Introduction

There is no Kirk and crew, no Picard, nor even an Enterprise.  There is, at first, no link to the past, or anything familiar.  All things are unfamiliar, which is the entire point of this story.
The story begins with a young man who goes to sleep; a long sleep.  This is the story of a future that does not look hopeful.  This is the story of comfortable things, like an old boot, that suddenly become uncomfortable, like finding a scorpion in that old boot.
This story is another beginning; the calm before the storm.  The clouds are not yet seen, yet they will appear, all too soon.  When the clouds appear it will mark the darkest hour, and not just for the Federation.  Forgotten elements come into play.  And, the final frontier, at long last, shall be explored.
He was born in the Earth year 2287.
From lifelessness comes life.
He is the most dangerous man alive.
From darkness comes light.
His name…, Marek.
It is time to journey beyond the next generation.

Chapter 4
Executive Decisions

Dan Soobzokov (Zoe’ob-zoe-kov) walked onto the small bridge.  Ricardo Gamez was sitting in the captain’s chair.
“What’s new, Rick?”
“Hiya, Dan.  A whole lot of nothing.  And, by that, I mean nothing works.  All I can tell is that nothing is wrong.”
Dan sat in the counselor chair.  “Come again?”
“Well, I showed up this morning and no one’s here.  So I start going through the checklist.  Everything looks fine, but then I tried to access a few systems.  Communications are out.  Sensors work, but can’t be accessed.  I can get exterior views on the main screen, but not inside.  Because the sensors are out I have no idea where we are, or what the course is.  The, ugh, biosensors are out; I have no idea who is on board, or if anyone is alive or dead.  But, and this is weird, all diagnostics work.  I’ve been doing that for almost twenty minutes.”
Dan scratched the back of his neck.  “You mean, everything works, but … nothing works?”
Ricardo thought for a second.  “Yeah.  Yeah, that sounds right.”
*
Jack Windsor stooped down, inspecting the area Ann had been working in when Marek found her.  He could tell something unusual had happened, but was not sure what.  He dabbed his fingers in one of the several tiny pools of blood.  Sniffing it, thinking he might be able to tell what it was, he tried in vain to determine what it was.  Rolling it with his thumb, he became more certain it was blood.
He wiped the blood on the leg of his jumpsuit.
He walked to the room designated a medical center in his usual stoic manner.  Majil was there, in one of the two beds.  The first shirt had a sleep inducer on his forehead, but did not look injured.  Obvioiusly not the source of the blood in engineering.
“May I help you, Chief?” Temmit asked.
Jack turned.  He looked at Temmit, then looked him over.  Without saying a word he started looking around the room.  Not looking back, he said, “I found some blood in engineering.  I was wondering if you might know why.”  He looked directly into Temmit’s eyes only after he had finished talking.  He did not move the slightest bit.
The short Vulcan maintained his composure.  “I was not aware there was any blood in engineering.  No do I know whose it might be.  I suspect the cause was the intruder we received during third shift.  He appears to be very dangerous.”
Jack was silent for a moment.  “Communications to the captain.  Skipper?”  Nothing.
Temmit sighed.  “Our intruder has somehow disabled our internal functions.  Communications are not functioning.”
“What about weapons?”  His stare had begun to wander, again.
“All weapons are useless.  The intruder has disabled them as well.”
Jack wandered out the door, without saying a word.
*
Ann was pacing while Marek sat on her bunk, looking at the book titles closest to him.  “I think you should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.  You went into shock.”
“I d—on’t think so.”
“Really?  Why do you think I shaved for you, then?”
“What!?”  She stopped pacing, faced him, and planted fists on her hips.
Marek went to the next shelf of books.  “Oh, yeah.  I was holding your hand and you touched my check and said, his went higher, “’you shaved for me!,’” he waved a hand in the air, “or somethin’ like that.”
“You’re crazy.”  Ann went back to pacing.
“Actually, I thinik you are.  Do you wonder if you’re crazy?  Ever?”
Ann nervously laughed.  “Ha!  My sanity is beyond question.”
“Oh, I heard if you question your own sanity it indicates some sort of higher understanding, and crazy people can’t do that.  Or won’t.”  He looked up at Ann, “I think about that all the time.”  He smiled and went back to the books.
Ann was quiet.  Marek felt very self-satisfied, knowing the silence was her admission of shame.  He thought it was odd he would think such a thing, but still smiled inside.
He turned from the book he was holding, wanting to see the expression on Ann’s face.  Things were moving very slowly.  (It must have been the surprise of him being proven right.)  He knew Ann was crestfallen, yet he had the sensation she was happy.  He also knew she was standing just a few feet from him.
He must have been daydreaming, because he imagined Ann raising a stick of some kind.  That was silly, though, since she was so happy.  He could even see her smiling.
‘She is smiling, isn’t she?’ he wondered.
The reality was that they were both in a good mood, with no care in the universe.  But Marek could not understand why he was imagining Ann swinging a stick at him.
He raised his right arm in his daydream, just to be safe.
Pain shattered the illusion.  Ann had broken Marek’s arm; the (field hockey) stick had been stopped less than a hand span from cracking Marek’s skull.  Instinctively, Marek followed the block with a counter attack.  Before he could pull back, he felt his left palm loosen the teeth in Ann’s mouth.  Nothing broke, except flesh.  Blood began pouring out of her mouth when she tried to say something.
Marek stood up, to yell at her.  “Y– …, oh, this hurts.”  Ann watched him begin to lose balance, but she was beginning to lose her own.  “You,” he paused to blink, to regain composure, “are going to take me to sickbay, or whatever you have, and I don’t want any more nonsense.  Do you understand?”
Ann was holding her mouth with both hands, blood dripping through her fingers.  “Dyew may me buy my tmm.”
Marek figured out what she said, then said, “I’ll make you buy more than your tum, if you ever try that again, young lady.  Now, turn around and lead the way.”
*
The Skipper had awakened a little before.  She had cleaned up, dressed, and was on her way to the bridge.  The door opened.  She stepped into the hall.  Ann and Marek were doing the same, at the far end of the hall.
She was going to say something, but didn’t.  Instead she calmly walked down, took each by an arm, and escorted them to the medical center.
En route, Marek said, “I’m a very dangerous person, you know?  You should remember that.”
She rolled her eyes.  “You can be dangerous after we take care of that arm.”
Ann was silent, but Marek swore he could hear her think, ‘bun of a sitchen, blimey sastered.’
*
The medical center was on deck four, the bridge was on deck two, and the quarters were on deck three.  But there were more than one way to get to them, even on this small a vessel.  While the Skipper was taking Ann and Marek down, Temmit was following Jack “Windy” up to the bridge.
The doors to the bridge opened.  Dan and Rick were too busy in a conversation to notice.
“ … through the door, then back again.  And I ask her where she’s going.  She says she thinks she may have left her clothes in her own room, so she wants to go get them.”
“Excuse me,” Temmit interrupted.
Dan turned to see them.  “Oh, look, it’s the brain surgeon and the brain donor.”
“And it’s up to you to figure out who we mean.”  Rick added.  “Could you two hold it down, please?  I want to finish this, so my partner can change the names, and use it to further his own ego.”
Dan turned his attention back to the story.  “Was she still holding the towel, or had she dropped it yet?”
“Gentlemen?” Windy asked, politely.
“I thought I changed that to a doily.”
“Gentlemen?”
“No, it was a towel.”
“Gentlemen, please.”
“I think the doily would add something, don’t you?”
“Gentlemen!”
Dan stood up.  “Windy, go blow away!  I am trying to learn something useful.”
Temmit stepped forward.  “Have the two of you noticed anything unusual?”
Rick turned his head.  “For this tub of rust?  No.”  He looked up at Dan.  “I think I like you in pumps.  I get neck strain when you wear heels.”
“Oh, if only you meant that.”  Dan sat back down, ignoring Windy and Temmit.
Windy looked at the floor.  “I saw Mr. Majil in the medical center.  He had four broken vertebrae in his mid back.  One was shattered, so he has to wait for a surgeon to help him.  He may not be able to walk for six months, if we cannot help him in time.”
“Hmm,” Rick mused, “this bucket has no turbolift.  If poor, widdle first shirt can’t walk, then …,”
Dan interrupted, “he can’t get to the bridge.”
Rick grinned, “And?”
“And?  And …,”  Dan grinned, “he won’t be able to give us any orders for at least six months.”
Rick took a deadpan take at Temmit.  “If this guy is trying to get us to mutiny, I think you just talked us into it.”
Dan eagerly asked, bouncing in the counselor’s chair, “Do you know where we can sign up?”
*
Ann was laid out on the other table, a sleep inducer on her head.  A face mask covered her mouth and nose, without straps, with a few colorful lights blinking meaninglessly, and it was not connected to anything.  All new to Marek.
Marek was sitting on a stool, holding his arm next to his chest.  The black uniform blouse was draped over Majil’s legs (against amused protest from the Skipper).  He had a snug fitting short sleeved turtleneck undershirt.  He did not have much muscle mass, yet the mass he had was very well toned.  Unexpectedly, and deceptively hidden by the uniform, was a solid chest.  More than a hundred centimeters of prime rib.  The Skipper knew the chest was more important to overall strength than the size of one’s arms.
“That should stabilize her.”  The Skipper turned her attention to Marek.  His right forearm was bent, with a point toward his chest that was painful to look at.  “I don’t know what I can do for you.  Our holodoc has something wrong we can’t pinpoint, and I never set a bone before, not that I would ever want to.”
“I don’t want my arm to heal like this.” Marek said, raising it up a fraction.  The pain in his bulging eyes told the Skipper how much it hurt.  “What’s a holodoc?”
“It’s a holographic medical doctor.  They’re meant to allow starships to continue fixing people up, in case the doctor dies.  Or gets blown to bite-sized chunks.  You know?” she bent one knee slightly, put one hand on her chin, with the other arm supporting it, “the ship’s doctor is most likely going to be in sickbay.  So, if they die, that probably means sickbay got blown into the next world, along with the doctor.  So, ugh, what is the point, you know?”
“April, please,” Marek pleaded, “let’s see this holodoc of yours.  Maybe it can help me set this thing myself.  Who knows?”
She took a breath.  “Okay, I warned you.  Computer, engage emergency holographic doctor program.”
A balding man appeared in the middle of the room, wearing a black and greenish jumpsuit, the likes Marek had never seen.  It intermittently said, “Plea– … ee nature o—the– … gency.”  The image flickered with the gaps in the speech.
“I warned you.  The last time we used this, it kept going back to the beginning of the message.  We fixed that.  But it still has no memory.”  She waved her hands at the flickering image, like a game show girl showing a prize.  “A doctor just like in the good old days; he suffers from Alzheimer’s!”
“Perfect!” Marek blurted out, “He should fit right into this nightmare!”
The Skipper looked hurt.  “Hey …”
“Doctor!  I have a broken arm.  What should I do about it?”  The doctor, between flickers, looked thoughtful.  “I need it set as soon as possible.  It hurts, so I don’t see what waiting will gain me.”
The doctor approached Marek.  The Skipper began stammering.  “Wha–, but–, you, n–, bu–, …”
Marek, holding back the pain, held up his arm for the holograph.  “Ah, what are you worried about?  It’s a hologram.  All it can do is …,”  The holodoc had Marek’s arm in both hands; Marek felt fingers on his arm …, too late. “AAAAaahhhh, that hurts!”
Snap.
Marek stood up, pulling back his, now straight, right forearm.  “Oh, GOD!  That was … NOT visual; that was …!”
April softly said, “Tried to warn you.”
The holodoctor was busily trying to grab for Marek’s arm, so as not to reinjure it.  Marek was pushing it back, or at least, when it was solid.
“Please state the n– …,”
The Skipper held up a hypospray.  “I tried to warn you.”
Marek was watching the doctor, thinking it might try again.  “Stay away from me!”
Phtshhh.  “See you in twenty minutes.”  The Skipper turned to the holodoc.  “This man just broke his arm.  It was recently set.  See that it will heal correctly, while I get an arm brace.”
*
Windy was arguing, in his half-hearted, mousey way, with Rick and Dan (who were compelled to interject jokes and insults).  Temmit was watching the main viewer.  The old Vulcan was intrigued.  The stars he saw were the stars that should be there, but it took him a while to figure out why he had taken notice of them now.
“Quiet!” he shouted.  The three humans went quiet, caused by Temmit’s uncharacteristic volume.  “Excuse me, Mr. Soobosokov, but, do you recognize where we are?  In relation to where we should be?”
Dan studied the screen.  Then, after realization took hold, he answered, “We’re going in the wrong direction!”
Rick jumped up, moving to the helm.  “We are?”  He looked over the instruments.  “We are two light years off course, heading back the way we came.  If we continue on this course, we’re gonna cross into the Klingon Empire in fifteen hours.”
Dan moved to the navigation station, next to Rick.  He touched a few seconds.  Astonished, he leaned very close to Rick’s ear.  He whispered, quietly so the old vulcan could not overhear.  “I have control.  What should we do?”
Rick pushed a few of his own controls; they worked as well, which Dan could easily see.  Louder than he needed to do so, he said, “Nothing is working here, either.”  The two cautiously shared a sideways glance.
Very seriously, Dan said (overly loud), “Yeah.  So, what do we do now?”
Rick turned around.  “Would …. You two … go find the Skipper?”  I don’t know what we can do, but maybe we can do something.  While you go find the Skipper, I mean.”
Dan was a little befuddled by what Rick had said, but tried to follow it up.  Nodding, he said, “Yeah, it looks pretty hopeless.  Maybe she has an override, or something.”
Temmit, if he was suspicious, did not show it.  “You have made a very good point.  This must have been one of your … shared, lucid moments.”  He touched Windy on the arm, escorting him off the bridge.
When the bridge doors had closed, Rick asked, “What do we do?  All I know is the controls were frozen, and now they work.  The freak brothers say there’s a mutiny going on, but I don’t know what to think.  Do you?”
“Well, we are off course,” Dan offered, and “and,”
“And, you as well as I do, the Skipper makes these bizzaroid changes, all the time.  How do we know this isn’t one of her ‘keep the edge’ tests?”
“I don’t!” Dan protested. “That’s why I didn’t give anything away.  So, what do we do?”
“Oh, no.  I asked you first.  No fair changing things on me.”
“Um,” Dan thought, “we have fifteen hours before we cross into Klingon space.  I think we can figure out what to do in half a day, don’t you?”
“You know,” Rick said, changing his somber expression, “that’s why I like you so much.  I don’t have to make the decisions that could get me into trouble.”
“I think you’re coming around.” Dan added playfully.
“Down, tiger.  Now, let me finish my story about the gal in the towel.”
“I thought it was a doily,” Dan offered.
“Thank you very little.  I DO like the doily more …”
*
Temmit was listeninig outside the bridge door.
“What did they say?” Windy asked, quietly.
“It would seem we must convince the Captain to act a bit more sensibly.”
*
The Skipper was waving a whirring hand scanner over Marek’s arm, now in a clear, solid cast, when he regained consciousness.  She glanced up at the scanner dedicated to him.  The arrow began rising to normal range.  He raised himself from the floor, where he had to be treated, for lack of a bed.
“Wow,” she said, “You should still be out for another fifteen minutes.  How do you feel?”
Marek tried to orient himself.  “I, I still …, ugh, feel … woozy.  The, no!” He closed his eyes.  Rick and Dan, unknown to Marek, suddenly lost the control they had reestablished a moment ago.  “Oh, please, let me concentrate.”
“What’s wrong?” the Skipper asked.
“I, I …, I … am having problems concen– … trate– … ing.  I …, I just need … time.”
“Marek?” the Skipper asked, in a motherly way, “What can I do to help you?”
Marek gained a little composure.  Still a little hazy, he said, “Take me to the bridge.”  He mindlessly walked over to his blouse, draped across Majil’s legs.  He turned to the Skipper.  “Please, April.”
She looked at him, understandingly.  “Sure.  Just, this time, take it easy, okay?”
Taking him by the hand, the Skipper led Marek to the bridge.  She took him the short way.
Temmit and Windy had taken the long way down, searching each room for the Skipper.  They went back into the medical center.  When they found Ann unconscious, they took the medical apparatuses off her.  With only a small bruise on her upper lip, she looked fine.
Temmit turned to Windy, who seemed lost.  “Perhaps now we can take control of this vessel again.”
*
“Skipper!”  Rick exclaimed.  “Am I glad to see you.”
Marek walked on the bridge.  Dan, just turning, sat up erectly.  “And, might I add, I am glad to see you, too, mister.”
“Stow it, boys.”  The Skipper led Marek down the (oh, so short, so Marek thought) walk to the command chairs.  The space was barely big enough for two chairs, not three.
“This is it?” Marek asked, as the Skipper took her seat.  “You barely have room for six people up here.  How do you run this thing?”
“We don’t have more than five people up here at any one time, doy.” Rick offered, sarcastically.
“We let more up here, as long as they’re willing to sit on laps.” Dan followed.
“Quiet, all of you.” The Skipper interrupted.  She filled the command chair much … better than Ricardo.  “If I am correct, and I usually am, we are going to have three more joining us on the bridge, any moment.”
Dan leaned over to Rick, then whispered, “I know where the new boy can sit.”
Marek, who had vulcanoid hearing, caught the comment.
Dan felt Marek burning a hole in his neck.  A quick glance verified his … feeling of doom.  “I think he could fill that chair nicely.”
Rick, who felt no such discomfort, grinned.  “I …, you know, I think the reality is funnier than anything I could come up with.”
Ann was walking up the staircase, followed by Temmit and Windy, one on each arm.  She was still groggy from her recent experiences.
“Excuse me, Capta–,” Marek stood up, bowed, and pulled out his commandeered phaser, “Skipper.”  He aimed it at the door of the bridge.
When it opened, he had the weapon trained on Ann, while Temmit and Windy were to her sides.
“Enter.”  Marek had said it so clearly, it had to be heard as an order.  None of the three moved.  “I have this on wide spread.  I can fire faster than that door can close, or faster than either of you could move.”
Temmit looked to the side, while Windy’s eyes began to wander.
Temmit moved forward, and Windy followed.  The door swooshed closed.
Without turning around, the Skipper said, “That would be seven people.”
Windy, with his gaze darting, said, “Skipper, that man is an intruder.  He has injured your first officer, and most likely my assistant.  Now, he has a phaser, and he’s pointing it at us.”
“Actually,” she corrected, “he has it trained on you.”
Temmit noticed she was watching the view screen.  “If I may be so bold, he has taken us off course, and headed us toward certain danger.  He has violated several no less than four interstellar regulations.  Possibly as many as eleven.”
“But, only,” the Skipper corrected, “if the commanding officer deems it to be so.  And, since you have no idea what I said to Mister Marek in private, you have no idea what I have permitted him to do.  Do you?”
Temmit could only see the Skipper watching the view screen.  “No, I do not.”
Marek saw her pupils straining to catch his attention, while her head was facing forward.  He still had the phaser trained on them.  “What do you think I did?”
Temmit waited for the Skipper to say something.  She did not.  “I declare you have gained unlawful entrance aboard this vessel, in the performance of official duty.”
The Skipper spoke up.  “Political asylum is a legal right, and we were not on assignment at the time.”

