeaker. "Sources in the Cestus
system, a border colony near Gorn space, have revealed that a reported
communications blackout that has been plaguing the sector for the past week has
in fact been caused by a pre-emptive attack by the Gorn Alliance. Previous
reports on this situation have indicated the blackout was caused by heightened
ionic disturbances in the area triggering a commercial travel restriction by
the Federation Trade Commission. However, it is now confirmed that
approximately twenty Gorn battleships have taken up orbit around the Cestus
Three colony and initiated a so-called "reclamation" operation in attempts to
annex that part of Federation space. The number of Federation casualties are
uncertain, but it is known that the lone Starfleet vessel in the system, The
U.S.S. Republic, has in fact lost their captain during a hand-to-hand fight
with a member of the Gorn fleet as seen in this footage.  Captain James
Marshall was reported dead at 2348 hours yesterday evening by the ship
surgeons. Although the Marshall family could not be reached for comment, we
have learned that the Federation Council has convened a closed-door emergency
session at this hour to discuss the situation.  Reporters are standing by
outside the council chambers and will transmit more information on the Cestus
Three invasion as it becomes available . . ."

The crowd of senators, which was once quietly whispering among themselves,
erupted into a frenzy of words and shouting matches as the surprised and
shocked politicians reacted to the news leak. At least sixty seconds of chaos
ensured where members of the Starfleet contingency, looked at one another with
calm resolve.

Kathryn Janeway, on the other hand, appeared much more disturbed than before.
She knew that if the public was aware about the invasion, outrage would soon
follow, and the council would be forced to vote for military action.  Since
they didn't yet know about the intelligence post, the council would be playing
right into the hawk's hands. If the doves tried to reveal the intelligence
outpost now, without proof from a ground observer, it would completely
undermine their position. Now, with the Republic not responding to hails, there
was no way to confirm what was going on down on the ground.

A furrow developed in her forehead, and she placed a finger to her chin as her
mind raced as to what to do. Kathryn was about to call her aide camp, Ensign
S'kak, when she caught sight of the young female Vulcan making her way through
the crowd and over to the admiral's position in the upper house.

"Order!" shouted the Andorian Federation president. "Order! We MUST have order
in this chamber!" Although the crowd of astonished delegates slowly calmed down
at several more impacts of the president's gavel, Admiral Janeway was becoming
wide-eyed with anticipation as she looked back at the ensign.

"Are you sure?" she replied to her Vulcan assistant who whispered something in
her ear. The other admirals seated next to her to look at the two quizzically.

"If everyone would please re-take their seats!" the president attempted to calm
the crowd. There were still loud whispers and a few vocal conversations being
shared among the council body as Janeway whispered something back to Ensign
S'kak, and the young aid quickly made her way to the back of the chamber.

"I think at this point," the president continued. "This council should
immediately resume the vote for military action, since Viceroy Haakanson's
disclosure brings an even stronger sense of urgency to the floor -- "

"Mister president!" another, higher-pitched yet commanding voiced echoed off
the walls of the chamber.

"Kate!" yelped Fleet Admiral Morozov. "What the hell are you doing?" It was Vice
Admiral Janeway who was standing now, beckoning the president's attention.

"Mister president! I believe that the course of these proceedings may be
affected by yet another disclosure of information!"

"Kate! Sit back down immediately! That's an order!" Morozov was now yelling at
Janeway.

"As you were, Admiral Morozov," the president sternly reprimanded the C-in-C.
"If Vice Admiral Janeway wishes to present information to this council, she is
authorized to do so."

"Mister president" gasped Morozov. "She did not consult me on this information!
She needs to follow the chain-of-command!"

"Considering the urgency of the situation," the Andorian politician explained.
"I don't believe another layer of bureaucracy would benefit us at the moment.
Please continue, Admiral Janeway."

Apparently, being a celebrity had its benefits occasionally.

"Thank you, mister president," Kathryn calmly replied with dagger-filled eyes
emanating from the Fleet Admiral. "Starfleet Material Command and the Office of
Colonization have confirmed that the 512th Colonization Fleet received a
priority one distress call from the Cestus Three colony."

"From the colony itself?" the president asked.

"Yes, sir. As of ten minutes ago, the frequencies that were jamming the Cestus
communications network were lifted, and the entire sector automatically went to
priority one alert. The 512th Colonization Fleet was the closest Starfleet
contingent and responded immediately. We have a live report from Captain
Livingston. If I may, sir?"

Janeway pointed to the screen that was broadcasting the now silent news footage
of Captain Marshall and the Gorn first officer fighting on the Cestus moon. The
president nodded, and S'kak, who had made her way to the communications console,
switched the viewscreen to an image of the bridge of an Ambassador Class cruiser
where a black, curly-haired Captain rose to his feet.

=/\= "Greetings, Admiral Janeway." =/\=

"Hello Captain Livingston," Janeway called out. "I'm sorry to put you on the
spot like this, but the situation is so critical that the Federation Council
itself needs to hear your report."

=/\= "I understand, admiral. We've just arrived at the Cestus system, and we're
engaged in a full evacuation of Federation citizens with permission from the
Gorn government. We rendezvoused with the Republic, and as I'm sure you know,
they're having communications difficulty. However, they've confirmed that the
Gorn attack was prompted by a violation of the Metron Treaty." =/\=

Again, whispers of surprise and shock rippled through the council chamber. A few
heated arguments started, but were quickly subdued by the pounding of the
president's gavel and the anticipating crowd whose thirst for information was
not yet quenched.

"What violations are we talking about, Captain Livingston?" the president calmly
asked.

=/\= "Sir, the Republic has discovered an illegal Starfleet intelligence outpost
operating in the system. They confirmed it by capturing one of their operatives,
and acquired the data they've accumulated over the last two years. By that
violation, the treaty clearly dictates that the colony now falls under Gorn
sovereignty." =/\=

Just as when the news footage was released, the chambers again burst into a
chorus of arguments and counter arguments that barely allowed for Janeway to
signal S'kak to close the subspace channel. The shouting was fierce, with many
outraged at the annexing of Federation territory, and others just as upset
about the confirmed treaty violation. Perhaps the only people who were silent
among the infuriated delegates were Fleet Admiral Morozov and Vice Admiral
Janeway, whose cold working relationship just reached a new level of abhorrence
for one another. As the two locked stares, only the repeated slamming of
President D'lara's gavel in his attempts to regain order interrupted the
turmoil surrounding them.

Several minutes passed before order was restored, and as the delegates took
their seats once again, the president spoke with a voice of carefully
restrained emotion. Nevertheless, it was clear he was quite disturbed.

"Admiral Morozov," he addressed the C-in-C.

"Yes sir," the now very nervous admiral replied, working diligently to maintain
his composure.

"I want a full investigation into the existence of this outpost, and why it
never reached the floor of this chamber."

"Right away, sir."

"In the meantime," the president continued. "We should proceed with the vote on
military action against the Gorn Alliance."

"Sir," Janeway spoke up again, drawing yet another flabbergasted expression from
Morozov. "I believe that any motion to authorize retaliation against the Cestus
invasion would be a mistake at this point.

"Admiral, are you suggesting we just hand Cestus over to the Gorns?"

"Mister President, it's either that or we go to war. If we go to war, we'll be
in violation of the Articles of Interstellar Law. The entire Alpha and Beta
quadrants will plunge into chaos as other civilizations consider their treaties
with the Federation as shallow and meaningless."

"That's preposterous!" shouted Fleet Admiral Morozov. "Non-Federation worlds
wouldn't dare challenge our word! Do you honestly think that they would nullify
their accords with us over a simple treaty misinterpretation by a backwards,
bloodthirsty reptilian culture?"

"Anyway we choose to put spin on it, Mister President," Janeway continued,
completely ignoring Morozov. "The Metron Treaty was broken . . . by us.  Now,
we can either live up to our mistake and save lives by handing over the colony,
or we can embrace the lie that we're blameless and cause the deaths of
millions."

A moment of silence passed in the chamber

"I concur that position, mister president," a voice finally called out from the
Betazoid delegation.

"As do I, mister president," the Benzite ambassador agreed.

A few more voices of support chimed in following the first two, with little
resistance by any opposed. It appeared that, in the light of a flagrant treaty
violation, anyone who wished the Cestus colony to remain as Federation
territory was forced to remain silent.

"So noted," the president replied. "Federation Council Decree number 1342 is
hereby rescinded on the grounds that it would violate article thirty-four of
interstellar law."

The council meeting lasted another hour where final arrangements were made for
an official investigation into the Cestus intelligence operation as well as
some carefully worded response statements for the press. Although Admiral
Janeway was alone as the only dove on the Fleet Admiral's staff, she knew that
he wouldn't dare fire her now. The hawks had just received a devastating blow,
and Kathryn couldn't wait to thank the people who provided her the ammunition
for that breakthrough. Although she took no joy in knowing that her job at
Starfleet Headquarters had just become more difficult in the coming days, with
the entire C-in-C staff giving her the cold shoulder, Kate would relish this
moment as the chamber doors opened, and the Hawks would cook in the stew of the
media spotlight. For the first time in a very long time, she felt her job was
worthwhile.

--

 

<Transporter Room, Deck 20. U.S.S. Republic>

John Carter paced back and forth in front of the transporter pad for
what seemed to be the hundredth time. He stepped over to the console
to conform the coordinates…again. Controls were set to send Carter
to meet with Pack Leader G'Meth on the Gorn flagship. In the
meantime, Carter had to wait.

  Doug Forrest had been gone for 27 minutes. In that time, the crew
had rallied around the command staff, and through a chain of events
that Carter wasn't entirely sure of, Jace McClintock was dead; and
yet not, and the Saratoga, which had been lost was found; and yet
not. This was the part of command that John hated the most. The
waiting. More specifically, the waiting for things to happen that he
himself couldn't control to happen however they did so that John
could in turn do something amazingly ill advised.

John turned to continue another circuit in front of the pad when the
transporter whined to life. In seconds, the form of Commander
Douglas Forrest appeared, and in his hand he held a small isolinear
data module.

"Is that it?" Carter asked.

"Yep. Every scrap of sensor and log data the duck blind collected
for the last six months." Forrest stepped forward to hand his XO the
module.

Carter backed away slowly. "No, no." He said holding up both
hands. "Right now I don't know WHAT's on that."

Forrest cocked his head. "And if you touch it, suddenly you'll know?"

"No, but having my prints on the thing makes it a lot harder to deny
it's existence to the press, which I will have to do to save my
career."

"Press?" Forrest felt his eyes widen. "No, Commander…John, you
can't!" The Intel Officer tucked the data module into a pocket of
his tunic. "I mean, copy it, destroy it, threaten to destroy whoever
with it, but for GOD'S SAKE, you CANNOT go public with this."

"I disagree. It's really the only way out of this."

"How do you figure that?"

"Not playing straight with the Gorn is what got us into this mess in
the first place. That's a mistake I mean to rectify. I'm not going
to release the data to the public, but I am going to level that
scales." Carter stepped toward the transporter pad.

"Need I remind you Commander that the Gorn just killed twelve
hundred innocent people, and that grandstanding like this is what
got Captain Marshall killed?"

"Believe me Forrest, I haven't forgotten. Just have that data ready
to send to the Gorn ship when I call for it."
"Bur what about the colonists? Where's their justice if you simply
surrender?"

It was a valid question, and as much as Carter wanted to explain his
plan to his Intel Officer, John had to remember that whatever else
he was, Forrest was still a Blackshirt, and therefore, not
completely trustworthy. Carter cleared his throat and gave his
fellow officer a hard determined stare. "I'm surrendering the planet
in person because that's what the Treaty of Metron calls for."
Carter shifted his weight slightly, hoping that Forrest would
understand how set the XO was on this course.

"You can't be serious! Who negotiated that thing anyway?"

  Even as Forrest was speaking, microscopic processors in his
cerebellum were sifting through gigaquads of data, searching for the
text of the Metron treaty. Many members of Starfleet suspected that
the intelligence corps were extensively cyber-equipped, but only a
very few knew how much, or indeed, how much data a `Blackshirt' had
access to. Forrest's protests were the perfect cover as he reviewed
the text in question, and concurred, surprisingly; Forrest had to
admit, with Carter's analysis.

"Besides, if I don't make it back, you'll at least give Republic a
fighting chance to get out of the system."

"True," Forrest said as his subconscious fugue state ceased. "But it
may not be as one-sided as you think."

"Oh?"

"I checked the outgoing comm. logs, along with everything else…"

Carter crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Of course you did."
He quipped.

"And just before the Gorn obliterated the mountain range, as the
fire was coming down in fact, a coded distress signal went by
subspace to Starfleet asking for emergency evacuation."

Carter felt his expression lighten. "So that means…"

"That since this area of space was hot before we even got here,
there's probably a sizable force not far away."

"How close?"

"I'm not sure," Forrest admitted truthfully, "Could be days, most
likely hours. So really, no one has t see this." Forrest said as he
padded the pocket where the recovered data rested.

Carter remained resolute, though now more hopeful than he had
been. "Actually, they do."

"Why!" Forrest questioned again.

"Because it's the right thing to do, damnit!"

"So's turning the Gorn to so much plasma!"

Carter felt his familiar smirk return. "Don't worry Forrest," Carter
assured the officer. "I said I was going to level the playing field.
I didn't say it was going to stay that way." Carter stepped back and
checked his position on the pad. "Energize."

Forrest stepped to the controls, and in a swirl of light and sound,
John Carter was gone. Doug Forrest tipped an imaginary hat to the
vacant transporter system. "Be seeing you…I hope."


In the interior of Fierce Claw, G'Meth and the First Sword sat
contentedly. With fingers steepled  before his eyes, the Pack Leader
regarded his second in command, who had so cunningly dispatched the
foolish human Captain. Finally, after nearly 100 years, Cestus III
was wholly Gorn territory, and G'Meth had some measure of revenge on
a man who had died long ago. Next to him, G'Meth saw that the First
Sword was swaying. It was, for Gorn, a nervous gesture. "Patience
First Sword," the elder saurian intoned, "You've already killed one
human today. Perhaps there may ye be another."

"Perhaps, Pack Leader." The conversation seemed to calm the younger
Gorn slightly.

"If this Carter is as rash as his captain, then he too will know the
Way of the Serpent."

"Indeed, Pack Leader." A hungry leer crept across the First Sword's
lips as he spoke.

The triumph of the moment was disturbed as the Gorn comm. system
beeped to life. –"Pack Leader, the human officer is on board."—

"Excellent." G'Meth rasped confidently. "Show him every courtesy,
and see that he is unharmed."

--"Yes Pack Leader"—

Long minutes passed before the door to the Gorn meeting room opened
with a mechanical whir. John Carter entered, flanked by two towering
Gorn escorts. G'Meth, and the First Sword rose to greet him.

"Greetings human." G'Meth hissed. "You are Carter?"

John came to attention. "Commander John Thelonius Carter, acting
captain of the U.S.S. Republic." Carter's face was nearly stone. He
made sure to meet the Gorn commander's unblinking stare with his
own. "In accordance with the treaty of Metron, and as a duly
appointed representative of the United Federation of Planets, I
hereby formally cede control of the Planet Cestus III to the Gorn
Hierarchy, as is it's right through trial by combat."

The speech was formal and succinct, and not even close to the fiery
words Carter wanted to use.

"You practiced that for a long time, didn't you mammal?" G'Meth said
mockingly.

"I had a few minutes while the sensor crews tallied the dead on the
surface."

The First Sword hissed and fingered his claws, but G'Meth raised a
hand to stop his charge. "You hold your temper well for a warm-
blood." The Gorn observed. "But tell me, Carter. What's to stop me
from killing you here and now and atomizing your lone ship?"

"Honor." Carter answered simply.

"Bah!" The First Sword spat, "What do mammals know of honor?"

Carter stood unmoving, sizing up the power and strength of his
foes. `I'll say this for Jim Marshall,' he thought silently. `He was
no coward, that's for damned sure.' After a few seconds John spoke
aloud. "I know that our word to you was broken, and that you have
acted within your laws," Carter explained, though he had to choke
back bile as he thought of the smoldering ruins of the Gordonian
mountain range that had once been on the planet below.

"In exchange for safe passage out of this system for myself, my
ship, and as many Federation citizens as we can carry, I am offering
to let you know what we know."

G'Meth was surprised at how steady the human's voice was. He could
not help the question that came next. "And that is?" he asked.

`Gotcha!' Carter thought again. The Martian cleared his throat. "I
have in my possession all the information that Starfleet illegally
collected during the last six months."

"And you would give it to us? Betray your own people?"

"Pha! Just like a mammal!" First Sword added.

"It's not betrayal when trust was broken by others first." Carter
explained. "I call this…an equitable solution."

G'Meth paused, intrigued by Carter's offer. He regarded the First
Sword, then looked at the human again. "Your solution is inventive
human, I'll give you that." G'Meth slowly stroked a spot in the
center of his chest, suddenly reminded of a decades old wound. "A
trait I believe common in your species."

Carter nodded. "I take it then that you agree?"

"You are bold human," G'Meth offered, "but not rash or emotional. I
approve." G'Meth said with condescension. "Contact your ship. Send
me this…equitable solution."

Carter nodded and tapped his comm. badge. "Carter to Forrest."

=/\= "Standing by, Sir."=/\=

"Please send the Gorn flagship the peace offering we discussed."

Seconds later, a message came from the Gorn bridge confirming the
presence of the Federation data.


Tense minutes ticked by as John Carter sat in the center seat on the
bridge of the U.S.S. Republic, watching rainbow-flecked stars streak
by on the viewer. "Report please, Mr. Hawk."

Nat looked down at his own helm plot and watched as a green icon
representing his ship crossed a virtual barrier. "Sensers confirm
we're in `Fed space and well outta Lizard weapon range, XO."

Carter let out a sigh of relief, then tapped a stud on the arm of
the command chair. "How many did we get Dr. Yezbeck?"

=/\= Two hundred and six bridge. They're pretty shaken up, but most
are ok…physically at least." =/\=

"It'll have to do for now Doctor. Thank you."

"Sir!" The loud shout came form Sean McTaggart who occupied the
tactical station on the highest point of the bridge. "Sensors show
two Ambassador cruisers, four Payne destroyers and four Exodus class
transports bearing dead ahead."

"Thank you Tac," Carter said calmly. "They're expected. How far out
are they?"
"Twenty-two minutes, present speed." The relief in McTaggart's voice
was palpable.

Next to Carter, Shannon Harris sat, giving the XO a stern look. "You
knew they were coming, and you didn't tell us?" she whispered to
John.

"Hell," he answered, "I didn't even know if I was still going to be
breathing by now…"

"Don't remind me," she chided, in a small attempt at humor more than
rebuke.

"But I was…hopeful." John waited a few seconds. "How long's it been
Vic?" he asked.

The engineering sub-station on the bridge had a chronometer linked
to the latest data from Starfleet command, who in turn calibrated
with one-thousand, fifty-seven multi-spectrum sensor arrays that
analyzed local celestial drift, gravimetric eddies, and corward
spin. The clocks were unfailingly accurate.

Victor Virtus never needed them. "One hour, 15 minutes, 27 seconds…
mark."

"Ok Vic, we're about to have some admirals over for a little chat,
so we better air the dirty laundry before they get here. Send it
out."

The Comm… system chirped an affirmative.

As the crew looked on, puzzled, all John Carter could do was sit
back, and wait for all hell to break loose.

<TAG=Open>


Cmdr. John T. Carter
Acting Captain
U.S.S. Republic

<Corridor 18C, U.S.S. `Saratoga'>

"He did what?!"

"All he said was it was the most efficient way to…"

John Carter's conversation with Sean McTaggart was cut short as
bulkhead doors slid open, admitting the two officers to the
deuterium tank the served as the makeshift bridge for the newly
reclaimed `Saratoga'. Carter felt a smile creep across his face as
he regarded the Engineering staff's inspired, if confusing work.
Lights danced across jury-rigged panels, and bundles of wire jutted
from scattered locations all over the interior of the deuterium
tank. Two acceleration couches, no doubt from shuttlecraft surplus,
served as the Conn and Ops stations, and sitting in a chair that
looked like it belonged in the Captain's Ready Room, Victor Virtus
presided over the chaos like a proud father watching his children.
John cleared his throat. "Permission to come aboard Lieutenant
Commander?"

"Granted John," Victor commented as the officers stepped
closer. "Sorry we had to bring you up with the cargo transporters,
but we weren't expecting guests."

"No worries Vic," Carter said with ease. "I see you found the
Saratoga."

"Indeed. Fleet seems to be getting very sloppy these days."

"I suppose that's one way to put it." John looked quickly at the
status board and viewscreen that Victor had managed to
fabricate. "Are the Gorn attacking?"

"Not yet," Victor answered, absent-mindedly stroking his
moustache. "I've left the shields down on purpose. Hoping not to
provoke them I suppose."

"Good call, we're still outnumbered 20 to 1."

"You don't like those odds?"

"Not today, no."

"I see your point." Victor turned and regarded his friend, noting
the dirt and blood that now marked John's face. "John, we saw what
happened to Captain Marshall."

Carter's expression hardened, as if he now remembered how bad his
situation still was. "Do we have the data?"

"Of course. Sensors recorded the whole affair, but…"

"Where's the body?"

"McTaggart had us beam him to sickbay, but Dr. Yezbeck couldn't do
anything for him."

"Well, at least that's over with."

"John!" Victor's shock was visible on his face, as was the surprise
that the XO would speak so ill of the dead.

"Oh come on Vic," Carter thundered back. "He was dangerously
unstable. Especially after the whole Bombay mess, and the
Blackshirts are all over whatever happened on Cestus III." Carter
stepped toward the door. "I've got a hunch that something very
illegal went very wrong here."

The pressure door to the deuterium tank opened again. Heads turned
as Doug Forrest walked in with A'Nathon and the rest of the Hazard
Team in tow.

"Illegal and ill-advised Id say", the Andorian hissed.

"You said you had a trump card A'Nathon." Carter stepped forward to
look the Andorian officer in the eye. "Tell me what happened down
there."

"Or what?"

"Excuse me? Do I have to make that an order?"

"An order which I'd have no business following. I answer to my
Section Commander, Sir. Not you."

Next to A'Nathon, Doug Forrest looked at his Intelligence
comrade. "Don't bluff this man," he cautioned. "Not now."

"It's all right Mr. Forrest," Carter offered. "Can you still get to
the duckblind?"

A'Nathon's healthy blue complexion paled.

"It… shouldn't be a problem, Commander."

"Ludicrous!" A'Nathon shouted. "It was the first thing the Gorn
destroyed! There's nothing…" The Andorian stopped short he saw
Carter's tell-tale smirk return. `That damned look!' A'Nathon cursed
silently.
Since his dismissal from the U.S.S. Discovery some years ago, when a
then Lieutenant John Carter had spit on thousands of years of
tradition, A'Nathon remembered that smirk; the look of unbridled
arrogance that the Andorian soon learned to see in all humans.
Despite all his accomplishments for his line and his clan, one day
in an artificial, holographically created desert had ruined it all.
Now, it was happening again. A'Nathon had spent years recalling how
that same look on John Carter's face was the last thing he saw as
consciousness left him in desert heat. Apparently, that same look of
cocky triumph was inescapable. A'Nathon's head dropped, and his
antennae drooped forward against his dingy white hair.

"Thank you Mister A'Nathon." Carter said simply. "Mendoza, Deuce?
You guys want to find our friend A'Nathon a place to stay for a
little while?"

"I know just the place XO." Mendoza answered. He and Deuce took up
flanking positions on A'Nathon and led the Andorian away.

"Ok Vic, where do we stand?"

Victor Virtus settled back into what served for his center seat and
explained. "With the back-up core re-initiated, the saucer's cut
off. Right now, McClintock has the bridge, but the entire bridge
crew saw what happened to the Captain, so I'm sure they're just
respecting the chain of command."

"That didn't stop them from relieving you of command Vic." Carter
interjected.

"True John, but I'm also confident that your appearance changes
things a bit. Tactically speaking, everyone on the bridge is cut
off."

"Well that's something at least."

"Counselor Harris is keeping them in line."

"You're damned right she is." Carter chuckled a bit, then turned to
look at Sean McTaggart "What about tactical? How many people does
McClintock have in his camp?"

Sean rubbed his temples as he thought out the situation. "Hard to
say sir," he finally offered. "He hasn't done anything to alienate
the department, but he also hasn't been here all that long."

"So if push came to shove?"

"We'd follow you into Hell Commander."

John let an easy smile cross his face again. "That's good to hear,
McTaggart. And…thanks." Carter put his hand on the junior officer's
shoulder.

"No problem sir."

John looked back at Victor Virtus. "Ok, here's the plan. Forrest?"
Carter said, looking back at the Intelligence Officer. "Do you guys
have a back up data core?"

"Yes Sir. The main communications nexus is underneath the Cornucopia
elementary school."

"Carming." Carter quipped. "Get down there and get me a copies of
everything the duckblind recorded. Then cover your tracks."

"On it, Commander." Forrest said simply, then he eft the tank and
headed back to the cargo transporters.

"Vic, do we have communications?"

"Outgoing only, and only for the Saratoga. Republic is little more
than a paperweight right now."

"Good enough. Ready a copy of the Captain's fight with the Gorn for
broadcast to the Federation news net. Keep it in the buffer for
three hours." Carter spun as he heard the doors to the `bridge' open
again. It was Nat Hawk who, despite the stress of the last few hours
maintained his easy stride."

"Y'all can relax. I just heard from sickbay. Yezbeck says that Doc's
dad is gonna pull through. Rest `a the civies are refusin' ta budge
though. Won't leave the old man's side."
<TAG=Anyone in Medical>

"I can live with that." Carter said, genuinely relieved to not have
another death on his conscience. He cocked his head as Nat Hawk
stood easy in the circle of officers that had formed in the
tank. "How well do you know McClintock, Nat?"

"Bettern' his mom. Whatcha got in mind?"

"I want you to talk to him. See if he's really committed to these
orders, or if we can solve this simply…for once."

<TAG=Hawk>

"Uh not to pry Commander," Virtus intoned. "but what will you be
doing?"

"Who me?" The Martian questioned mockingly. "Once Forrest gets back,
I'm going to beam over to the Gorn flagship and surrender."

<TAG=Open>

Cmdr. J.T. Carter
Acting Captain
U.S.S. Republic

Hey all-

It's been a while since we welcomed aboard a new crew member, but
I'd like to say hello to Ridgewolfe, who's going to take on the much-
coveted Chief of Tactical.

Ridge, feel free to post an introduction for your character so we
know what makes her tick, or e-mail one of the other members (I
recomend the good Doctor) and we'll figure out a way to get you in
the mix as soon as possible.