The Vulcan considered this.  “He then attempted to commandeer this vessel.”
Marek was faster this time.  “That is a question that only the … Skipper can answer.  And,” he took a breath, “she has not made a definitive declaration, either way.”
Temmit spoke faster.  “You have an unauthorized weapon aboard a United Federation vessel, and a mission does not indicate validation; you are guilty.”
The Skipper shrugged her shoulders.  Marek kept his eyes on Temmit, since Windy was preoccupied with the far wall.  “As I recall,” he started cautiously, “Ann tried to fire this same weapon.  It … never fired.  So far as you know, I’m holding a toy.”
The Skipper chuckled, as softly as she could.
Marek continued, “Do you want to test me?  I am very dangerous, by all indications.”
Temmit straightened himself to his full, complete, short stature.  “You assaulted an officer.  There is no possibility of you hiding the damage to his back.  Even if you erased the computer records, the vertebrae are still damaged.”
“And if he disappeared?” Marek asked.
“I believe,” April butted in, “even if we can’t see them now, that the onboard security will show that it was self-defense.  Could you explain to me the case where self-defense was prosecuted, Mister Temmit?  Even in a fatality case?”
Temmit was silent.
“Let me see if I got this,” Rick pondered aloud, “this guy, escaping political persecution, who has not high jacked us, who has not attacked us, …”
“Except in self-defense,” Dan added.
“And, who hasn’t done, really, anything else, is some kind of bad guy, who we need to stop?”
Marek kept the phaser aimed at Temmit, not knowing what the setting was, much less the spread.  It dawned on him, just at that moment.  If he can talk to a large computer why not a small one?  A half microsecond later, and Marek knew he had a low stun, narrow beam on the aged Vulcan.  As shot might have stung him, even at his age, but not much more.
“I say we take a vote.”  All eyes fell on the Skipper, even Marek’s.  “I’m an easygoing person,” she said defensively.  “We head the reasons against him.  Now, I think we need to hear what we have in favor of him.”
Marek, who had resumed glaring at Temmit (Windy had begun a mental conversation with the wall directly behind him), incredulously gawked at the Skipper.
“Dan?”
“Yes, Skipper?” he responded crisply.
“Why is this boat named the Dahlquist?”
“Because once we finish one dull quest, we begin the next dull quest.”
“Mister Gamez,” she asked, “what happens to a crew when they have been abducted by a terrorist, or group of terrorists?”
He began laughing.  “They get at least a month of shore leave, plus extras, if it’s a civilian vessel involved in a government something-or-other.”
Marek, finally seeing what the Skipper was getting at, said, “And this is a civilian ship, even if it is on military duty.”
“Bango!” she called.
Marek had a feeling ‘bango’ was wrong, somehow.
“So,” she continued, not noticing Marek had reached a hand toward Ann.  Temmit was terrified, for a Vulcan, or Marek, so he stepped away from Ann.  Marek touched the bruised spot on her mouth.  The Skipper asked, “who is in favor of adding Marek as a …,”she made quotation marks with her fingers in the air, “temporary crew member?”
Rick waved his hand.  “I need to know something, first, before I vote.  Did he actually do anything, in your opinion, I mean, oh, most skilled of Skippers?”
She turned, seeing Marek pulling back from Ann.  “No, not that I would testify to.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Temmit interrupted,  “the executive officer has sustained real injuries.  Our captor, who is the only one holding a weapon, is the only suspect.  Since it was he who informed me where to find his victim, and no one else can utilize communications, internal or external, I submit he is very powerful, dangerous, and, therefore, untrustworthy.  To give him a vote of confidence is tantamount to suicide.”