Happy simming-

-EB/J.T.-

<location: saucer section armory, deck 5, USS Republic>

On Galaxy Class starships, the main security offices are located on deck 38 in
the secondary hull.  However, as the ship class evolved over the years, there
came a need for smaller localized security stations spaced throughout the
ship.  Eventually, the two armories, located on deck 26 in the secondary hull
and deck 5 in the saucer, became the default locales where security officers
could base their operations other than the brig area.

For precautionary reasons, the ships armories are located separately from the
security offices to prevent rogue inmates from obtaining access to the plethora
of weaponry available aboard ship.  The rooms themselves are heavily
compartmentalized and situated towards the center of the hull.  Multiple
security measures are required to access the armories, which include voice,
retinal, and genetic scans, as well as a level three security code.

The deck 5 saucer section armory is a medium-sized compartment, replete
with rows of weapon storage racks, repair stations, and phaser pack recharge
outlets.  Four large centrally-located floor-to-ceiling lockers contain larger
ordinance intended for only the most grave security situations, and a one-way
emergency floor hatch offers access the transporter complex one deck below.
Towards the front of the room, a half-circle island workstation composed the
watch desk, where a duty officer is permanently stationed to take care of any
saucer-section related security situations.

It was Ensign Depach Narundi's turn at the watch desk during the Republic's
chain-of-command crisis following Captain Marshall's death.  His gold
operations uniform was a stark contrast to his straight, jet-black hair and
rusty-
brown skin color.  The smooth skin and lack of facial hair indicated an eastern
oriental ancestry, but the high cheek bones and full inset eyes betrayed his
Native American origin.  As one of the original members of the Republic's
crew when she left drydock several months ago, Narundi has seen his share
of action.  However, the current situation left him slightly nervous, especially
since his captain was dead and the assistant tactical chief, Lieutenant Sean
McTaggart, had given him orders to disregard any orders coming from the
bridge.  As he waited silently at the watch desk praying for further
information,
his hopes were raised as McTaggart quickly walked into the armory and
greeted him.

"How's things going down here, Depach?" the lieutenant asked calmly.

The young ensign stood up, folding his arms behind his back.

"A little tense, sir," he responded.  "I'm getting the impression that we're in
a
bit of a bind.  Am I right?"

Sean smiled.  One of his sly yet cautious grins that indicated a dubious
situation was occurring.

"Can't get anything by you, can I?"  McTaggart offered.  "Okay, I'll tell you
what
I know.  Our new tac chief, Lieutenant McClintock, seems to have taken
control of the ship under orders from some Starfleet admiral.  Commander
Virtus wasn't willing to accept that and has disappeared into a turboshaft."

"Disappeared?" Narundi asked with confusion.  "How's that possible?"

"Virtus is an engineer," the lieutenant said with amusement.  "Who knows how
he does these things?  At any rate, I'm following a bit of a hunch.  McClintock
has ordered me to find Virtus, and frankly, I'm a bit suspicious of these
orders.
I'm going to go have a talk with our engineer, but I need you to make sure that
whatever orders come from the bridge are somehow . . . delayed in getting to
the rest of the security crew.  Can you do this?"

"Well sure," Narundi replied with certainty indicating that his loyalties lie
with
the ship and crew.  "But what's the motive for these orders that McClintock's
following?"

"I don't know," McTaggart said matter-of-factly as he obtained a hand phaser
from the charging bin.

"And Lieutenant Commander Virtus?" Narundi continued.  "What's he up to?
Is he trying to regain control of the ship?"

"I don't know," came the same response, this time with a shake of his head.

"And what about Commander Carter?" the ensign maintained his line of
questioning.  The entire tactical department, minus those who were added
during their recent stopover at Starbase 23 (which included McClintock), were
still very loyal to the executive officer.  "Is there something we can do to
rescue him from the surface?"

McTaggart was starting towards the door as he gave the same vague reply.

"I don't know."

Narundi sat back down at the watch desk with a look of irritation and disgust.
The lieutenant picked up on the young officer's dismay, and offered a bit of
advice in a fatherly tone.

"Don't worry, Depach."  Sean added with reassurance.  "Just keep the bridge
on hold and keep your head low.  You still owe me two bars of latinum from
that chess match last week, and I won't let anything happen to you."
McTaggart was about to leave when he looked back at the ensign.  "By the
way . . . when were you planning on paying me?"

The ensign looked up to his superior with a surprised expression at the
audacity of the question, then shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know," Depach replied before returning his attention back to the watch
desk.  McTaggart smiled and left the room.



<location: catwalk 26-G, deck 28, USS Republic>

The maintenance platform on the deuterium tank level was intended for
engineering personnel only, but McTaggart, in his official capacity to hunt
down Lieutenant Commander Virtus, was able to enter the restricted area
without escort.  Little did they know his goal was not to arrest Virtus, but to
meet up with him as requested in the discrete text message sent to his PADD.
Although McTaggart's security indoctrination was nagging at his conscience
to follow orders, he could not dismiss the feeling that McClintock was in the
wrong, and that Commander Carter was in trouble.  At the moment, there only
seemed to be one person in the position to do something about both
situations, and motivated to do so.

"Thanks for coming, lieutenant," a calm voice echoed off the walls.  The dark
passageway was lit only by the magnetic field generators affixed to the multi-
deck deuterium tanks at regular intervals above and below the platform.
Although the catwalk was designed to give access to these generators, thus
forcing it to be installed between the ship's outer bulkhead and the tanks
themselves, the dim light only outlined the shape of another humanoid further
down the plank.  McTaggart could only assume that it was Virtus.

"I'm taking a real risk here, sir," McTaggart replied, his voice, like Vic's,
bouncing off the walls around him.

"I know," Vic said walking towards the lieutenant.  "And I appreciate that.  I
was hoping that you wouldn't be completely blind to McClintock's little
mutiny."

"With all due respect sir," the assistant security chief started.  "The only
reason
that I'm here talking to you and not arresting you is that you're the trusted
friend of a man who saved my life."

"Yes, I know that too.  Which means that we both have something in common."

McTaggart quirked an eyebrow.  "Say again, sir?"

"Carter saved my life as well, and I don't plan on allowing him to perish while
the Republic is held hostage to some bureaucrats order to stand by and wait."

The lieutenant felt less tense, realizing that Virtus was, as he suspected,
looking out for the crew and not himself. Still, there was an ethical dilemma
here that he could not ignore.

"What about McClintock and Taylor?"  McTaggart asked.  "I read the orders
myself.  An Admiral Kostya has authorized them to lock out the command
codes should anything happen to Captain Marshall.  Now that he's dead, it
seems to have validated those orders."  There was a slight hint of regret in his
voice that Vic picked up.

"Don't blame yourself, Sean," the engineer offered with absolution.  "The
captain was intent on making a name for himself.  There was nothing you
could have done to change his mind about fighting that Gorn."

"Don't like losing a commanding officer on my watch."

"It wasn't your watch.  It was McClintock's."

Virtus had a point, and McTaggart knew it.  The only reason he challenged
the captain about going down to the moon to fight the Gorn was out of loyalty
and duty.  If McClintock was as duty bound as himself, he should have been
the first to stop Captain Marshall.  As it was, he remained silent forcing
McTaggart to say something.

"So what do we do about him?" the lieutenant asked.  "It wouldn't do any good
to storm the bridge and arrest him when he's locked out he command codes.
It doesn't get us the ship back."

"Leave that to me," Virtus said confidentally.  "What I need to know now is can
I trust you?"

The two men stared at one another, trying to look past each others'
conversational defenses to get a feeling if trust was warranted.  Perhaps the
most important connection they had was that they both were worried about
John Carter and the away team.  It was difficult for Sean to trust people he
didn't know, but his concern for the executive officer was too great to hold
back his loyalty.  It was time to take a chance.

"Yes," he replied to Vic's question.

"Good," the much-relieved engineer said.  "This is what I need you to do . . ."



<location: deuterium tank 6, deck 29, USS Republic>

With an engineering crew of twenty, it didn't take long to assemble a starship
control center in the heart of an empty deuterium tank.  Spare parts and
optical cabling were readily available in engineering sections of the ship, and
before long, the inside of the tank turned from a vacant, empty hydrogen fuel
cell to something reminiscent of a 24-century version of a Doctor Frankenstein
laboratory with acceleration chairs.  As Vic had suspected, adjusting the
tank's magnetic field to block transporter locks and scatter active sensor
scans was not a difficult task, and as the main computer itself was carefully
and strategically disconnected from the ship's main systems, the skilled
technicians ensured that computer signals to the main bridge were
uninterrupted by using a proxy signal generator that mimicked the Republic's
main isolinear network.  The major task remaining was to bring the stardrive's
backup computer core online without anyone else knowing about it, and
integrating it with the disconnected computer interface nodes for the ship's
main systems.

Beneath a newly-installed computer console, an engineer in operations gold
worked with his back to the floor.  In addition to his engineer's jumpsuit, he
wore a white armband with an attached bio-damper that helped to hide his
bio-signs from the ship's internal sensors.  It was none other than Lieutenant
Junior Grade Sven Butenhoff, a former life-sciences head who switched to
engineering almost a month ago after assisting the chief engineer in a quest
to save the life of the executive officer.  Sven was the friend of Lieutenant
Nat
Hawk, the cheeky yet talented chief helmsman who accompanied Carter and
the others to the surface of Cestus Three.  Although Butenhoff, in his steadfast
loyalty to Carter and Virtus, needed no inspiration to disobey McClintock's
station-holding orders from Admiral Kostya, as he had an additional
motivation to ensure the safety of his friend Lieutenant Hawk.  So, it was no
surprise when he accepted the chief engineer's clandestine request for help
to build the makeshift bridge.

Among the plethora of hastily installed equipment and group of enlisted
technicians, the German-accented engineer found himself cursing at the
complexity of the computer re-routing operation as another individual began
climbing down the ladder from the top hatch of the tank.  Clad in sciences
blue, Lieutenant Junior Grade Maria Pakita jumped from the last rung of the
ladder and landed with a thud near Butenhoff, causing him to jerk and hit his
head on the bottom-side of the control console. The black-haired South
American geophysicist looked down innocently at the engineer who had
found another excuse to swear.

"Sorry, Sven."

Butenhoff rubbed his head sulkily, and shot Pakita a sour look.

"Where have you been?" he asked her.

"Rerouting the computer nodes on deck ten," she said proudly.  "No one on
the bridge even knew I was there."

"Are you sure?"

"Fairly sure," Pakita responded.  "No security personnel came to arrest me."

"Well, now that you're here, I could use your help with the backup computer
interface.  We can't get it to communicate with our main control multiplexer."

"What do you mean?" she asked, taking a seat at the new sciences station
and accessing the computer status monitor.  "It should be perfectly compatible
with our new systems."

"I know."  Butenhoff stood up and walked over to Pakita, watching her monitor
as she ran a diagnostic.  "That's what's confusing.  The backup computer is
acting like our control systems are of a different processor configuration.  I
thought it was a malfunction in the interface node, but I just checked, and it's
working perfectly."

"That's odd," Pakita remarked with a frown.  "It shouldn't do that."

About that time, another clamor sounded from above as Lieutenant
Commander Virtus climbed down the access ladder.  As he landed, the
engineer walked over to both Butenhoff and Pakita.

"How's it going?"

"We can't bring the backup computer online, sir," Pakita reported.  "It's not
recognizing our control systems and Butenhoff confirms it's not a hardware
problem."

"Do a processor diagnostic," Virtus said.  "Maybe we missed something on the
self-test."

"Acknowledged."

Moments later, the results splayed across the screen offering no clue as to the
problem.  Butenhoff and Pakita both shook their heads as Virtus squinted
quizzically at the screen.

"It shouldn't do that," Vic whispered.  "Open the binary programming matrix,"
he ordered.  "Let's take a look at what the computer is actually seeing when it
looks at our control multiplexer."

As Pakita manipulated the controls, the basic programming language of the
backup computer scrolled down the screen.  She and Butenhoff continued to
shake their heads.

"It all looks fine," the German technician remarked.  "Both systems are
sending and receiving the correct commands, but they're just not recognizing
one another."

"Wait a minute," Virtus said, pressing a few buttons on Pakita's console.
"Back up there."  Pakita typed a few commands that caused the scrolling to
pause and momentarily scroll in the opposite direction.

"There," Virtus exclaimed, and Pakita paused the image.  Vic pointed out a
series of numbers embedded in the binary readout.  "That's wrong."

"What?" Pakita remarked with perplexity.  "It's the prefix cipher.  It's what
the
computer uses to identify ship's main systems with.  It's completely normal."

"No," Virtus replied with emphasis.  "It's NOT.  That's not the Republic's
prefix."

With a frown, Pakita typed a few more commands into the console. She
configured it to display both the prefix cipher of the makeshift bridge's
control
systems, and that of the stardrive's backup computer core.  Although the
numbers were very similar, the one for the backup core was a few digits off.

"You're right," Pakita said with surprise.  "The core's using the wrong prefix
algorithm.  The boys at Utopia Planitia must have made a mistake in
programming the backup computer when they sent us this new stardrive
section a month ago."

"No," Virtus said flatly.  "The backup core was blank when we got the stardrive
section.  We had the Republic's A.I. do the programming after we linked up at
Delphi Station."

"That's not possible," Butenhoff chimed in.  "That means the Republic's main
computer made the error.  It would NEVER make such a simple binary error
like this."

"Normally, I would agree with you, lieutenant," Virtus explained.  "But since
we're not in a position to do a full investigation right now, we'll have to put
this
mystery on hold until the current situation is resolved."  He looked back to the
rest of the enlisted technicians in the room.  "Alright everyone, we have a
quick-fix we need to do.  I need you to reprogram all the control systems in
here with THIS prefix cipher in the main interface application."  Vic pointed to
the non-Republic line of code that the backup computer dictated as necessary
to control the ship.

Everyone nodded his or her head responding with "aye."  Minutes later, all the
control consoles were reprogrammed, and the stardrive's backup computer
interface blinked with the stand-by ready indicator signifying it's readiness to
link up with the new control systems on the makeshift bridge.

"All systems ready, sir," Pakita announced to Victor Virtus.  "The backup
computer is ready to take control of the ship's main systems.  Standing by for
your order to transfer."

Victor nodded his head as Pakita dialed the final activation sequence.  The
newly installed bridge lights in the deuterium tank flickered briefly, as did
the
various control consoles throughout the chamber.  The humming of the fusion
batteries that powered all the systems went from a low drumming to a higher-
pitched pulsating hum.  The forward viewscreen activated, revealing the
rotating planetary body of Cestus Three hanging in the backdrop of space.

=/\=  "U.S.S. Saratoga is now under the command of Lieutenant Commander
Victor Xavier Virtus." =/\=

Everyone in the room paused at the sounding of the computer voice.

"Saratoga?" one of the enlisted technicians exclaimed after a moment of
silence.  "Why in blazes does the backup computer think this is the
Saratoga?"

For his part, Vic was just as confused as everyone else on the bridge.  Pakita
looked at him with puzzlement, as did Butenhoff.  This time, it was Vic who
shook his head.

"I'd really like to get to the bottom of this people," he said to the gawking
crew.
"But unfortunately, Commander Carter doesn't have that luxury right now.
Pakita," he beckoned to the science officer.  "Take the tactical station.
Butenhoff, you're on helm."  Vic sat himself in the command chair, and gave
his first order.

"Helm, set two-seven-zero.  Z-minus twelve thousand kilometers.  Tactical,
begin scanning Cornucopia settlement for the away team's communicators."
Pressing a button on the armrest of his chair, Vic opened an intercom
channel.  "Mister McTaggart, what's your status?"

=/\= "Security team standing by in transporter room six.  Awaiting your co-
ordinates, sir." =/\=

"Very good, lieutenant."



<location:  main bridge, USS Republic>


"We're WHAT?" McClintock yelled from the tactical station.

"I said," replied Lieuenant Snyder at the helm.  "The Republic is breaking her
current orbit and moving closer to the planet.  Navigation systems aren't
responding to my commands."

"Are we losing engine power, lieutenant?"  Doctor Harris sat calmly in the
counselor's chair as she asked the question.

"Negative," came the reply from Snyder.  "All systems are functional, but we're
cut off from thruster control."

"That's impossible!" McClintock exclaimed with anger.  "I've locked out the
command codes!  We shouldn't be going anywhere!"

"Apparently," Harris remarked with sarcasm, "Anywhere seems to be a
relative term at the moment."  She couldn't help but allow a smile creep
across her lips.  As Snyder turned to look at the counselor, he returned the
grin as they both knew what must have taken place.  The counter-mutiny had
begun.

"Taylor," the tactical chief called out.  "What's causing the systems
malfunction?"

"Attempting to trace the error now, sir," the auburn-haired science officer
replied, typing commands into her station at the rear of the bridge.  "But I'm
not getting a response from the computer."

"Computer!" he summoned.  "Locate source of navigational malfunction!"

=/\=  "Command not recognized. U.S.S. Saratoga is now under the command
of Lieutenant Commander Victor Xavier Virtus." =/\=

Although the computer's odd behavior coaxed a bewildered expression from
most on the bridge, McClintock and Taylor were each wide-eyed with rage
and panic respectively.  For those two officers, the `Saratoga' name invoked
less of an impact than did the sentence containing `now under the command
of Lieutenant Commander Victor Xavier Virtus.'  In a heated moment,
McClintock marched down the starboard side of the command pit and placed
himself in the command chair.

"Computer!  Override command lock-out!  Authorization McClintock eight-
seven-omicron-beta!"

=/\=  "Command not recognized. U.S.S. Saratoga is now under the command
of Lieutenant Commander Victor Xavier Virtus." =/\=

"What the hell is happening?" the lieutenant shouted.  He slapped the
communications system hard, opening an intercom channel.  "Bridge to
McTaggart!  What's your status?  Did you find Virtus?"

A few seconds of silence passed where McClintock was about to call again,
but was interrupted by Ensign Depach Narundi's voice.

=/\=  "I'm sorry sir, but Lieutenant McTaggart went to sickbay with a case of
gastrointestinal distress.  Is there something I can do for you?" =/\=

"Yes, damn it!" McClintock shouted while Taylor got up from the science
station and headed for the portside-aft turbolift.  "Send a security team to
engineering!  Secure thruster control!  Do you hear me?"

Lieutenant Taylor stopped dead in her tracks in front of the turbolift doors as
they failed to open.  Several times she stepped towards them, each time
failing to activate the door mechanism.

"Elevators are out, too!" she exclaimed with alarm as Narundi's voice came
back over the com system in response to McClintock's orders.

=/\=  "I'm sorry sir.  All security teams are currently busy.  But I'm sure one
will
free up as soon as you're ready to be polite."  =/\=

Flabbergasted, McClintock could only sputter his reply.  "What?" he hissed
through gritted teeth.  "What did you say to me?"

"I think at this point," Doctor Harris interjected calmly.  "You can consider
yourself, Lieutenant Taylor, and anyone still following your commands as
under arrest."  She looked at the stunned lieutenant with a cold gleam.  "With
the charges of disobeying orders of a superior officer and placing fellow
officers in mortal danger."


<tag=open>

(Doug, feel free to control Butenhoff or Snyder if you wish)


Doctor Leon Cromwell, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
U.S.S. Republic
(temporarily reassigned to SFHQ)

pinch hitting for:

LtCmdr Victor Xavier Virtus, PhD
Chief Engineering Officer
U.S.S. Republic

A'Nathon looked at Carter as the rest of the Republic away team
looked at their Executive Officer. John glanced at the Andorian,
then turned his attention to Forrest. "Okay," Carter said as he
looked back at A'Nathon. "The secrets stop here. The less I know
now, the more dead we get."

"Really Commander Carter, " the Andorian offered cooly, "you should
control your temper. It leads to... rash decisions."

Carter felt his temper slip, but he didn't care. For all he knew,
his captain was dead, Republic was likely burning in space, and he
was starring down over five thousand Gorn troops. John's training
called for assessing the situation and making a rational decision to
keep both himself and his team alive, but that wasn't what John was
thinking about. "You want to see rash, A'Nathon?" Carter
questioned. "What's to stop me from pulling the plug on this whole
black shirt fiasco right now?" Carter stood defiantly, but it was
clear from A'Nathon's reaction that the Andorian wasn't falling for
it.

"You can't do that Commander." the Andorian said. "For one thing,"
A'Nathon looked squarely at Forrest as he spoke. "I'm the least of
your problems. And for another, `This whole Blackshirt fiasco' as
you so rightly call it, is likely your only chance to get out of
here alive."

Silence hung in the air as the rhythmic pounding of the Gorn
bombardment stopped. "Uh oh," Carter hissed. Doug Forrest
instinctively tapped his comm. badge.

=/\="Forrest to Republic, come in. Request immediate evac."=/\=

Forrest shook his head grimly as the line gave no response. "Nothing
upstairs Commander."

Carter and A'Nathon exchanged hard glances, as a new sound filled
their ears. This time, it was a sound Carter knew very well: the
high-pitched whine of counter-gravity landing craft. Carter broke
his glance at A'Nathon to look at the members of the Hazard Team. As
Carter himself had suspected, it looked as though the rest of the
away team were expecting an invasion. Deuce and Mendoza each
shrugged their shoulders and flexed their fingers around the barrels
of their de-powered phaser rifles. Clearly, the two combat
specialists expected to be overrun by Gorn troops any minute.

"Everyone just calm down for a second," Carter said, trying his best
to sound re-assuring. Before he could speak again, another new sound
was introduced to the mix.

"Attention citizens of Cestus III". The voice was vaguely
synthisized and mechanical. From the Doppler shift of the speech,
Carter guessed that what he was hearing was being broadcast from the
passing craft they had heard previously.

"This is Pack Leader G'Meth, of the Gorn Sss'thak Reclamaition
Fleet. As of one hour ago, in accordance with the treaty of Metron,
the Federation representative was beaten in trial by combat."

`Son of a Bitch!', Carter thought to himself, knowing for certain
now what had caused the lock down of the U.S.S. Republic.

"We have tried to keep you safe in the camps as we surveyed this
planet." G'Meth continued.

"Safe my ass! You scale-faced butchers!" Arthur Cromwell yelled. His
face was a picture of fury. "Those mosters invaded! They took our
homes!"

"Did they kill anyone?" A'Nathon asked, his antennae perking forward
as he waited for an answer.

"What?"

"Did they kill anyone? Destroy any homes?"

"Of course they did you damned Blackshirt!" Cromwell threw his hands
up. "Look around you."

"Think carefully...did they draw first blood?" There was an edge to
A'Nathon's voice that implied that he already knew the answer.

"They drove us from our homes you fascist!"

"But did they kill anyone?"

"They damned well WOULD have!" Cromwell shot back, and before he
realised what he'd admitted to, Lindsey Davenport placed a
reassuring hand on Arthur Cromwell's shoulder. Slowly, the ersatz
freedom fighter shook off her reassurance. Arthur stepped to one of
the battered walls of the municipal building that made the groups
refuge at the moment. The other members of Shadow Force gathered
around him as they listened.

High above, G'Meth's voice continued. "Unfortunately, despite our
best intentions, a handful of terrorists have repaid our kindness
with the shedding of Gorn blood. Our traditions demand that such
behaviour be repaid in kind."

"That seems predictable enough." A'Nathon commented, drawing a
twisted look from Doug Forrest.

  As far as the Gorn are concerned, you brought this on yourselves."

Their was an eerie silence as the away team waited for what would
happen next. The faces of the members of Shadow Force seemed oddly
re-assured as the distant pounding of the Gorn orbital bombardment
continued, but this time it was more distant and muffled.

"Ah'll be damned Commander," Nat Hawk commented, "Ah figgered we
were done for. What gives?"

"I'm not sure Hawk, but..."

Carter's train of thought was disrupted by the scramble of footfalls
from above. Mendoza had found a perch near the structure's bombed-
out roof, and was climbing down while stowing a pair of Fleet issue
Macroscopes. "We got problems sir." Mendoza quipped.

"Give it to me straight Corporal."

Mendoza looked briefly at the huddled members of Shadow Force, then
back at the Republic's XO. "It's the Gordonia mountain range, off to
the west sir."

Almost as one, the members of Shadow Force turned their heads in
Mendoza's direction.

"That's where the resistance camps are, all the people the Gorn
couldn't get to..."

"The mountains are gone Commander," Mendoza looked down and shook
his head. "Just gone."

(To be continued...)

<Tag=Open>

Cmdr. J.T. Carter
Executive Officer
U.S.S. Republic

"Coffee.  Black, hot."  The gravely female voice waited
patiently as the computer sounded a
compliant chirp, and the soft surge of matter/energy conversion
produced a steaming
mug of black elixir on the replicator pad.  A spindly hand with
colored nails reached out to
retrieve the vessel, and as it was raised to head height, Admiral
Katheryn Janeway took a
quiet sip before returning to her work desk.

Her red hair contained streaks of gray, the combined result of her
time in the Delta
Quadrant, pressures of being a flag officer, and regular aging.  A
few faint wrinkles were
already etched into her smooth face, but they did not detract from
her penetrating blue
eyes that scanned the computer monitor.  In fact, they added to the
seasoned,
commanding disposition of the admiral, accentuating her hardened,
intimidating
demeanor which she was so famous for throughout Starfleet Command.

"Computer," she beckoned to the ever-obedient console.
"Get me Admiral Krockover."

In seconds, the gray-haired, elderly rear-admiral splayed across
Janeway's screen, and her
warm, soft smile added to the calm atmosphere that always surrounded
her when
company was present.

=/\= "What can I do for you, admiral?"  =/\=

"Sorry to bother you at this late hour, Pam," Janeway
consoled.  "The Federation Council is
scheduling a closed-door session to discuss the Cestus situation at
0900.  The hawks
have been successful in persuading a majority of the members to
maintain the media
blackout."

=/\= "What's the cover-story?" =/\=

"The public is being told that heightened solar activity has
temporarily disrupted the
Cestus communications array, and that commercial vessels will be
diverted away from the
system until the ion disturbances have dissipated."

=/\= "They can't keep this covered up for much longer."
=/\=

"Agreed," Janeway promptly said.  "My guess is that
they're frantically working to try and
blame this on the doves.  It's a good thing we got Cromwell off
the Republic when we did.
That gives them one less tool to use."

=/\= "Unfortunately, Marshall's death will complicate
matters.  If they succeed in blaming
the Cestus situation on us, it will only strengthen their
position." =/\=

"We have to be very careful now, Pam," the admiral said
ominously.  "With the Republic
under an interposition order, all hell could break loose and many
more Starfleet officers
could die.  We have to make sure that that intelligence operation is
exposed at the right
time.  If we don't, all fingers will point to us instead of the
hawks."

=/\= "With all due respect, admiral, a lot of lives have already
been lost.  We're completely
blind about what's happening on the surface, and only the hawks
know what's going on
down there now that Republic has gone silent." =/\=

"I'm really sorry about your family, Pam.  But we had no way
to know how quickly the
Gorns would respond, and an evacuation of Cestus before any attack
would have been
impossible."