Chapter 3
Visitation Rights

Marek had been in the fetal position for almost half an hour.  He heard someone come in twice, presumably to check the problem he had created with the monitor.  He did not want to risk the chance security would bring in a secondary monitoring system, so he opted to stop affecting the primary system.  At least until a few seconds before his transport out.
Most of that half hour was spent reading recent history.  His situation was not promising.  He had been in cryogenic sleep for one hundred forty-four years, eighty-two days.  All the advanced, experimental, and theoretical technology he had learned about was useless.  Most became commonplace seventy years or so after he disappeared.
The common earth year was 2450.  ‘Buck naked, in the twenty-fifth century.’
Optimum transporter range was fast approaching.  In the world of the ship’s computers that meant he had an hour.  But not wanting anyone to sneak up on him, he had to give part of his concentration to the real world, which meant he had about two minutes.
He thought up a few more ways he might be detected escaping, carefully, as he could, checking how to hide such evidence.  The ship’s deflectors were down, a common practice.  The computer would fail to log the beam out, as well as send an overload surge throughout the ship.  The overload would block internal sensors for 1.3 seconds, without damaging anything.
He felt the Dahlquist approaching.  He saw the transporter controls.  The coordinates would match.  Beam into space from Morass, then the Dahlquist would beam him onboard.  The chance of failure was 13.98%; Marek’s lucky number was fourteen.
Acceptable odds, considering he truly believed he would die if he went back to Earth as a prisoner.  And, if not die, then something worse.  He would be a lab rat.
Brig interference.  Power surge.  Energize.
*
“Skipper, the transporter just came on.”
A rather heavy, medium-light hued African woman turned to her right.  “Is there anyone on the transported deck?”
The very serious, balding, thirty-something Asian man answered, “No one is scheduled to be on that desk.  I am checking internal scan–,” he paused, “scanners are now offline.”  He began tapping functions out, as the Skipper watched, more curious than concerned.  “It would seem the internal systems have crashed.  I can’t remember ever experiencing this before.”
The Skipper rolled her eyes.  “You spent the last ten years with the Starfleet, that’s why. When you have an endless supply of everything, the most down time you have is when you do it on purpose.  The real world is a little different.”  She got up from her command chair, which seemed to tilt to the left slightly.  “Welcome to the world of no priority.  Find the problem, if you can, and fix it.  Then come and wake me up, if it’s important.”
With an audible yawn, she walked off the tiny bridge.
*
Marek had just checked the whereabouts of the crew, then disabled the internal communications.  He tried to think of what else to do, but really had no idea.  He hand never escaped anything before, and his training never included this scenario.
He had succeeded in escaping an outdated starship, getting inside a rusting, defenseless boat, shutting down a computer destined to crash anyway, and not much more.  He still had no idea what he was going to do in the long run.
‘Well, I take over the shi–, boat, and that’ll be easy enough.  But, then what?  Go see Mom, and see if she still has any pull?  If she’s alive that is.  I know no one, have no allies, and no way of knowing what is going on.’
He looked around, for weapons.  Nothing.  So, all he had to take over the boat with was the threat of death through suffocation, since he controlled the life support systems.  And what was to stop the crew from killing him, thinking it was just a bluff from a lunatic?
‘I have to get their attention, without spooking them too badly.’
An idea.  “Computer, engage self-destruct, ten minute countdown, audible.”
The computer responded in the transport chamber.  “The self-destruct systems are non-operational.”
‘Just perfect.’  “Computer, lockout command codes, on my order.  Then make a ship-wide announcement, as follows:  All functions have been shut down; the commanding officer is ordered to meet in the main transporter room, for terms of surrender.”
Marek wondered what he was going to do next.  Being a trained killer was easy.  Being a fugitive was not.  He would not allow mistakes as a Marine.  However, his choices for his own life were another story.  This was definitely in the latter category.
He thought, ‘Maybe I should have waited,’ as the computer made its announcement.
*
A plain-looking woman in a filthy, baggy jumpsuit was waiting outside the transporter room when the Skipper showed up.  The Skipper sighed when she saw the phaser in the grubby woman’s left hand.
“What setting is that …,” yawn, “weapon on, Ann?”
“Kill, Skipper.”  She said it very casually, almost upbeat.
“Why?” the Skipper asked flatly.
Ann’s forehead wrinkled, and she took on an angry air, sounding much like an angry mother.  “Because I don’t intend to lose my engines to a nutcase!”
The Skipper looked at the floor, then back up at the transporter room door.  “Ann,” she began sympathetically, “we don’t even know if there is anyone in there.”
“There is,” Ann interjected.
“it could just be another computer glitch.”
“It’s not.” Ann’s voice rose, slightly.
“Who knows.”
“I do.”
“Windy might have forgotten his medications again.”
“He didn’t.” Ann was speaking quite loud, now.
“Remember before the implant?  He thought you were a Dominion spy.”
“You – are – not – listen – ing!”  Ann shouted.
“You!,” the Skipper yelled back, “are out of line, Mister!”
“Captain Roberts!”  Ann protested.
The Skipper raised a finger to Ann’s face.  “Not another word.  YOU are not even in charge of those engines; Windy is.  And, while I’m reminding you of what you are not in charge of, that’s my weapon, or have you forgotten my short list.  I let you people get away with a lot of things, but not murder.  Not while I’m in command.  And if you ever want that promotion, you will do exactly as I say.”
Ann pursed her lips.  Her eyes went left while her lips (followed by her nose, sort of) went right; then she switched sides.  Her head tilted down slightly as she looked back at the Skipper.  With her lips still tightly packed, she said, “O-”, then smiled, “kay.”  Ann held the smile, waited, and cocked her head, raising her eyebrows.  She look exceedingly goofy.
‘I hate when she does that.’ the Skipper thought.  With a second sigh, she asked, “So, what do you know that I don’t”
Conversationally, she answered, as if they had not just had a spat, “There is someone inside.  He is very serious about taking over Dahlquist.  I don’t know who he is.  And, because he is highly agitated, I can’t tell why.  But, I do know, he is very dangerous.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, every now and then, he acts exactly like a trapped animal.  He’s ready to kill, in order to escape.
The Skipper thought quietly, staring at the door.  “If that’s the case, set your gun on heavy stun.  Just in case, you know.  Oh,” the Skipper’s voice lifted, “those are my engines, not yours; I just let you work on them.  Open the doors.”
Marek was standing on the far side of the control console, his arms in front, hands hidden from view.  The Skipper walked calmly through the doors, followed by Ann, who pointed the phaser at Marek.  “Captain Roberts and Petty Officer Phillips, I presume?”
“I prefer to go by Skipper, if you don’t mind.  And you are …?”
“Marek, formerly of the Federation Marine Corps.”
“Marine?”
“I told you he was dangerous.”  Ann input.
The Skipper glanced back at Ann, diligently aiming the phaser at their captor/prisoner.  “Mr. Marek, there is no Marine Corps.”
“I suppose, how do I put this,” he said, sarcastically, “that cryogenics stopped working before you were born?  And, by the way, Miss Phillips is correct.  I am very dangerous.”
“Um,” the Skipper paused for dramatic effect (or, perhaps outsarcast Marek), “if you are a throwback to barbarism.”
“Skipper!” Ann burst in, warningly.
The Skipper waved her off.  “If you are fresh from the freezer, then how would you be able to, poof!, show up here, without being detected?  You would have to be a hundred years old, making you a technical moron.  And, in that case, there would be no way for you to take over my boat.”  She let her words sink in.  ‘Am I wrong?”
“Only partially.”  Marek smiled sideways.  “I was the victim of a … special training program.  Basically, I was in an experiment gone wrong.”
“Which means what to me?” the Skipper asked.
“Which means that I can talk to computers,” Marek began.
“Everybody can talk to computers,” Ann interrupted.
“Really?”  He was very smug.  “Go ahead, then.  Talk to the computer.”
Ann looked at the Skipper, who shrugged her shoulders.
“Computer,” Ann said, waiting for a response.  She cleared her throat.  “Computer, respond.”  But, nothing happened.
“Would you like to try, Skipper?” Marek asked.
She smiled.  “Communications, general announcement, all crew members are to arm themselves …” Something was wrong.  The announcement should have been made over the communications system, but all was quiet.  “Ann, shoot him.”
There was a soft clicking sound.  “Uh-oh.” Ann adjusted the weapon.  A second click, and that was all.
Marek took a deep breath.  “Computer, are all energy weapons, replacement components, and replicators offline?”
“Affirmative.”  Said the computer.
Marek smiled.  “I seem to be the smartest moron aboard, Skipper.”
“If I might be so bold,” a new voice said, “the term ‘moron’ is quite inappropriate.”  A rather small, and age weary Vulcan walked next to Ann.  She still had the useless phaser trained on Marek.  “I do not believe you will be needing this.”  he said, as he gently, yet resolutely took the weapon from her.
Marek seemed transfixed on the small Vulcan, who found him as intriguing.  “You don’t look right, Mister.  Do you have … ah,” he tried to recall the name, “zing’call?  No, ka—zhing’call, right?”
The old Vulcan slipped the phaser into the folds of his dark robe.  “K’tsung’cah.  I am allergic to certain types of radiation.  My skin should be much darker.  But your skin problem is much more difficult than mine.”
Marek was put on guarded.  “What skin problem are your referring to?”
“You are obviously human.  However, your eyebrows are very much vulcanoid, indicating a parent with vulcanoid blood.  However, your jaw, cheek, and brow are not necessarily human or Vulcan.  Which leaves me with only one option: you are part romulan.”
“This just got really weird.”  The Skipper put her hands in the air, stepping into the middle of the room.  ‘I have a tomboy engineer with psychic powers warning me about an intruder.  The intruder is running away from something, can talk to computers, and wants to kill everybody.  Then, if that isn’t enough, Temmit, Mister spooky Vulcan comes out from his hole, to let me know my homicidal intruder is part romulan.  Now, that explains the wanting to kill everyone, and running from whoever bit, since nobody in their right mind likes the Romulan Empire.  But, and help me figure this one out, okay?, … I, … I, … me, I, I am captain of this boat.  What is going on?  And, since he was kind enough to be the cause of all this, I think Mr. Marek should be the one to begin.”   She put her hands to her hips, leaned her head to one side, and waited for Marek to speak.
Ann and Temmit looked at Marek, too.  He felt even more out of place than before.  Finally, he said, “Well, I was part of an experiment last century.  The experiment, so it would seem, succeeded, to a certain degree.  I think the Federation has a reason to have me killed, so I would like to avoid that, if I can.  Since I am here, and you would have difficulty disposing of me, I intend to take over this vessel to effect my escape.”
Everyone seemed content with that.  With what they had to go on, what he said, in a manner of speaking, made sense.
“Um,” Ann asked, “where do you want to escape to?”
Marek had been taken off guard by that.  He  scrunched his eyebrows together, let his head sag back, and jaw slip open.  He looked very stupid.  “I have no idea.”
Ann turned and walked out, saying, “I think the term moron applies now.”
*
The Skipper had escorted Marek to a stateroom.  There was no point in standing around the transporter room.
As a show of his ability, Marek sprang on Temmit just after Ann left.  Evidently, he had been hiding a pipe, over a meter in length.  Before he could react, Temmit was face to face with Marek.  The pipe had been swung like a sword, stopping so close to the old vulcan’s head he nearly fainted.  Marek then asked him to give up the phaser he had taken from Ann.
“Does this room have a replicators?”
“No,” the Skipper answered, “because this vessel is so small.  We have two replicators in the dining room, one in medical, and one in the lab.  The one in the lab is the largest, so we get our replacement parts from there.”
“You shouldn’t use replicated parts.  They tend to degrade.”
“We’ve come a long way since your time.  But, just so you know, we don’t replicate vital components unless it’s an emergency.  Then, if we do, I get everything checked as soon as we hit port.”
They settled down to a table in the larger of the two rooms.  Marek looked uncomfortable, fidgeting and looking around the floor.
“Is there something wrong?” the Skipper asked, in a friendly way.
“Well, I just don’t feel right calling you ‘Skipper’, since I’m not part of your crew.  Is there another …,”
“April.”  She smiled.  “Just don’t call me Captain, alright?”  She waited for Marek to respond, but he seemed preoccupied.  “Is there something I can do for you?”
Marek shook his head.  “No.  Yes!  Eh, no.  No.  I, I’m listening to the computer, watching the crew.  Temmit is having trouble seeing everything at once.  I never had this trouble when I was asleep.  I, I –, I’m just so confused.  I can’t —, hear, see, ah, no, watch everything.  Ah —.”
April sat helpless, watching Marek’s face churn in agony.  He looked on the verge of tears.  She grabbed his hand.  “Go to sleep.”  Her glare fixed on him, and she waited until he looked up.  “I won’t let anyone bother you until you wake up, okay?  I promise.”
Marek was trembling. Sweat was forming on him.  But something was calming him down.  Her eyes, perhaps, or something behind them.  He had … a feeling.  “Why? Why would you make a promise like that?”
She smiled again.  “What else am I going to do?  I don’t have anything else to do right now.  And you’re the most exciting thing that happened to this tub since I took over.”
Marek laughed.  He seemed to relax, even letting out a yawn.  The Skipper remembered that she was tired as well.
“Ugh, Marek?”
“Yes?”
“I need to get some sleep.  Now, I can get a lot more done if I had a little control.  This room has a manual lock, plus you have my phaser toy to play with.  How about you give me internal communications?  I promise no one will bother you.’’
Marek laid his head on the table.  His hand was still in April’s.
“Marek?”  No response.  She got up, pulling her hand slowly away from his.  “Computer,” she looked at Marek again, “dim lights.”  She half expected nothing to happen, but the lights dimmed.
She walked out the door, leaving Marek alone.  She gave several orders along the way to her own room.  The first was to lock Marek’s room.  She figured, once he woke up, he could open the door, no matter what she, or anyone else, did.  She was so tired, though, she did not much care.
*
He was on a beach, at the base of a cliff.  Though he had never been there, it was very familiar.  He had been there often.  It was a place of sorrow, but not yet.
He looked up and saw her.  She was dressed in a flowing dress, like waves of silvery vanilla blowing in the wind.
His heart rate went up, and he had to swallow.  It was one of the most important days of his life.  He fought back the tears, because he was not the only one waiting for this moment.  They were all there with him; the lost, the forgotten, and the dead.  It was too much.
He had to blink, hard, to hold back the tears.
When he opened his eyes and looked up he saw the woman leap from the cliff.
He tried to blink the tears away again, but failed.
It was the most wonderful day of his, or any other, life.
He embraced the lady in silvery white.
*
The blackness of space was like a blanket.  Emotion was behind.  Peace was here.
There was an explosion.  The stars, or the peace, began to melt away.
A familiar female voice sounded very sad.  “You let this happen.  Save us; make it all right again.”
“No!”  he cried.  “I was still too small!  I couldn’t help!”
“But you can …” she said.
The burden was too great.  “No.”
“Save us.”
He sobbed, “No.  It’s not my fault.”
*
Marek woke, sweat rolling into his eyes.  His heart was beating fast, matched by his breathing.
The room was dark.  He was cramped, from sleeping in a chair.  There was a clean spot on the table his face had been pressed on.
He put his hand on the table, fingers splayed.  “How long have I been asleep?”  His voice was on the verge of panic.
The computer calmly said, “Five hours, seventeen minutes.”
“How many people have been in this room in that time?”
“One.  Roberts, Captain of Dahlquist, left this room and ordered it sealed 14.3 seconds after unconsciousness.”
Marek was confused by this.  “What is the current course?”
“Dahlquist is on course to Deep Space Three. Speed and course has not deviated since the current course was laid in.  Time to DS3 is ninety-seven hours, eight minutes.”
Marek began searching the computer for the whereabouts of the crew.  Nothing seemed out of place.
‘It’s like I wasn’t even here.’ he thought.  “Computer, what is the location of Ann Phillips?”
“Engineering.’ it responded.
Marek looked around the room, spotting a monitor on the wall left of the door.  He put his left hand on the table; the screen flashed on.  The profile of a ‘chubby’ craft, somewhat resembling a seaworthy boat, as well as a dorsal view, appeared.  A flashing dot appeared, in the midsection on the third of the five main decks.  A highlighted path began moving back and down, showing the shortest route to engineering, in the tail of the craft.
Marek got up from the table and stepped toward the door, stopping two paces from it.  He looked down at the beard and prison clothes he was sporting.  Walking over to the monitor, he first looked in the shiny black face, like a dark mirror.  ‘Wow!  No wonder they thought I was crazy.’
He splayed his left hand next to the control pad. With his other hand he pulled back his hair on the back of his head.  There was enough for a short ponytail.  He smiled, just as a new path was being traced on the Dahlquist diagram.  This time the path led up.  His eyes shifted into thought.  The picture changed to show an old style uniform jacket.
A few more things came up, before he departed.
He had not bothered to check to see if anyone would be in the lab.  Since Temmit had stopped trying to override his control, Marek assumed the lab would be empty.
It was an open space, with stations along the roundish walls.  The lab was a rough oval, about ten meters long and six meters wide.  The centered was cratered, with important looking crystal apparatuses inside.  The workstations could accommodate twenty technicians.  Only one was occupied.
“Who are–, he stumbled, “I mea–, w– … .  Identify yourself!”  the man found courage enough to jump to his feet.
Marek calmly walked forward.  “I am the one who took control of this vessel.  Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Commander Barry Majil, first officer of the Dahlquist.  I order you to lay face down, with your arms and legs spread out.”  He took a defensive stance.
Marek walked a little slower.  He wanted this to be embarrassing.  “You graduated Starfleet Academy, with honors, didn’t you?”
Majil smiled, ever watching Marek.  “Yes, I did.”
“Good.”  Marek was almost to him.  “I have been a marine for almost one hundred and fifty years.  No honors, except being deemed expendable.”  He stopped just out of arms reach.  Smiling, he said, “I hate honor grads.”
Majil faked a kick, pushing him forward.  He threw a punch to Marek’s throat.
Marek held up his right hand, catching the punch, twisting it right, and bringing up his left hand.  Majil fell.  As he hit the ground, Marek had Majil’s arm straight, twisted, and his own hand on Majil’s shoulder.
“That was easy.”  Marek let him go, and walked away from the honor grad.
Majil got up, expecting Marek to turn and attack.  He followed Marek to the lab door.  When it was clear Marek was going to leave, fearing he might lose the opportunity, Majil put his hands on Marek’s shoulders, thinking he could pull the hairy beast back, tripping him, and holding him down.
Unfortunately, Marek pivoted, grabbing Majil’s sore right arm.  Marek twisted.  “You should have let me go.”
The pain almost made Majil faint.  Marek lifted him up, expecting to throw the man two, maybe three maters.  With all the strength he could muster, Marek threw the executive officer.
Marek was very surprised when the man smashed two monitors at the far end of the room.  If there had been no wall, Majil would have gone twenty meters, easy.
Marek looked at his hands in shock.  They were the same hands he had always had.  “What did they DO to MEEEeee!”
He looked at the replicators, just right of Majil’s limp body.  “Ann ….  Computer, replicate my uniform, shaver, and hair band.”
The pile of clothing that appeared was midnight black, with silver trim.
*
She let out a slow breath, looking at the palm monitor.  With her left thumb she tapped a few keys; her right arm was buried inside a filthy machine.  She watched a computerized image of a hand, moving toward something.  There was nothing between her hand and what she was trying to touch … on the small monitor.  Her face wrinkled.  “Oh, God, no!”  The hand on the monitor pulled back, trying to fling off an invisible goo.  She took a deep breath and tried again.
“Ann!” Marek frantically called. “Ann, where are you?”
Her hand was almost there when his call distracted her.
“Ann?” he called again.
She turned away, just for an instant.  Pain lit her face.  With a scream of absolute agony, she pulled her arm out.  As she held her hand, blood began to wash the greasy film away.
Marek found his way into the crawlspace she was hidden in.  “Oh, no.  What happened?”  Marek forgot his own problems just then.  He tried to see Ann’s hand.
“NO!  Get aWAY from me!”
“No, let me help …,”
“Go away!” she closed her eyes hard.  Marek could feel tears forming, before they rolled down her cheeks.
“No …,” he whispered.  He put both his hands around Ann’s.  He knew both tips of her middle and index fingers had been cut off, somehow.  He held her hands with his right, looked around, while his eyes darted aimlessly, and placed his left hand on the machinery Ann had her arm in.
He closed his eyes, lowering his head.  Ann had begun to breathe heavily, fighting back the tears of pain.  (She considered tears a sign of weakness.)  Marek began to breathe heavy.  Shortly, he began to let out small breaths, each getting louder.  The breathing became moaning, then sobbing.  All the while Ann’s face showed less and less pain, until there was none.
Marek’s face was pulled tight with pain.  His head was down, his cheeks wet, and his mouth was open, because of the congestion.  He was breathing heavy, which slowed after a few seconds.
Ann pulled her hand free from Marek, wiping his eyes with her fingers.  All of her fingers.  “Cry baby,” she said softly.
Marek came to himself, quickly, yet gently, taking Ann’s hand.  He flattened her fingers, inspecting the creases in the two he thought she had lost.  They were dirty, but intact.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Your fingers,” he said, “they were cut off.  But,”
“You must be stupid.”  Ann pulled her hand free.  “I’m fine, see?”  She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers.
Marek went back to being a cold machine.  He grabbed her hand, twisting the palm to her.  “Then why is there fresh blood pouring down your arm?”
Ann looked at him as if he were crazy.  Then, hesitantly, she looked at her wrist.  Fresh, bright, oxygenated blood was on every part of her hand, except the tips of the index and middle fingers.
“How did you …?”
“I don’t know.  But, before I came down here, I threw your first shirt [Marine slang for executive officer] across the lab.”  He waited for it to sink in.  “Humans aren’t that strong are they?  And neither are romulans, are they?”
Ann looked a little scared.  She nervously shook her head.
“They did something to me.  I don’t know what, but it was something big.  “Now,” he looked down, thinking of what to say next.  “I …, I don’t know what to do next.”  His eyes began to fill.  “What do I do next?”
Ann was shocked.  At last, she said, “We have to help Barry.”  She tried to pull her hand from him, but he squeezed.
“Temmit was called.  Unless I am mistaken, he is in charge of medical, isn’t he?”
Ann nodded.
“Then the only thing you could do is give moral support, right?”
Ann nodded.
Marek feverishly thought of what to say next.  “You’re the only person who can help me right now.”
Ann seemed to be wanderinig.  She lifted her left hand to Marek’s chin.  “Did you shave for me?”
Marek looked to one side, with a look of bewilderment.
*
They made their way to Ann’s room, a few doors down from the room Marek had been asleep in, next to the outside door to the upper observation deck.  There were books of every kind in the bookshelves that covered every wall.  A few shelves were obviously hand made, very unlike the prefabricated shelves.  Yet, as unorganized as it seemed, they were all categorized.  There had to be two thousand books in that tiny room.
“So,” Ann asked, “have you figured out what you want to do?”
marek put his hand on the bulkhead.  The Dahlquist jerked, then steadied.  “I think so.  And, the first thing I want, is what’s in your head.”
Ann took a half step back.

Chapter 2
Cell Structure
Not surprisingly, Marek materialized in a cell.  Four armed security were there.  A klingon was among them.  He faintly recognized him.  Not that it mattered.
The security team left.  The klingon did not bother to look back.  He would not give the human the pleasure.
Marek pulled himself up.  He was now in a clean, white, loose fitting smock.  He looked for a mirror, but found none.  It was not until now that he cared about what he looked like.
He touched the holes on his face.  He felt the beard, then simply forgot his wounds.  He ran his fingers over the beard.  He pulled it, estimating it was four and a half centimeters.  His hand went to his head.
He was almost shocked to find he had long hair.  Long for a Marine, that is.  Almost six centimeters.  The back of his neck was thick with hair.
“Oh, no.”
The commander walked in.  He stood in front of the cell, looking at Marek.  Marek forgot his hair and stared back.  The pair looked at one another in silence.
The commander began to say, “I don’t know how …”
“You look like A1.”  Marek spoke softly, but filled the room.  Even the distortion from the force field could not squelch his authority.  He was the commander in this conversation.  It was unearthly.
The commander looked Marek in the eyes, then lowered his stare.  He looked up again, not wanting to lock eyes with his prisoner. “His son died, just before you came aboard.  I thought he had gone senile.  He told me about you.”  He looked at Marek, for a second or two.  He looked at the wall.  ‘I am … A1 … great-grandson.”
Marek took a few steps toward the commander.
“If … you are who … my grandpa thinks …, thought, you are, then …,” he looked at Marek, “I have to thank you for my being here.”
Marek stepped as close as he could.  “Then let me out.”
The commander shook his head.  “I can’t do that.”
Marek put his hands to the force barrier.  His hands lit up, against the energy.  He looked just short of frantic.  ‘If the authorities get me, I’m dead!”
“You’re not dead.”  Commander John Walker looked the prisoner in the eye.  “This is the Federation, not some backward, unsophisticated culture.  We don’t kill people, especially our own.”
“Do you KNOW what they DID to ME!?!”  Marek shook, trying to restrain his anger.  Or was it fear?
John micro-leapt back.  He remained calm, but he was terrified inside.  ”You are only going to be detained long enough to determine what should be done with you.”
Marek put his hands down.  His face went blank, completely expressionless.  He stepped backward, staring at Commander Walker the entire time.
‘”Go away.”
Commander Walker stiffened.  Slowly, he turned and walked away.
Finding some spirit, Walker ask, “Did you just tell me …?”
“Go — away.”
Marek’s mouth never moved.
Walker stared at the hair Marine.  Then, quietly, he walked out of the brig.
Marek turned to the closest wall.  He placed an open hand against it, and his expression changed.  Not to a feeling of hopelessness.  He went into deep thought.
Something was happening inside him that he did not understand.  He could feel the ship.  The computer, which was not alive, could be … felt.  Thinking.  No soul, but definite thought.  And there was a kinship.
A lone guard entered the brig.  “Stop moping.”
‘He must think I am destitute.’
“We’ll take good care of you.  The Starfleet won’t mistreat you.  You probably heard some nasty rumors spread by the Dominion, or something.”
‘Not a threat.  Probably sympathetic.  But too stupid to use.’
Computer lock.  “’Hello.’”
The guard stopped patrolling.  “What?”
‘Great.  I thought too loud.  What next?’  “I said, …”  ‘What?’  “I said … hello.”  ‘Sounds good.’  “I haven’t felt myself for … quite a while.”
The guard seemed mollified.  “Don’t I know it.  If I heard it right, you were kidnapped a few years ago.  You can expect to be debriefed, then re-educated.  Should only be a few weeks.”
Central programs accessed.
“I believe you are mistaken, Mr. Ridley.  But I thank you for your encouragement.”
The guard had passed from earshot, checking the rest of the brig.  “What?  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
‘Thank you for the warning.’
–Long-range scanners have picked up a small vessel.  A nebula pathfinder, named Dahlquist.  It has a crew capacity of twenty-six.  Currently crew compliment is seven:  four command, two engineers, and one specialist.  The Morass will pass just beyond transporter range.- –
‘What are the chances of extreme beam out?’
–None.- –
‘How could I beam from this ship to the Dahlquist?
–Two possibilities exist.  First, move me close to Dahlquist.  Second, couple my transporter with that of Dahlquist.- –
‘Perfect.’  Marek did not have much time, but he had enough.  He could see the controls that worked the Morass transporter.  If the Dahlquist had a similar system, he should be able to access that, too.  He had less than thirty minutes.  But he was not living in the physical world; Marek was in the computer world.  Each thought moved at the speed of light.  These were the fastest computers the Federation had to offer.
The calculations took very little time.  It was done, checked, and rechecked in less than a minute, with a margin of error.
Now for the hard part.  Without a physical link, he needed to disable the Morass, just after transport, without being detected.  Accessing the computer was easy.  Asking a question was easy.  Ten thousand legitimate interactions take place in every work cycle.  But this was technology only thought up when Marek was a child.  Some had yet to be thought up.  He had no idea how to understand it, much less control it.
The computer told him it had a warp core.  Without it, there could be no pursuit.  But that did not mean other ships could not be sent.
‘Computer, suppress the sensor information on the Dahlquist.  Erase all information of the existence of that ship.’
–Information has been erased.  Sensors have been disrupted by an automatic diagnostic.  Sensors shall come back on line in two minutes.- –
‘Great.  In two minutes I have to hide an entire ship, using technology I don’t understand.’  The most advanced technology he had been exposed to was now outdated, by generations.  He thought of using constants; then rejected it; constants are what you try to overcome.  He had to come up with an original idea.  And he had less than one minute, fifty-eight seconds.
‘Can you send all incoming information on Dahlquist to an unmanned, remote station?  Without detection?
–Negative.- –
Hmm.  ‘Has basic sensor technology remained constant for the last century?’
–Affirmative.- –
‘Can the sensors be taken offline, past sensor readings be displayed, then return at a later time?
–Affirmative.- –
‘Without detection?’
–Negative.- –
‘Access all psychological files of personnel scheduled to monitor sensors for the next hour.  What is the highest estimation of detection?’
–… 6.80311582% – –
‘Good enough.  Can the main sensor be down without indication?’
–Affirmative.  The chief engineer has completed sensor testing, and is not scheduled to do so again for three days, ten hours.- –
‘Bring up the most recent sensor readings for this section of space.  When done, take the sensors offline and display the past readings as current.’
–Done.  Sensors offline.  Past readings are being fed to all stations.- –
‘Wow.  Fast.’
–Automatic diagnostic will be completed in forty-five seconds.- –
Marek pulled his hand away from the wall, breaking his connection with the computer.  He was not certain what had just happened was real, or if he was still dreaming in the klingon station.  Humans can not “talk” to computers by touching a wall.
A chirping sound.  “Sickbay.  This is brig security, Lieutenant Ridley.”
“This is Doctor Fargus.  Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, I think it is a good idea to …”
Marek casually turned around.
“… send someone down to check on him.”
Marek smiled.  “Check on who? And when did you get back?  You only left a second ago.”
“Sickbay, standby.  Why didn’t you respond to me before?”  The guard was very serious by now; robot like.
Marek’s smile faded.  “They didn’t tell you?  I’m … I’m deaf.  My (think of something) audio implants must have … failed during the cryogenics.  I don’t really ‘listen’ to other people when that happens.  I can … read lips.”
The guard studied Marek.  Doctor Fargus said, “I heard what the guard said, Lieutenant.  Ask him if he wants me to correct his hearing now, or when I give him a physical, would you?”
Marek almost answered.
“Sickbay wants to (he was talking slower, now) know if you want to have your au-di-o implants (and louder) fix – – (‘I wonder if he could make out that word?’) re-paired?  Or can you wait?”
‘Simpleton.’  He could not resist.  Loudly, Marek said back, “Tell — Him — I — Can – Wait!  Thank – You – For – Un – Der – Stand – Ing!”
Ridley seemed confused.
Fargus cleared his throat.  “Eh, Lieutenant, the man is deaf, not stupid.  Go about your business.  I’ll schedule something for tomorrow.”
The chirping sound again.
Ridley finished studying Marek.  He smiled.  ‘So, everyone is worried about some deaf and dumb guy, hunh?’
Marek smiled dumbly.  He was not sure if Ridley had actually spoken those words.  It was safer not to respond.
“Good night, Mr. Dangerous.”  Ridley left the brig, chuckling.
Under his breath, Marek said, “Goodbye, Mr. Observant.”

The doors closed.  Marek was alone, it seemed.  His hearing was actually more sensitive than it had ever been, and he could hear no other prisoners.  Which would explain why Ridley made his rounds so fast.
Marek’s current problem was how to distract the ship during his beam out.  The sensors were easy.  That required very little power.  He would need a great deal of power for the transporter.  If only he could think of how to mask that, he could be on his way back to reclaiming his life.
A lot of power.  That might be it.  What if, instead of trying to make it look like it never happened, he made the ship focus on something that was more important.  Such as a false report of the warp core imploding?  Followed by several other systems coming online, for no apparent reason?
But he would have to keep his disappearance from being detected, or all was for naught.  There had to be a video feed in the brig, to monitor the prisoners.  And someone transporting out would not look good.
Marek went to the cot on the far wall and laid on it, curling up.  He placed his hand on the wall.
‘Computer.’  The thought raced through the metal, to touch the entire ship.
–Yes?- –
‘Computer, I need to know if there is such a thing as a monitor glitch in current technology.  Can the brig’s monitors be obscured so my current position is hidden from view?’
–And artificial disruption can be created, hiding the current position of your body.- –
Marek smiled, sort of.  “Perfect.”