=/\= "I'm not blaming you, admiral.  I just wish there was
more we could do." =/\=

"I've already ordered the 512th Colonization Fleet to take an
extended shore leave at
Bellatrix Four.  They just finished a colonization operation in the
Pleiades cluster, so their
transport ships will be mostly empty.  If there's a breakthrough
at the council meeting or
on the ground at Cestus, we can either load them up with supplies for
a relief operation,
or send them in to evacuate the colony.  Let's just hope the
latter won't be necessary."

=/\= "What about Kostya?" =/\=

"He's dropped off the radar screen at the moment,"
Janeway replied with a hint of
frustration in her voice.  She sat back in her chair and placed a
finger on her chin.  "I wish I
knew what he was up to.  I've put a sentry program in the PERSCOM
net, so if he tries to
reassign anyone in the fleet with the rank of captain, we'll know
about it.  He'll have to
pull something really smooth out of his hat to get by us.  Is the
doctor ready to go back?"

=/\= "He's been informed that he's on standby for return
to the Republic." =/\=

"Good," the admiral replied.  "I'll let you know what
comes up in the council meeting.
Janeway out."



***


<location: dispatch office, Waste Transfer Depot Gamma XII, Altair
Sector>

"Will there be anything else, sir?"  A lieutenant commander
in operations gold stood in
front of a small desk in a dark, dingy room.  He had a head of brown
hair slicked back to
reveal a widow's peak on the upper forehead, and a pair of dark
green eyes.  Waiting for a
response from the occupant of the office, he quietly placed his hands
behind his back in a
relaxed manner.

Behind the desk, a woman with shoulder-length black curly hair
sported a command-red
under-tunic with the three pips of a Starfleet commander.  Her gray
officer's jacked had
the standard red piping on the sleeves, and after she pressed a few
buttons on a hand-
held PADD, she looked up to the officer with a pair of fatigued brown
eyes.

"No Gentry," she replied.  "That's all.  Have a good
night."

"Thank you, sir," he replied before departing the office.  As
the doors slid shut, the silence
in the room was broken only by a forceful sigh from the commander.
She dropped the
PADD on the desk with such apathy that if it were a piece of refuse,
she might have been
more interested in it.  Folding her arms, the forty-something woman
sat back in her chair
and surveyed the room with detachment.

It was a plain office with no windows to speak of, and only a small
bookshelf against the
wall to the right of the desk.  To the left, a colorful painting of a
Nebula-Class cruiser
among a backdrop of stars was situated on the wall above a glass
aquarium.  The
aquarium itself radiated a dull, pale light that was directed
downward onto a substrate of
sand, rock, and various small desert plants that resembled cacti.  A
hollowed out piece of
wood sat among the various terrestrial accoutrements, and contained a
small brown
rodent-like animal that resembled a miniature kangaroo with long ears
which ended in
erect, bushy tips.  The tail was similar to the ears in that it
sported the same hairy apex,
but it was the eyes that drew the attention of those who viewed the
critter.  Like an
opossum, the circular irises were reflective disks of bluish white,
and the pupils glowed a
soft red.  The two colored apertures intertwined to create a unique
collage natural beauty
within the visual organs.  As the animal sat on its hind legs
cleaning itself, the commander
stood up from the desk and walked over to the aquarium.  The unusual
creature looked up
with the jerky motion of a mouse, flittered a pair of whiskers, and
crawled out of the
wooden hole to greet the officer with repetitive wisps of it's
tail.

For her part, the commander stood in front of the aquarium looking up
at the picture.  She
stared at the starship with a look of yearning and regret in her
eyes, recalling both the
pain and joy of her service during the Dominion war.  Reaching out to
the metallic
nameplate at the top of the frame, she stroked it gently as she read
the inscription:

U.S.S. Thundercrest -- NCC-71339

After allowing a brief moment of nostalgia conjured by the nameplate,
she looked down to
the dedication inscription etched into a similar gold plate on the
bottom of the frame:

To Captain Kimberly Roth -- For loyalty and dedicated service

Like the nameplate, she stroked the gold etching with remembrance,
and maintained a
penetrating, distant stare as she recalled the day that her crew
presented her this memoir.
It was not all that long ago that this woman was the captain of the
vessel represented in
the painting.  The Thundercrest was in fact a starship that saw an
unusually large amount
of combat during the Federation's struggle against the Dominion.
Roth had been field-
promoted to captain shortly after her reassignment to the
Thundercrest as her captain had
died during the first days of the war.  For the next several years
she had led the vessel
through many battles, losing numerous crew, and almost forced to
self-destruct the ship
at one point.  Still, they endured.  The surviving crew became
war-hardened veterans as
well a close family of officers.  Until that fateful day . . .

Starfleet Intelligence achieved a breakthrough in its reconnaissance
division.  A team of
field agents intercepted information regarding a new Dominion weapon
developed by the
Breen as well as an upcoming attack plan on the Federation that would
herald the
weapon's deployment.  The information was transmitted to a
military information node
near the Cardassian border, and was standing by for retrieval.  Such
information was so
sensitive and highly classified that standard subspace communication
was too risky, and
so Fleet Intel relied instead on deep space buoys to collect vital
information from field
operatives across the war zone.  Thundercrest's mission was to
travel at high warp to
intercept and retrieve the information about the new Breen weapon.

Unfortunately, the Thundercrest was not the only ship in the sector
that day with a mission
to retrieve the buoy.  A Cardassian attack fleet on a direct
intercept course to the
information node came into sensor range during the mission.  Roth
knew that if the
Dominion captured the information node, they would not only deprive
the Federation of
the intelligence information, but they would learn the location of
every other information
node in the war zone as well as the names and whereabouts field
agents who relied upon
them.  The Thundercrest was in critical a race for time, and
thousands, perhaps millions,
of Federation lives hung in the balance.  It was a race doomed to be
lost.

The two opposing sides arrived at the information node at the same
time, despite Roth
pushing the engines of the Thundercrest beyond design limits.  With a
damaged warp
drive, the Nebula-Class starship fought valiantly to ward off the
Cardassian invaders, but
to no avail.  As the warships circled the Thundercrest and
information node like buzzards
waiting for a prey to die, Roth, in a final desperate act to prevent
strategic intelligence
data from falling into enemy hands, destroyed the information node.
As the warp drive
was repaired, the Thundercrest escaped and limped home to report what
had happened.
It was only upon their return did Roth realize just how important the
information node had
been.

As the Breen began to deploy their new energy-depriving weapon,
Starfleet was nearly
paralyzed.  When her superiors had discovered that she had destroyed
the Federation's
only intelligence regarding this new weapon, the retribution against
Roth was staggering.
After a full court marshal, Captain Roth was demoted to the rank of
commander, and
sentenced to three years in the stockade.  During her confinement,
she lost nearly
everything that was dear to her.  Roth's fiancé had called the
marriage off and stopped
communicating.  Her family had disowned her, and every friend she had
ever made in
Starfleet or otherwise had renounced and abandoned her.  If it were
not for the memories
of her service aboard the Thundercrest, she surely would have left
Starfleet altogether.
The picture that hung in this office wall was the only memory Roth
had of good times long
gone.

A soft chattering sound roused Roth from her day-trance.  She looked
down to see the
small animal in its aquarium looking up at her with an excited
expression.  It whipped its
tail a few times and blinked twice before the commander smiled meekly
and knelt down to
retrieve the creature from the cage.  As she did so, it happily
hopped into her hands and
skittered up her arm to find a perch on her shoulder.  It paused and
chattered again as if
asking for something.  Without another thought, Roth plucked a snack
pellet from a
nearby dispenser and handed it to her pet.  In response, it stood on
its hind legs and
busily devoured the small morsel.  She watched the little animal for
a brief moment before
returning to the picture.

"How did it end up like this, Smoke?" she whispered to her
companion.  "I'm probably the
most decorated waste-transfer foreman in the Alpha Quadrant."

Roth was referring to the only position in Starfleet she could get
after serving out her
sentence.  It was difficult to find an operational branch that would
have her, and she was
barred from ever serving as a starship commander again.  It was here,
at a radioactive
waste disposal depot, that she found a place in the fleet that
overlooked her career
reprimand, and whose staff didn't refuse to work with her.

When the small animal had finished eating, Roth gave it a few strokes
behind its left ear
before placing it back into the aquarium.  Satisfied that its owner
had provided some food
and attention for a time, it curled back up in the wooden burrow and
went to sleep.  The
commander was about to sign off on her shift schedule and go back to
her quarters when
the door chime rang.  With a quizzical appearance, she looked to the
door and thought
`what does Gentry want now?'

"Come," she announced.  As the door slid open, it was obvious
that the visitor was not her
second-in-command, as the red tunic and black belt of a Starfleet
admiral strolled into the
office.  Surprised, Kimberly immediately came to the position of
attention.

"It's okay, commander," the middle-aged admiral said with
a wave of his hand.  His
peppery black and gray hair was well groomed with a part down the
middle, and he smiled
at Roth with a clean-shaven face and blue-green eyes.  "I'm
not on an inspection tour."

Still caught off guard by the sudden appearance of an admiral in her
office, Kim found it
very hard to relax.  She stammered slightly as she greeted him.

"Um, admiral . . . I wasn't informed that you'd be
arriving.  Have my staff found you
everything you need?"

"Yes, yes," the older man replied with detachment as he
walked into the center of the
room.  "Your staff was more than amiable.  I asked them to keep
quiet about my visit as I
didn't want to disturb their routine."

"Well . . ." Roth looked around the office to make sure
everything was in order.  "In that
case . . . welcome to Waste Transfer Depot Gamma Twelve."  She
extended a hand in
greeting trying to hide her bewilderment at the man's sudden
appearance.  "I'm
Commander Roth."

"Admiral Kostya," the older officer replied grasping her
hand.  "And might I say, it is truly
and honor to finally meet you, commander."

Kim went from surprised to stunned and suspicious.  `You've
GOT to be kidding,' she
thought as she shook his hand with a look of disbelief.

"Um . . . yes," she replied, dumbfounded at Kostya's
remark.  "Thank you."

For his part, the admiral looked around the room, not paying
attention to the rising
tension on Roth's part.  Finally, she could bare the silence no
more.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

Kostya reviewed the collection of books on the bookshelf before
looking back at Roth with
eyes of approval and confidence.  He appeared to be a man who was
looking at his son's
college dorm room for the first time.

"Actually commander, I was wondering if there's something I
could do for you . . ."

Roth was now highly suspicious.  The only time a flag officer would
come strolling into an
unknown subordinate's office was if they wanted something from
them.  Alarms were
ringing throughout every inch of Kim's mind.

"I . . . don't understand," she replied shaking her head.

"How long have you been stationed here?" the admiral promptly
asked.

"Three years, seven months, sir."

The admiral smiled, catching something in Roth's reply.

"That's a long time to be in such an unremarkable position in
Starfleet.  I get the
impression by your keen remembrance of your tenure that you don't
exactly enjoy this
posting?"

"What makes you say that, sir?"

"Come now," Kostya remarked with slight amusement.  He
strolled across the room to look
at the painting of the Thundercrest.  "You and I both know your
record, what you've been
through, and how you got stationed here.  A waste transfer depot is
not exactly a place
where a war hero belongs."

"Hero?" she blurted out with vexation and bafflement.
"With all due respect, sir.  Three
years in the stockade is not exactly the background for a
stereotypical hero."

"Agreed," he looked back to her with a smile.  "But then,
I wouldn't want to insult you by
calling you a typical hero."

"Frankly sir," she continued. "No one, not even my
family, would EVER consider me a hero.
Especially not in Starfleet."

"That's where you're wrong, commander," the admiral
interjected, losing his smile and
replacing it with a sobering gaze.  "Not everyone in Starfleet
feels you did the wrong thing
aboard the Thundercrest."

"Do you?"

"My personal feelings are irrelevant," Kostya said smartly.
"The point is that some feel you
did the right thing, and others feel it's time to give you
another chance."

Kim could feel her heart pounding in her chest.  Her stomach was tied
in knots, and about
to fall through the floor.  She suspected that she knew what the
admiral was getting at,
but the suspense was killing her.

"What do you mean?" she was finally able to ask with dry
throat and pale face.

"I've come to ask if you'd be interested in sitting in
the captain's chair again."

The impact of Kostya's words hit Roth squarely in the chest.  It
seemed like reality was
falling apart around her and that she was entering some sort of dream
world.  The blood
rushed to her head, and a slight sense of vertigo washed over her.
Kim was barely able to
think at this moment, let alone speak.

"There's an upcoming mission in Tholian space," the
admiral continued.  "And I need
someone with your expertise and experience to command it.  Everyone
in Starfleet
operations is in agreement that you're the right person for this,
and they've pre-approved
your transfer if you choose to go on this mission."

Kostya could tell that Roth was speechless, which was precisely the
result he wanted.

"Of course," he added.  "I can't promote you to
captain until we're in the field, so if you
want a chance to reverse what happened on the Thundercrest, this is
your opportunity."

"Only if I go on this mission?" she managed to ask.

"Yes," Kostya replied.  "Only if you go."

It didn't take a function of her higher consciousness for her to
reply to the admiral.  In
fact, it seemed more like a reflex action that started from her ears,
and immediately went
to her vocal cords, bypassing her brain completely.  With unfettered
enthusiasm, the
words she spoke were clear and to the point.

"When do we leave?"

[OP] ..."What are they shooting at" he mumbled softly to
himself.  "Something
underground?"
	 As if on cue, A'nathon's tricorder sounded a proximity
alarm.  It was a quiet,
smooth chirp, indicating that the lifeforms were still some distance
away.  As he rechecked the coordinates of the newcomers, he pivoted
his macroscope to zoom in on the new readings about three-fourths of
a kilometre away.  As the tricorder had promised, a little over a
dozen humanoid figures were emerging from a small cliff-side fissure
just above a flood canal leading away from Cornucopia.  They were
warm-blooded according to the thermal sensors, and loading with all
sorts of energy-producing devices to include phaser rifles.

	 "Bingo", A'nathon muttered, an expression he learned from
Davis over the
  past year.  As the Andorian ensign zoomed closer to reveal the
individual faces
  of the refugees, he focussed on one in particular; Commander John
Carter.
"Inconceivable . . ." he whispered to himself with both surprise and
  vexation.

	 [NP]: Kilometres away, Carter, and the rest of Republic's
away team tried their best to duck and weave through the Gorn
orbital bombardment of their former position. As Carter looked
around to confirm the condition of both his men and the members of
Shadow Force, he sprinted toward Nat Hawk, who was running along the
civilians along with Doug Forrest. "I swear to God Hawk," Carter
spat, " this is the LAST time I take you anywhere!"

	 "Whaddid Ah do?"

	 "You brought half the Gorn navy down on our heads, that's
what!" Arthur Cromwell yelled out as he looked to the western
horizon.

	 In unison both Carter and Hawk shot the elder Cromwell hard
glances. "Shut up!" they both yelled. Then the two officers looked
at each other. Hawk seemed genuinely surprised, and John noted that
this might have been the first time he and Hawk agreed on
anything. "We have to find shelter!" Carter yelled over the
unbelievably deep booming of the Gorn plasma bolts. He looked toward
Lindsey Davenport. "Where are the rest of your people?"

	 "They're in the Western Divide!" she answered back, coughing
from all the dust the Gorn assault had churned into the air. She
turned west and motioned toward the foothills.

	 "Then that's where we go!" Carter broke into a run, hoping
that the older members of Shadow Force could keep up. As he sprinted
forward, he glanced to his left, where Doug Forrest was helping Wey
keep pace. "Is it true?" Carter asked. "Did they lock onto the Intel
signal that found Hawk?"

	 Forrest nodded grimly. "Most likely. Though the gear we're
carrying isn't helping much either. We might as well power down. Try
to run silent for as long as we can, now that the Gorn know to look
for us."

	 What Forrest proposed bothered John Carter, almost on
principal alone. The idea of powering down weapons and leaving the
landing party defenceless went against everything Carter had been
taught. On the other hand, Forrest had a point. Shutting down any
and all EM sources would make the landing party nearly impossible to
find from orbit. Without a known position to triangulate on, the
team would be safe from orbital attack as well as the Gorn soldiers.
Additionally, once the away team had melted into the mountains, they
could likely power back up if a Gorn patrol happened upon them. John
nodded at Forrest and the Intel. Officer powered down his phaser.
Carter proceeded to work his way through the marching order
whispering instructions to the team. One by one, each of the
Starfleet soldiers gave their First Officer some manner of quizzical
glance, but complied with his order. Then Carter once again found
himself next to Nat Hawk.

	 "Power down your weapon Nat." Carter ordered softly.

	 "Like HELL!" the helmsman answered back. "An let them dern
lizards skin me alive? No thanks!"

	 The two officers walked along as Carter tried to
explain. "Hawk, the Gorn ships are tracking us by the energy output
from our weapons. Now power down before you get a plasma torp shot
down your throat!"

	 "Well," Nat smiled innocently at his commanding
officer, "Since y'all but it that way." Hawk keyed the control to
power down his phaser. Carter followed suit and powered down his
weapon, tucking it neatly into it's pocket on his tac vest.

	 The away team and the members of Shadow Force hurried toward
the remnants of the Cornucopia settlement hall, the once shining
centrepiece of the community. After weeks of Gorn occupation
however, it was little more than a ruin. As the hurried humans
ducked into the shelter, Carter again looked at Lindsey Davenport,
then at Arthur Cromwell. "Okay," Carter began, "Here's what we're
going to do. I want you folks," Carter waved his hand to indicate
the members of Shadow Force, "to stay out of sight. Deuce and
Mendoza will stay with you while Forrest, Hawk and I try to contact
the Starfleet assets near the Gorn border."

	 "Now hold on a second there, petticoat!" Arthur Cromwell
bellowed.

	 "Arthur, please..." Lindsey Davenport settled in next to
Cromwell, trying to keep her friend calm while Carter told the
others his thoughts.

	 "What assets?" Cromwell questioned. "There isn't even an
armoury here. No fleet presence at all, until you lot showed up,
that is."

	 Before Carter could answer, there was a rustling of dust and
debris behind the assembled group. Instinctively, the battle-
hardened members of Shadow Force dropped and brought their de-
powered weapons to firing position.Likewise, the members of
Republic's Hazard Team, spun toward the noise and moved to take up
defensive positions around the enclosure.

	 As John Carter whirled to face the noise, his eyes came upon
the unmistakable blue skin of an Andorian. His normally white hair
was dingy with dirt, sweat, and smoke, and the curved antennae on
his head were lying almost flat against his head, indicating that he
was agitated. It was a posture that John knew all too well.

	 The andorian stepped forward with hands raised, surveying
the assembled troops with a practised gaze. He held his gaze a bit
longer on Doug Forrest, nodding slightly to the Intel Officer. Then
looked Carter dead in the eyes. "Actually," he said calmly, that's
not entirely true. We've been here for the better part of a year."

	 "Who's we?" Carter asked.

	 "I think you know, Carter, or at least you've suspected for
some time." The Andorian cocked his head and seemed a bit more at
ease as he saw confusion in John Carter's face. "Finally made
Commander did you?" The Andorian stepped forward, bringing himself
into the circle of officers and freedom fighters. "Who did you have
to stab in the back to get that far, Hmmm?"

	 Recognition hit John Carter like a fist. In front of him was
an officer who he'd had to face down as a matter of honour and
protocol years ago. Of all the beings John Carter had thought he
would see on Cestus III, this was not one of them. "A'nathon..."
Carter hissed.

 	 "So nice to see you again, Commander."

(OOC:  Ah, summer . . . the time when a young man's fancy turns to that of . . .
. well, not simming at least . . . Sorry to leave you hanging, Doug!  We're all
still here, just busy! ;-)


Dried spots of blood littered the floor.  As Leon pried open his eyes, he could
see the tiny dots of maroon spattering the ground below him.  The pain of the
metal wires suspending him from the ceiling through folds of flesh in his back
had subsided hours ago, as did the throbbing welts from electric prods all over
his body.  However, the tooth sockets from missing teeth were excruciating with
each breath he took, and the sadistic laughter of his Vorta torturer sent a
chill down his spine.

“It’s really a simple request, doctor.�

Four Jem H’dar soldiers stood at each corner of the dark, gloomy chamber,
staying at a distance as their sovereign strode closer to Leon.  The iridescent
glow of the Vorta’s eyes hid his malevolent demeanor as he looked at the
doctor with false sympathy.

“You said yourself you were stationed out of Starbase 72,� the Vorta stated
soothingly.  “With that, you should know the approach protocols for the
minefield.�

“I told you . . .� sputtered Leon through dried blood moistened by saliva.
Searing pain tore through his mouth with each spoken word.  “. . . I’m a
doctor . . . I don’t know.�

The Vorta closed his eyes, shaking his head in pity.  “I do wish you would
discontinue this ruse.�

The sound of the soldiers closing in from the corners caused Leon to tense up.
Although it was a natural response, the pain of the suspension wires tugging on
his flesh flared up again, and he clenched his jaw at what was about to ensue.

Flickers from electrical sparks lit the room up like a strobe light, and the
crackle of arcing electrodes from the prodding mechanisms resonated with a
high-pitched whine.  Again and again the torture devices were impaled into the
doctor’s body, causing him to writhe in agony on the suspension wires.  The
incessant whine from the prods continued as Leon caught a glimpse of a Jem
H’dar reaching towards him with a tooth extractor to remove yet another one
of his incisors.  The bliss of unconsciousness soon washed over him as the
high-pitched whine of the prods echoed through his mind.


***


<location: officer’s quarters, residential complex 327, Starfleet
Headquarters>

Again and again, the whine of the communications console sounded throughout the
room.  The uninterrupted darkness confused Leon as he was roused from his
sleep.  Slowly, he sat up from the bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the
wall-mounted chronometer.  It read 0343.

“A little early for a wake-up call,� he grumbled.  “It better be damn
important.�

Standing up, Leon tightened the sash on his bathrobe and shuffled over to the
communications station at his desk.  Clumsily flopping into the chair, he
quickly tapped the ‘answer’ button to silence the annoying warble.  As he
did so, the aged and gray-haired face of Admiral Krockover appeared on the
screen.

“Admiral,� Leon greeted her.

=/\= “Sorry to wake you, Leon.� =/\=

“S’alright,� he replied rubbing his eyes.  “What’s going on?�

=/\= “I have some bad news from the Republic,� =/\=

“What is it?�

=/\= “Captain Marshall is dead.� =/\=

“What?�  Leon shouted.  He was quite awake now.  “What happened?�

=/\= “I’m not completely certain about the details, but he beamed away from
the ship to face the Gorn commander in some sort of duel, and the officer who
went with him called for an emergency beam-out shortly afterwards.  The last
log message indicated the captain passed away in sickbay at 2348 hours.�
=/\=

“Damn it!� Leon stormed, standing up and pacing the room.  “Why did you
pull me away from the Republic?  I might have been able to save him!�

=/\= “Leon, you and I both know that pulling you out of there when we did was
the best thing for both of us.  As for saving Captain Marshall, Doctor Yezbeck
is an expert in emergency medicine.  If he couldn’t have saved the captain,
then it’s highly unlikely that you could have.� =/\=

Leon was visibly distressed, with a furrow forming on his forehead.  He paced
the room a few more times in silence before regaining his composure and sitting
back down at the desk.

“Can you give me anymore specifics?  Surely the medical logs have been
transmitted by now . . .�

=/\= “Unfortunately, no.  That’s the other part of the bad news.  The
Republic went to silent running just after Captain Marshall died.  My text
download of the logbook was discontinued, and I have no idea what’s going on
now.� =/\=

“What?� Leon was confused.  “That doesn’t make any sense.  Was the ship
attacked?�

=/\= “No.  Long-range sensor buoys show that the Republic is intact and at
station holding.  The only reason the ship would have gone to silent running is
if the command codes were locked out somehow.� =/\=

“Locked out?  How?  By who?�

=/\= “I don’t know, but I can make an educated guess.  Just before she went
silent, the Republic transmitted a secure subspace message that was sent here
to Starfleet Headquarters.  I put a trace on the message, and it was routed to
Admiral Kostya’s terminal.� =/\=

“You think the Admiral might have had something to do with the Republic going
silent?�

=/\= “It’s not something I would put beyond him.  During the Dominion War,
Kostya was known for ‘interposition orders’ if a ship captain or other
senior officer became incapacitated.� =/\=

“What exactly are interposition orders?�

=/\= “Basically, if strategists here at headquarters want an extra layer of
defense against a ship being taken over by changelings, operatives onboard the
ship in question can lock out the command codes if there’s an interruption in
the chain of command.� =/\=

“That’s crazy!  What if the ship is in the middle of combat?�

=/\= “Better a ship be destroyed than fall in enemy hands.  In practice, the
orders were not used for front line ships, but on larger control cruisers in
command of entire task forces.� =/\=

“Sort of like the Republic?�

=/\= “Exactly like the Republic.  In fact, some believe it was an
interposition order that caused the Republic to be lost five years ago near
Cardassian space.  Although the crew was never found and the computer core was
wiped clean, so we could never confirm the suspicion.� =/\=

“Why would Kostya use an order like that now?  We’re not at war!  Isn’t
there something illegal about this?�

=/\= “Yes, it’s true that there may be some legality issues, but it was
never fully explored because we were at war at the time.  It’s very odd that
Kostya would go to these lengths to maintain control of the Republic,
especially since the ship is in a hazardous situation.  There must be more at
stake here than just having the hawks in charge.� =/\=

“That,� offered Leon.  “Or maybe Kostya feels that there are enough hawks
in the council to treat interposition orders as a non-issue.�

=/\= “Maybe, but the doves aren’t going to let this one slide quietly in the
council.  Even during the war, interposition orders were a very rare thing.�
=/\=

“So what do we do from here?�

=/\= “Nothing yet.  Kostya’s likely to move fast and try to put another
hawkish captain in charge of the Republic.  If that’s the case, we’ll be
sending you back home sooner than expected.� =/\=

“Wait a minute.  You’re an admiral.  Don’t you have any pull in who gets
assigned as captain of the Republic?�

=/\= “Please, Leon.  I’m only a rear admiral.  Kostya has the upper hand
here.  I’ll check with Admiral Janeway and see if we can cut him off at the
pass.  Krockover out.� =/\=

Leon stared at the blank console for more than a minute after the Federation
‘end transmission’ logo had ceased.  The universe was changing at a rapid
pace, and he could only sit by and wait for a distantly-related admiral to tell
him what to do.   He knew that she meant well, and that it was best for him to
stay away from the Republic while it was on this current mission.  But the
thought of him standing idly by while his friends and family were in danger
twisted his stomach in knots.  Now, with the revelation that his captain was
dead, it seemed his worst fears were coming true.

“What the hell is going on down there?� he whispered.