Stardate: 57878.7
Sector 554, near the Cardassian Border
Starbase 334

Rear Admiral Lower Half Thomas Henderson walks out over the Operations Center of Starbase 334.  He had just barely been assigned to this station, along with a minute group of vessels intended to uphold Federation law and maintain the peace.  Sector 554 hadn’t had any dedicated fleet assigned to it since the conclusion of the Dominion War four years ago.  Now, he had been ordered to assume command of what became known informally as the Pike Fleet.  This fleet consisted of one starship, a new kind of a vessel called a cutter, three runabouts and a Type-11 shuttlecraft that Starfleet Intelligence had been screwing around with.
The Pike Fleet is hardly a military force.  In reality, the fleet is a law enforcement agency dispatched to a location where most law enforcement measures were quite inadequate.  Sector 554 was quite rampant with the Orion Pirate Cartel.  They had used their animal women to seduce the major government officials on the three colony planets.  They had an almost endless power there.  Starbase 334 was one of the most dangerous Starfleet outposts because the law did not exist here.  Luckily, due to re-elections in the sector, more professional governors had been elected, allowing stricter laws to be established over the cartels.  Now, Starfleet was placing their final blows on the Orions by assigning this fleet.
Henderson stands in the middle of ops, surveying the stars displayed on the main viewscreen.  He was awaiting the arrival of the final three vessels in his fleet: the USS Zebulon Pike, the USS Wyatt Earp, and the USS Nathan Hale.  The Zebulon Pike is a Galaxy-class warship, one of those uprated versions.  It really wasn’t much good for law enforcement, a bit too powerful for that.  The uprated Galaxies were really good at blowing up stuff.  The Pike’s mission would be to patrol the section of Cardassian-Federation border that ran through Sector 554.
The USS Wyatt Earp is the second of the new Pinkerton-class cutters.  These cutters are fast and powerful.  The Pinkerton-class is especially tailored for law enforcement.  They are about twice the size of a Danube-class runabout, and carry enough firepower to make any pirate crap his shorts.  The Pinkertons have a compliment of eight, allowing room for prisoner transport; but that is not the only kind of personnel they can transport.  With a Grade 3 diplomatic rating, they can carry any diplomat for extended periods of time.  This is quite convenient in diplomatic situations when a huge starship would cause undue tensions.  Yet, the Pinkertons do not sacrifice security in these situations, which tend to be a powder keg.  If they absolutely have to, they can fight their way out of any fix.
The Pinkerton vehicles also feature a sickbay.  While there is no dedicated doctor, this can serve as additional crew quarters or medical evacuation volume.  The Pinkertons value to Starfleet lies in their ability to be deployed on any mission without the module-swapping the Danube-class runabouts have to go through.
The USS Nathan Hale, appropriately named after probably the most famous American spy, is a Type-20 Shuttlecraft.  Essentially, a Type-20 is a Type-11 that has a dedicated crew of five, and has been outfitted with enough weaponry to make it a considerable opponent in battle.  She is a stealthy vessel, built to slip behind enemy lines and gather information unnoticed.  Her role in law enforcement, being able to follow pirate vessels right to their base, is invaluable.  Her entire crew comes from Starfleet Intelligence; they are some of the best officers in the United Federation of Planets.  That crew is very professional, very dedicated, very trustworthy, and very intelligent.  Admiral Henderson looks forward to working with these individuals.
The Operations Center of Starbase 334 is rather confined.  There are fifteen officers in this Center, all accomplishing various tasks.  They move about the diamond shaped room running reports and collaborating on their various tasks.  The dull roar they make can be compared to a bar on a weeknight.  Their stations are arranged into three tiers, formed into a V, with the opening of the letter aimed at the viewscreen in the front corner.  Down the point, or rather where the point should be, is an aisle, allowing officers easy access to the other tiers as they accomplish their business.  At the very back of Ops, right under the Federation Seal painted above a systems panel installed in the back corner, is a single stand-alone station.  This is the Commander’s Information Providence station.  The CIP was built with the intent of providing the commanding officer all the information he or she needed without disturbing any of the Ops Center crew.
Directly in front of the CIP, one step down from the uppermost tier is a rather large and comfortable-looking chair.  This, of course, is the command chair.  This chair has been unoccupied for four years, as the Commander of the Starbase had a station to the right of the CIP, and the Executive Officer in the tier immediately in front of the Commander.  Its purpose was to accommodate any visiting admiralty, such as a sector commander.  Admiral Henderson stands in front of this chair, watching the bustle in Ops.
Thomas turns around and proceeds to stand behind the CIP.  He surveys the controls for a second, and then calls up the assigned patrol routes for the Pike fleet.  The computer places this map on the main viewscreen, but nobody pays attention, too wrapped up in their work.  Henderson had a perfectly fine view of this map on the CIP, and had no reason to look up at the viewscreen.  After assuring himself that this was to his satisfaction, he restores the viewscreen and sits in the Admiralty chair.  There was absolutely nothing to do while he waited.
“Admiral,” Captain Sara James, the commander of Starbase 334, was standing to the Admiral’s right, “I think you would like to know that the Zebulon Pike will be here in five minutes.  They are ferrying the Nathan Hale as well.”
“Thank you, Captain.  As soon as they arrive, I would like to meet with the command staff of both vessels in the situation room.”  Henderson responded to the petit, attractive Captain.
“I will have Military Comm pass it on.”  She acknowledged and proceeded to the upper tier, on the left hand side of the bridge, next to the CIP.  She leaned over and whispered in the ear of an ensign seated there.  Then returned to her station, reflected over the centerline of the bridge from the station she was just at.
Admiral Henderson stood and began walking towards a door set in the forward right-hand wall of the Ops Center.  There are four doors, one on each wall of the room.  The forward right leads to what is called the Situation room.  The fore-left leads to a hallway that ultimately leads to the turbolifts and a couple of conference rooms.  The aft-left leads to Admiralty office, derelict since the conclusion of the Dominion War, and the aft-right leads to the CO’s office, or ready room.  Stepping over the threshold of the door, Henderson entered the situation room.
The ambient lighting of this room is quite dark.  There is one large screen on the other side of the room.  Around the room, set into the union between the bulkhead and the overhead, are several screens.  Most of them are off.  Some are displaying random data concerning matters the Admiral couldn’t care less about.  In the middle of the room is a table with various screens and LCARS interfaces set in it.  During a crisis situation, officers and commanders would be crowded around this table keeping an eye on the situation and commanding it.  This room’s purpose is to separate the bustle of running a situation from the bustle of running the station.  In front of the large screen are two long tables, one set in front of the other.  Each table has seating for eight, and a small LCARS panel in front of each seat.  This was for briefing personnel about to take command in the field.  To the left of those being briefed, that is the viewscreen’s right, is a station dedicated to operating this screen.  Here the presenter can stand to present crucial information to the commanders.
Set in the bulkhead next to the door leading to the bridge are several large screens showing the status of the station, most of them inactive.  Henderson moves to one of the operational panels, and brings up the lights.  Proceeding to the presenter’s station, he activates the presentation screen.  He puts the sector map he was looking at on the bridge on that screen, and then sat patiently behind the presenter’s station.  He waits for the command crew of the Zebulon Pike and the Nathan Hale.
A door adjacent to the aperture leading to the bridge opened, and four officers entered the situation room.  Glancing around for a second; one of the captains motioned towards the two long tables and led the other three to the front row.  Henderson started from his position before they had a chance to sit down.
“I am Admiral Thomas Henderson, sector commander.”  He introduced himself in a friendly businesslike tone.
“Captain Rachel Erickson, Admiral,” one of them responded, extending her hand.  She was about Tom’s height, with what looked like could be long brown hair, but it was kept up in a bun.  Her eyes were brown and spread a feeling of fellowship and innocence.  She hardly looked like she should be in command of a starship.  Nevertheless, she continued her introduction, “I am the commander of the Zebulon Pike.  This is my First Officer, Commander Bryan Jensen.”  She indicated a short muscular man with short light brown hair and blue eyes.  Henderson shook both of their hands.
“Admiral,” started the other man in the group.  He is taller with medium length black hair.  He seems sterner than the other two, “Captain Kevin Smith, Commander of the Nathan Hale.  This is my first officer, Commander Molly Griffin.”  Commander Griffin was a highly attractive officer with medium brown, again could be long, hair, same eyes, and she radiated an atmosphere of energy.  Henderson firmly shook Smith’s hand, and then the enthusiastic hand of Commander Griffin.  Captain Smith fell into Tom’s idea of an intelligence officer, but Commander Griffin was by far not what he expected.
The four took their seats.  First officers next to their captains, ready for the Admiral to begin his briefing.
“Welcome to Sector 554.  You should have been doing your research, so I will spare you the details of the situation we’re in.  Since Starfleet is rather anxious to reestablish the law here, I will brief you quickly and allow you to get to work.”  The Admiral was interrupted as the doors to the situation room opened again, and two more individuals entered.
“Sorry we’re late, Admiral.  We just got in.  Captain Steven Matthews of the Wyatt Earp,” the medium height, medium built, brown-haired stud introduced himself, “this is my executive officer, Commander Jason Harp.”  Captain Matthews indicated a tall, gangly commander who stood slightly hunched over with an expression on his face as if someone had just hit him over the head with a brick.
“Have a seat, gentlemen.  We’re just getting started,” Henderson waited for them to be seated, “Just as well.  I’d much rather brief the fleet on the whole than drag out the whole affair.  As I was just saying, I trust that you know this sector’s history, so I will not go over that.  You know that we have to let the citizens of this sector know that the Federation law is back in town.  That will be the primary responsibility of the Wyatt Earp.”
“Admiral,” Commander Jensen spoke up, “Wouldn’t it make sense to put the Zebulon Pike in charge of law enforcement, as we are the more powerful vessel.”
“No, actually.  The Wyatt Earp is better geared toward law enforcement than the Pike is.  Besides, I have something in mind for the Pike.”  Henderson answered.
“Aye, sir.”  Jensen nodded his acknowledgement.
“So, the Earp is responsible for law enforcement.  Now, each colony has their own police force, so the Earp is to act as a supplement, not a replacement.  Also remember that we don’t have the resources to do much more.  We have three runabouts here at Starbase 334 that can be used to augment your efforts if it becomes necessary.  So, Captain Matthews, you will maintain a constant patrol between the three colonies in this sector.  Just duck in and check up on them.”
“Yes, sir.”  Matthews responded.
“Now, for the Hale,” Henderson paused, “I’ll come back to you.  Pike.  You know that the Cardassian border runs through this sector.  What I need the Pike to do is patrol that border.  This section has been unprotected for too long, and Starfleet fears that the Cardassians have gotten some ideas in their spoon-heads,” A chuckle rose among the commanders at Admiral Henderson’s crack, “Trade vessels are allowed to cross the border freely, but you need to make sure the Cardassian military stays on their side of the line.  That’s where we come to the Hale.  You have two jobs.  Keep an eye on things inside the sector.  We need you to be an extra set of eyes for the Earp.  Also, you will be patrolling the border upon occasion to make sure the Cardassians aren’t up to fowl play.  Nonetheless, I want you to be primarily worried about patrolling inside the sector.  Are there any questions?”  Henderson noticed Captain Erickson’s hand raise slightly, “Captain.”  He acknowledged her.
“Yes, Admiral.  How often do you want reports?”
“I am going to ask for ops normal checks every half-hour to an hour.  If I need any other reports in the interim, then I will contact you directly.”  He noticed she nodded in satisfaction, “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to dismiss you to go about your work.”

Stardate: 57878.9
Sector 564, near the Federation Border
Senit Nor Trading Station

Ri’ta Gul Rinkad sits behind his desk in his dark Cardassian office.  He is a stern military commander, hardened by many battles.  He reads a report that Glinn Yistin had just handed him.  Hatred burned in his bones.  He knew all his life that the Federation could not be trusted.  This report merely proved this to him.  The United Federation of Hypocrites, that’s what they were.  The image of a glorious empire of peace, goodwill and cooperation, is all just a façade to cover the corruption, greed, and imperial generals.  They wrote and spoke visions, and then plotted and exploited the weak for their own gain.
Rinkad throws the PADD down on the desk.  He had seen enough.  Yes, the Federation had helped Cardassia throw off the oppressive chains of the Dominion, and yes the Federation was helping them rebuild.  But the Federation would have been in ruins if the Cardassians hadn’t betrayed the Dominion.  He knew that Cardassia had to choose the lesser of two evils.  But that was four years ago.  Now it was time to eliminate all evil.
“Glinn Yistin,” his deep sinister voice addressed the officer across the desk from him, “You’re intelligence.”
“Covert Operations, sir.”  His slithery voice corrected his superior from across the dark room, his face hidden in the shadows.
“Even better,” the sinister voice of Rinkad sounded, the scheming intelligence obviously satisfied, “I want you to find a solution to this.”
“I have one ready, sir.  All I have to do is test it.”  Yistin’s monotonic, and smooth voice responded.
“I want to see it.”  Rinkad demanded of the man, looking in the direction he guessed Yistin was in.  Yistin approached the desk, the light perimeter from the overhead lamp slowly slipping up his torso and finally revealing his cold Cardassian face.  He dropped a pad of paper on the desk in front of Rinkad, “Paper?”  The Commander showed the smallest surprise, retrieving the pad.
“No computer records.  No intelligence leaks.  After the Dominion War, Federation intelligence has been putting their noses in everything.”  Yistin responded, looking apprehensive about being in the light.
“Very good, Glinn.  I like your style.”  Rinkad surveyed the paper with definite satisfaction glimmering out of his eyes, a twisted smile spreading over his face, “and I like the code you put it in.  It looks Federation.”
“That’s not a code, sir.  That’s an ancient Earth language, called German,” Yistin responded again, “Few Federation citizens know it.  No Cardassians do.”
“So no two-timing squeal box can read it and send it back to the Federation.  Looks like you covered your tracks,” Rinkad responded to Yistin, returning the pad.  Yistin retrieved it and retreated to the darkness, “Tell me, what is the plan?”
“Let me test it first, Ri’ta.  Then I will tell you everything.”  Yistin assured Rinkad.
“Do what you have to.”

Stardate: 57880.3
Sector 554, at the Cardassian Border
USS Zebulon Pike NCC 80225

Captain Erickson enters the bridge.  It wasn’t technically her shift for another two hours.  However, the second officer, Lieutenant Commander Sam Brady, had called her to the bridge briefly.  That was fine with her, being called up at five o’clock in the morning; she had gotten to bed early and was awake trying to find something productive to do.  Straightening her uniform, she proceeded towards Commander Brady, sitting in the center seat of the bridge.
“Commander Brady, what do you have?”  She asked, approaching him.
“Captain,” Sam stood and acknowledged the Captain, “We saw a Cardassian vessel cross the border.”
“A Cardassian vessel?”  She asked, emphasizing the indefinite article.
“Well, not just one.  There have been fifteen incursions over the past hour.  All of them are harmless Hideki-class scouts.  The Pike could easily take on all fifteen of them.”  He explained.
“But fifteen incursions in one hour.”  She finished his sentence.
“Yes ma’am.  I thought it was a bit odd.”  Brady looked into the face of his commanding officer as she thought about the matter.  She sat down in the Command seat and brought her hand to her chin, staring blankly ahead of her.
“Did you report this to Admiral Henderson?”  She broke her trance and looked at Brady as he took a seat to her left.
“Yes, ma’am.  We sent it with the status report seven minutes ago.”  She returned her gaze to the point ahead of her.
“Any answer?”  This time she didn’t break her trance.
“No, ma’am.  Admiral Henderson is probably just barely finding out.”  He looked ahead at the stars.  Fifteen times he had seen the Hideki-class vessel grace that screen.  It was really quite a beautiful vessel.  But it signified a race the Federation has never been able to trust.
“Captain, there’s another one coming across the border.  Bearing 151 mark 339.”  The ensign at the tactical station behind Captain Erickson cried out over the sound of an alarm.
“Helm, set an intercept course for that vessel.  Maximum safe speed.  We need to let them know which side of the border is theirs.  Yellow alert!  Raise shields and charge phasers.”  She stared determinedly at the screen as the sound of the warp engines activated and the stars stretched past for the briefest of moments.  They stayed at warp for only a second or two.  The stars returned to normal and they watched their approach towards the Hideki scout from above it’s position.
“Target them!”  Rachel ordered, staring daggers at the intruding ship.
“Sir, they’re headed back to Cardassian space,” The tactical operator called out as the ship spun around and warped off the screen, “They’re really moving, ma’am.”
“Of course they are.  A battleship heads for a glorified shuttle that you happen to be in with the guns ready to fire, you’d get back in your limits rather quickly,” Erickson responded, almost laughing at fast the Hideki packed out, “Maybe that’ll put an end to the incursions for a while.  If you need me, I’ll be in my ready room.”  She stood and walked off the bridge.

Starbase 334

“Fifteen incursions?”  Admiral Henderson had just arrived on the bridge after being summoned by the Commander Ryan Smith and was now looking over a report the Communications officer had handed off to him.
“Yes sir.”  Commander Smith answered standing in front of the Admiral right in front of the Admiralty Chair.
“Do you get the nasty feeling that the Cardassians are up to something?”  He asked, handing the PADD back to the Executive Officer.
“Yes sir.  Either that, or the Cardassians are hiring horrible navigators.”  The Commander cracked as he accepted the PADD.
“Well, you’d think that after two or three incursions the commander would relieve the navigator of duty.”  Admiral Herschell responded.
“You’d think so.”  Tom walked to the back of the bridge and stood behind the CIP, staring at the stars on the viewscreen, “Where is the Nathan Hale?”
“It put in towards the end of Beta shift, Admiral.”  Ryan answered, standing in front of the CIP facing the Admiral.
“Get me Captain Smith,” Henderson pauses for a moment, “Captain Smith.  Any relation?”  He asked Ryan, upon connecting the names.
“He’s my older brother, sir.”  Ryan responded, in a professional voice as always.
“I see,” Henderson frowns slightly in a trance as he makes small nods, “Well, get him up here.  I think we’re going to need Starfleet Intelligence.”