<location: Cestus III, somewhere in the Gordonia Mountains>

Granite and basalt were the basic components of the Cestus Three crust.
Although there were a few commodity ores, the system wasn’t renown for it’s
mineral riches.  In fact, if it were not for the Class-M biosphere, there would
likely be no interest in Cestus for human colonization.  However, of the ores
that did exist, many were found in sporadic veins beneath the Gordonia
Mountains.  Osmium, diburnium, and magnesium were relatively abundant, as was
lead and iron.  Together, these metals formed the innermost layers of the
uplift zone which formed the base of the mountain range.  Geologists found it a
difficult area to study, and the various metals tended to scatter most active
sensor scans, and the extinct magma tubes that allowed subterranean exploration
were exceedingly difficult to negotiate let alone find altogether.

However, as a place to hide from the prying eyes of overhead vessels, the
Gordonian Mountains offered no better haven on the planet.  In addition to the
debris-covered magma tunnels, the range extended over half the planet, giving
any possible ground search an insurmountable task should they choose to search
the mountains.  It was in the heart of this remote wilderness that the remains
of Cestus Three’s government chose their refuge.

The hollowed out bunker was composed of several rooms laid out around a central
cavern known as ‘the hub’.  The controllers who manned the monitoring
stations throughout the cavern shuffled about their duties which included
constant ground, air, and orbital observations as well as communications and
satellite tracking.  It was a self-sufficient outpost, built years ago with
discrete government funds, and designed to maintain all functions of the
executive, legislative, and judicial branches in the event of a planet-wide
catastrophe.  And of course, if an alien invasion did not constitute such an
emergency, then there was very little else that did.

“Governor Clarke?�  A young, curly-black haired man with dark skin wore a
communications headset and sat at a computer station situated in front of a
large, translucent tactical board.  He beckoned to an elderly man in an
anti-grav chair several seats away.

The ancient pursed his lips several times through squinted, wrinkled eyes, and
as he smoothed a small crop of white hair with a shaky, age-spotted hand, he
manipulated the controls of his ambulatory device and floated towards the
twenty-something controller.

“Yes?� the gravelly voice came forth from the governor.

“You asked me to update you when the Gorn recovery operation in Cornucopia was
complete.�

“What’s it look like?� the governor asked.

“The medical skiffs stayed for only about thirty minutes,� the controller
reported.  “It doesn’t look like they had much to recover.  They’ve
cordoned off the area, and most of the troops have vacated.�

“What do you make of the heat-exchange complex?�

“From what I’m hearing on Gorn com intercepts, it’s a complete loss, sir.
Whatever happened, it took everything into the belowground retention pond.
Liquid sodium included.�

“Was it an accident?’�

“Not from the sound of it.�  The young man shook his head.  “It was a
clean break in the street all around where the retention pond was.  The Gorn
investigation team is guessing that it was probably shaped nitrate charges.�

“Then it couldn’t have been Shadowforce?�

“Not unless they stockpiled Class-1R explosives.  Only Starfleet Commandos
would have that kind of firepower.�

“Harmph,� grunted the governor.  “It’s their fault we’re in this mess
in the first place . . .�  He pursed his lips a few more times before
continuing.  “Have the Gorns found Fleet Intel’s duck-blind?�

“Luckily, no.  In fact, Intel’s been rather quiet except for the retention
pond explosion.  But we can’t absolutely confirm that it was them.�

“They’re SUPPOSED to be just observing,� the governor said with a grouchy
overtone.  “If they’ve actually started to take military action, we might
as well give up any hope of getting the colony back.  The Gorns must’ve found
out about the in-system monitoring station by now.�

“Well,� the young man continued.  “If they did, they’re not taking it
too kindly. One of the Gorn ships has engaged in a localized orbital
bombardment near Cornucopia.  I’m guessing it’s either another police
action or retaliation for the retention pond explosion.�

The old man hovered behind the control operator for a moment, watching him sift
through various screens of data.

“How many Gorns do you estimate are on the ground now?� the elderly man
asked after a moment.  The young technician typed quickly across his control
panel.

“There’s about ten assault ships in orbit supported by a dozen battleships.
Recent intelligence about the Gorn naval fleet indicate a standard assault ship
holds about two to three thousand battle troops.  Since all eight settlements
across the planet have fallen to the Gorns, I’d say the assault ships have
probably unloaded most, if not all of their troops.�

“Hmmmm,� Governor Clarke acknowledged.  “With more inbound.�

“Quite likely, sir.�

“And Starfleet?�

“Other than the intelligence personnel, only that lone Galaxy Class is
hovering above us.�

“Why in Sam Hill would they send one lousy ship?� the old man muttered.
“There should be an entire fleet in orbit!�

“I don’t know sir, but the outlook doesn’t look good.�

“Agreed,� the governor replied somberly.  “Put the evacuation protocol on
standby.  I’ll give Fleet a little longer, but we won’t hold out
forever.�

“Yes sir,� the controlled acknowledged.

Governor Clarke made his way down the isle, pausing behind other operators every
now and then within the dark cavern.  His aged, wrinkled face was becoming more
frustrated at each passing station.  By the time he reached the end of the
isle, he was shaking his head.

“I hope to hell Fleet knows what they’re doing . . .�



<location: main bridge, USS Republic>

“What do you mean he wasn’t on the battle bridge?�

Lieutenant McClintock’s voice was stern bordering on aggravated as he
addressed Sean McTaggart, the assistant tactical chief.

“Like I said, sir,� the subordinate answered.  “Per your orders, we
dispatched a team to apprehend the commander, but found no trace of him except
the combadge he left in the emergency turbolift.�

“What do internal sensors show?� McClintock turned to Lieutenant Tyler at
science station one.

“Indeterminate,� she replied.  “However, I’m reading only nine-hundred
and eighty-nine lifeforms aboard the Republic at the moment.�

McClintock looked visibly confused.

“What?  You’re telling me fifteen of our crew just up and left the ship
without using transporters, shuttlecraft, or EVA hatches?�

Tyler looked hurt, but not shaken.  “No, sir.  I’m saying that sensors may
have been tampered with.�

“Can they do that?� McClintock turned to McTaggart.

“If they gained access to the computer core,� the assistant tactical
answered.  “Yes sir, they can.�

McClintock was now quite perturbed.

“Well you do something to get them the hell out of there!� he shouted at
McTaggart.  For his part, the young assistant blinked momentarily before
heading to the port-aft turbolift without further response.  As he did so,
Doctor Harris spoke from the counselor’s chair.

“Lieutenant,� she addressed McClintock. “Might I suggest you attempt some
sort of action to contact Commander Carter and party on the surface?  According
to the sensors, one of the Gorn ships is opening fire on the colony.�  Her
worry for John was increasing exponentially, especially now that the Gorns have
resumed limited orbital bombardment of the planet.  She felt that it couldn’t
hurt to remind the lieutenant that there were still people in a dangerous
situation on the planet below.

“Your concern for the commander,� responded McClintock.  “Is duly noted,
counselor.  However, I’d suggest you put your personal feelings aside for the
moment.  This ship is not to take any further action without Admiral Kostya’s
intervention.�

“For your sake, lieutenant,� Harris shot back coldly.  “That better be
soon.�



<location:  turbolift, USS Republic>

Sean McTaggart paced the circular floor of the turbolift.  He had known
McClintock for only a few days, and knew very little of his personality.
Overall, he seemed to be a friendly, out-going person up until this current
situation.  Sean was not too pleased about the predicament, himself.  Over the
course of the past hour, he had been cursing himself for not pushing the
captain harder about letting him take his place during the duel.  Then, to see
a poisonous blade sink into the flesh of his commanding officer was far too
much for any junior officer to bear.  But to return to his ship, and find that
the death of his skipper had lead to command-grade chaos was more than
confusing; it was unbelievable.  And somehow, McClintock and Tyler were at the
center of it all.  Who was this Admiral Kostya, and why was Lieutenant
Commander Virtus suddenly a fugitive on his own ship?

As if an empath were reading his own thoughts, the PADD that McTaggart held
blinked with a message awaiting his response from the messaging queue.

‘Lieutenant: We need to talk.  Meet me in catwalk 26-G.  -VXV’

Again, as on the bridge, McTaggart blinked in silence at the message, allowing
it’s cryptic meaning swirl around in his brain.  It suddenly occurred to him
that there was more going on here than he first thought.  Although his
loyalties lay with Captain Marshall, that person has since passed away, and the
duty of commanding this ship fell to the one he left in charge.  That man was
now beckoning him to a secret meeting deep within the heart of the Republic’s
engineering section.  The question now was who to trust: McClintock, a man who
he had known for only a day, or Virtus, the trusted engineer of a man who had
saved his life on Planet Styx.  Before he knew what he was doing, Sean tapped
his combadge.

“McTaggart to security.�

=/\= “Narundi here. Go ahead, sir.� =/\=

“Depach, disregard any incoming commands from the bridge.  Standby at the
watch desk and await my next order.  Something interesting is happening
here.�

=/\= “Chinese interesting, sir?� =/\=

“Roger that.�


<tag: Virtus . . . . . pretty please??>




<location: outskirts of Cornucopia Settlement, Cestus III>

It had been a hellish morning for A'nathon since he awoke for his duty shift.
Commander Gerard intercepted him at breakfast asking about the missing
ordinance packs he had dropped off for the colonists yesterday.  The Andorian
ensign tried to explain that he was forced to ditch them to escape a Gorn
patrol, but he didn’t buy it.  Then the commander handed him the PADD with
the report about the heat-exchange/retention pond demolition operation.
Unfortunately for A'nathon, his superior caught the half-smile that he
displayed for a brief moment as he read over the report.

So, he had scouting duty for the second day in a row, this time by himself.  He
preferred it that way, especially since Davis and Bitterstaff were dead, and he
had no time to grieve. Orders this time were to investigate a tight-beam
Starfleet com signal that was transmitted from an orbiting starship.  Just what
he needed.  A non-intel Fleet unit on the ground to complicate things even
more.  He should have guessed this would happen, especially since the cloaked
tracking satellite picked up a small suborbital craft with Fleet signatures
landing on the outskirts of Cornucopia yesterday.  But intercepted Gorn
transmissions yielded no indication of where they were . . . until now.

The iridescent purple lances of precision energy weaponry poured down from the
sky and pounded a rocky outcropping a few kilometers away.  They landed with a
soft, distant thud, shaking the ground as they impacted. A'nathon immediately
pulled out his macroscope and focused on the area.  There was nothing
substantial about the area being hit.  No building, no roads.  Not even a Fleet
Intel receiving station.  Only singed boulders and wisps of smoke and sand
billowed up from the impact crater.  Yet, the orbital bombardment continued.

“What are they shooting at?� he mumbled softly to himself.  “Something
underground?�

As if on cue, A'nathon’s tricorder sounded a proximity alarm.  It was a quiet,
smooth chirp, indicating that the lifeforms were still some distance away.  As
he rechecked the coordinates of the newcomers, he pivoted his macroscope to
zoom in on the new readings about three-fourths of a kilometer away.  As the
tricorder had promised, a little over a dozen humanoid figures were emerging
from a small cliff-side fissure just above a flood canal leading away from
Cornucopia.  They were warm-blooded according to the thermal sensors, and
loading with all sorts of energy-producing devices to include phasor rifles.

“Bingo,� A'nathon muttered, an expression he learned from Davis over the
past year.  As the Andorian ensign zoomed closer to reveal the individual faces
of the refugees, he focused on one in particular; Commander John Carter.

“Inconceivable . . .� he whispered to himself with both surprise and
vexation.

<tag: Carter, open>


Doctor Leon Cromwell, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
U.S.S. Republic
(temporarily reassigned to SFHQ)

Hello all,

Just a note to inform you that our website has been updated, and has gone from
"beta" version to "public" version.  We are now registered on seven banner
exchanges and three PBEM listings.  Next time you feel like wandering the
website, be sure to visit the "banners" link on the cover page to left of the
"ENTER" button.  The more you view and visit the webpages that the banner
exchanges have to offer, the more visibility our website gets on other pages.

Also, since we're getting more visibility now, you may want to consider updating
the department webpages that your characters are in charge of.  If you have
requests or material you'd like to see there, I'd be happy to post them.

Finally, no I'm not dead.  My efforts have been focused on the website, and not
on writing posts (bad, bad doc!).  I'll see what I can get out this week.

Toodles,
-the doc

Hi all,

Sorry about the multiple posts with that last one.  Yahoo seems to have trouble
formatting the text I give it.

Just a reminder that ussrepublic.org is *everyones* website.  If you have
suggestions or requests for any aspect of the site, please feel free to e-mail
me.  The departmental pages especially need work, and if you have something
you'd like to see for your respective departments' page, let me know.  I wrote
most of the text as I thought of it, so I wouldn't be surprised if any of it
needs to be redone or otherwise modified.

The tingling sensation of the transporter should have faded after beaming back
to the ship
for James Marshall.  It didn't.  Like thousands of dull pin-pricks, the loss of
sensitivity
spread outwards from the gaping wound in his shoulder like a quick spreading of
frostbite.  His mind was in a haze, and as his extremities were the first
casualties of the
poison, as his perception of reality was quickly becoming the second.  The
voices
surrounding him were like shallow whispers in the night, dislodging only faint
memories
of a life quickly slipping before his eyes.

". . . begin a system-wide neurological scan . . ."

Doctor Yezbeck's words reached his ears, but held little meaning.  Even the face
of the
Gorn first officer who dealt him the tainted wound had long vanished from the
captain's
recollection.  In their place, shadows from the past manifested themselves as if
offering
either support or absolution.  Although none spoke, their thoughts were
straightforward,
and echoed in Marshall's mind.

`You should have trusted me, captain.'  John Carter sat in the executive
officer's chair, and
looked at Jim with an air of frustration and antipathy.  `Why did you walk out
on us when
we needed you most?'

". . . unknown substance exhibiting asynchronous isomerism.  I need a toxicology
report,
stat! . . ."

The sound of rushing air and labored breathing lingered in the background. 
White haze
revealed another face, that of Leon Cromwell.  He looked at Jim with fatherly
concern.
`You need to trust your people.  Only then can they learn to trust you.'

". . . do we have a stasis option? . . ."

". . . Negative.  Isomerism is too random . . ."

The soft, slowing beat of his heart pounded within the captain's ears.  The
fragmented
moments within space and time merged as if nothing held them together at all.  A
fleeting
image of Rachael Blake faded into Jim's mind.

"Rachael!" he spouted on the exam table.  The medical crew rushing to save his
life
dismissed the exclamation as the non-lucid hallucination of a dying man.

`Jim, why didn't you let go?' Rachael's eyes were transfixed on him.  She was a
formidable
woman, resourceful captain, possessing beauty without bounds.  `The Republic
would
have been fine.'  Her thoughts floated into his mind, revealing the deep
feelings she had
hidden from him.   `We could have been together.  You and me.  On Risa.  Would
that have
been so bad?'

". . . administer 500 cc's of quadrantropine . . ."

Sawyer had removed her combadge again, and the penetrating gaze of the black
haired
half-Vulcan/half-Betazed engineer looked right into his soul.  `I did what you
wanted,
captain.  Everything is up to specs.  I went out on a limb.'  She was nervous,
and
unknowing of his commitment to her or the crew.  `I hope you know what you're
doing.'

". . . we have cardiac failure.  Initiate full life-support protocols . . ."

`My knight.'  The melodious words rolled into Jim's mind like the sudden scent
of a
pleasant flower.  `My sweet knight.'  Lana Taylor sat staring at Jim with a warm
glow and a
grateful smile.  `Those 4th years were just bullies.  But you . . . your so
different.  Thank
you for stopping them for me.'  Her eyes blinked with the flutter of a beguiled
teenager.
`My baby and me thank you.'

". . . no response from the antitoxin . . . systemic organ shutdown imminent . .
."

`Jimmy!'  Normally, he hated that name.  But instead of the upper classmen from
Starfleet
academy taunting him, it was the innocent calling of Grandma Marshall.  `Jimmy
Marshall!
Where are you?'  The gratifying smell of Friday night supper wafted into his
nostrils.
Corned beef and cabbage was his favorite, with boiled potatoes to boot.  `Stop
playing and
come in for dinner!  It's only going to get cold!'

". . . increase cordical stimulators to 800 faradays . . ."

Up and down.  Jim bounced up and down on his father's knee.  It was fun.  `See
that
picture, son?'  Little Jimmy was watching as daddy pointed to the unmoving,
framed figure
on the wall.  The short brown hair and green eyes sported a quaint,
old-fashioned suit and
tie.  `That's President James Marshall.  The fifty-seventh president of the
former United
States of America . . . the most powerful nation state on Earth before planetary
unification.
You'll be like him someday, Jimmy.  Someday . . .`

". . . we have a steady redline on the synaptic monitor . . ."

Cold or hot was irrelevant, as there was no longer any sensation of
environmental
extremes.  Jim knew the feeling of bliss, and this was it.  The warmth of the
womb was a
solitude all unto it's own, and a steady feeling of contentedness washed over
him.
Nothing could hurt him here.

". . . no sign of activity in the prefrontal cortex or hippocampus . . ."

Although his eyes did not hurt, the light was blinding nonetheless.  The
intensity of the
white haze increased exponentially, causing his thoughts to rise and converge
into a
single thread of consciousness.  Like the heart of supernova, the light exploded
into
brilliant colors, filling Jim's mind with a plethora of momentary lucidity that
slowly faded
with the expulsion of a single breath.

". . . confirm cessation of all neurological functions . . ."

Only space could be so black . . . so empty.  Even the stars refused to shine.
The peaceful
solitude of timelessness was infinite as entropy came to a standstill.  Quietly,
a blanket of
emptiness shrouded Jim's mind, leaving behind nothing more than what oblivion
itself
could offer.

". . . make a note in the medical log . . . what's the current ship-time? . . ."


<location: main bridge, USS Republic>

Tense moments passed as Vic sat silently in the command chair.  McTaggart's
voice from
the transporter room was shaky, indicating that the situation was grave.  There
were very
few things in the universe that could bring the assistant tactical chief to the
verge of panic.
One was jeopardizing the safety of the ship's captain; the other was anything
that may
block his unwavering dedication to duty.  Since both were now becoming an
alarming
possibility, Victor Virtus assumed the worst was yet to come.

=/\= "Sickbay to bridge." =/\=

Virtus looked to Shannon Harris seated next to him.  Although the counselor
wasn't
telepathic, it didn't take a Betazoid to know what was on Vic's mind.  They each
exchanged a glance of impending disaster as the acting commander pressed the
intercom
button on the armrest.

"This is the bridge.  Go ahead, Doctor Yezbeck."

=/\= "Captain Marshall is dead." =/\=

Silence took hold as the shock of the news rippled through the bridge crew.  At
the tactical
console, Jason McClintock's jaw stiffened.  Of all the bad outcomes that could
have
transpired, this one was the worst.  Not so much due to of the loss of the
captain, but
because of what his death forces the tactical chief to do.  A tense glance
towards Kristen
Tyler, the science chief, ended with a slight nod, as if confirming a course of
action that
neither of them were looking forward to executing.  Jason had to work quickly,
since
McTaggart, his tactical assistant, was due back to the bridge any moment.  With
a quick
dance of his fingers across the console, a computer program he had designed
prior to
boarding the Republic was activated.  Tyler did the same at her science station,
and
nervously rolled her eyes back towards McClintock, confirming that she had
completed her
task.

"Mister Snyder," Virtus called out to the helm station.  "Bring us into a lower
orbit for a
closer scan of the planet.  I want to see if it's possible to locate Commander
Carter's away
team."

With a negative warble sounding from the navigation console, a frown developed
on the
assistant helm officer's face.  "The helm's not responding, sir."

"Run a diagnostic," came the cool, calm voice of the chief engineer.  As he
stood up from
the command chair, he took a few strides closer to the helm station.  "See if
you can locate
what's wrong."

"I think I can answer that, commander," Lieutenant McClintock coolly spoke from
the
tactical station.

Virtus turned around to face the tac chief.  "Explain," he stated
straightforwardly.

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid I've had to lock out all command functions."

"Lieutenant," Virtus continued his calm, direct demeanor despite the rising
tension on the
bridge.  "There are one thousand and four lives aboard this ship that are
depending on our
ability to act freely with those command codes intact.  You will explain your
actions
immediately."

"Again, I apologize sir.  But our orders were to secure the ship from
station-keeping and
hold her in position in the event of Captain Marshall becoming incapacitated."

"OUR orders?" asked Vic.

Kristen Tyler took position alongside McClintock as he explained.

"When we first came aboard at Starbase 23, Captain Marshall instituted a
standing order
with myself, Lieutenant Tyler and, several of the crew with the endorsement of
Admiral
Kostya."

"Continue," Virtus peacefully urged.

"Should anything happen to Captain Marshall on this upcoming mission, we were to
immediately secure the ship, and prevent any change of command until told
otherwise by
Admiral Kostya at Starfleet Command."

"That is a violation of Starfleet regulations, Lieutenant."

"Those are our orders, sir."

Unblinking, Lieutenant Commander Victor Virtus locked stares with McClintock. 
"What you
are doing," he concluded, "is tantamount to mutiny."

"Sir, I can't express how sorry I am, but we have our orders."

At that moment, the port-aft turbolift doors parted, and two enlisted security
officers
marched out and took station at either corner of the bridge's aft section.

"Chief," Virtus ordered the ranking guard.  "Place Lieutenant McClintock and
Lieutenant
Tyler under arrest."

The chief petty officer looked at McClintock with a concerned expression that
was
reciprocated.  Glancing briefly back towards the lieutenant commander, the guard
returned to an alert standing position, ignoring Virtus' order.

"Please sir," McClintock pleaded with polite respect.  "Don't make me confine
you to
quarters.  If you'll be patient and wait for orders from Admiral Kostya, it will
make our job
much easier."

Virtus shot a glance at Harris who, while facing away from McClintock, shifted
her eyes
clandestinely towards the control panel to her left.  She looked calmly back to
Vic, giving a
very slight nod as if saying `I'll take care of things here.'

"Unfortunately, I have a job too," Virtus reminded McClintock.  "And it's to
safeguard this
crew and carry out our mission."

In a flash, the chief engineer dropped to the ground and did shoulder roll to
his rear right.
The guards pulled out their phasors and took snapshots at him as he disappeared
into the
emergency turbolift.  To Vic's relief, the shots that landed very near to him
did not
combust, indicating that they were set to stun.  `At least they're not trying to
kill me,' he
thought as the doors closed in front of him.

"McClintock to Hamilton," the tac chief tapped his combadge.  "Virtus is
resisting and
escaped in the emergency turbolift.  He's on his way to the battle bridge.  Have
a security
contingent meet him there and place him under arrest.  Try not to harm him. 
We're under
orders to secure the ship, not to put anyone in sickbay."

=/\= "Acknowledged." =/\=


<location: corridor, deck 5, USS Republic>

Vic knew that taking the emergency turbolift would make McClintock assume he was
headed to the battle bridge.  After all, that's the only possible destination
for the
provisional elevator, since it was meant to move the bridge staff quickly to the
stardrive
control center in combat situations.  However, as a ruse, it was effective, and
adding to it
the universal decoy of removing one's communicator and placing it where the
sensors
would expect to locate a biosign also assists in confusing the situation.  The
diversion
lasted long enough for Vic to exit the lift through the top hatch and find his
way to the
deck 12 Jeffries tube.  From there, he was able to reverse course back upwards
through
the saucer section to the deck 5 science laboratories.

As the door to the geophysics lab slid open, it startled Lieutenant Junior Grade
Maria
Pakita.  Seeing her former science chief walk through the door brought a welcome
smile to
her face until she noticed his combadge was missing.

"What happened?  I thought you were on the bridge?"

"I was, but unfortunately, Lieutenants McClintock and Tyler had conflicting
orders when
Captain Marshall passed away at 2348 hours."

"It's true then?" she gulped.  "The captain IS dead?"

"Yes," replied Virtus.  "And it appears that it initiated an unknown standing
order to block
the usual chain-of-command protocols."

"What do you mean?"

"It means Captain Marshall and Admiral Kostya had plans to keep Carter from
taking over
command during this mission."

"Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Vic sighed as he opened up a nearby drawer. 
Producing
a handful of white armbands with attached electronic devices, he placed one on
his own
arm and activated it.  A pulse of blue light outlined Virtus' body for an
instant before
dissipating.

"Why are you using the bio-dampers?" Pakita asked.  "Are you expecting a Borg
attack?"

"No," answered Vic.  "I don't want the bridge to track me."  He handed half the
bands to
Pakita saying "Maria, I'm making you our new science chief.  I need you to get a
crew
together and reroute the computer nodes on deck 10 to the stardrive's backup
computer
core."

"Where are you going?" she asked with bewilderment.

"Since the battle bridge was automatically cut off when the command codes were
locked
out, I'm going to find McTaggart and some engineering crew to try and set up an
alternate
bridge in an empty deuterium storage tank on deck 27.  By completely bypassing
the ships
main computer core, we should be able to get back control of the ship."

"A deuterium tank?  Why there?"

"The storage tank's magnetic field can be modified to set up a transporter
shield to
prevent beaming.  Also, since McClintock seems unwilling to harm anyone to carry
out his
orders, I'm betting he won't be using phasor fire to incapacitate us and risk
blowing up
the neighboring deuterium tanks."

"Good luck, sir," Pakita offered.

"You too," Vic replied as he exited the room.

<tag = Virtus>

(OOC:  The table's all set!  Have fun with it ;-)


Doctor Leon Cromwell, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
U.S.S. Republic
(temporarily reassigned to SFHQ)

> "You can hate us all you want,
> but it doesn't change the fact that the Gorns are
> here, and you people need our help!"
>
> "Not to steal your fire," Wey said.  "But I think
> we're doing just fine by ourselves."

Doug Forrest gave hsi XO a look. "I don't know that that's the case
either Wey."

"What do you mean?" Wey asked.

"Forrest may be right," Lins commented. "There's a lot more Rex's up
there than I've ever seen."

Deuce, of Republic's Hazard Team took that as a cue. "Tricorder read
at least three-hundred fifty before we headed underground."

The faces of Shadow Force went ashen. "Three-hundred fifty? But,
that'd mean what..." Wey paused and did the math, "A dozen ships in
orbit?"

John Carter looked down at Arthur Cromwell, who had just gotten his
wind back. the Martian Lieutenant Commander extended his hand to the
elder colonist, hoping that Cromwell wouldn't take the chance to get
in a cheap shot. "Twenty," Carter said as he helped Arthur up.

"Twenty ships eh?" the elder Cromwell added, "guess you petticoats
don't fool around. How many ships in your task force?"

Carter gave Arthur Cromwell a stern look. "One's all I've ever
needed." John quipped, "and don't call me petticoat...Mister
Cromwell." The sour look on Carter's face betrayed just how much his
dislike for this man he'd just met."

"Well where's your rondezvous point?" Lins Davenport asked. "We can
probably get you close enough to get a signal to your ship without
the Rexes finding out."

Nat Hawk fidgited nervously as the uneasy allies all formed a circle
in the sub-terranian space. The gambler in him didn't trust
strangers, and despite the events of the last few minutes, he still
wasn't sure what to make of his Republic shipmates. Next to Hawk,
Carter surveyed the crowd.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple folks," he offered, slipping easily
back into 'command voice'. "We've still got a job to do. Our original
mission was to get in touch with other....assets near the border."

Wey rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Ah well, you might as
well forget it. The Border was the first area the Rexes locked down
when they went all agro. Hell," Wey's face lightened with a smile
that wasn't too forced, "You'd have better luck getting a state
welcome on Romulus."

John Carter rolled his eyes "I'll let you know."

Standing across from Carter in the circle, Arthur Cromwell spoke
up. "All this is a waste of time," he thundered. "The Gorn have
declared war on us, and Starfleet sends one ship? What more proof do
you need? I told you 'Fleet would let us rot."

"No one's letting anyone rot, Mister Cromwell." Carter explained. "We
came here investigating the communications failure. Doc was calling
his sister, so..."

"Doc?" Linsey Davneport looked nervously at Arthur Cromwell. The
older man returned her worried expression.

"That's right," John continued. "My ship's surgeon is Leon
Cromwell."

Arthur's face redened almost immediately. "I knew it! All those noble
words he spouted and he didn't mean a lick of it. I knew he'd go
running back to you blood-thirsty, turtle-necked fascists!"

John Carter whirled around to face his CMO's father. "That's ENOUGH!"
Carter took two cautious steps forward, looking Arthur Cromwell dead
in the eyes. "You can say what you want about me and about 'Fleet. As
far as I'm concerned, that'd make you just another voice in the mob."

"Aww, cram it up yer..."

"But I will not, I absolutely WILL NOT have you speak badly of a man
who's saved my life at least twice, and who, by the way, you seem to
have done a real number on. Grozit! No wonder he left!" Cromwell
remained strangely silent. "And before you go calling me blood-
thirsty, seems to me that you've racked up one hell of a body count
all on your own."

"What're you gonna do, flyboy? Arrest me?"

"One thing at a time, Mister Cromwell."

Linsey Davenport stepped into the center of the circle. "If you two
will settle down," she chided, "I would really like to know what the
Federation plans to do about our situation."

Doug Forrest spoke up while John Carter calmed down. "Once we return
with our report, Starfleet Command will weigh it's options."

"What about the Diplomatic Corps?"

Forrest nodded. "Yes, we're...persuing that front as well," he
answered. "Our Captian's on that as we speak."

<Location: Cestus III L-2. U.S.S. Republic and IGV Fierce Claw in low-
orbit>

"Aw, damnit skipper, it's a set-up. I knew these lizards wouldn't
fight fair." Sean McTaggart looked back and forth nervously at both
Pack Leader G'Meth, and his younger, larger, yellow-tinted First
Sword.

"Belay that, Lieutenant." James Marshall ordered. The captain then
turned his attention to G'Meth. "What's the meaning of this change in
arrangements, Pack Leader?"

The elder gorn officer tilted his head, his un-blinking eyes
reflecting the bright light of alien stars against the battle-moon's
night sky. "I am merely following the terms of the treaty, human," he
hissed in reply.

"For which I'm taking the place of Captain Kirk, thus fulfilling our
arangement. I'm willing to fight for our position, but..."

"You did not fully read the material human," G'Meth hissed back. "I
am an original signator. You are not." The Pack leader flexed his
large, clawed hand. "However, you are more than welcome to act in The
Kirk's place."

Marshall almost winced as he heard the hatred in the saurian's voice
for his long-dead adversary. G'Meth continued.

"In return, my First Sword will act in my place."

"But," McTaggart interjected, "that...officer's armed!"

G'Meth nodded as his First Sword looked intently at his honour
blade. "Indeed. As are you, human," G'Meth confirmed,
'and so you should be." A sound somewhere between a gurggle and an
air leak escaped G'Meth's tooth-filled maw. "You didn't think we'd be
scampering about, looking for charcoal, did you? This is a battle to
the end. Death or submission. Such is the Way of the Serpent."

Thinking fast, Jim Marhsall searched the area. He spotted an ornate
dagger on G'Meth's hip. The blade was jagged, with five serrated
teeth cut into the blade. To a being of Marshall's size, it would be
closer to a short sword than a dagger. 'That will do,' Marshall
thought. The captian extended his hand, palm-up as he cleared his
throat. "Then, in the interest of fairness and honour, Pack-Leader, I
beg your indulgence."

G'Meth stepped forward, nodding his head slightly. "Indeed," his
voice rumbled. "I admire your courage, human."

Sean McTaggart stepped quickly to interpose himself between G'Meth
and Captain Marshall. "Sir," he pleaded, "you can't do this! I've got
some decent combat training. Let me. At least then, if I lose, you
can think of some..."

Marshall held up his hand and gently pushed the tactical lieutenant
aside. "I've made up my mind, Lieutenant. I'm your Captain, and this
is MY responsibility."

McTaggart's hand slipped on reflex to the phaser he had on his hip.
His fingers curled around the weapon's housing nervously. "We should
at least try to contact the XO. Maybe he can..."

Marhsall's face turned from a mask of calm to a picture of fury. "One
more word from you mister, and you'll be up on charges! If it weren't
for the XO, you wouldn't even BE in this mess right now! Stand down,
or I'll have you beamed back aboard here and now! And stow that
weapon. There's only one way out of this. That's an order,
lieutenant."

McTaggart swallowed his own anger at the rebuke of common sense, and
stepped away from his commanding officer.

G'Meth stopped and regarded the scene in front of him. "Problems,
Captain?"

"Just give me the damned knife!"

G'Meth slowly and deliberately slipped his dagger from his belt,
turning it on his palm, then slowly delivering the weapon, pommel
first, to the human captain. "As you wish. I will remember the fire
in your blood, human."

"The hell you will!" Marshall shot back.

Sean McTaggart reached for his captian's shoulder, but stopped
short. "He's left handed Skipper," McTaggart advised, "keep your
right up."

Marshall nodded. "Thank you, lieutenant."

Across the barren surface of the combat area, the First Sword slipped
his weapon free, shifting its weight from one hand to the other,
twisting his body in a fluid swaying motion. For his part, James
Marshall swallowed hard, and choked his grip on the short bladed
weapon he held.

Both G'Meth and McTaggart looked on as the two combatants danced
around each other. Both seemed heditant to make the first attack. Jim
Marshall knew that he had speed going for him. While the saurian he
faced may have been faster, he was also larger and had to wield a
heavier weapon. If he was lucky, then Marshall might be able to get
inside his opponant's reach, and draw first blood. 'That might be
enough', Marshall thought. 'All I need is one'. Marshall watched his
opponent's eyes, hoping that he could read the Gorn officer's
movements, but the lizard's large, un-blinking eyes revealed nothing.

The First Sword tensed his muscles swinging his honour blade in a
wide arc across his mid-section. Rather than jump back, Jim Marshall
seized on his opponent's over-extension, and ducked under the
returning weapon. As the First Sword, brought his hands up and back,
he was met with an unexpected sight as Marshall seemed to appear,
inches from the Gorn's rippling chest. The First Sword
hissed/shreiked as Marshall felt his muscles burn, and pressed all of
his weight behind his blade.

Marshall's weapon sank deep into the meaty muscle of the First
Sword's left pectoral. Marshall leaned hard on the blade, searching
out a vital target beneath his enemy's skin. All the while he kept a
death-like grip on his knife's handle. The human screamed in a mix of
primal rage and hopeful victory.

For a moment, the First Sword was stunned. Somehow, this inferior,
cowardly mammal had seen through the Way of the Serpent. Unbidden by
conscious thought, the First Sword cursed himself silently for so
foolishly facing a mammal under the dark of night. He should have
known better than to abandon the grace of the sun. Still, the First
Sword would not be denied.

The First Sword focused his will to act through the pain in his
chest. He felt the weight and smelled the stench of the mammal on his
flesh. This was an affornt he could not allow. With a chilling growl,
the First Sword twisted his chest away from the writhing mass of
human. He smiled sickly as he heard the blade of his Pack Leader's
weapon snap free of its handle.

With his anchor to the First Sword destroyed, James Marshall landed
clumsily on the ground in front of his enemy. He watched as a thick,
blue rivulet formed on the First Sword's chest, standing out in sharp
contrast to the Gorn's yellow skin. 'Heh,' Marshall thought. 'Got my
wish.' "I claim first blood!" the human captain yelled out. His eyes
went wide in surprise as he saw that his words were not enough to
stop the First Sword's blade, as the Gorn second brought the weaon
down in a mighty arc.

Jim Marshall screamed as the First Sword's honour blade sank deeply
into his shoulder. Then the burning started.

"Jesus Christ!" Sean McTaggart yelled, moving his right hand hand
over his forehead and shoulders in an archaic plea for mercy and
forgiveness. "You're butchering him!"

James Marshall lay still as the First Sword pulled his weapon free
from the fallen human's shoulder. Marshall's arm hung loosely by a
thin layer skin and tendon that had somehow not been cleaved away by
the First Sword's honour blade. Obediently, the First Sword sheathed
his weapon and turned from the body of his fallen enemy, still
wincing in pain as he stepped back to the Pack Leader.

Through a haze of shock, pain, and a curious numbness that he was not
prepared for, Jim Marshall coughed. "That's...that's it? Get back
here and finish me you damned snake! I'll..." Marshall flayed about
with his one remaining arm, clutching at the dust he could now barely
feel.

Above the human captain, Pack Leader G'Meth stepped forward. The
centurian Gorn bent down slightly bringing his maw just inches from
Marshall's sweat covered face. "You'll do nothing but die Captain,"
G'Meth explained. "By now I imagine it's getting hard to breethe,
yes?"

Sean McTaggart scrambled forward, clumsily reaching for his phaser as
he lurched for his captain. The weapon clattered to the dirt with a
puff of dust. Seeing his Captain wrent apart made McTaggart think
that the weapon was now unimportant. He tapped his comm
badge. "McTaggart to Republc! Captain down, repeat, Captain down! Get
us out of here damn it!"

"Yes, human," G'Meth said approvingly. "Go back to your ship and bury
your dead. I want you out of this system in 12 hours. After all, you
would never break a treaty...would you?"

In the next instant, McTaggart, and the barely breathing James
Marshall vanished in a flash of transporter energy.

<TAG=OPEN>

Cmdr. J.T. Carter
Executive Officer
U.S.S. Republic

<Bridge, U.S.S. Republic>

Victor tensed slightly, looked both ways, and sat down in the
captain's chair.  While not a first, it had been a while.  Vic tried
to assume the  voice and air of supreme confidence he had seen
previous commanders use in time of great stress or danger.

"Tactical, how many hostiles in sensor range?"

"Twenty-one sir."

"Lieutenent Chase, do we still have a lock on the hazard team?"

"No sir.  We lost them shortly after the 'thermal event', heading into
a system of artificial tunnels."

This was not good.

Vic ran through his quicklist of options.  (After years of observing
the elite of the command branch, Victor had distilled and refined all
of the possible tactical and strategic choices available to a ship's
captain into two catagories, Attack and Don't.  He had then improved
upon them, as any good engineer should.)

Primary catagories: Engage, Wait, Retreat.
Subcatagories: Engage physically, mentally, or socially;
Wait and plan, wait and react, or wait and do nothing;
Retreat and regroup, retreat and reinforce, or retreat and re-evaluate.

Assigning a rough fuzzy-logical percentage chance of success to each
option, (.01, .12, .02, .05, .02, .01, .27, .32, .18) the wily Chief
Engineer picked his favorite of all possibilities...

Other.

<Tag:Open>

Lt. Cmdr. V.X.V.
Good to be back.

Gentlemen, we can rebuild it.  We have the technology.
We have the capability of making the world's 1,346,729th Star Trek fanfare
website.
The U.S.S. Republic will be that website.
Better . . . faster . . . stronger . . .

Please check out our new website at <www.ussrepublic.org>.

I would like input, corrections, complaints, and constant updates to hone it. 
Now that we
have a home again, I'd like it to be EVERYONE's work, not just mine.  So, help
me with
development by making suggestions and submitting text.

-the doc

(OOC: Sorry this took so long, guys.  We're headed
into finals week.)

IC:

OP:

Mendoza and the Hazard Team instinctively took up
firing positions as they heard the swish of Gorn
transporters. Quickly, Doug Forrest, Nat Hawk, and
John Carter moved into the ruins of what had once been
a café, before it was set on fire by something, or
someone.

As the away team manned the windows of their makeshift
home, Nat Hawk spat his displeasure. "We're gonna
die." he opined. "There's gotta be hundreds a'them
damned things down here by now. Even I can't fight `em
all off," he said with an easy smile.

Forrest gave John a nervous look as he checked his
tri-corder's display. It showed that 30 heavily armed
Gorn soldiers were fanning out from the accident site.
"He might have a point Commander." Forrest said
grimly.

"Well I'm not going out alone." Mendoza offered as he
primed his compressor rifle. He smiled as the other
Hazard Team members followed suit.

"Your not alone." Came an easy alto voice from the
café's doorway. The heads of the away team snapped in
the direction of the voice. John Carter dropped into a
low stance, and pulled his phaser from it's place on
his battle harness. "Who the devil are you?" Carter
asked.

"I'm your only chance to get out of here alive."
answered Lindsey Davenport. "This way."


NP:

There wasn’t much left for Carter to say.  As the
mysterious woman disappeared towards the back of the
gutted café, John looked to Forrest with a silent, yet
amazed glance as if asking ‘should we?’  The intel
officer only shrugged his shoulders drawing a
frustrated, perturbed face from the XO.  As Hawk and
the rest of the hazard team were caught between
confusion and consternation regarding the approach of
two squads of Gorn battletroops, Carter had to make a
decision.

“Let’s roll.”  Moving towards the direction of where
the woman came from, he added, “keep your head low.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Mendoza replied,
following up the rear of the group retreating into the
shadows.

Unfortunately, their movement was caught on the hand
scanners of the converging reptilians, and their speed
and dexterity were superior to the crew from the
Republic.  Not only did their natural bioelectric
signature give away their presence on the sensors, but
the keen senses of the troops could easily pick up the
smell and heat of the warmbloods.  In seconds, the
Gorns were in the café, hot on the trail of Carter’s
away team.

It was not easy for the Starfleet group to engage
terrain that they had never traversed before.  Through
back alleys littered with debris to collapsed
buildings gutted from fires, the team scurried a
quickly as they could through the tangling maelstrom
of the abandoned city.  At the head, Carter was more
worried over losing sight of their guide than he was
of getting too far ahead of the team.  Every so often,
he had to stop and check that the rest of the team was
keeping up.

Suddenly, the sound of phaser fire behind at the end
of the column indicated that the team was being
overrun.  John Carter’s pulse tripled as purple
blaster bolts whizzed by his head, and the hissing
overtones of Gorn troops shouting orders echoed in the
distance.  ‘Is this it?’ he thought.  ‘Is this how
it’s going to end?’  With adrenaline pumping through
his veins, Carter’s eyes grew wild with a frantic
glaze, stopping to ensure his team was still
following.  Glancing away for only a second, John’s
stomach dropped to his feet as he realized he had just
lost sight of the woman who coaxed them out from the
café.  He was about to shout out to her when a whisper
drew his attention.

“Down here!”

Carter looked to see the woman waving from a recessed
nook situated behind a concrete retention wall.  Above
the wall, an embankment of cultured trees had been
planted to beautify the skyscraper around which it was
built.  The wall was littered with gaping holes,
several of which, topsoil had leached out, creating
piles of dirt near the base.  The woman was hiding in
one of the holes without soil, and as Carter and his
team reached the breach, they filed inside, following
the woman into the nook.  To the commander’s dismay,
the nook was a dead end, and his heart began racing.

“What are you doing?” he shouted at a loud whisper.
“This is no escape!”

“Shhh!” she insisted, motioning for everyone to hunker
down and be quiet.  Outside, the relentless Gorns had
caught up to the group, and were scanning the area
with their sensors.  Confused hissing and growling
filled the air, causing tension among many members of
the hidden Starfleet group.  Carter could sense the
troops were just on the other side of the wall, pacing
the area in a concerted effort to find them.  As
quickly as they came, the sounds died away, and the
mysterious woman slowly peeked out of the breach in
the wall.

Carter opened his mouth to speak, but before words
came out, the woman spoke first.

“Come on!” she whispered loudly.

They were off again, this time in the opposite
direction in which they came.  More twists and turns
throughout the maze of gutted and intact buildings
laid ahead, and John couldn’t remember which ones he
had seen before, and which were new.  Finally, they
all came to a dead-end alley, and as Carter and his
team turned the corner, he saw the woman pulling on a
large metal crate.  As she strained to move the
parcel, John could see that it was going nowhere
unless he had some help.  Adding to the effort, he
pushed on the rear end of the crate, and with a slow,
metallic scraping sound, the container moved aside to
reveal a storm grate on the ground.

Losing no time, the mysterious woman grabbed a nearby
length of metal refuse that she used as a pry-bar to
lift the grate out of its recessed frame. As the grate
was pulled aside, she climbed down the hole whispering
the words, “let’s go!”

Carter, who decided not to look a gift horse in the
mouth, motioned his people past him, and directed them
down the hole.  Forrest led first, followed by the
hazard team, and soon, only Carter and Lieutenant Hawk
remained aboveground.

“Are you going?” John asked insistently.  The dubious
lieutenant stared questioningly at the open hole in
the ground, cringing his nose slightly.

“Ahm not goin’ down theya!  It smells lahk cr . . .”

“Get down there!” Carter hissed.  “I don’t care what
you smell!  It’s either that hole or the Gorns!”  The
commander grabbed the young man’s wrist and nearly
pushed him down the hole.  Taking one last nervous
glance down the alley, the commander quickly climbed
down the storm drain, and replaced the cover above
him.

For the next ten minutes the away team, led by Lindsey
Davenport, continued to work their way to the lower
levels of the storm sewers.  Each member of the team
activated their wrist lights to highlight the path
ahead.  To Hawks disgust, there were numerous
encounters with vermin, including three large rats, a
cockroach nest, and a sandwing which left it’s plume
of nasty-smelling intruder repellant in the wake of a
narrow escape from the humans.  Finally, the group
arrived at a fissure in the smooth, cement wall of the
lowest level of the drainage system.

“You mind telling me where we’re going?” Carter asked
Lins insistently.

“Out of the range of Gorn sensors,” she replied
laconically before disappearing into the fissure.
Carter rolled his eyes with a ‘here we go again’
expression, and motioned to his team to follow the
woman into the breach.

Downward further they progressed, past the manmade
precipices of the storm drain system, and into the
natural bedrock below Cornucopia settlement.  They
followed a trickle of water below their feet through a
narrow, jutted, naturally carved passageway that
showed marked signs of continued erosion.  Carter knew
in his stomach that he would not want to be in this
crevasse during the stormy season.

They finally emerged into what appeared to be a huge
cavernous tunnel replete with crumbling walls and
littered with gravelly debris.  One by one, the team
walked out of the large, vertical crack in the wall,
and climbed down a rocky pile of concrete to the base.
  The wrist lights danced off the jagged surfaces of
the decaying tunnel, highlighting the eroding
condition of the ancient, abandoned sewer system from
the first Cestus Three settlement.

“What do we do now?” John asked as Lindsey took a seat
on a boulder.

“We wait,” she replied mysteriously.  The lack on
information was unnerving for Carter, yet it was plain
to see that something else was on the woman’s mind.

“For what?” he asked again, hoping to get a clear
answer.

“For the rest of the team to get here.”

“Team?” John asked, clearly confused.  “You mean
you’re not by yourself?”

“What did you take me for?” Lins asked with a slight
twinge of rebellious mirth in her voice.  “Some poor
lady who lost her way?”

“Certainly not lost,” Carter rebutted to the
forty-something woman.  “Not the way you guided us
through the city.  Thank you, by the way.”

For the first time in a while, Lins found herself
smiling.  “You’re welcome.  My name’s Lins.  Lins
Davenport.”

The two shook hands.  “Carter,” he replied.  “John
Carter, of the Starship Republic.”

As the two spoke, there was a distant flicker of light
down the tunnel, other than that of the away team’s
wrist lights.  As they drew closer, three distinct
lights could be made out, and the bobbed up and down
in the rhythm of a steady walk.  Carter motioned for
the team to take up defensive positions, and as the
team responded by turning out their wrist lights, Lins
said, “don’t bother.  They’re human, and they already
know we’re here.”

“Lins!” came an extremely agitated voice that echoed
off the walls.  “What the hell do you think you’re
doing!”

With her smile turning to that of frustration and
defensiveness, John finally realized what the woman’s
mind was dwelling upon.

“Doing what you refused to do,” she responded.
“Saving the lives of fellow human beings.”

As the three lights approached, the men’s faces came
into view.  The ages of the two towards the rear were
somewhere in their fifties, with one sporting a bald
head and the other a head of graying red with a beard.
  They were both looking with uncertainty at the
leader, a sixty-something gruff-faced man with hair of
black and gray, and who was glaring with fuming anger
at Lins.

“I TOLD you!” he bellowed.  “They’re FLEET!  They’re
the ones who got us into this mess in the first
place!”

“Now hold on there!” Carter responded with a sense of
knightly gratitude to Lins.  But before he could
explain himself, the man shouted back at him with such
force and animosity that John had to stop and think
why someone he never met would be so angry with him.

“You stay OUT of this, petticoat!” the man said.

‘Petticoat?’ thought Carter.  He then realized that
the current voice that talked down to him now was very
similar to a friend of his who had recently been
whisked away to Earth in a runabout.  As the
expression of recognition splayed across his face,
John felt a burning anger of his own welling within
him.  This was none other than Arthur Cromwell, Leon’s
father and proclaimed terrorist.

“I most certainly will NOT!” John rebuffed, with an
equally stern and commanding voice.

As the two began an intense exchange of diatribes, the
other men walked over to Lins with relieved
expressions on their faces.  “Good to see you again,
Lins,” said the balding man.  “I was a little worried
when you left us like that.”

The shouting match between Carter and Arthur Cromwell
continued as Forrest, Hawk, and the hazard team walked
over to Lins and the two men.

“. . . and ANOTHER thing!” Cromwell’s voice invaded
the cavern, the argument gaining speed.

“Doug Forrest,” the intel officer extended his hand to
the balding man.

“Chester Mannfield,” he responded accepting Forrest’s
handshake.  “People call me Skip.  This is Weyland
Hirsch,” he pointed to the obese man with a gray-red
beard.

“You can call me Wey.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Forrest replied.

“. . . you slobbering piece of . . .” Carter’s voice
bellowed, followed by Cromwell’s “ . . .
yellow-streaked peacocks! . . .”

“You’ve already met Lindsey,” Skip continued.

“Of course,” Forrest replied with a slight bow.  “We
owe her a lot.  This is Lieutenant Hawk,” he continued
the introductions by pointing to Nat, and then to the
other six members of the hazard team. “That’s
Abrahams, Mendoza, Bradley, Sherman, Hemet, and Towe.”

“You can call me Deuce,” Towe added.

“Pleased to meet you all,” Skip said diplomatically.

“. . . jack-ass!  I’ll tear you limb from limb! . . .”

“Uh oh,” Lins ominously interrupted at hearing
Cromwell’s words.  Before anyone knew it, the gruff
old man in his sixties was attempting a fistfight with
the young Commander Carter, who defended with a simple
marshal-arts block that left Arthur Cromwell flat on
his back.  It knocked the wind out of the old man, and
instead of standing up to continue the combat, decided
it was better to stay on the ground until he caught
his breath.

“Are you done?” Carter shouted to Arthur, who could
only gasp an answer.  “You can hate us all you want,
but it doesn’t change the fact that the Gorns are
here, and you people need our help!”

“Not to steal your fire,” Wey said.  “But I think
we’re doing just fine by ourselves.”

<tag = Carter>

Arthur Cromwell, Jr.
Colonist turned resistance fighter
Cornucopia settlement, Cestus III






__________________________________
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<Location: Cestus III, McCallum Province>

"So, who puked?" Nat Hawk asked as the runabout's status board turned
green. For his part, John Carter gave the pilot next to him a quirky
grin, then tapped the controls on his co-pilot station to bring the
small craft's inertial dampeners back to 100 percent. In the
runabout's crew cabin, Doug Forrest and his squad of Hazard Team
troops were assessing their own condition.

	 "I'll say this for you Hawk," Forrest admonished the southern-
born helmsman, "You keep that up and you'll give Carter there a run
for `Craziest-son-of-a-bitch in `Fleet."

"Thanks a lot." Carter shot back, undoing his crash
harness. "Everyone ok back there?"

	 One by one the six members of the Hazard Team checked the
charge packs in their phaser rifles, the position of their tri-
corders and communicators on the black syth-fibre straps and buckles
that comprised a Starfleet issues battle harness, and gave Forrest,
who had been assigned as Ops. Leader a `thumbs up'. Forrest perfprmed
the same check on himself with a light chuckle. "We're all fine XO,"
he called back, "but Mendoza looks a little green."

"Roger that." Carter answered back, as he walked to the equipment
locker just behind the exit port. "Hawk," Carter said with a
grin, "you watch Mendoza."

"Thanks a heap." Hawk said, more impatient than happy to be included
in the crew's jibes. Nat Hawk hadn't been put on Republic by choice,
and had made no secret of his desire to be anywhere BUT on the bridge
crew of a Federation starship. He'd been placed in `Fleet `custody'
as a form of witness protection, and while he was more than happy to
still be alive, the signs that he might actually have been accepted
by his ship's crew made him feel even more out of place.

	 Hawk's inner musings were broken up when John Carter tossed
him a hand phaser and a harness with two extra charge packs. Hawk
caught the equipment with ease and fixed the weapon in place around
his waist.

      Carter secured his own battle harness and then keyed the
runabout's outer door. The sunlight of Cestus III was blinding, and
hot arid wind hit the Starfleet crew like a wall. Instinctively,
Carter raised his hands to shield his eyes. He inhaled sharply and
squinted, reminded suddenly of just how much he missed his native
Mars. "Damn," he hissed as he stepped onto the hard, sun-baked
soil. "Now I know why Doc left this place." Carter stepped froward
and took in his surroundings. Next to him, Lieutenant Commander
Douglas Forrest pulled his tri-corder free of his equipment harness.
The six Hazard Team members formed an arc around the two officers,
and Nat Hawk brought up the rear, closing and locking the runabout
hatch behind him.

"No, it's ok," he whispered to himself, "I'll lock up."
As Forrest checked his tricorder, he spoke to Commander
Carter. "We're lucky the settlements are pretty far apart. Shouldn't
make it too hard to find whoever it is we're looking for."

Carter nodded. "Mmm Hmm. Well if Leon's dad anything like him, he
shouldn't be too hard to find."