Stardate: 57880.4
Admiral’s Ready Room

“Fifteen incursions, sir?”  Captain Smith blurted out in a tone of surprise, with a wide-eyed facial expression to match.
“Yes, Captain.  Fifteen incursions in one hour,” Henderson sat behind his highly polished desk, hands clasped in front of him and laid neatly on the mirror-like surface, “What would an experienced intelligence man like you say to that?”  Henderson implored the Captain looking steadfastly for an answer.
“I would say that the Cardassians are up to something.”  Smith read a PADD with the Zebulon Pike’s report on it.
“Oh, good.  Now that an expert has said that I feel much better saying it myself,” Henderson drew a look from Smith by his sarcasm, “I know the Cardassians are up to something.  But what?”
“Well, the Captain could have stayed up late at a bachelor party and is now CUI.”  Kevin proposed with a look of innocence on his face.
“CUI?”  The Admiral knew nothing good could come from this question, yet he was still annoyingly curious.
“Commanding Under the Influence, sir.”  He responded, a grin cracking across his face, his shoulders shaking under the silent chuckles of his own joke.
“My kingdom for an officer who will give me a straight answer!”  Thomas rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat.
“I’m Starfleet Intelligence, sir.  I don’t give anybody a straight answer.”  The Captain expressed the irony of his foolish jokes.
“I’ve noticed.”  Admiral Henderson’s dry voice and dark expression flew from his slouched body in the seat.
“Listen, Admiral.  Honestly, I can’t begin to tell you without more information.  Best guess: the Cardassians are preparing for an invasion.”  The first serious words out of Captain Smith’s mouth.
“Invasion?”  Henderson leaned forward.  Now that Smith was done with his jokes, the Admiral was interested.
“Not an immediate invasion.  We don’t trust the Cardassians, sir.  Honestly, they have a harder time trusting us.  They’re engaged in military exercises.  Running the border, trying to be undetected.  Now that we have a Starship there, it makes it all that more exciting.  They may feel that someday they may need to perform a preemptive strike to defend themselves.”  He rationalized.
“Why would they do that on the Federation border, now?”
“Probably because they know the Federation is not going to declare war over a few incursions that didn’t amount to anything.  They don’t trust us, but they know we’re docile.”  Kevin replied truthfully.
“Yeah,” Tom leaned back, again exasperated, “It’s hard being the teeth of an animal that refuses to fight.”
They sat for a moment, the Admiral rotating his chair towards the window in the office, such that he could see the stars.  Contemplating what he had just heard for a few seconds he turned back around.
“Captain, what kind of ‘more information’ do you need?”

Stardate: 57880.6
SS Cutty Sark

Captain Ryan Harrin stood on the bridge of his transport vessel, examining the viewscreen ahead of him.  The Cutty Sark was by far not the kind of ship he commanded when he was in Starfleet.  Then again, the Cutty Sark wouldn’t have been able to handle some of the things Captain Harrin put the Iowa through during the Dominion War.  They were two vessels of two breeds.  The Iowa’s job was to fight other vessels.  The Cutty Sark’s job was to haul freight through relatively docile territory.  It had one low powered phaser bank intended to clear annoying space debris.
Captain Harrin reviewed his flight plan.  It would take him over the Federation/Cardassian border and straight to Senit Nor.  There he would drop off his cargo of Saurian Brandy and pick up some h’sencar.  H’sencar was some of the finest fabric in the Alpha Quadrant, and it was manufactured in Cardassian space.  H’sencar was some of the most commodious material in the Federation, and merchant captains like Harrin had been trading whatever the Federation had to offer for this stuff for four years straight.  There was a huge demand for it, and Harrin had every intention of continuing trade for h’sencar for however long it was profitable.  He looked across the bridge of his vessel to see one of his crewmembers talking with a Starfleet security officer.  The crewmember pointed to him and the security officer nodded.  The crewman left the bridge while the officer proceeded over to Harrin.  Harrin faced the man as he approached.
“Captain Harrin?”  The officer, his insignia indicated he was a lieutenant, asked the Captain.
“Yes, lieutenant, what can I do for you?”  Harrin couldn’t figure out why security would be coming for him.  As far as he knew, he didn’t break any laws.
“Captian, Admiral Henderson would like to have a word with you.”  The officer spoke in a professional, yet easy going voice.
“Who is Admiral Henderson?”  Harrin recognized that name, but wasn’t sure about it.
“He’s the Sector commander, sir.”
“I didn’t know we had a Sector Commander.”  Henderson still rang a bell, but on a different front.
“We didn’t until yesterday.  He would still like to have a word with you.”
“Did he say why?”  Harrin began to be concerned.  A green-behind-the-ears sector commander wanting to talk to a merchant was never a good sign.
“No, sir.  He just said it was urgent.”  The Lietuenant replied.  Having been in Starfleet for most of his life, Ryan knew that when an Admiral said something was urgent, it was urgent.  Whether or not the Admiral was right, which he rarely was.
“Lead the way, Lieutenant.”  The Lieutenant led Harrin out of the ship through the docking arm and through the bowls of the station.  They walked into a turbolift and it carried them up to a hallway.  Upon the turbolift opening, two doors were visible across the hall.  The Lieutenant led Harrin through the ones on their left.  This led them into a room that Harrin immediately recognized as a situation room.  He had been in one too many of these during the Dominion War.  Seated at the presenter’s station was a face he hadn’t seen for a long time.
“Tom!”  Suddenly he remembered where he had heard the name “Henderson.”
“Good morning, Randy.”  The Rear Admiral greeted Harrin.  They shook hands enthusiastically.
“Captain Thomas Henderson of the USS Thunderchild.  Long time no see!  So they made you the Admiral of this sector.”  Harrin’s apprehension had gone away at the meeting of an old friend.
“The war vet captains who stuck around were all put on the admiralty promotion list.  My name finally came up.  If you had stuck around, you would have made it to admiral as well.”  Henderson was glad to finally meet up with his old friend.
“Oh no, Tom.  Starfleet was way too much adventure for me.  I needed something a little more calm,” They laughed.  Both of them had been on very exciting missions, some of them together, “So what is this I hear about you wanting to talk to me?”
“I need you to do me a favor, Ryan.  I need to put one of my officers on the other side of the border.”
“And you want to stow them on my ship.  I don’t know, Tom.”  Ryan knew exactly what Tom was getting at.
“Now hear me out, Ryan.  This is the officer I want to put on the other side of the border,” the Admiral indicated a woman Ryan didn’t notice before, “This is Commander Molly Griffin from SI.”  Griffin was dressed in the same uniform Harrin used on the Cutty Sark.  I want her to be your sensors officer, and get stranded at Senit Nor.  I’ll worry about getting her out, you just get her there.”
“I already have a sensors officer, Dayton Garret.”  Ryan protested further.
“I don’t know, but I think he’s a suspect in an assault case in one of the bars.  What do you think, Commander?”  Henderson turned to Griffin.
“You know what, sir, I think you’re right.”  She responded in mock agreement.
“I’m sorry Captain Harrin, but I think I’ll have to detain Mister, was it Garret?”  Henderson turned to Ryan in the same mock tone of voice.
“Oh come on, Tom!  That’s a load of bull and you know it!  You can’t convince anyone that Dayton would do something like that!”  Ryan was somewhat outraged.
“Don’t worry, sir, our security staff on Starbase 334 is a crack team.  They’ll have your man cleared by the end of the day.”  Griffin interjected reassuringly.
“I should’ve known better than to mess with SI.  Okay, I’ll do it.  But I want my man back.”  Ryan pointed his finger at the Admiral, emphasizing his last point.
“You got it, Ryan.  But you’ll have to stay mum about the whole affair.  You need to act like Molly is your replacement for this mission.  Even the guy we’re going to take out of the game.”  Henderson explained.
“You don’t have to read me the classified riot act, Tom.  I still remember my Starfleet days,” Ryan remembered one particular intelligence dodge he had to come up with that involved his wife’s underwear.  He grinned, “Tom, remember the Sol-Dominion Repulsion?”
“How could I forget?”  Tom asked, after turning away from the security officer that had escorted Harrin up here.  The officer left the room, “I’m still trying to get the hair back on my legs.”  Griffin did a take of wide-eyed curiosity.
“What?”  She asked, thinking Henderson had encountered some kind of chemical that had burned the hair off his legs.
“That’s classified, Commander.”  Henderson responded.
“I’m intelligence, sir, I’m probably cleared.”  She pressed further.
“Commander,” Henderson placed his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly way and put on a stern and frank demeanor, “You won’t be cleared until the day I die.”  She looked at him, confused.  His statement was quite discombobulating.
“Sir?  Under…”  Molly really wanted to know when Starfleet Intelligence started classifying data like that, and began asking, but Henderson had returned to his normal bearing and interrupted her.
“Captain Harrin, go ahead and return to your vessel.  I have already sent security to set these events in motion.  Commander Griffin, I want you to go down to Tradewinds.  Captain Harrin will come in there ‘looking for a temp.’”  Henderson gave instructions to the two with him.  They both immediately left the room.  Tom stood in the middle of the empty room staring at one of the screens near the ceiling.  It showed a map of the sector, and the ship movements therein.  He stared at it, thinking about what he just set into motion.
“Let’s hope this works.”

Stardate: 57880.8
SS Cutty Sark

Tyson Paine just closed the last crate.  He had been standing in the cargo bay inspecting every crate and inventorying everything here.  It was actually less inventorying and more trying to figure out whether or not someone was smuggling an item aboard, or something of that sort, that would cause the Cutty Sark to be in danger or to get in trouble with Federation law.  That was the job of the Chief of Security.  He had been a security officer during the Dominion War; in fact he was Captain Harrin’s Chief of Security on the Iowa. That’s how they knew each other, and that’s how Tyson ended up on this ship.
The Payload Specialist was in charge of inventories.  However, due to some of the interesting things they have found while doing inventories, the captain felt it was best for the Chief of Security to do this.  Paine usually liked to do the inventories as the crates are coming on to the ship, that way it doesn’t distract him from his duties.  But he had a run-in with Station Security.  They were telling him that Dayton Garret was a suspect in an assault.  He couldn’t believe anyone would think of Dayton that way.  He was one of the nicest, most personable individuals.  There was no possible way he could have assaulted anyone.
A few minutes later, he entered the bridge of the Cutty Sark.  This room wasn’t much.  Just three stations in front, helm, sensors and communications.  The Captain’s chair was in the middle with three stations behind it, Payload Specialist, Security, and engineer.  The bridge wasn’t always like this, the stations used to be spread around the walls and the Captain was at the helm station.  Paine suspected that Harrin had rearranged the bridge to be more like a Starfleet bridge.  The adage was true, a Starfleet captain never retires.  He proceeded to his station and handed off a PADD to the Payload Specialist.
“Thanks, Tyson,” John Feriman accepted the PADD, glanced at it, and then set it down.  Then he leaned towards Paine and whispered, “Hey, Tyson, what do you think about our new sensors operator?”  Feriman asked, indicating Molly Griffin.
“I don’t think I can trust her, John.  There’s just something about her that’s not right,” He stared at her back, her brown flowing hair falling around her shoulders as she worked her station, “I mean, don’t you think it’s a bit odd that security hauls off Dayton, and then the Captain goes into the Starbase bar and just happens to find a perfect replacement?”
“Yeah, how do you suppose she got onto Starbase 334?”  Feriman asked him.
“I don’t know.  But, speaking as a retired Starfleet officer, it’s kind of odd for someone who has no connection with either Starfleet or a vessel that trades at that station to be on that station.”  He answered.
“Captain, we are entering Cardassian space.  Approximately one hour until we arrive at Senit Nor.”  Ms. Griffin spoke up, turning around to face Ryan.  Harrin acknowledged her, and she turned back, making the briefest of eye contact with Tyson.  Tyson tried to read her eyes, her expression.  But it was too brief, and she was too emotionless.
“She’s apprehensive.”  Tyson commented.
“Heard it in her voice?”  John asked.
“No.  She’s tapping on her console.”  John looked over and saw her fingers doing an impressive roll on the edge of the console.
“She looked at you,” Tyson moved his head side-to-side, affirming John’s observation, “Did you see any apprehension?”
“No, she’s a blank slate,” The hand Molly had been using to tap on the console clenched into a fist and returned to the console.  She showed no further signs of emotion.  She actually looked quite bored, “The only people I have seen like that are Starfleet Officers.  I mean, listen to how she reported our location.  That’s not the way most civilians would do it.”  Tyson rationalized, burning his gaze into her back.
“I think you’re getting paranoid,” John dismissed him, “a civilian who wants to impress a new boss would do that.”
“No, hear me out,” Tyson had just figured something, as he waved his finger at John, “You see, she was in a bar on the station.  I’m a civilian, but I do things the Starfleet way because I used to be a Starfleet officer.  She’s a civilian, but she does things the Starfleet way because she was a Starfleet officer.  My guess is that she did something that got her dismissed from Starfleet, and she was in the bar to drown her sorrows around the time the Captain came in.”
“Yep, you’re paranoid,” John replied calmly, retrieving the PADD Tyson handed him earlier, “I’ve been thinking about asking her out myself.  She’s hot.”  Tyson shot him a dark look, snorted, and went back to his work.
As per Ms. Griffin’s predictions, the Cutty Sark pulled into Senit Nor within the hour.  The Helm had brought them into the old Cardassain mining station.  This particular design was the one that made Deep Space Nine obsolete to the Cardassians.  The Cutty Sark docked with no trouble.  Captain Harrin assigned Paine and Griffin to retrieve the new supplies.  His excuse was that he wanted Paine to inventory the h’sencar before it got onto the ship.  The Payload Specialist was going to go close the deal, and the Engineer, Helm, and the Captain were going to go check out a relay to one of the thrusters.  The only crewmembers left were Griffin and the Communications crewman.  The Comm person had to stay behind in case they got any messages from anyone.  So Griffin was sent with Paine to help bring the crates in.  They all split off to do their various duties.  John, Molly, and Tyson arrived at the end of the docking arm to be met by two Cardassian officials.
“That is Gil Samgar.  I do most of my dealings with him.”
“Don’t you men Glen Samgar?”  Tyson read the insignia on his uniform.
“Maybe he got promoted.”  Molly interjected.
“That’s a demotion.”  Tyson eyed Molly suspiciously, if she was a Starfleet officer, then why would she be so incompetent at the Cardassian rank system?  “You say you’ve never seen the other guy?”  Tyson asked as the Glen pointed them out to the other man with him, and they started coming over.
“No.”  John responded, preparing to meet them.
“He’s a Ri’ta Gul.  That’s about equivalent to Rear Admiral Lower Half.”  Tyson whispered incredulously.  Taking a quick glance at Molly.  Her eyes were doing a dart around the room, taking everything in.
“That’s why we bring you along on these,” John barely had enough time to whisper to Tyson before the Ri’ta Gul and Glen Samgar were in range, “Greetings, Glen.”
“Greetings Mr. Feriman,” Glen Samgar responded, “This, Gul, is John Feriman, the Cutty Sark has done all of their dealings through him.  This man is Tyson Paine, he is the security official of the Cutty Sark.  I don’t know who this woman is.”
“Molly Griffin.  I’m temping as sensors.”  She responded, extending her hand.
“Ms. Griffin, where were you assigned before coming aboard the Cutty Sark?”  The Ri’ta Gul moved in towards Molly, getting awfully close.  His cold face staring straight down into her eyes.
“I am the First Mate on a merchant vessel undergoing maintenance,” She boldly, almost defiantly, stared straight back into his eyes.  Neither of them blink, “The Starbase 334 engineers were hired, and I was left behind to coordinate their efforts.”
“So you came from Starbase 334?”  His gaze bore straight into her, searching her eyes.  She did not show any sign of emotion, her demeanor was just as cold and empty as his.
“To here, yes.  I don’t usually spend time there.”  There was a silence as their stares were locked at each other, waiting for the other to flinch, daring the other to blink.
“Gul, I do not believe we’ve met.”  Paine intervened, sensing the hostility between the two, extending his hand.
“Ri’ta Gul Rinkad.  Superior officer of this sector.”  He finally broke his gaze away from Griffin, and turned it to Paine.  But he didn’t take his hand.
“It’s a pleasure, Gul.  Mister Feriman here will handle the business dealings.  Miss Griffin and I will go down and get the goods.”  Tyson took a step forward, to be stopped by Rinkad’s extended hand.
“You will be escorted by Glinn Yistin,” Rinkad pointed to another Cardassian, even creepier than Rinkad.  Nobody had noticed him as of yet, but he carried a book under one arm, “Recent pirate activity in this sector.  We need to keep an eye on the people we let into our cargo bays.”  He spoke coldly, then turned around and left the area.  Yistin motioned Griffin and Paine towards him.
Paine hated this situation, something was definitely not right.  The last time he had that instinct, he ended up in an intense firefight.  Fastening on the bearing he had developed as a Starfleet Security Officer, he marched forward, Griffin perfectly at his side.  This was the first time he felt a sense of trust in her.  She had survived a mental beating by a Cardassian flag officer, and she had survived well.  If they got into a tiff, he knew he could rely on her nerves.
“You did well against that Ri’ta Gul back there.  Most people would have broken down.”  Tyson whispered to her just before they got within to Yistin’s hearing.
“Thanks,” she smiled openly, “I had a stern father.”  They both headed straight for Yistin.
“Come with me.”  He responded coldly.  Then turned and marched down the corridor.  After glancing at each other, Griffin and Paine followed.  Griffin couldn’t help but to notice the book Yistin was carrying.  It had a symbol on the front that made a chill run up her spine.  The Obsidian Order.  She knew she had to get that book away from him somehow.  Her gut told her that whatever it was she was looking for, that was it.
After wandering through the station, travelling through a few turbolifts.  They arrived in the musty and dark cargo bay.
“How many crates?”  He asked, with definite distaste in his work.
“I, don’t know.  Let me go check.”  Paine turned and began to leave the cargo bay.  Just before he left the room, he turned around and looked at Molly.  Should I leave her with him?  I guess she’s competent, she can handle him.  He left.
Yistin was thoroughly frustrated.  He slammed his book down on top of one of the crates, Molly eyed the book, trying to figure out something to do.  Getting an idea, she loosened the collar on her shirt, and rolled up her sleeves.  Then she fluffed her hair, then threw her head back.  Glancing up, she saw that Yistin was watching her, almost greedily.  She smiled at him, then walked across the cargo bay and retrieved an antigrav cart.  She pushed it to the crates, slinking across the room.  She stopped the cart right next to the pile of crates.  Then turning to give Yistin a perfect profile view of her, she stretched her arms, arching her back.  Then she asked him, in a half-tired voice.
“Is this h’sencar?”  She pointed at a crate on the pile.
“Everything here, ma’am.”  She could see in his eyes that he was weakening to her strategy.  He pointed at all of the piles of crates.  She nodded, smiled at him again and gave him a half-glance.  Then she reached over to pick up one off a pile.  Suddenly she saw a hand next to her.  She looked quickly at it’s owner, seeing Yistin with a twisted smile on his face.  All his smile did was make him look uglier, if that could be possible.
“Please, ma’am, allow me,”  He indicated that he wanted to pick up the crate for her.  She allowed a wide grin to cross her face.  She stepped back while he lifted the crate and placed it on the cart.  Then he opened the box, and removed a bolt of the fabric, “This is the finest fabric in the Alpha Quadrant.”
Why is he bragging about cloth?  She thought, while she extended her hand and ran it over the fabric, “It is quite…soft.”  She said in her half-tired, drawling voice.  On the last word she looked into his eyes.  He struck her as quite unattractive.  No wonder why he took the bait, no woman has ever acted like this around him.  He leaned forward, his face getting closer to hers.  Who said death is the ultimate sacrifice!
Their lips touched.  Griffin did her best to act like she was enjoying this moment.  The bolt of cloth dropped, and her hands began to feel around his body.  He wrapped his arms around her, and their kiss became more passionate.  Hey!  This isn’t even the first date!
“What is going on here!”  Tyson had returned, with John at his shoulder.  In a split-second, Molly immediately broke the embrace, and swung around flail armed, catching the book and sending it flying into the open crate sitting on the antigrav cart.  Before anyone had a chance to see the book had changed his location, she ran over and slammed the crate shut.
“Thank you, Glinn.  It looks like everything is here.”  She straightened her uniform, closing up the neck of it.  She stood straight, trying to make it look like she was embarrassed Tyson came in.  In reality, she was relieved.  Tyson marched over to him, and leaned in to her.  Speaking in a stern whisper.
“What are you thinking?  Recreating with a Cardassian Officer while you’re supposed to be doing a job?”  She gave him a dumb look.
“How many crates?”  Yistin was back to himself, except he was now standing next to Molly, seeming to take a defensive posture on her behalf.
“Twenty.”  Paine’s voice lowered the temperature a couple degrees Celsius.
“They’re right here.”  Yistin responded aggressively, pointing at the pile.  Then he headed to the door of the bay.  He turned around suddenly, eyeing the spot where he left his book.  He looked concerned.  Looking at Molly, he appeared to almost be ready to say something.  Then he eyed John and Tyson, then proceeded out of the room.  Tyson turned to her.
“That was brilliant, Miss Griffin!”  He was almost to the point of laughter.
“It was?”  His reaction somewhat took Molly off guard.
“Yeah, soften the guy up before he has a chance to attack you!  Oh, the advantages of being a woman.”  He was shaking his head, smiling endlessly at what just happened.
“What do you say we get these crates on the ship and get out of here before that Ri’ta Gul finds something to keep us here?”  John asked Tyson.
“Yeah, Miss Griffin, I’m going to assume you already inspected this crate.”  He indicated the one on the cart, the one with that intelligence she had just “gathered.”
“Yeah, it has nothing but cloth in it.”  She responded.  Over the next half an hour, they opened nineteen more crates and loaded them on the cart.  Then they pushed it down to the Cutty Sark.