Carter's words had barely trailed off when the ground was rocked by
an explosion. Vibrations shot through the ground, causing Carter and
the rest of the landing party to lose their footing. To the south
east, a pillar of billowing white smoke rose from te centre of what
Carter had assumed to be the nearest population center.

"Jesus Christ!" Nat Hawk yelled as he was knocked to the dirt.

The Hazard Team immediately unslung their weapons, scanning the
horizon for another incoming volley. Falling back on years of
Starfleet training, Doug Forrest hit the ground and rolled with the
impact to make getting to his feet just a bit easier. Nat Hawk was
already back on his feet as John Carter looked toward the signs of
destruction. "Let me guess..." Carter brushed the dust off of his
uniform and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "We go that way."

***

"Captain, please listen to me. I know I haven't been Tac Chief very
long, but..."

"I've made up my mind McTaggart." James Marshall said to his worried
bridge officer. The tall dark-haired Captain weaved his way through
the busy corridors of the Republic. Sean McTaggart, clearly upset at
what his Captain had decided, was trying to keep up with his
commanding officer's determined stride. "I've read the files on the
Gorn," Marshall continued, not bothering to make eye contact with his
junior officer. "This is the quickest way to legally settle this
whole thing."

"Captain," McTaggart shouted, causing all traffic in the corridor to
stop, "he'll kill you!"

Marshall spun on his heel, placing his hands on his hips. "He's a
hundred and twenty years old, and my ship is staring down twenty
hostiles," Marshall said firmly. "Either I take down one ancient Gorn
captain, or a whole lot more people will end up dead. Most likely us."

"Even at his advanced age Captain, he's probably faster and I KNOW
he's stronger than you." Sean McTaggart tried to keep his temper,
knowing full well that while he was exercising his duty as a member
of the command crew, he was also dangerously close to
insubordination. "When this...G'Meth faced Captain Kirk eighty years
ago, he was battling a mental assault from the Metrons." McTaggart
took a few cautious steps around his CO. "I've seen the records from
the first Enterprise," McTaggart continued. "Even in his altered
condition, G'Meth was more than a match for Kirk, and you won't have
that edge. I'm telling you Captain, one on one, you can't beat
G'Meth. Besides..."

"The hell I can't!" Marshall interjected.

"If the XO had been in a position to stop you, the two of you would
be having this discussion right now."

Marshall's expression hardened instantly at the mention of Republic's
executive officer. Ever since his ship's initial confrontation with
the Kreltan Confederacy, James Marshall had harboured the secret fear
that the crew looked up more to Commander Carter than to him. As
Marshall reflected on the events that had brought him to this point
he could see only second guesses and rushed conclusions. `No,' he
thought to himself, `if I back out now it will just be another sign
of weakness. I have to stand firm on this, or I'm finished.' "I'm
sure Commander Carter would appreciate your speaking up for him."

McTaggart could tell he'd crossed some kind of line, and began to
soften his approach. "Please, Captain." McTaggart repeated. "I'm just
trying to..."

"I know what you're trying to do, Lieutenant Commander," the captain
shot back, "but the decision is mine, and mine alone. This matter is
closed. This is one problem I'm going to solve." Marshall turned his
back to his Tactical Chief and continued toward the nearest turbolift
shaft. His face skewed in annoyance as he heard McTaggart's footsteps
behind him, following him into the turbolift. "Transporter room two."
Marshall called out to the ship's near-omnipresent computer. The two
officers swayed slightly as the lift car shot down the Republic's
neck shaft toward the lower deck transporter. As the lights of
passing decks swished by, Marshall looked sideways at his companion.

"What are you doing here?"

McTaggart didn't hide the self-satisfied look on his face. "General
Order 17," he explained. "No flag officer shall beam down to an
unsecured location without armed escort."

"Great." Marshall grumbled as lift doors opened. "You read the book."

***

In the transporter room of Fierce Claw, G'Meth looked at his First
Sword with a measure of reluctant pride. In the dim red light of the
small room, punctuated by the pulsing flash of matter regulators,
G'meth watched as the First Sword checked the sharpness of his Line
Blade. The blade curved in a fierce arc and flared at the to make the
cutting surface that much more effective. The blade itself was a
light, highly polished silicate composite that had been refined over
the years, taking advantage of the latest in zero-gravity
manufacturing techniques. The light weight of the blade combined with
the properties of the silicate to make this latest generation of
Gorn "ceremonial" weapons one of the fastest, deadliest weapons in
the quadrant.

	 The hilt of the weapon was a simple, rough hewn stone disk;
the same material that made up the handle of the weapon. The stone
itself came form the quarries of the Gorn homeworld, as had been the
practice for centuries, since before the Gorn made their steps into
space. Tradition held that the blade was the outward symbol of a line
member's prowess and prestige,   but unlike Romulan or Klingon
ceremonial weapons, function was more important than form. There was
no need for gold inlay or braided tassles that did little more than
boost of the wielder's wealth. In Gorn society, simple effectiveness
was of more use than an ostentatious trappings.

G'Meth also noted with an approving smile that his First Sword also
carried a small glass vile at his waist, containing a viscous green
liquid. `Good', G'Meth thought, `he remembers the way of the Serpent.'

***

In the days before the first line, before the serpent walked, there
were all manner of beasts on the homeworld. The serpents lived in
harmony with nature working in the sun, sheltering in the ground,
taking only what was necessary from their environment. However the
serpents were not alone.

The homeworld also had mammals. Hairy, noisy creatures with wasteful
habits who worked to change the natural order. Screaming and cursing
through the night when they should have rested. Tearing at the ground
with tools, and using fire to take away the night's blissful
darkness. The mammals left filth and destruction in their wake. Worse
still the mammals knew only fear for the serpents, a fear that lead
them to destroy the reptiles who sought only to live as they will.

In the cold of night, when the serpent would sleep, (for how can one
move without the warmth of the sun?) The mammal used his twisted
tools to kill the serpent, then took his body back to feast on his
dead brother in triumph. But, like so many mammals, this one too was
short sighted. He did not know that the serpent he killed had already
laid the seeds for the gorn civilisation. A clutch of eggs were
safely buried in the warmth of the sun baked ground, and when the sun
rose that day, as the decadent, mammals dozed to recover from their
perverted celebrations, one tiny serpent slipped out of her egg and
greeted the sun for the first time.

The young serpent watched her surroundings, and quickly learned how
the mammal had killed more of it's kind. Small and weak as it was,
the serpent knew that it was no match for the numerous, wasteful
mammals. Grateful for the sun's warmth, the serpent turned her
unblinking eye to the glowing source of all life and asked that
something might be done to avenge the sun's faithful servants.

When the sun set that night, as the serpent slipped back into her
earthen bed, the sun whispered to her in a dream. The next morning,
when the serpent awoke, she smiled and thanked the sun for light,
warmth, and for speed and strength. The serpent also thanked the sun
for answering her prayer, for giving the serpent sharp fangs to
pierce the mammal's filthy skin, and venom to burn their blood.

The serpent disappeared into the tall grass of the plains to where
the mammals slept and used the gifts the sun had given the serpent.

That night, the mammals did not scream. The serpent's venom was swift
and deadly.

Since that time, all gorn knew the `Way of the Serpent'. "Use your
speed and strength, and sink your fangs deep, so that in the night,
there is silence."

***

It had been a long time since G'Meth felt the weight of a Line Blade
in his hand, but he did recall that the First Sword had a point. This
Terran Captain, Marshall, would insert himself into history, hoping
to repeat the humiliation that was visited on G'Meth by the hated
Kirk. Marshall had already requested trial by combat to settle the
human incursion into Gorn territory on Cestus III, and by the laws of
his government, G'Meth could not refuse to meet his opponent.
However, the law was also quite clear in the position that Marshall
was NOT his opponent. The Kirk was dead, so Marshall was acting as
his second. In turn, G'Meth would appoint his First Sword as second,
and let the trial decide who was in the right.

=/\= "Bridge to Pack Leader G'Meth"=/\=

G'Meth looked up in annoyance as his bridge officer's voice rang
through the transporter chamber. "Yes?" He hissed, holding the end of
the word to convey his displeasure.

=/\= "The Federation ship has slipped into orbit around the moon.
They say that Marshall is awaiting your arrival." =/\=

"Is he alone?" G'Meth asked, looking confidently at the First Sword,
who was now letting a few drops of green poison drip down the edge of
his Line Blade.

=/\= "No, Pack Leader. There are two of them. One is armed." =/\=

"Thank you bridge." G'Meth offered. "We will be on the moon's surface
shortly. That will be all." The Pack Leader joined his First Sword on
the transporter platform, turning his head to address the younger
saurian. "Never trust a mammal, First Sword."

"No, Pack Leader. Such is the way of the Serpent."

G'Meth nodded in approval. "Indeed." He looked ahead to the crewman
manning the transporter console. "Activate," he ordered simply, and
in a swirl of purple light and faint whispering, G'Meth and the First
Sword were gone.
***
"Well if it wasn't an energy charge or a photon grenade, what the
hell was it?" John Carter asked. He was running at a fair clip along
with Hawk, Forrest, and the six members of Republic's Hazard Team. In
response to Carter's question, Forrest checked his tri-corder's
readings.

"It was a big conventional explosion. Real big." Forrest and the rest
of the away team stopped short as they neared the smoke-filled edge
of the settlement. Forrest immediately turned is head and covered his
eyes. "Good GOD!"

Next to the two bridge officers, Nat Hawk bent over. It took all of
his concentration to keep from retching. "Gah! That's worse than a
Klingon kitchen after the G'akh spoils!"
In the distance, Hawk could hear the screams of wounded and dying
gorn soldiiers and continued to smell rotting and melting reptile
flesh. "Whadda ya s'pose did this?"

"Someone with a mad-on for the snakes." Corporal Mendoza commented.

"That's right enough." Carter offered. He stepped ahead of the
assembled away team and looked into the chaotic streets of the
settlement. "Okay. My guess is that whoever did this is going to be
close by to watch their handywork." Carter looked again toward the
mountains surrounding the colony. "But from where?"

"Don't look at me." Forrest added, almost as an after thought. "Intel
didn't plan anything like this. Not for any reason."

"But the Black Shirts are here right?"

"I can neither confirm or deny."

"I'll take that as a yes." Carter quipped, letting an edge of
frustration into his voice.

***

Watching from the transit platform, Wey blinked and let his sensor
scopes drop from his face. "Aww crap!" he cursed. "Artie, Skip, we
got a problem. A big shiny warp-powered problem."

"What?" Arthur Cromwell braced himself against the transit stop's
railing. "Where? Who?"

Wey brought his scope back to his eyes, then pointed to Carter's
newly arrived away team. "Nine of `em." he explained. "Three look
like Fleet officers. The other six...Hell, they walk like Marines,
but I don't know WHAT they are."

"Any blue coats?" Cromwell asked.

"No." Wey answered. He turned his head to look at the ersatz leader
of Shadow Force. "Why would you need a doctor? Having prostate
trouble again?"

"No reason." Cromwell said. "It doesn't matter now anyway. We have to
get out of here before the Rex's beam down the shocktroops."

Wey checked the scope again. "Too late," he said grimly.

The members of Shadow Force watched as swirls of purple transporter
energy appeared near the ruins of the water treatment plant. Squads
of armed Gorn shocktroops quickly formed a perimeter around the
carnage that Shadow Force had caused. Wey, Skip and Cromwell moved
down the steps of the transit platform toward the safety of the
sewers they used to move about undetected. They were greeted at the
bottom of the steps by a very displeased Linsey Davenport. "Arthur,"
she said firmly, "you are not leaving those boys to die!"

"Not now Lins," Cromwell answered, "we are very short on time."

"They're Federation citizens Arthur, we can't just ..."

"They're FLEET!" Cromwell shouted angrily. "And I've lost too much to
them already to risk any of you."

The look in Cromwell's eyes told the woman that he wouldn't bend, but
she also knew that, at this moment, she didn't care about Arthur
Cromwell's approval. She looked on in disbelief as Cromwell and the
rest of her fellow Shadow Force members made their way into the
sewers. "Well if you won't..." Davenport took off at a modest run,
headed toward the Federation away team.
***

Mendoza and the Hazard Team instinctively took up firing positions as
they heard the swish of Gorn transporters. Quickly, Doug Forrest, Nat
Hawk, and John Carter moved into the ruins of what had once been a
café, before it was set on fire by something, or someone.

As the away team manned the windows of their makeshift home, Nat Hawk
spat his displeasure. "We're gonna die." he opined. "There's gotta be
hundreds a'them damned things down here by now. Even I can't
fight `em all off," he said with an easy smile.

Forrest gave John a nervous look as he checked his tri-corder's
display. It showed that 30 heavily armed Gorn soldiers were fanning
out from the accident site. "He might have a point Commander."
Forrest said grimly.

"Well I'm not going out alone." Mendoza offered as he primed his
compressor rifle. He smiled as the other Hazard Team members followed
suit.

"Your not alone." Came an easy alto voice from the café's doorway.
The heads of the away team snapped in the direction of the voice.
John Carter dropped into a low stance, and pulled his phaser from
it's place on his battle harness. "Who the devil are you?" Carter
asked.

"I'm your only chance to get out of here alive." answered Lindsey
Davenport. "This way."

<TAG=Cromwell/Virtus>

Cmdr. John T. Carter
Executive Officer
U.S.S Republic

Hello guys,

Just to let you know I'm going to try my hand at web
publishing soon, and I'll be building a new website
for the Republic.  Please send me your character bios
so I can format them for the website when it's time.
I already have Carter, but I don't have Virtus or
Forrest.  Incidentally, if you guys plan on inviting
others to play in the game, make sure I get those bios
as well.

If you have any thoughts on the website, please let me
know.  I'll be going for the same basic format as the
old website but with a few extra things like a message
archive with all our old posts and a bridge dedication
plaque.  I'm not really sure what the plaque should
say, so let me know if you've got any ideas.  Also, if
anyone knows where I can find some cool Star Trek
graphics that give permission for use on webpages,
send me the URL.

Adios compadres,
-the doc



__________________________________
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<location: Runabout Heinrich, 10 hours inbound to
sector 000>

Watching starlines streak past the viewport reminded
Leon of bright paint strokes drawn intermittently on a
black canvas stretching towards infinity.  The doctor
had long dismissed any possibility of understanding
the motives behind the artist in creating such a
chaotically patterned universe, and so, reserved to
sit back and enjoy the fleeting moments of beauty
presented before him when possible.  After all it was
chaos and bureaucracy that brought this fateful
departure from the Republic, and it was all Leon could
do but endure the effects

The past day was an exceedingly tedious journey from
the Gorn border to the center of the Federation.
Intermixed with periods of apprehension where he
longed to back behind the poker table with John and
Vic, there were incidents of obfuscation and reproach
where he was forced to fend off Lieutenant Meridan in
her inquisition about John Carter’s current
activities.  The doctor found his escort shrewd and
tainted with an egocentric agenda, and he had long
abandoned any attempt to gain further knowledge about
his sudden reassignment, opting instead to focus his
efforts in avoiding any conversation with the woman.
Needless to say, it was a difficult task to maintain
for such a long period.

“So tell me, doctor,” Meridan asked from across the
passenger compartment.  She sat at the center dining
table sipping from a drinking vessel while Leon sat in
a seat by a side viewport.  “Why did you assign Doctor
Harris to the counselor’s position anyway?  Surely you
knew that Carter would be distracted from his job?”

“My reasons for assigning departmental personnel to
various tasks aboard ship are motivated by mission
priorities, current workload, and are absolutely none
of your business.”

Leon had been forced to take a harsh approach towards
Meridan’s invasive inquiries.  Her steadfast
questioning had grown increasingly bold over the past
few hours, as she knew the trip would be ending soon.

“You needn’t take offense, doctor,” Lieutenant Meridan
edged on.  “I’m actually a fan of your matchmaker
approach.  If you’re really good, I’ll put in a word
with Admiral Krockover, and maybe you can be stationed
in the same department with me.”

Still looking out the window, Leon dismissed the
notion with a distinct lack of interest.  “I’m not
sure if all my vaccinations are up to date for such a
transfer of duty.”

“Come now, doctor,” she purred with a toxic smile,
setting aside Leon’s crude remark.  “Surely a man of
your stature has heard of my specialized talents.
Hasn’t John ever told you about what happened aboard
the Devonshire?”

“No,” conceded the doctor who grew tired of Meridan’s
relentless wit and stood up from the chair.  “And if I
want to know, I’ll ask Commander Carter.  Not a
bantering stool pigeon with the disposition of a
Regulan Blood Worm.”  With that, Leon walked towards
the sleeping compartments.  “I’m going to retire for
the evening, and I don’t plan on awaking until we’re
on final approach.  So, unless there’s an emergency,
don’t bother knocking on my door.  It’ll be locked.”

“That’s fine,” agreed the sly Lieutenant Meridan.
“I’m sure that an old man like you needs your rest
after a long day with me in a runabout.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Leon shot back without
turning around to face her.  “If I had known a person
like you would be escorting me, I would have either
opted for a stasis pod or suicide pill.  Good night,
lieutenant.”

The cramped sleeping chamber of a Starfleet runabout
was no place to spend a ten-hour period of one’s life,
especially if they had insomnia problems.  With only a
bunk and a closet that passed for a lavatory, there
was very little for Leon to do while he tossed and
turned throughout the night.  The worry about his
family weighed more on his mind with each passing
light year, and the fact that he was no longer aboard
the ship assigned to negotiate with the Gorns seemed
to exacerbate his anxiety.  He was sure that if there
were further developments, John would contact him, so
there was no use calling the Republic every hour to
find out how it was going.  The only thing Leon could
do was wait until he arrived at Earth before deciding
his next move.

With bloodshot, sleep-deprived eyes, the doctor showed
up in the main cabin the next morning with a mug of
coffee just in time to see the rusty red pillars of
the Golden Gate Bridge gliding past the passenger
viewport.  To Leon’s delight, and perhaps due to his
early retirement the previous evening, Lieutenant
Meridan was in the cockpit too busy to greet the
doctor with her usual malicious demeanor.  Instead,
her voice over the intercom contained a more
professional tone.

=/\= “Five minutes to planetfall.  Prepare yourself
for debarkation, doctor.” =/\=

The trip was finally over, and the thought of finally
ridding himself of the company of his conniving
attaché served to lift Leon’s spirits as he sat down
to watch the Terran scenery during landing.  Standing
like an untainted monument to human achievement, the
white monolithic walls of Starfleet Command
Headquarters reached towards the sapphire skies over
the sparkling city of San Francisco.  Orange streaks
of sunlight burst through the low-hanging clouds over
the bay, heralding the daily retreat of fog back
towards the sea.  To Leon, this was his first viewing
of a Pacific sunrise from above, and its beauty
finally answered his long-standing question of why
this magnificent city was chosen to be the home of the
Federation.  Although he had taken uncountable trips
to Earth during his time at the University of Tycho on
Luna, he had never witnessed such a spectacle before,
and for a moment, everything seemed to stand still as
the rising disc of Sol glinted off the viewport
window.  Unfortunately, the moment passed as quickly
as it came, and before long, the golden delta of the
Starfleet insignia splayed before him on the inside
wall of the main docking facility.

Leon was without the weight of stowed baggage, thanks
in part to the hasty departure from the Republic whose
staff promised to forward his belongings at the
earliest possible convenience.  With only his coffee
mug in hand, he stood at the hatch seconds after the
runabout came to a stop and the engines powered down.
As the doors parted, the sound of bustling crowds,
shuttle engines in stand-by mode, and loudspeakers
blaring arrival and departure times poured into the
vessel.  With a deep breath, Doctor Cromwell filled
his lungs with the first taste of Terran air for more
than five years.

“Your orders are to report to Admiral Krockover’s
office at 0900 hours,” said the lieutenant who handed
Leon a PADD as she emerged from the cockpit.
“Everything else will be explained to you in due
course.”

“Exactly who is Admiral Krockover?”

“The person you have to report to at 0900,” returned
the snide comment.  “It’s been a real pleasure Doctor
Cromwell.  Perhaps we’ll meet again under just as
enjoyable circumstances.”

“Warn me first so I can throw myself in front of a
shuttle going warp five.”

Leon could not tell if her expression was more of a
sneer than a smirk, but fortunately for him, there was
no further conversation as the two parted ways. Before
long, the doctor found himself navigating the
sprawling complex alone.

***

The importation of exotic plant species to Earth from
other star systems is bound by numerous Federation
regulations, one of which restricts many specimens to
indoor collections only.  Although many photosynthetic
organisms can coexist just fine with the planet’s
natural vegetation, some can become malignant, and
have been known to wipe out entire ecosystems before
planetary biomonitoring programs discovered such
infestations.  Since the years of first contact with
other spacefaring races, horticulture hobbyists have
evolved along with these regulations resulting in
startlingly beautiful hybrid compilations, especially
within contained environments.  In fact, Starfleet
headquarters itself hosts some of the best indoor
plant arrangements throughout its expansive multiplex.

Given two hours since departing the runabout to roam
the hallways, Leon took his time to find the office of
the Admiral Krockover, pausing every so often to
admire the various floral arrangements.  There were
numerous shops and cafes around the area along with
the countless administration offices and assembly
halls, so the doctor complimented his coffee from the
runabout with a slow, quiet breakfast at a small
restaurant in the biosciences building.  It was built
with a French motif in mind, complete with a host of
breads and morning rolls, but the plethora of
Starfleet uniforms spoiled the atmosphere for Leon and
continually reminded him of where he was while he
dined on a plate of croissants and fresh fruit.
Topping off his mug with a fresh filling of flavored
coffee, known at this particular cafe as the “Picard
blend” with it’s touch of sytheholic chardonnay and
bergamot oil, the doctor took a last check of the time
before embarking on his final trek to Krockover’s
office.

Like many other places throughout the headquarters
building, the lobby of Krockover’s office was
embellished with plant arrangements of all types, fed
by the ambient glow of both windows and overhead
lighting.  Leon inspected a few of the planters as he
walked into the lobby, both to enjoy them and to keep
from looking like he didn’t know where he was going.
Before long, a young lieutenant junior grade with
black, shoulder-length hair called out from behind the
reception desk.

“May I help you?”

Leon broke away from his inspection of the shrubbery
and focused on the young woman in command red.  “Yes.
I’m Leon Cromwell.  I was ordered to report to Admiral
Krockover at 0900 hours.”

“Oh, Doctor Cromwell,” the lieutenant said cordially.
“She’s been expecting you.  Please have a seat.  The
admiral is in conference with her aide camp, but I’ll
let her know you’re here.”

Moments later, a young Vulcan female with ensign rank
pips on her crimson collar emerged from a set of doors
to the left of the reception desk.  In the stoic
demeanor of her planet, the officer looked at Doctor
Cromwell with a silent, contemplative gaze.  Leon, who
sat in the lobby next to a coffee table, took note of
the introspective ensign and watched her as she
continued towards him from the office door.

“The admiral will see you now, doctor,” she said in a
monotone voice.

Leon nodded his thanks, and proceeded to stand up and
walk to the office.  However, he took a second look at
the ensign as he walked by, realizing that her eyes
were following him.  Like all Vulcans, her look was
indecipherable, unwilling to yield any information
about what her thoughts were.  Still, the doctor could
not shake the feeling that her thoughts were of
recognition as much as they were of scrutiny.
Unfortunately, both were unwilling to keep the admiral
waiting by engaging in further conversation, so the
two broke eye contact as the doors to Admiral
Krockover’s office parted, and Leon walked through.

Like the lobby and hallways prior, the spacious office
was adorned with cultivated containers of plant life,
and a large window overlooking San Francisco Bay was
affixed to the far wall.  In front of the window, an
executive desk was centered between two, freestanding
flagpoles.  The pole on the right held aloft the
Starfleet organizational flag, and the pole to the
left a United Federation of Planets flag.  Behind the
desk, a thatch of gray hair tied up in a bun extended
up over the headrest of a leather chair, and Leon
could not make out any further details because the
occupant was turned away from him and sat gazing out
the window.  As the door whispered shut behind the
doctor, an uncomfortable moment of silence ensued
before the admiral spoke.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” a gravelly female voice
asked from the chair.  “No matter how many times I
look out over the city, I can’t help but to be
overwhelmed about how fast paced and industrious the
human race is.  Always moving around from place to
place.  Always building or rending.”

Leon shifted slightly as he stood in the center of the
office, unsure how to respond.

“I wonder,” the admiral continued.  “How many actually
stop to see whether their impact on our culture is
beneficial or detrimental.”

“Perhaps most of them simply have no impact
whatsoever,” offered Leon.  His willingness to add to
the admiral’s ramblings caused her to move her head
slightly in his direction without turning completely
around to face him.

“Are you sure?” she replied.  “Everyone has to have a
goal; some purpose to their activities.  The question
is, whether those goals are altruistic or selfish.”

“Usually,” Leon said.  “Most organisms act in their
best interests, preferring to do whatever it takes to
survive.  So to that end, all goals are inherently
selfish.”

“Are you saying that everyone is selfish, and that
there are no true acts of altruism?”

“Not at all,” the doctor maintained.  “Altruism is
exhibited by higher organisms towards others with
genetic similarity.  It’s a natural instinct to
maintain your genetic lineage.”

“Ah,” the admiral concluded.  “So you’re saying that
we perform selfless acts only when it serves to ensure
that our genetic traits remain in the gene pool.”

“Well, I’m talking about natural tendencies.  I don’t
think it’s so much a question of altruism or
selfishness than it is of the ability to overcome
genetic instinct.  If we’re struggling between the
need to survive and the moral protocol of serving the
greater good, the majority of us will be doing some of
both thus resulting no cumulative effect in either
direction.”

“You’re starting to sound like Ensign S’kak, my aide
camp.  Her Vulcan logic has an interesting twist to
our private discussions on morality.”  Slowly, the
admiral turned her chair around to face Leon.  Her
aged and wrinkled face held a half-smile indicating
her amusement, or perhaps agreement, with the doctor’s
view of basic motivational behavior.  The soft blue
eyes stood in contrast to the silvery gray hair, and
her red and white admiral’s uniform was the only icon
revealing that she was someone other than a friendly,
approachable figure.  “She would probably agree with
you.”

For Leon, seeing the admiral’s face stirred a very
faint memory that he could not bring to the surface.
She seemed somewhat familiar, but he could not place a
finger on why.  His forehead developed a furrow,
confused as to how he might possess a memory of a
high-ranking Starfleet admiral.

“Have we met?” Leon finally asked.

Maintaining her amused half-smirk, Admiral Krockover
replied, “Not for a very, very long time, Leon.”

‘Leon?’ the doctor thought to himself, for he had
never been on a first-name basis with any admiral he
knew of.

“I’m sorry,” the admiral offered.  “Perhaps I should
give you my maiden name, Pamela Maurice.”

Leon raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “Maurice is my
mother’s family name,” he stated before returning to
his confused appearance.  “I thought all women on my
mother’s side kept the family name after marriage?”

“All of them did,” the admiral replied, placing her
elbows on the desk and resting her chin on folded
hands.  “Except for me.  Jasmine, your maternal
grandmother, and myself did not see eye to eye.  We
had a rough upbringing, as I took up interests in
politics and Starfleet while she became a structural
engineer.  Since our father was an engineer at the
Benecia commercial shipyards, he naturally had a
better relationship with your grandmother.  I became
more of a black sheep over the years after running
away at age fifteen and joining Starfleet at age
seventeen.  It wasn’t until Jasmine contracted
sythococcus novae that we started talking again.  On
her deathbed, your mother and I blamed my father for
not keeping up with your grandmother’s immunizations
as child, as it would have saved her life.  After the
funeral, we kept sporadic contact with one another,
but over the years, your father’s disdain for
Starfleet pried us apart.”

“That funeral was thirty years ago,” Leon said with
comprehension.  “I don’t remember anyone in a
Starfleet uniform attending it.”  He still couldn’t
believe he had a long lost great aunt, let alone one
that was a Starfleet admiral.

“It was your mother’s idea that I come in civilian
clothes to placate your father.  And as it was, I
didn’t stay very long.”

Silence returned while Leon mulled over everything
that she had said.  Stressed, he rubbed his forehead
in thought, trying to remember if his mother ever
mentioned an Auntie Pam when he was a child.
Unfortunately, he could not recall any such incidence

“Please Leon,” the admiral offered.  “Have a seat.  I
can imagine this must be very awkward.”

Without hesitation, Leon accepted the offer, sliding
into a padded armchair near the desk.  Taking another
sip of his coffee, he looked at the woman as if
searching for an ulterior motive.  “That still doesn’t
explain why I’m here,” he said after a moment.

“In a way, it does,” the elderly admiral replied.  “At
least partially.  You see, just prior to your
grandmother’s death, she and I made amends.  It was
only natural, since she would soon pass away.
However, during that last conversation together, she
had a dying request of me: to look out for you and
your family in the coming years.  As it stood, you
were all safe on Cestus Three at the time, and it was
only when you left to join Starfleet that I had to
keep better track of all of you.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘keeping track’?”  It was
clear Leon was suspicious at the idea, which made
Admiral Krockover laugh.

“You have your father’s paranoia!” she chuckled.  “I
dare say we’ll be alright if we’ve got some of that
around here.”  Still amused, she proceeded to answer
his question.  “Because your father was adamant about
keeping me away from your family, I had to use more
clandestine ways to keep you all out of harms way.
Although having the Cromwell family so close to the
Gorn border made me a little nervous, there was no
perceived threat at the time.  You, on the other hand,
turned my hair gray,” a smile crept across her face.

“Me?” Leon tried to look innocent.

“Yes you,” she persisted.  “When you joined Starfleet,
you put yourself within millimeters of harm.  Although
I was very proud of you as I watched your graduation
from basic training, I couldn’t help but wonder what
sort of dangers lie ahead for you.”

“You watched my graduation?” the doctor looked stunned
as the admiral nodded.  “I invited my parents and
sister to Earth to watch me graduate, but they never
came.  I was so disappointed that no one from my
family came to see one of the proudest days of my
life.”

“I beamed with pride as I saw you march across that
parade field,” Krockover added.  “I even pointed you
out to my first officer who came with me at the time.
I never thought anyone in my family would ever be in
Starfleet other than me.  It was one of the proudest
days of my life as well.”

Leon was shocked.  Learning that his early but brief
enlistment in Starfleet meant something to someone
other than himself was beyond belief.  He suddenly
felt a twinge of guilt at ending his enlistment so
early.

“I suppose that you were a bit disappointed when I
chose not to reenlist,” he said with hesitation.

“Not really,” she replied to Leon’s surprise.  “I was
actually fairly relieved, especially when I learned
you were going to medical school.  I figured that the
medical field would be one of the safest places for
you to be, especially since you were not in Starfleet
anymore.”

Suddenly, the admiral lost her smile, and replaced it
with a long, sober gaze.  “Little did I know of what
would happen next.”

“I didn’t exactly have control of that,” Leon
admitted.  “They were short of medical personnel
during the Dominion War.”

“I did everything I could to keep you from being
drafted,” she said with regret.  “But there are some
things even an admiral can’t do.  When we learned that
you might have been captured and not killed at Theta
Cygni Five, I sent as many agents and starships behind
enemy lines looking for you as I could muster.  I
nearly lost my admiralty after relieving the Chief of
Marine Operations from his post due to the botched
defense plan for Theta Cygni.  You have no idea how
relieved I was when you were found.”

The admiral looked up to find Leon staring at her in
astonishment, and with tears welling in his eyes.

“You . . . you went looking for me?” he said through a
raspy throat.

“A promise is a promise, Leon.  I couldn’t let your
grandmother down, now could I?”

Silence again permeated the room as the admiral
allowed the doctor to digest the information.  Leon
usually dealt with change in stride, but this was a
bombshell to say the least, and he was searching
within himself for memories that contradicted anything
she had said.  He was also struggling with the
gratitude that another person outside his immediate
family had cared enough about his career, indeed his
very life, during times he thought no one had.  Could
this kindly old woman truly have been his guardian
angel all these years?  Deep down in his soul, Leon
knew that everything that the admiral had said is
true, and his only struggle now was to convince the
rest of his mind that it was, and decide on the next
step.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”  Leon finally said.  “You
were the one behind my reactivation orders.”

“No,” the admiral stated clearly.  “Admiral Janeway
reactivated you.  I simply suggested it.”

“Why?” the doctor asked, preparing himself for yet
another bombshell.

Krockover sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair.
  She seemed to be thinking of the right words,
fumbling with her fingers and gently swiveling her
chair back and forth.

“Leon, the reasons are . . . complicated,” she said,
struggling to find the words.  “After your return from
being a POW, I wanted to make sure that you were never
put in that position again.  I ensured that your
request to be released from your Starfleet contract
was approved, and was happy to see that you chose to
return to education and life science research.”

“But?” Leon persisted.

“But, we needed you.”

“Who?” the doctor demanded.  “Who is ‘we’?”

Again, the admiral sighed, and decided to take a
different approach.

“Leon,” she started.  “I know that Captain Marshall
talked to you about the struggle between Admiral
Fowler and Admiral Kostya.  Do remember what he said?”

“He said something about a conspiracy in the fleet,”
he recalled.  “A power play between two opposing
sides, and the Republic was caught in the middle.”

“That was partially true,” continued Admiral
Krockover.  “But it wasn’t the whole truth, and it
wasn’t because Fowler was replaced by a Kreltan
infiltrator.  There WAS a power play between Fowler
and Kostya, even before Fowler was abducted.  However
it wasn’t between two opposing sides.  It was WITHIN
one of the two sides.”

“What ‘sides’ are we talking about here?” Leon asked,
confused as ever.

“That’s the simple part,” she replied.  “It’s the
classic political struggle between the hawks and the
doves, and Fowler and Kostya belong to the hawks.”

“What exactly are you getting at?” the doctor
continued with irritation creeping into his voice.
“Surely all Starfleet wants is peace?  At least that’s
what’s been advertised.”

“Ever since the Cardassian border conflict two decades
ago, and the subsequent formation of the Marquee,
there’s been a growing movement within Starfleet.
This movement consists of people who believe that
Starfleet should shed the yoke of purely exploration
and non-interference and embrace a proactive military
policy that allows us to act preemptively if we feel
we are threatened by outside forces.  This movement
existed then both in the higher levels of Starfleet
and the lower ranks.  Unfortunately, the lower ranks
tended to desert and join the marquee, leaving the
higher ranking hawks in their position to look the
other way.  When the Dominion War happened, the
marquee, of course, were wiped out, leaving the
high-brass hawks to stew quietly while the war raged
on.  Towards the middle of the war, when it seemed
that Starfleet might lose, the doves in Starfleet were
beginning to consider the unthinkable: negotiation of
the terms for surrender.  The hawks fiercely opposed
this, citing that billions of Federation lives would
have been lost for nothing.

“Eventually, we gained the Klingons and Romulans as
allies, and the war was won.  Unfortunately, there was
a price to be paid by the doves.  The hawks cited that
if the doves had gotten their way, the entire alpha
and beta quadrants would be under Dominion rule, and
us as their slaves.  Worse yet, they used the Dominion
War as a reason to push their proactive military
policy.  The result has been that the hawk movement
has grown over the past five years, and this most
recent Kreltan conflict has catalyzed their rise to
power in the Federation Council and Starfleet
Command.”

As Leon had suspected, the second bombshell had
arrived.  Again, he sat there in silence as Krockover
allowed him to digest the information.

“What does this have to do with me?” he finally asked.

“The hawks, now in control of the Federation Council,
have been clandestinely reorganizing Starfleet by
placing their people in charge of key starships and
starbases, or in positions of authority aboard ones
they couldn’t oust the incumbent commander.
Fortunately, there are some untouchable ships, like
the Enterprise and the Titan with dovish commanders
and senior staff firmly in control.  However, the
hawks have been hard at work at other vessels that
control entire sectors, one of which, is the Republic
stationed at Delphi station.

“Your reactivation orders were implemented in lieu of
a Lieutenant Commander Mortland, a staunchly hawkish
medical doctor, from being posted in a senior position
aboard the Republic.”

“Surely you could have found someone else?” Leon
asked.

“No,” Krockover stated flatly.  “They had already
succeeded in placing a green, easily-controlled
captain in charge of the Republic, and if we didn’t
act quickly, the ship would have been solid hawks,
wall-to-wall.”

“What about my orders?” the doctor persisted.  “Why
was my record altered to look like I had never been
discharged from Starfleet after the Dominion War?”

“The hawks,” Krockover explained.  “Were already onto
us.  They were about to trace your orders back to
Admiral Janeway, and we had to do something to make it
look like your reactivation orders were actually only
a standard reassignment.  Therefore, a slight change
in your service record was made, and the reasons
highly classified.  It put a quick and effective end
to the tracing of your reactivation orders.”

“But why?” Leon asked, at the edge of his seat.  “Why
me?  Why couldn’t you have just left me alone aboard
the Bremerton to finish my Daystrom grant?”

“There’s no simple answer to that, Leon,” admitted the
admiral.  “I took the chance that you might eventually
understand what is going on, and want to help.  In
fact, hearing that you signed up to take the bridge
officer’s course gave me a lot of hope.”

The doctor was feeling as if his life was being
manipulated the day he received those orders to report
to the Republic.  He had felt insulted that his life
was yet again prone to the whims of Starfleet Command,
and he had little control over it.  Leon was all but
convinced that someone in the higher ranks of
Starfleet was out for revenge by altering his records,
but never in his life had he expected to find that
these orders were issued for the greater good of the
Federation.  It was almost laughable if it were not
such a serious situation.

“We’re losing ground, Leon,” the admiral pleaded.
“The doves are far and few between these days, and we
fear that infighting, possibly even civil war, may
soon grip the Federation.  If that happens, the hawks
will have a distinct upper hand if they control most
of the Starfleet.  We’re doing everything we can to
stop that.  What I need to know now is, can we trust
you?”

Although he felt he was being put on the spot, if the
admiral’s story was true, the Federation was in
desperate need for people to wanted to give peace a
chance.  The question now was what could he actually
do as a humble medical doctor.

  “What do I need to do?” he asked, almost afraid of
the answer.

The admiral smiled again, extremely relieved that her
hunch to trust her distantly-related grand nephew was
well placed.  “Same thing you’ve been doing,” she
replied.  “Openly question strange orders, acting as a
moral confidant to your superiors, and making friends
of those who matter most to the cause of the
Federation.  Above all, uphold and affirm the true
reason of why Starfleet exists: peaceful exploration.”

“So, does this make me some sort of secret agent now?”
the doctor asked with a touch of sarcasm.  “I’ll warn
you I’m not very good at intelligence operations.”

The chuckle from the admiral indicated her amusement
at the thought. “No, no.  There are no black ops here.
  Although I advise against talking about this to
others, I trust you to use your judgment.  Just be
yourself, and if any strange orders or activity come
your way, be sure to let me know.  Remember that
you’re considered a placeholder.  You’re assigned to a
position to keep a hawk from entering it and abusing
the authority in their favor.”

“What about the Republic?” asked Leon.

“You’ll be assigned back aboard as soon as the Cestus
Three situation is resolved.”

“What about that?  How’s it going?  Is my . . . is OUR
family okay?  What was that all about when Lieutenant
Chase said that my father is a terrorist?”

“Yes,” she confessed.  “Your father’s actions on
Cestus Three have been controversial, but
understandable.  The whole reason the Gorns attacked
was due to the hawks in Starfleet.  They violated the
Metron treaty by establishing a listening post in the
system.  Believe me, I tried to get your mother,
father and sister to leave the planet when I found
out, but your father was so distrustful of Starfleet
at that he locked out my transmission ID from his com
center.  In hindsight, had I received information that
the Gorns were about to attack, I would have gone
there myself to extract them.  As it stands now, the
system is blockaded by the Gorns, and there’s little I
can do until the Republic reports back.  Until then,
it’s best you remain here.  Not necessarily for
protection, but to prevent the hawks from using you as
an excuse of why the Gorns attacked.  Having them cite
that the son of a known terrorist is serving aboard
the ship of the Federation’s peace envoy would be just
the thing that they could use against us.”

Leon nodded his head slowly, more out of frustration
that there’s nothing he can do to help his family or
the Republic right now.  The admiral had shown trust
in him over the years, as well as at this very moment
by revealing the Federation power struggle.  To seemed
only fitting that he trust her now.

“So what do I do until I’m sent back to the Republic?”

“I’m glad you asked,” the admiral smiled before
pressing the intercom button on her desk.  “S’kak, you
can come in now.”  A moment later, the young Vulcan
ensign that seemed to be looking Leon over prior to
coming into the office returned with a PADD in hand.
“For the time being, you’ll be a guest physician at
Starfleet Medical under Captain Renowski.  In
addition,” Krockover smiled again, “I believe you have
some coursework to continue at the academy.”  S’kak
handed Leon the PADD.  “Ensign, will you take Doctor
Cromwell in hand and show him to his quarters?”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied looking at Leon with the
same emotionless eyes that the doctor perceived the
same impression that she was somehow scrutinizing.

Since Leon had already gone through a surreal
situation with the admiral, he no longer wished to
maintain an air of mystery surrounding anything.
Therefore, he resolved to figure out why the ensign
seemed to be sizing him up.

“Ensign, do I somehow know you as well?” he asked
sarcastically, figuring that the ensign was well aware
of the distant family relationship between the admiral
and himself.  “Don’t tell me you’re my long lost baby
sister or something.”

The question drew a laugh from the admiral, but the
logical ensign simply looked at Leon and replied,
“there is no family relation between us, doctor.  But
your intuition about knowing me is partially correct.
My brother, Doctor Y’lair, served under you for a
short time before his death.”  S’kak then led the way
out of the office door.

Leon’s jaw hit the floor as the third bombshell of the
day struck him.

“You’ve been the talk of the office, Leon,” the
admiral replied with amusement.  Leon only stared at
her with speechless incredulity as followed after the
ensign.

As the doors closed, the Admiral’s smile slowly faded
as she turned her attention to the computer screen on
her desk.  It was good to see her grand nephew again
after all these years, but there were much more
pressing matters at hand.  She was putting it lightly
when she said Leon’s father was considered a terrorist
as his most recent exploits spelled out across her
monitor.  The text uplink to Republic’s logs had been
very handy in this recent crisis, but the information
was not very reassuring, and her position in Starfleet
allowed her to do little else than to watch the events
unfold at Cestus Three.

Unfortunately, the newest message was even more
troubling.  Captain Marshall had apparently agreed to
some sort of conflict resolution with the Gorns via
personal combat.  With Carter and Forrest busy on the
planet’s surface, command was handed over to next in
the chain of command, Lieutenant Commander Virtus.
There were countless Gorn battle cruisers bearing down
on the lone Starfleet vessel, and her senior crew was
spread out over the entire system.  In Krockover’s
mind, the stage was set for disaster.

<tag: Carter, Virtus>

Doctor Leon Cromwell, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
U.S.S. Republic
(temporarily reassigned to SFHQ)


__________________________________
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The high-pitched trickling of water resonated off the
tunnel walls with an echoic reverberation in the
distance.  Smooth granite facades gave way to
carbonaceous stalactites, hard water deposits, and
other calcified residue.  Jagged boulders laid strewn
about the gravelly floor, dislodged after years of
erosion had worn through seepage cracks in the
ceiling.  Occasionally, this collapsing debris blocked
off branch tunnels, entombing them until the patient
hands of nature reclaimed them back into the crust.
In other areas, the blockage was not so final, leaving
holes in the rubble just large enough to crawl
through.  The morning daylight could not penetrate
this deep, cavernous underworld, and only the glow
from Arthur’s headlamp filtered through the darkness.

Shortly after climbing down the open fissure in the
ground, the weight of the three new backpacks plus his
own survival bag became unbearable for the
sixty-something father of two.  As soon as he reached
the branch tunnel, he converted a two-meter length of
rolled-up, durable plastic into a makeshift sled.
Using synthetic rope and a survival knife, Arthur
securely tied the four heavy parcels to the topside of
the plastic, and attached a long loop in the front for
use as a tether.  Before long, he was hiking through
the cavernous remains of the old waste tunnel system
with his heavy cargo in tow.

As the hours wore on, sweat drenched Arthur’s
clothing, and after emptying his canteen of drinking
water, stopped for a moment to refill it with a
portable vapor condenser.  It was a simple,
transtator-powered device, no bigger than an apple,
and screwed onto the canteen lip in place of the
actual cap.  Arthur placed the coupled gadgets on the
ground, took a seat on his cargo sled, and as the
condenser hummed away, he wiped his forehead with a
handkerchief.  A few minutes later, the old man,
exhausted from his 24-hour ordeal that metamorphosis
his humble colonist life into one of a spiteful
resistance fighter, dozed off into a light sleep.

However, his slumber was short-lived.  Abruptly thrust
out of his nap, Arthur awoke to the stirring of nearby
gravel.  Fearful that his unscheduled siesta had
compromised his position, he turned his head quickly
to catch site of an intruder.  Crawling along the
ground, a dark-furred Norway rat skittered from under
the sled, past his foot, and into the darkness beyond.
  Realizing that there was no cause for alarm, Arthur
relaxed somewhat, and reflected upon how this species
of Earth vermin seemed to follow the human race
wherever they happen to settle.  Rats were probably
introduced to Cestus Three during the first colonial
expedition as stowaways who fed on crates of
quadrotriticale.  As far back as the beginning of
human civilization, they were renown for their
abilities to kill people by simply living out their
lives in a parasitic symbiosis.  They’ve brought
humans plague, started deadly fires by gnawing on
matches and electrical wiring, and even caused
devastating floods by burrowing through earthen dams.
Yet, despite the scourge they inflict upon human
beings, rats could not survive without them.  As he
pondered on how such a relationship developed,
invoking possible similarities between humans and
Gorns, it dawned on Arthur that the rat’s retreat into
the darkness suggested that it might not have been
running away from him, but from something else.  The
hair on the back of his neck stood on end as his sense
of security fled and his stomach tightened.  Again,
the gravel behind him stirred, and this time, it was
closer and more pronounced, signifying the presence of
a much larger creature.

With his heart pounding, the only sound in the quiet
cave was of blood pumping past his ears.  His mind
raced through the different sized predators that could
have possibly made the sound.  Stories from the early
colony days about outland farm settlers being dragged
off their hover-plows by bear-sized mammals with long
sticky tendrils invoked panic down every inch of
Arthur’s nervous system.  In a moment where he
silently cursed himself for allowing a brief instant
of sleep, he slowly reached out for his phasor carbine
that was leaned up against the opposite side of the
sled.  But he never reached it.  The cold, solid
nozzle of an energy weapon pressed against his skull
as a deep, raspy voice forced Arthur to freeze in
place.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Wheels turned in Arthur’s head, analyzing the voice,
and he suddenly realized that it wasn’t the croaking
and hissing of a bipedal lizard.  He blinked, allowed
his mind to clear itself of fear, and the knot in his
stomach to release.

“Hello Skip,” Arthur replied.

To his relief, the nozzle was lowered, and the voice,
which was cold and determined a split second ago,
returned with a quizzical and slightly warmer tone.

“Artie?”

Turning around, Arthur beamed his headlamp into the
wrinkled face of a nearly-bald man with a ring of fine
white hair around the lower back of his skull.  He
wore a dark-blue denim jacket over a gray undershirt,
and strapped around his waist was a utility belt
loaded with survival equipment and ordinance.
Dropping the phasor rifle to his side, the newcomer
shouted at Arthur with a sour voice while covering his
eyes from the beam of light.

“Get that damn thing out of my face, you moron!”

Switching his headlamp from beam mode to ambient mode,
the focused ray emanating from Arthur’s forehead
changed to a diffuse orb of soft light that was easier
on the eyes, but did not have the range of the
previous mode.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” returned
Arthur.  “Couldn’t you tell I wasn’t a damned rex?”
‘Rex’ was the Cestus Three nickname for a Gorn, born
out of their look-alike to Earth’s prehistoric
pea-size brained dinosaur.  Any such invocation of the
name was meant to be derogatory.

“Sorry, Artie,” offered Skip.  “All I saw was a shadow
in the light and some sort of growling.  You set off
the perimeter alarm, so I naturally assumed the
worst.”

“Growling?” inquired Arthur.

“Yeah, you ding-bat.  You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore!” he returned.

“Like hell you don’t.  Janice has been telling you
that for years, but you would never admit it.”

The reminder of his wife brought a moment of silence
where a sense of worry washed over Arthur.  Allowing
it to pass, he got up from the sled and changed the
subject.

“Now that you’re here, you can help me with this.”
Arthur patted the bundled backpacks on the makeshift
toboggan.

“What have you got here?” Skip asked.

“I’m not altogether sure, but it looks like someone
dropped off a load of survival gear for me just before
I made it to the spider-hole.  I don’t suppose you
know anything about it?”

Skip shook his head.  “No idea,” he said.  “Did you
check it for creepers?”

Arthur nodded, remembering his quick yet thorough
tricorder scan of the backpacks before deciding to
bring them along.  “They didn’t register any active
tracking devices at all, and the isotope scans
indicate they were fabricated on Earth.”

“Earth?” Skip looked at him questioningly.  “What?
Are they Starfleet issue?”

“Didn’t look like it,” Arthur shook his head.  “No
Fleet markings at all that I could see.  Suits me just
fine though.  I might have left them behind
otherwise.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Skip.  “Sure you would’ve.”  It was
plain that the man did not believe Arthur’s threat,
knowing that any sort of supply prospects in the
current situation would not have been turned away.
“Come on, let’s get you to back to base camp.”

“Camp?” inquired Arthur.  “You mean everyone made it
to the rally point?”

“No,” Skip answered with a hint of regret.  “Not
everyone.”


***


Five years ago, Skip and Arthur attended a Cestus
Colony council meeting where security arrangements for
the planet’s eight settlement regions were discussed.
Budget cutbacks for the military had concerned some
colonists about settlement defenses with Cestus Three
being so close to Gorn space.  A plan was in the works
where Starfleet was to take over some of the security
responsibilities of the colony, but there were those,
like Arthur and Skip, who felt that Starfleet had
already overextended themselves with the Dominion War.
  Their fears were that if Starfleet found itself in
need of more troops during the conflict, that they
would take away soldiers stationed on Cestus Three to
fight elsewhere, leaving the colony with weakened
defenses.  Although the meeting was originally
intended as a complaint session for colonists to voice
their concerns about the plan, the government and
Starfleet saw it as a press conference to actually
announce the plan’s implementation.  Needless to say,
a bitter shouting match ensued where the colonists
were told by the colony government, “we’re at war, and
you’ll do what we tell you to do.”

Even though the statement silenced most of the
colonists, officially putting the subject to rest,
others like Skip and Arthur were outraged.  It was
this meeting that brought about the formation of
Shadowforce; a fancy name for a simple, loosely
organized group of colonists who vowed to be Cestus
Three’s last line of defense in the event of an
invasion.  Committed to a pledge of secrecy to keep
government interference at a minimum, these minutemen
came from every walk of life, and separated themselves
into independent regional cells throughout each
settlement.  Each cell, or ‘shadow group’ as they
referred to themselves, was comprised of no more than
a dozen people, and chose a single rally point to meet
should the colony security situation deteriorate.
They met every few months to go over contingency
plans, stock their weapons caches with homemade
ordinance, and some even went so far as to practice
guerilla tactics.  For the most part, they were just
groups of friends who conjured up new ways to deal
with the unthinkable.

In the beginning, none of them ever really believed
that they would have to actually implement their
resistance strategy.  In fact, the first few meetings
for some of the cells turned into late night poker
games or weekend hunting trips.  However, as the
months wore on, and the Dominion War came to a close,
the colony government never increased funding for
planetary security, diverting the new peacetime budget
to infrastructure and civic projects instead.
Starfleet soon became the sole military force on the
planet, and as predicted by people like Skip and
Arthur, they became too comfortable in their postwar
defense posture on the Gorn border.  Only when it was
discovered that Starfleet had initiated a forward
observation program against the Gorns in direct
violation of the Metron Treaty did Shadowforce begin
to take their role seriously.  Although some in the
group tried to confront Starfleet and the colony
government on the issue, they denied everything.  It
soon became clear that if the Gorns discovered that
the Metron Treaty was being dishonored, invasion would
follow--and the colony was virtually defenseless.

It was almost uncanny how swiftly the Gorns came.  No
one had expected it to happen so quickly.  In less
than twelve hours, key facilities in all eight
settlements had been captured, and those who did not
flee to the outlands were rounded up and placed in
internment camps.  Resistance was dealt with harshly,
and with extreme prejudice.  As soon as Arthur made it
to the underground base camp with Skip, he realized
how bad it was.  There were eleven members to the
South Cornucopia shadow cell, and only two others made
it to the rally point.  They were down to four, and
the war had just started.  Attempting to put aside the
grim outlook for their group, after Arthur settled in
everyone swapped stories of their narrow escape,
hoping that talk of past victory would lighten the
mood.

“So you actually did it, Artie?  You used your
go-juice?”

A plump, rough-shaven man in his fifties was roasting
a small ebony chunk of unrecognizable meat over a
campfire with the aid of skewer as he asked Arthur the
question.  Sporting a black leather jacket, the man’s
obese belly spilled out over a thick belt hung by
suspenders that were stretched over his massive
shoulders.  With a graying patch of red hair, his eyes
wielded multiple folds of dark patches, indicating
that insomnia had been a close friend of his over the
past several days.

“You should have been there Wey,” replied Arthur, who
was busily spooning food into his mouth from a foil
ration packet.  “After the Petersons fled, I realized
that I was the only one left on the block.  So, all I
had to do was get on the comlink and tell the rex’s
that I knew where Governor Clark was and that I wanted
to negotiate a deal.”