Stardate: 57881.3
Starbase 334 Situation Room

“Listen sharp, guys.  The Cardassians are missing something they think is aboard the Cutty Sark,” Admiral Henderson barged into the room from the Bridge.  In there was the remainder of the crew of the Nathan Hale, “They are very interested in getting this thing back.  They are telling us to make sure no one goes into the cargo bay of the Cutty Sark until they have a chance to search it.”
“The work of Commander Griffin.”  Captain Smith immediately concluded.  The five officers were grouped around the table in the middle of the room.  Captain Smith was standing in the middle of his crew, crowded on one end.  Admiral Henderson leaned his hands on the other.
“That’s what I’m guessing.  I don’t know her that well, though.”  He looked at Smith, to get his opinion.
“I’ve worked with Molly for three years, sir.  She’s good.”  He responded.
“That’s all I need to know.  So here’s what’s going to happen,” Henderson straightened up and started walking around the room.  The crew of the Nathan Hale cast their gaze around to watch him, “I am going to take security on to the bridge of the Cutty Sark and make a big deal.  You gentlemen are going to take a gander at the Cargo bay.  If you find anything that looks like the Cardassians would be making a big deal over, take it.”
“Admiral, it would be prudent if this document is not the only item we retrieve from the Cutty Sark.”  Lieutenant Sivinh, the Vulcan tactical officer of the Nathan Hale spoke up.
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?”  The Admiral paused near the tables facing the screen, behind the crew of the Nathan Hale who had turned to face him.
“I mean, sir.  If we remove a few bolts of h’sencar from the cargo bay, then we would have the perfect cover for when the Cardassians find out someone has been in the cargo bay before them.”  Sivinh explained placidly.
“I agree,” Henderson resumed his pace around the room, “The Cutty Sark should be here in five minutes.  The Cardassians are sending a Keldon-class vessel.”
“Keldon-class!”  Ensign Rachel Goeres, the Conn officer, spoke out, “Isn’t that a bit much?”
“Of course, not Ensign.  It is perfectly logical to send a large warship to recover a valuable document.”  Sivinh responded.
“Certainly, we’d send the Enterprise to find something if we lost it.”  Lieutenant Junior Grade Robert Samp responded.
“I’d take the Nathan Hale over the Enterprise on any intelligence mission.”  Captain Smith spoke proudly.
“Captain, at the moment anyone would take anything over the Enterprise on any kind of a mission.  Half of her saucer section went missing a week ago, if you don’t recall,” Henderson responded, talking about the events in Romulan space last week that involved the Enterprise and the Scimitar, “Anyhow, we don’t need to worry about the Cardassian warship.  I’m going to have the Zebulon Pike hound her every move.  If they do anything stupid, the Pike will whomp on them.”  Admiral Henderson’s combadge keyed in, and Captain James called over.
“Admiral, the Cutty Sark has just put into port.”
“Understood, Captain.  Have security meet me there,” he closed the line, “Now we get to work.”

SS Cutty Sark

“Captain, Starbase 334 is telling us that we are to stay at our stations and not let anyone in the cargo bay until further notice.”  The communications officer reported to Captain Harrin.
“Really?  I wonder why?”  Harrin mused just moments before Henderson barged into the room.
“Captain Harrin, what in the name of Olympus Mons were you thinking?”  Henderson and two security officers cruised on to the bridge, Henderson’s voice raised.  He startled everyone on the bridge, “You leave gathering intelligence up to Starfleet Intelligence.  You, as a civilian, are to never take the law into your own hands!”
“What are you talking about, Admiral?”  Harrin asked, insulted.
“I just got off the line with Ri’ta Gul Rinkad.  He’s my counterpart on the other side of the border.  He says that the Cutty Sark may be carrying documents of a ‘highly sensitive nature’ and are ‘crucial to the survival of the Union.’  Perhaps you can tell me what the hell he’s talking about!”  Henderson advanced on Harrin, who got on his feet.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about!  And I would appreciate it if you didn’t use fowl language on my bridge!”  Harrin advanced on Henderson, hoping to re-establish his dominance.
“You haven’t seen fowl language yet, Captain,” Henderson spat the last word out as if it had a bad taste in his mouth, “Who did you send down to the cargo hold of Senit Nor?”
“Griffin and Paine, Admiral.”  Harrin gave his courtesy an equal sense of distaste.
“Griffin!  Paine!  Get your asses over here!”  Henderson shouted.  They dared not to disobey him, standing immediately and running to his position.  They both had to suppress the urge so salute, Tyson because he was retired, Molly because she wasn’t supposed to be an officer.
“Admiral Henderson…”  Harrin was about to protest Henderson’s abuse of his officers, and use of abusive language.
“Captain, take your opinions some place where someone will care.  Flushing them down the head comes to mind,” Henderson shouted between the two crewmen standing in front of him, “And, by the way, I am taking these two for questioning.  Really, Captain, you need to start controlling your crew.  Three of your ranks have had to come chat with my security.  Boys, take them to the Situation Room.”  Henderson addressed the security detachment with him.  They marched off the bridge.

Starbase 334 Situation Room

“Okay, have a seat,” Henderson had led Griffin and Paine to the tables by the screen.  The lights in this room had been dimmed to about a fourth of what they were supposed to be.  It was very difficult to see anyone beyond the Admiral, who seemed to be perfectly illuminated, in fact, their part of the room seemed perfectly illuminated, “Mister Paine, I’ll have you know that you’re not in trouble.  Miss Griffin has a history of medaling in affairs that do not concern her.  I just want to know what happened out there.”
Paine looked shocked.  He took a look at Molly, who had her chin high.  She looked proud that she had just broken a law, “Well, sir, nothing really happened.  I left for a moment to find out how many crates…”
“How long is a moment?”  Admiral Henderson cut off Tyson.
“Ten, maybe twenty mintues.”  He answered, looking at Molly, completely unsure about the time he was gone.
“That’s more than a moment, Paine.”  Henderson sternly corrected.
“Okay, I was gone for several moments, Admiral.  What difference does it make?”  Tyson could not believe someone of the caliber of Griffin could be accused of breaking a law, and he wanted to defend her.
“It’s a difference in the fact that it was long enough for her to fly the coup with Cardassian Military secrets!”  Henderson raised his voice, then calming down he asked, “What was she doing when you got back?”
Again, Tyson looked unsure.  He took another glance at Molly, “Making out with a Cardassian Officer.”
Henderson couldn’t believe he heard that.  He looked at her, dumbfounded.  His bearing was completely destroyed out of shock, “Making out with a Cardassian Military Officer?”  He saw her nod her head, matter-of-factly.  Tom blinked.  He then dropped his head slightly, still looking at Molly, and gave her a look that asked “Was that really necessary?”
“I thought he was quite, attractive.”  She responded, thinking I am so lying through my Spoon-head saliva painted-teeth.  Tom rolled his eyes.
“Sir, the Officer was an intimidating individual.  Miss Griffin had to act preemptively to protect herself.”  Tyson was determined to defend her.
“Mister Paine, preemptive is a term we use for soldiers, not sluts,” the Admiral responded, nearly exasperated, “I have heard enough out of you.  Return to your vessel.”
“But, sir!”  He just knew in his bones that Griffin was going to be punished for a crime he did not believe she did.
“Dismissed, Tyson.  You do still remember what that means, right?”  He glared at him, forcing him to stand down.  The Admiral then turned his attention to the security guards, “Gentlemen, please go release mister Garret from the brig.  Now that we have the real attacker in our custody, I believe we can release the Cutty Sark’s sensors operator to them.”  After making this comment, Tyson and the security detachment left.  The lights went to full, and Captain Smith and his crew emerged from the far side of the room, where they were hidden by darkness.  Captain Smith had a book under one arm.
“Admiral, would you happen to have any mouthwash?”  Commander Griffin asked him calmly.
“No, why?”  He replied.
“That Cardassian tongued me!”  She replied in disgust.  Everyone broke out into laughter, “Yeah, sure, laugh.  I should receive a medal for what I did over there.  Allowing myself to fall to that creep in the name of intelligence!”
“A medal?”  Henderson asked between laughs, “For what?  Going above and below the call of duty?”
“Seriously, Commander, how did you get this?”  Captain Smith spoke up, placing the book on the table.  He left the Obsidian Order’s emblem show to everyone in the room.
“I got the guy who had it in a…disadvantaged situation.  Then I swiped the book and dropped it in a crate of h’sencar.”  She explained.
“Have you looked it over, Captain.”  Henderson asked?
“Yes, sir.  The Computer was able to translate it easily.  Apparently the Cardassians put it in German instead of encrypting it.  That kind of makes sense, since only the massive libraries of a Federation Starbase would be able to translate that data.  The Cardassians certainly wouldn’t have a translation capability, as most of the sophants in the Alpha Quadrant.”  Smith explained, “But I haven’t read the translation.”  Captain James poked her head into the room.
“Sorry to interrupt, Captain, but the Ikidar, you know, that Keldon we’ve been expecting.  Yeah, it’s here.”  She stood by the door and waited for an answer.
“See what you can do to delay their docking for the next five minutes,” She nodded and returned to the bridge, “Captain Smith now would be a good time to get out of here.”
“Aye, sir,” Smith retrieved the book, and his entire crew left the room quickly, almost running, “Oh, Commander Griffin, we have your uniform in the Nathan Hale.  You can change once we get out of here.”  He told her just before the exited the door.
“Thank you sir, I’ve been wanting to get out of…”  Henderson didn’t hear her finish her sentence, the doors closed between them and him.  He silently counted out five sets of sixty.  It probably wasn’t anywhere near five minutes, because he spent a couple of seconds at each number.  But that didn’t bother him, the Nathan Hale needed all the time they could get.  Hoping for the best, he straightened his uniform and headed straight onto the bridge.
He was greeted by the image of Captain James trying to talk down a Cardassian official.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I need the Admiral’s permission before docking any foreign vessel.”  Captain James was talking to what looked like a very infuriated Cardassian Gul.
“What, Captain, is keeping the good Admiral?”  You could tell “Good Admiral” was almost sarcastic.
“I don’t know what’s keeping him, sir, that’s above my pay grade!”  She responded to the hostile Gul.
“What’s going on here.”  Admiral Henderson spoke up, approaching the center of the bridge.
“Ah, here he is now, Gul,” James indicated the Admiral, and whispered to him, “Gul Ekat of the Ikidar, Admiral.  Good luck.”
“Thank you, Captain, you’ve done a great service to your nation,” he whispered back to her, “Gul Ekat, greetings.  What can I do for you.”
“Admiral Henderson, I have a Glinn Yistin here from the Cardassian Military.  He has been asked by Ri’ta Gul Rinkad to investigate the Cutty Sark. Now, I demand that the Federation stop delaying and you get this ship docked now!”  The Gul shouted.
“I see, well this shouldn’t have taken so long, Gul.  If you had just had my adjutant send me a message, we could have avoided this whole mess.”  Henderson spoke to the Gul cheerfully.
“Admiral, you’re adjutant is in the brig.”  James stood off to the side, she seemed confused.
“Oh, really?”  He looked at her, looking through narrow eyes, racking his senile brain.  He leaned in towards her, “When did that happen?”
“Admiral!”  Gul Ekat protested.
“Oh, right,” Henderson straightened back up, restoring his bearing, “Operations, dock him.”
“Aye, sir.”  The Chief of Ops responded.
“Oh, and Admiral, Glinn Yistin wants a Molly Griffin to meet him at the docking port of the Cutty Sark.”  The Gul continued.
“Right, security.”  Henderson responded.
“Sir, Griffin is also in the brig.”  James replied again.
“Well, then get her out!”  Henderson shouted.
“But, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Eric Rheb spoke up from the Chief Security station, “Griffin is being interrogated for hacking.  It would be a bad idea to stop that, it would relieve the pressure.”
“I understand, Admiral.”  Ekat smiled.
“You do?”  Henderson was caught of guard.
“I am a Cardassian, Admiral.  I understand that pressure is key to interrogation.”  His crooked grin spread even further, “I hope we meet again, Admiral.  I like your style.”  The line closed.  Everyone on the bridge let out their breath.
“That was close,” Henderson turned to James, “My aide is in the brig?”
“I figured it would be best if we had an excuse for when the Cardassians found out that you don’t have an adjutant.”  James responded.
“I don’t have an adjutant?”  Henderson was shocked.
“No, sir.”  James grinned, recognizing the act.
“How did I miss that?”  He began to leave the bridge, “How did I miss that?  I could have sworn I had an adjutant!”  He slipped through the door to the hallway.

SS Cutty Sark Docking Arm

Henderson arrived at the port the Cutty Sark was moored at.  There, two security officers, and three Cardassians stood, waiting for the Admiral.  One was a Glinn, another was a Ja’rel, and the third was a Chi.  One officer and an enlisted posse.  The Cardassians don’t do anything different from us.
“You must be Glinn Yistin, I am Admiral Henderson, Sector Commander.”  Henderson extended a hand towards the Cardassian.  Yistin, keeping in his tradition with every Starfleet officer to date, did not take Henderson’s hand.  He just stared at him with a blank and cold expression.
“Where is Griffin?”  The Cardassian asked, in a cold voice.
“She’s currently being interrogated for being a hacker.”  Henderson watched his expression.  A flash of anger went through his eyes.  I think Commander Griffin and Glinn Yistin have met, “Shall we get this inspection over with?”  He motioned towards the door into the docking arm.
“Fine.  But I want to ask her a few questions when we are done.”  His cold voice sent a chill down Henderson’s spine.
“I’m sure my security officers would be willing to slip those questions in, while they’re interrogating her,” Henderson offered.  He received a very cold and penetrating look, “Or I can arrange a meeting for when you have completed your inspection.”  He looked satisfied.  How am I going to do that?
They walked inside the door, and waiting for them was Tyson Paine.
“Admiral, I think you should know that someone was in our cargo bay around the time you came aboard.”  He reported, professionally.
“Admiral Henderson, you promised no entry.”  Yistin rounded on him.
“Bridge, this is Admiral Henderson.  Stop all vessels docking or undocking!  Have any vessels left within the last half hour?”  Henderson tapped his combadge and shouted his orders.
“Just the Nathan Hale, sir.”  The voice, it sounded like Captain James, responded.
“Get them back here!”  He was hoping nobody would bring up the Nathan Hale, but there’s nothing he can do now.
“We have no clue where they are, sir.”
“Then send the Wyatt Earp to look for them!  Just get them back!”  He tapped the combadge again to close it off, “Glinn, I will have Starfleet Security look through all of the ships, if you want.”
“No.  If anyone else had taken that document, they would have left as soon as possible.  When this Nathan Hale returns, I will search that ship.  That is assuming we don’t find anything here,” Yistin replied, monotonically, “Now, let’s get on with this investigation.”
They proceeded into the cargo bay of the Cutty Sark.  Admiral Henderson stood near the door, which had two Starbase 334 security officers posted at it, and watched as Yistin and his men searched the crates.  The Ja’rel opened a crate where the bolts of fabric were messed up.  He turned to his superior, and said something in Cardassian.  Yistin walked over, responded something else in their language, and watched the Ja’rel as he began counting the bolts of fabric.
“Admiral, you might want to inform Captain Harrin that he has been robbed six bolts of h’sencar,” Yistin straightened up and walked towards Henderson, glaring at him, “But we did not find the document.”
“Well, if the Cutty Sark is short six bolts of fabric, then perhaps that is why someone came in here.”  Henderson conjectured.
“Six bolts of fabric, Admiral?  Who would steal just six bolts of h’sencar?”  Yistin asked, disbelievingly.
“Maybe a tailor who needed some h’sencar to hold him over.”  Henderson coolly supported his conjection.  Then Henderson’s combadge chirped.
“Admiral Henderson, the Nathan Hale is now in Shuttlebay four.”  Captain James’ voice called out.
“Thank you, Captain.  Have them confined to the vehicle, we will be there as soon as possible.”  Henderson looked to Yistin, about to invite him to Shuttlebay four.
“Already done, sir.  Security will meet you there.  James out.”
“Glinn Yistin, do you want to come to the Shuttlebay?”  Admiral Henderson offered, quite hospitably.
“Yes, Admiral.  I would like to see this Nathan Hale.”  Yistin’s cold voice once again chilled the air.
Henderson, his two security officers, Yistin, and his posse all arrived at Shuttlebay 4.  There were security officers wandering around the cavernous room.  Ahead was a Type-11 looking shuttle, with four officers, dressed in command uniforms, standing in a line beside it, being watched by security.  Henderson led them to this vessel.
“Captain Smith.”  Henderson addressed the man to the right of the center of the line, “This is Glinn Yistin.  He will be searching your ship.”  Smith looked somewhat concerned.
“Admiral, has Starfleet started commissioning shuttlecraft?”  Yistin asked Henderson, examining the Nathan Hale.
“This is a Starfleet Intelligence vessel, Glinn.”  Smith eyed Henderson, somewhat annoyed.
“I see,” Henderson could just hear Yistin forming conclusions in his mind.  Conclusions Henderson did not want Yistin forming, “Well, since it is intelligence we are looking for, and we don’t want you to see.  I will respect the Federation intelligence.  I will have one of this ship’s officers with me.”
“Admiral, you’re not going to let a Cardassian national board a SI vessel, are you?”  Smith blared out, breaking the line.
“Listen, Captain, you heard the Glinn.  He’s going to respect our secrets.  Besides, we have nothing to hide.”  I hope.  Henderson assured him, “In fact, Captain.  I want you to escort him around the Nathan Hale.  Give him your full cooperation.”
“Aye, sir.”  Smith glared at Henderson for a moment, then led the three Cardassians into the shuttle.  Henderson paced around nervously for about fifteen minutes.  He had sent the book off with the Nathan Hale.  It was bound to be on the Nathan Hale.  He kept proposing scenarios in his head, and shooting them down.  The most feasible one he could have come up with is that the book was transported into the emergency transport buffer.  He had hoped that’s what Captain Smith did.  Finally Yistin walked out of the shuttle with Smith.
“Well, Admiral.  Nothing’s here,” Yistin’s statement shocked Henderson, he stood straight up, curious to know what had happened, “I served in the Dominion War.  I know all of the Federation’s tricks.  Store things in the pattern buffer, store the pattern but spread everything else out into space, beam it into the middle of space then come back and get it.  Hide it near the warp core, oh I’ve seen it all, Admiral.  There is no document here, I am sure of that.  In fact, Admiral, since you have been cooperating so much, I am convinced that this book is nowhere near this station.”  Yistin gave Henderson a crooked grin.  Tom couldn’t help but get the impression that Yistin had done something underhanded, there was something wrong with his eyes, “But I still want to interview Ms. Griffin.”  This was the first time Tom noticed Molly was gone.
“Very well, Glinn,” he leaned to the security guards and whispered, “take him to the brig.  And take the scenic route.”  He stood up, smiled at Yistin, who returned the courtesy.  The security officer motioned the Glinn onward, and they left the shuttlebay.”
“Wow, that was fun.”  Smith commented.  Herschell rounded on him.
“Where is the book, and where is Commander Griffin?”  He asked.
“On the Wyatt Earp.  They came looking for us.  When they got to our position, we sent Molly with that book and the English translation of that book on a PADD through the Wyatt Earp’s transporters.  The Nathan Hale doesn’t know a thing.  We figured it would be checked out.  Moreover, we figured that a Cardassian officer might recognize Commander Griffin.  So we sent her with.”  Smith explained.
“Where was the Wyatt Earp headed?”  Henderson let out a breath of relief as he found out that Captain Smith had given the Cardassian military the slip.
“We told them to go to the Zebulon Pike in the most covert way they could.  That way the Ikidar can’t stop them and search them on the way back home.”  Smith had to lower his voice as a couple of security guards walked past.
“Wait, the Zebulon Pike is under orders to not lower their shields.  That way nothing can get aboard.”  Henderson informed Smith.
“Oh, shield harmonics is a funny subject, sir.  If your shield frequency matches another, you can slip right through.”  Smith assured the Admiral.
“Get a hold of the Wyatt Earp and tell them to beam her directly to our brig as soon as they get here.  Leave the book in the possession of Captain Matthews.”  Henderson instructed him.
“Aye, sir.”  Smith headed straight for the Wyatt Earp.  Henderson left the room and proceeded straight to the brig.

Starbase 334 Brig

Tom took the most expeditious route to the Brig as he possibly could.  He was almost worn out when he arrived at the door that led into the entire brig network.  He turned and entered into a long, narrow corridor.  Coming to the first door on the right, he entered the interrogation room.  There was Glinn Yistin, his two assistants, the two security officers Henderson had sent with them, and three others that were keeping the brig.  Also standing there was Molly Griffin in her uniform.
Ah shit.  I didn’t think of that one.  Henderson suddenly realized that he should have had her beamed over in civilian clothing.  He watched as she leaned forward and touched one of the brig-keeper’s combadges.  Then she lowered her arm, and stood straight behind the interrogation desk.
“Excellent,” Yistin said with much satisfaction.  He turned to the other two brig-keepers, who were chatting in a far corner of the room, “Lieutenant, it’s your turn.”  The Admiral watched curiously as the officer strolled over to stand in front of Molly.  Molly looked uncertain, “Go on, Ms. Griffin.”  Yistin egged her on.  She leaned forward, with a sense of apprehension.  It was as if she expected that combadge to blow up as soon as she touched it.  She paused for a second, her finger shaking, a centimeter away from the badge.  Finally she leaned foward and her finger made contact with its surface.  Nothing happened.  Griffin stood there in shock, as her hand fell back to her side.
“Very well, Ms. Griffin,” Yistin’s voice rang with a cold-hearted satisfaction, “Now, tell me.  Did you take that book?”  He leaned in, getting very close to her face, glaring at her all the while.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about, Glinn.”  Molly responded desperately.  She looked like she was on the verge of tears.
“I said: Did you take that book?”  The Glinn raised his voice, shouting in the most despotic format possible.
“I told you,” she cried out, tears beginning to stream down her face, “I don’t know what book you’re talking about.”
“Where is the book?”  The Glinn was yelling even louder now.
She slammed her hands on the table, tears coming out her eyes quite openly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”  She collapsed into the chair behind the table, and her head fell into her hands, and sobs could be heard.  Yistin stood up, and looked at Admiral Henderson.  He walked towards the door, his aides and the security detachment assigned to him following him.
“Thank you for letting me question her, Admiral.  I will be returning to Cardassian space now,” he looked back at the pathetic heap sobbing on the table, “Back on Cardassia, impersonating an officer gets the death penalty.”  He looked back, “Have a good day, Admiral.”  He walked out.
“I thought I told you to take the scenic route,” Tom whispered to one of the security officers on the way out.
“I tried.  But he knows the layout of this station too well for me to succeed.”  He left.
Tom turned back towards the room.  As soon as the doors closed, Griffin’s head popped up, the tears no longer coming.  She removed the combadge she was wearing, and one of the two officers who were talking in the corner when the Admiral came in, walked over, removing his and trading it with hers.  Then he and the other officer he conferred with traded, they all put their badges back on.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.  Although, I thought they had us when he wanted me to touch all four combadges in the room.”  Griffin spoke to the lieutenant jg who had just traded with the other security officer.
“We thought so as well, ma’am.  That’s why the ensign and I traded badges over there in the corner.”  He responded, smiling.
“That’s quick thinking, lieutenant.  Makes a good security officer.”  She complimented him.
“Makes a living security officer, ma’am.”  His dry, pointed tone, held no lies.  Commander Griffin laughed.
“Same with intelligence, lieutenant,” she turned to the Admiral as the three brig-keepers left the interrogation room, “How are you doing, Admiral?”
“At the moment, very relieved.  We just gave the entire Cardassian military the slight of hand.  I’m feeling very good.”  He walked over to the chair, and sat.  The stress of the inspection over.
“I know what you mean.  But still, this isn’t the first time I’ve pulled the wool over a foreign organization’s eyes.”  She sat on the table in front of him, Henderson’s combadge chirped.
“Admiral, this is Captain Smith.  The computer reports that Glinn Yistin just downloaded a whole shipload of information off of our mainframe.  The security protocols were essentially hacked.”  Admiral Henderson knew why he got the feeling Yistin was up to something.

to be continued…