Wey chuckled, and his massive gut rippled like jelly.
“Yeah, I’ll bet they wanted to negotiate, too.”

Arthur snickered.  “Four squads,” he reminisced with
disbelief.  “They sent four squads after me.  I could
even hear them scream when they found the special
surprise I had waiting for them.  Let me tell you,
antimatter has one hell of a kick even in it’s
unrefined form.”  After another generous spoonful of
food, Arthur smiled and added, “I hope the Petersons
won’t be too upset.”

Skip, on the other hand, had a bottle of whiskey in
his hands, and was staring blankly into the fire.  “It
took you two years and a fistful of permits to get all
that antimatter.  You were pretty much throwing away
your space-sled project.  It must have been hard to
part with.”

Nodding his head, Arthur lost his smile and scraped a
few more mouthfuls from the foil packet.  “The rex’s
would have found it if I didn’t use it.  It would have
just gone to waste.”

Continuing his blank stare, Skip turned his head
slightly towards Arthur.  “So instead, you blew up
four squads of Gorn commandos, and stirred up a bloody
hornet’s nest in the process.”  Arthur stopped in
mid-chew, and looked Skip squarely in the eyes as if
checking to see whether his friend disapproved of the
heavy-handed tactic.  As a smile creeped across Skip’s
face, the two broke out in laughter, and the blank
stare was replaced by a boisterous expression that
held up the whiskey bottle in a toast.  “Here’s to you
and your damned hornet’s nest!”

Still amazed at the gall of Arthur’s escape story, Wey
joined in the laughter. “So do you really know where
Clark is?”

“I haven’t got a clue!” Arthur admitted with
joviality.  This brought all three men into a fit of
hysterics, forcing Arthur to stop eating to catch his
breath.  Skip stood up in mid laugh, stumbling
slightly due to the alcohol, and offered a swig of the
concoction to Arthur and Wey.

A clattering of objects caught the attention of the
boisterous men, and they looked over to Arthur’s
makshift sled where a middle-aged woman with a bun of
black hair and a long-sleeved green jersey sat
inspecting the contents of the backpacks.

“There’s got to be a fortune in stuff here!” she
remarked. “Look at this!  Phaser packs, explosive
darts, aerial charges, nitro-blocks.  This is a
commando’s dream!  Artie, where did you say you got
this stuff?”

Arthur was finishing off a swallow from Skip’s flask
as he shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Someone
left them at the end of Creasy Lane just before I
entered Windbreak Park.  They threw a sensor shield
over it and everything.  It’s like someone WANTED me
to find them.”

“Hey Lins,” addressed Wey.  “Why don’t you take a
break from that and have a bite to eat.  We’ve all got
to keep our strength up.”

The woman stood up with a small grey case in one hand,
and a metal cylindrical object in the other.

“Not if I have to eat what you’re eating.  What the
heck is that?”  She was referring to the glob of black
meat at the end of Wey’s skewer.

“A sandwing,” he retorted defensively.  “I took off
the wings and head, skinned the fur, and gutted the
giblets.  You want some?”

Lins looked revolted, and winced at the thought of
ingesting the singed beast.  “Look . . .” she started.
  “Thanks to Artie, we’ve got a ton of rations here.
Why do you have to go and eat a flying skunk?”

“Simple,” Wey replied.  “Those rations will last us a
lot longer if we use local sources as a supplement.”
Lins shook her head in disgust, while walking over to
take a seat next to Skip.  Wey hovered the skewer of
meat in front of Arthur.  “How about you?”

“Thanks, but I had sandwing for lunch . . .” he
replied, as Wey shrugged his shoulders and broke a
piece of the animal off his skewer and began eating
it.  As Lins focused her attention on the two articles
she brought over from the sled, Arthur asked, “What
have you got there?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied, handing the cylindrical
object off to Skip.  Opening the gray case, she
examined the contents before exclaiming.  “Hey!  It’s
a medical kit!”

“And a well stocked one, at that,” commented Skip who
peered over Lins’ shoulder as she pulled out a
flip-open medical tricorder.  “Wait a minute!  That’s
a TC-560!  A Starfleet issue tricorder!”  Turning to
Arthur, Skip continued.  “Maybe it WAS Starfleet who
dropped this off for you!”

“Oh great,” Arthur commented with disdain.  “So
instead of properly securing this planet and honoring
the Metron Treaty, they give us THIS instead.”

Skip didn’t pay Arthur any attention, but instead
turned to the device that Lins handed him.  After
examining it for a moment, he came to a conclusion.

“Looks like they also included a Starfleet emergency
transponder in those supplies.  You don’t suppose they
put this in there for us to contact them, do you?”

“How?” asked Wey.  “The only way anyone would receive
the signal is if they were in low orbit looking for us
or somewhere on the ground.  It’s not a long range
transponder.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Skip admitted.  “If we
turned that thing on, the Gorns would be on us long
before anyone from Starfleet would find us.”

Silence descended upon the group as Skip went back to
staring into the fire, Lins continued to examine the
contents of the medical kit, and Wey proceeded to
finish eating the roasted sandwing.  Arthur, on the
other hand, was deep in thought at Skip’s last
sentence. ‘The Gorns would be on us long before anyone
from Starfleet.’  The words repeated in his mind, as
well as his hastily implemented escape plan from the
south Cornucopia suburbs.  His eyes shifted back and
forth as we muttered the words, “would they fall for
it again?”

Lins and Skip stopped what they were doing and looked
at Arthur.  However, Wey did not hear Arthur, and
continued to relish the sandwing by quietly gnawing on
the small bones.

“What its it, Arite?” asked Skip.

It was plain to see that Arthur was in contemplation.
He was looking to the ground as if it were a blank
chalkboard in his mind, and picturing the minute
details of a plan forming in his head.

“Skip?” he finally said.  “You know that subterranean
water retention pond on the east side of town?  It’s
fairly deep, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, at least twenty meters,” he replied.   “They
put a hand railing around the water’s edge a few years
back.  It’s too bad to.  We used to have toy boat
races down there when I was a kid.  It was great
because it stays cool in there during the summer, and
also doubles as a water source for the downtown
irrigation network.”

“It’s just below the city’s main thermal regulator,
right?”

“Of course,” Skip returned.  “The regulator was built
on top of it.  At night, when water condenses on the
regulator’s radiation grid, it falls into the
complex’s rooftop catchments and diverted underground
to the pond.  If it wasn’t for the regulator, the pond
wouldn’t be there.”

“Lins,” Arthur turned to Skip’s neighbor.  “You worked
at the regulation complex for years.  How much liquid
sodium is in the east side thermal regulation system?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied  “A lot.  It’s used as
a heat exchange medium for the city’s entire cooling
network.  Why?”

“Just tell me, how much?”

“I’d say at least six hundred thousand metric tons in
the cooling pipe network alone.  That’s not including
the recovery grid.  In total, maybe about a million
metric tons.  What’s you’re idea?”

Although she seemed insistent on learning of his
brainstorm-in-progress before it got too out of hand,
Arthur ignored her and continued to ask questions.

“Wey,” he turned to the obese man who was in the
middle of his meal.  “Your construction company does
structural maintenance on the complex.  The thermal
regulator itself uses a refractory metal composite in
the carbon-silicate retaining wall, right?”

“Yes,” he answered.  A piece of black, singed crust
from the meat was stuck in his beard, and it bobbed up
and down as he talked and chewed.  “For heat
conduction.”

“That would make the lower level a sensor shadow to an
active sensor scan, right?”

“Yes,” Wey replied.  “There are a lot of walls like
that throughout the city.  It’s how I made my escape
from the Gorns yesterday afternoon.”

  “Artie,” Lins asked tenaciously.  “What are you
thinking?”

“If we opened the pipe network,” Arthur continued his
train of thought, “and allowed all the liquid sodium
to drain into the retaining pond, how long would it
take to empty the system?”

“Well,” Lins calculated in her head.  “The system is
under extreme pressure, otherwise the sodium wouldn’t
be in liquid form.  The exchange pipes are about a
half meter in diameter, and there’s one feeder pipe
for each city block, so that comes out to about a
hundred different branches to the cooling pipe
network.  There’s about six thousand cubic meters of
liquid sodium in each feeder pipe, so if the
maintenance valves for each branch were opened, and
the flow was diverted to the rooftop condenser
catchments, the flow rate to the pond would be about
thirty cubic meters per second.  My guess is that
emptying the entire system would take a little over
three minutes.  But, why would you want to do that?
The thermal regulator system keeps the whole city cool
during the day.  If it wasn’t for the thermal
regulator, everyone would be sweating in their offices
by high noon.”

“Besides,” added Skip.  “I wouldn’t want to be
anywhere near the retaining pond after dumping all
that liquid sodium into it.  It would react violently
with the water.  The fumes alone would eat away your
lungs, but the pond itself would turn into a sodium
hydroxide soup.”

Arthur began to smile, as if Skip’s response was
exactly what he was looking for.  Turning back to Wey,
he continued his questioning.

“How much concrete resin is between the retention pond
and the street level outside the thermal regulation
complex?”

“They use the standard trititanium fibers in the
resin,” Wey explained.  “Probably no more than a
meter.”

“So, if we place localized nitrate charges around the
perimeter of the retention pond’s ceiling, could we
conceivably cave in the roof?

“Yeah,” Wey spouted with almost sarcastic obviousness.
  “As well as the entire lower level of the thermal
regulation complex, and the street outside, and the .
. . Hey, wait a minute . . .”

“Artie, you’re nuts,” Lins added as Arthur’s plan took
hold in everyone’s head.  There was a tense
seriousness etched into her voice.  “We’d never pull
it off.”

“It’s okay, Lins,” Arthur replied with a devious
smile.  “Trust me.”

***

<location:  East-side subterranean retention pond,
downtown Cornucopia, Cestus III>

It took the entire morning for the shadow cell to make
their way through the waste tunnels into downtown.
Fortunately for them, the network of abandoned
channels were less degraded under the city, since
surface runoff was diverted away from the streets
rather than allowed to percolate through the ground.
Due to this, there were only a few spider holes in the
city to emerge from the tunnels.  Two years ago, the
group took a weekend expedition to map out the
tunnels, and discovered some of the fissures, and all
of them seemed to intersect with the storm drainage
system.  This was fortunate; because it allowed their
journey to the retention pond to be under cover, and
they were able to exit the drainage pipes only a block
away from the regulator complex.

The aboveground structure itself was a massive network
of suspended pipes connected to hundreds of enormous
radiator fins.  Although the fins were held aloft by
the pipes, which were in turn anchored to the ground
about a block in either direction, the regulation
complex was a single-level structure below the fins
with a series of roof-based catchments for collecting
condensed water vapor.  In addition, the structure
housed all the machinery and subsystems for the
sodium-based heat-exchange network, and was itself,
dwarfed by the overhanging radiator fins.  Inside the
complex, Lins and Arthur were busy reprogramming the
maintenance computer to open all the valves leading to
coolant network.

“There are still about a dozen things that can go
wrong with this plan,” Lins muttered while typing
commands into the computer console.

Arthur grunted his response while reviewing the
manifold controls.  “Don’t worry about it.”  Changing
the subject, he asked, “Are you sure the liquid sodium
will find it’s way to the catchment chutes?  I’d hate
to waste all this work we’re doing.”

“Each maintenance valve is meant to have a collection
hose attached to them before they’re opened,” she
explained.  “Without the tube, the sodium will spill
out onto the complex floor, splash against the
retaining wall, and be immediately diverted to the
floor drains.  Since we bypassed the sensor matrix and
programmed the flood control system to think that the
complex is filling with water, the drains were
automatically diverted to the retention pond instead
of the recovery grid.  The hardest part now is getting
the computer to believe that there’s a collection hose
attached to each maintenance valve.”

“What about the recovery grid?” asked Arthur.  “You
said there was about four hundred thousand metric tons
in that as well.”

Biting her lip, Lins seemed to be on the edge of
exasperation.

“Look,” she hissed.  “I’ve jimmied the grid’s overflow
sensor into a perpetual ‘on’ position so when we send
power through the control system, the drainage grates
will be all open.  Your sodium hydroxide bath is set.
If I were you, I’d be more worried about how the Gorns
will respond.”

“What do you mean?”  Arthur’s voice was rising with a
defensive overtone.

“What I mean is this,” Lins held up her hand and
counted off each major discrepancy she with the
operation.  “First, we’re not even sure if they’ll
come here with ground forces after we activate the
transponder.  They might very well aim starship
weapons at this place and blow it away.  Second, if
they DO come with ground forces, we have no assurances
that they’ll come close enough to the complex before
realizing what we’re up to.  Third, if we pull this
off we’ll have more than just a hornet’s nest after
us.  They’ll very well be after our blood.”

Arthur waited patiently for her to finish, determined
to have the last word.  As soon as Lins concluded her
statement, he addressed each point.

“Okay,” he started.  “Fair enough.  However let me
point out that one, the Gorns will likely want to use
Starfleet personnel as bargaining chips before killing
them, so they chances they destroy the complex is
minimal.  Two, the complex’s retaining wall is
composed of sensor-scattering material, and they’ll
HAVE to come in close just to investigate.  And three,
you agreed long ago that you’d do anything in defense
of the colony, and this operation does just that--it
hits our enemy where it hurts.”

“Have you given any thought to how our actions will
affect colonists that aren’t in Shadowforce?” Lins
retorted.

“What?”

“The Gorns will be out for blood, and they may take it
out on innocent people.”

“Look,” Arthur said with a more conciliatory tone.
“We’re doing everything within our power to drive the
rex’s from the colony.  I’m worried about everyone in
the internment camps too, but we can’t let that drive
our focus away from our purpose.”

A brief moment of silence gripped the room where Lins
thought about what Arthur said.  She crossed her arms,
sighed, then nodded her head.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”  She looked at the small
control room around her as she explained herself
“It’s just that I’ve worked here for years.  I’ve met
a lot of good friends among my coworkers.  I even met
my husband here.  I never thought that I’d ever be
demolishing this place.  It’s like this is putting
finality on my life as I know it.  Everything has
changed so quickly, and for the worst.”

“I know,” Arthur sympathized.  “I feel the same way.
But we can’t let those bastards take our homes, can
we?  We built this colony into what is today, and we
can’t let them get away with taking it all away.”

He paused the let his words sink in.  As she nodded
silently, Arthur patted her on the shoulder and said,
“Let’s get the show on the road.”

Pulling out a small translucent cube from his pocket,
Arthur tapped the top of it in rapid, regular form.
With each touch of the cube, the device sent out a
pulse of light, and along with it, a coded message.

***

Belowground, the retention pond spanned the entire
perimeter of the regulation complex, and then some.
It was about two hundred meters square in area, and
took the team’s entire supply of nitrate charges to
line the ceiling perimeter.  Each nitrate block was
the size of a sugar cube, soft and adhesive like
putty, and contained the explosive power of ten sticks
of old-fashioned dynamite.  The shadow team placed a
block every meter along where the ceiling met the
wall, using the metal catwalks that paralleled the
perimeter. A pin-sized remote detonator was inserted
in each block, and linked to a single activation
device.

Wey held the device in his hand, programming the
detonation sequence to activate all of the nitrate
blocks simultaneously.  Nearby, Skip was repacking the
supply packs and double-checking their contents.

“That’s the last of them,” he explained.  “Are you
sure about their placement?  It’s not like any of us
are Starfleet special-forces or anything.”

“Skip, I’m a construction worker,” returned Wey, his
voice echoing throughout cavern.  “Remember the
transit overpass demolition two years ago?  That was
me.  I’ve taken enough courses in this stuff to bring
down any high-rise you point me at.”

Before Skip could respond, a vibration in his pocket
stopped him.  Pulling out a small translucent cube, he
watched it as pulsating lights flickered within it.
Skip silently mouthed words under his breath,
deciphering the code of on/off pulses.

“Well?”  Wey asked insistently, wanting to know what
the others were communicating.

“He says they’re ready, and are wondering about us.”

“We’re good to go.”

Tapping the cube in a rhythmic pattern, Skip returned
the message to Arthur and Lins signifying their
preparedness to proceed with the operation.  Moments
later, a hissing sound filled the cavern, and along
the walls, steamy white streams of hot liquid sodium
poured out of hundreds of tubes aligned part way
between the ceiling and the surface of the pond.  As
the molten substance touched the water, explosive
flames erupted, giving the pond the appearance of
being on fire.

Seconds passed as Skip and Wey observed the phenomena
in awe.  Suddenly, the two men winced as the air
turned putrid, burning their eyes and lungs.

“We’re out of here!” shouted Wey, as Skip nodded and
followed him up the stairs and closed the access door
securely behind himself.

***

Across the street from the thermal regulation complex,
Skip and Wey laid in waiting at a pre-arranged hiding
spot.  An aboveground transit stop for the city’s
tubular mass-transit system was an optimal observation
location for the shadow cell to view the spectacle
they had so carefully prepared.  They would need to
watch for the right time to activate the explosives,
ensuring that enough Gorn troops had entered the
demolition zone.  Wey and Skip still manifested a
moderate cough from the hydroxide gas that permeated
the air belowground.  Before long, the two men were
joined by their comrades in arms as Lins and Arthur
crawled up next to them, careful to keep a low
profile.

“Did you activate the transponder?” whispered Skip.

Arthur nodded positively.  “It’s blaring away over
subspace as we speak.  We should see them coming any
second.”

“And then,” Wey smiled, holding the detonator. “It’s
bye-bye baby!”

“Don’t you mean,” interjected Skip.  “Lye-lye baby?”

The two men chuckled as Lins gave a disapproving look.

“Will you two be quiet?” she whispered.  “We’ve got to
be ready to move out any second.”

“Look!” announced Arthur.  “There’s some already!”

Indeed, as the four looked on, multiple signatures of
transporter energy appeared all around the thermal
regulation building.  Like the ones that attacked
Arthur’s home, they were tall, brawny saurians with
black attire and assault harnesses.  They sported
short rifle-like weapons, and moved in clear, distinct
units of two and four towards the stairway to the
control tower.

“Where did you put the transponder, anyway?” Wey
asked.

“Between the two central radiator fins above the
complex,” replied Arthur.  “I found I could access it
via the maintenance catwalk.  The ninety-degree plane
of the metal ribbing should deflect an active sensor
scan.  They’ll be looking up on the roof somewhere,
but they won’t know exactly where.”

“That’ll guarantee they won’t be going downstairs,”
Lins commented.  “I shut down the alarm systems, but
if they go to the lower level, they’ll see the sodium
pouring out of the maintenance valves, so we felt we
should have some extra insurance by putting the
transponder up somewhere high.”

“There’s some more!” announced Skip.

Still more transporter beams flashed below them,
bringing another group of lizard-like troopers.  They
moved with such speed and intensity, and the four
resistance fighters were concerned about their plan
being discovered too soon.  To their relief, all the
soldiers seemed focused upward, and their search
parties were on the upper level and roof of the
complex.  Minutes later, the number of Gorns were
uncountable.  As Arthur had hoped, they were falling
for it again.  Three hover transports brought two more
platoons of warriors to the scene, and each parked
within the perimeter of the demolition zone.

“This is going to be great!” said Wey.  “There’s got
to be at least a hundred down there now!”

“Uh oh,” said Lins ominously.  Everyone’s stomach
tightened as they turned to look at her.

“What?” they all said collectively.

“The vent stack!  Look!”

As all eyes turned away from the conglomerating Gorns
and watched as bright white smoke began pouring out of
a ventilation stack towards the back of the complex.

“It’s the pond’s air circulation system!” Lins
concluded.  “The hydroxide gas level must have
triggered the purging fans!”

The Gorns too saw the rising smoke, and many began
talking into their communicators.

“Damn!” swore Arthur.  “Hit it, Wey!  Do it now!”

Like a colliding freight train, the crackle of the
explosives shook the ground within a ten-block radius.
  Nearby windows shattered, and the entire block
containing the thermal regulation complex fissured
along the edges, and disappeared into a plume of
noxious white smoke.  The collapsing street buckled in
response to the cataclysm, and as promised by Wey,
everything that was above the water retention pond had
disappeared into the highly alkaline mixture below.

“How potent do you think that stuff is?” Arthur asked,
staring in awe at the smoldering crater.

“I’m guessing at least thirty-molar,” Skip commented,
equally entranced by the display of destruction.  “Any
way you slice it, it’ll blow the top off the
Bronsted-Lowry scale.”

Even from their distant position, the echoic
reverberation of the explosion had passed, and all
that was left was the screaming and hissing of Gorn
troops dissolving in the ultra-caustic lake below.
Minutes later, the horror-filled sound of dying aliens
had ceased, and in addition to large chunks of broken
concrete protruding through the surface, the frothy
gray water of the pond was stained pink with blood.
With silence acting as their dirge, the four members
of the South Cornucopia shadow cell walked slowly away
from the scene, following the mass-transit track for
their path.  Each were deeply affected by the gruesome
vision they had just witnessed, but none of them chose
to share their feelings.  Although this day proved to
be a hard-won victory, the bittersweet taste of their
enemy’s death came unexpectedly, and gave them no
cause to revel in their triumph.

<tag: open>

Arthur Cromwell, Jr.
Colonist turned resistance fighter
Cornucopia settlement, Cestus III



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OOC:  *ahem* -- Now let’s see . . . Where were we?
Ah, yes . . .


OP:

The chief ducked back out of sight and gathered the
field packs he'd taken from Davis and Bitterstaff and
shouldered them. They each weighed around twenty kilos
and contained food rations, phaser recharge packs,
portable shelters and survival gear. In his agitated
state the weight was nothing. He quickly jogged along
the outcropping and used the terrain to cover his
movement. He'd be able to reach a point that would
intersect the lone guerrilla's path about twenty
minutes before he'd get there.

When A'nathon reached the location he placed the three
packs on the ground and disguised their sensor
signature as best he could. There was no way the packs
could be missed if anyone walked within thirty meters
of them. He was due back at Operations in five hours.
Plenty of time at a quick jog, he just prayed no one
gave him any funny looks or even made a noise, until
he cooled down.

Ensign Kulth'n A'nathon
Chief of Security Cestus Alpha Station
Cestus III


NP:

In the fog of war, mysteries abound.  With his escape
plan in progress, Arthur took no time to navigate the
streets of the Cornucopia suburbs.  He knew them well,
and at the edge of the blast radius, radiation levels
were low enough to risk removal of his silvery
protective suit.  After a short burst from his phasor
carbine, he vaporized the discarded garment and
offered a moment of silence where he stole one last
glimpse from the field of ash where a beautiful
housing block once stood.  Without so much as a tear
for his destroyed home, the gruff old man turned away
and continued his trek.

Most Federation colonies utilized localized
matter/energy converter systems to breakdown organic
wastes into basic deuterium, but 150 years ago, the
original Cestus III colony was built without such
technology due to lack of equipment availability for
the first earth-colony ships.  Although it was
conceived that the colony would eventually gain the
benefit of converter systems, a network of waste
tunnels was first laid down to divert organic waste to
a single municipal facility that recycled the
compounds into a beneficial growth medium for the
initial agricultural fields.  Unfortunately, the Gorns
destroyed the original colony before converter systems
were ever acquired.  When the new colony was built,
the waste tunnels were abandoned as converter systems
were incorporated into the second colonial expedition.


Built from hollowed-out bedrock deep below the colony,
Arthur had long considered the tunnels to be more than
just a haven for the planet’s large population of
Sandwings--the Cestus III version of bats.  Although
the main inputs and outputs of the waste network had
caved-in long ago, the torrential downpours of the
monsoon season caused the tunnels to accumulate
rainwater through percolation from the surface.  This
not only carved out fissures and crevasses from the
walls and ceilings, but sedimentation had laid down a
substrate of silt where entire cave-dwelling
ecosystems had grown over the decades.  As a
long-forgotten relic from the colony’s past, the
network of subterranean channels were a perfect place
for people seeking seclusion--if they could get to
them.

Fortunately for Arthur, the years of top-down erosion
had opened up a fracture in the ground that led to a
branch of the abandoned tunnel system.  Located among
an abstruse rock outcropping, the crevice was situated
within the semi-wild parkland at the edge of town
where a mix of both native and exotic vegetation was
cultivated for a natural windbreak against the dry
desert winds.  Although it was irrigated to maintain a
constant moisture gradient, the thick grove of trees
and brush were allowed to grow uncultured, offering a
quiet country stroll for the residents of Cornucopia
during better times.  However, on this war-torn
evening, it served as further concealment for Arthur
during his journey to the underground.

The edge of the wood was marked by a lonely street
which paralleled the tree boundary.  As Arthur
cautiously approached it from a perpendicular road, he
scanned the night air for any signs of watchers or
pursuers.  The evening was quiet, and filled only with
the sound of chirping insects and the distant roar of
aerial craft as he pulled out his aged tridcorder.
Unlike the current Starfleet clamshell version, his
device was the older, bulky model the size of a
hardcover book.  It’s sensor head had a limited range,
and it took longer to scan, but it was still quite
accurate at deciphering the surrounding area for
lifesigns or other anomalous readings.  Confident that
there were no pursuers, Arthur closed his scanner,
adjusted his backpack, and continued on a direct
course to the woodline.  Just short of the boundary,
three objects in the center of the road brought the
older man to a standstill.  Covered with a custom-cut
sheet sensor-scattering camouflage netting were three
parcels the size of backpacks.

Paranoid suspicion gripped Arthur.  With wide-eyed
wariness, he looked around the immediate area in hopes
to identify the owner of the packages, putting aside
his confidence in the recent tricorder survey.  The
items appeared to have been intentionally placed so a
passerby would see them, but would also be shrouded
from sensory equipment by the netting.  But who were
they for?  To Arthur’s knowledge, there were only a
select few who knew of this particular entrance to the
nearly-forgotten waste tunnel network.  Even still,
how would they have known anyone would be approaching
from this direction?  Was it a trap?  Did someone see
him coming?

Against his better judgment, Arthur quickly pulled off
the sensor netting and again produced his tricorder.
A quick scan revealed the parcels were loaded with
survival equipment, energy packs, and food rations,
thus deepening the mystery.  Although he first
suspected that it was a trick to place a tracking
mechanism in the midst of a resistance operative, his
fear subsided after the scanner revealed that no
communication frequencies were emanating from the
packs, and stable isotope ratios indicated the origin
of the provisions were from Earth-based replicator
systems.  The only mystery to be solved now was who
left the backpacks for Arthur to find.  Unfortunately,
he needed time to figure that out, and it was in short
supply.  If he did not vacate the area soon, Gorn
starship sensors would pick him up as a straggling
human colonist.  Collecting the mysterious gifts,
Arthur grunted over their weight, but resolved to
trudge on with the hopes to bring needed supplies to
the rest of his comrades waiting somewhere below the
surface.

<to be continued . . .>

Arthur Cromwell, Jr.
Colonist turned resistance fighter
Cornucopia settlement, Cestus III


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