Through a Mirror Darkly: A Reflection
Rated PG – 13
Category : Cross-Over, ST:Enterprise and Babylon 5
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Chapter 1
"Hull Impact! Forward bay, second level!"
"Full reverse. Seal off that section and dispatch repair crews," Alyt Ullor ordered tersely.
"Are there any other Earther ships in the area?" Ullor demanded.
"None, Alyt. Those cowards left no one behind to give honorable combat," Rii Ebak, his first officer, growled. "Reports coming in: a forward conduit ruptured. One dead, six more injured…." As she studied her console, her expression darkened even further. "No survivors from the Liandra."
"All stop." Alyt Ullor cursed the human terrorists. His Tenashi-class frigate, Shield of Faith, and her escort Liandra-class gunship had intercepted a distress call from a pair of Earth Alliance freighters that had allegedly been adrift after an ion storm – their jump engines had failed, their ion engines damaged.
His first, Rii Ebak, had warned him it might be a trick, similar to the one that Sheridan the Starkiller had used to murder the Drala Fi. She had warned him, but he had failed to listen. After all, the distress call had come from civilian ships, not military vessels. He could not simply abandon those helpless ships, human or not, to the void of space.
It was universal interstellar courtesy to rescue stranded passengers and crew. Surely, even the humans would recognize that…
And now his crew had paid the price for his miscalculation, and another Minbari vessel had been lost with all hands.
"My fault. All my fault," Ullor muttered bitterly.
"It was not your fault, Alyt!" Rii Ebak announced loudly – more for the benefit of the young bridge crew than her Alyt. A commander who loses the confidence of his crew is deadly in wartime. "You were responding to a distress call from unarmed, unescorted freighters with life signs onboard. You could not have known that they would detonate their fusion reactors like that at the last moment!"
Ullor shook his head glumly. "It is bad enough that their military make collision runs against our ships. Now they're using civilian vessels as suicide bombers! What is this war coming to, my friend?"
The quick victory the Gray Council had promised failed to materialize. While casualties were statistically light, public enthusiasm for the war waned as the conflict dragged on – and on, and on, and on, and on.
The change in human tactics did not help matters, as the humans shut down jump gates leading to every system the Minbari entered, slowing their advance.
And while the Warrior Caste continued to score victories, the humans were now denying direct combat to Minbari ships whenever they could. Instead, they now melted away into hyperspace whenever a Minbari fleet arrived in force, only to launch fierce counter-attacks later at isolated weak points in small groups, like ancient cavalry.
Such tactics would have been more effective if the Earthers had better ships, but they were still taking a toll on Minbari morale. Even in areas that were supposedly "pacified," the humans harassed Minbari patrol vessels with crude proximity mines, and Minbari ground warriors were savaged by suicide "people bombs" and various "IED's" (improvised explosive devices) that seemed to kill at random.
The Minbari Grand Fleet was still the mightiest war machine of the Younger Races, but it simply wasn't trained to fight this kind of enemy.
"The humans are a depraved species of fanatics and terrorists," Ebak spat bitterly. "We have known this since they murdered Dukhat in their cowardly terrorist attack."
Ullor nodded numbly – it was a date that would live in infamy. "I will report this incident to Shai Alyt Branmer. We cannot allow the humans to repeat this ploy elsewhere." No Minbari vessel would ever repeat the mistake of trying to assist another human ship again. "Ship status?"
"Jump engines are online," his operations officer reported. "The hull damage was nominal. Stealth and Gravitic fields functioning at full capacity, weapons availability at 92 percent. The main blast missed our drive fins completely."
"Very well. We will conduct repairs en-route." Alyt Ullor was anxious to get underway. Minbari long-range listening posts had detected anomalous readings in the Vor'ala system.
Ullor dearly hoped it turned out to be nothing, though that did nothing to settle his lingering dread. Was it the humans? If so, what have they done now?
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He had never considered himself to be an especially great soldier, yet here he was – a "lowly" Vulcan – and captain of an Imperial Battle Cruiser.
With the decommissioning of his previous NX-class ship following the Romulan War, Skon had only recently been promoted to Captain and received command of the ISS George W. Bush, named after one of Earth's greatest leaders.
At least by human standards. Apparently, the ship's namesake had assassinated his father to assume the Presidency of the United States and then conquered the United Islamic Republic in the early 21st Century….
As his mind wandered in the lift, Captain Skon was still puzzled by his curious elevation to this rank and the Admiral's cryptic new orders. The George W. Bush was a newer vessel, a Daedalus-class warship. As an engineer himself, he grudgingly acknowledged the lethal elegance of its design, a mass-produced copy of the powerful, multi-hulled configuration of Empress Sato's flagship, the re-christened ISS Imperator.
While the new Daedalus ships weren't nearly as powerful as the Imperator, they represented a gigantic improvement in Imperial design.
The engineering section was a cylinder six decks tall, which housed the ships heavy engineering equipment - the warp core, structural integrity and inertial damper field generator systems, shield generators, hangar bays, impulse drive. This hull was connected by a two-deck neck to a spherical primary hull, which housed the ship's main weapons, control areas, and crew provisions.
The new "phaser banks" were crushingly superior to the old phase cannons and field lasers, and the new deflector shields had three times the heat dissipation rate of polarized hull armor.
Even the crew accommodations where much improved compared to the old designs. The senior officers all had individual rooms, while enlisted personnel had barracks-style accommodations. Considering that previous Imperial Starfleet vessels slept everybody below the rank of Lieutenant Commander in hammocks hung wherever there was room, the Daedalus ships represented a quantum leap in luxury.
So why choose a Vulcan to command one?
Granted, the previous captain had fallen victim to one of Empress Sato's numerous political purges – and the list of qualified senior officers was already thin after losses sustained during the Rebellion and the Romulan War – but an Imperial ship under the command of a non-human was exceedingly rare.
A warship under the command of a non-human was unheard of.
To complicate matters further, Starfleet Command had placed him in charge instead of promoting the first officer, Commander Rick Berman. Unlike Captain Skon – an alien auxiliary who emerged from the engineering ranks – Commander Berman was a human from a prominent family on Mars, which explained his high rank.
However, his incompetence was also considerable, which perhaps explained Skon's placement on the ship over him…
But it also meant that Captain Skon needed to watch his back.
Entering the bridge, Berman remained seated in the bridge's command chair, lingering a few seconds longer than appropriate, before rising to acknowledge his captain. Skon supposed that Berman could have invented a more obvious insult, but one didn't spring readily to mind.
As the lift hissed shut behind him, Skon said, "Pilot, change course to Sector 12, the Cochran system, maximum warp."
Berman, Skon noted, did not step away from the command chair. "Sir, we've been assigned to patrol this sector for the next three weeks. The insurgents are still a threat."
As if I did not know. "We have new orders."
Berman's jaw tightened. "No communications have arrived from Starfleet Command."
This was, strictly speaking, true. The encrypted message from Admiral Archibald Paris came on a tight-beam subspace carrier wave that bypassed the Bush's communication system and went straight to Captain Skon's quarters.
Sometimes, an admiral needs to communicate with his commanders privately. There was no telling how many members of the bridge crew were paid moles for other rival admirals or senators.
Ignoring his first officer's objections, Captain Skon turned to his helmsman. "Is the course laid in?"
"Yes sir."
"Very well. Make it …"
"Belay that!" Berman snarled.
Skon's eyebrow twitched a centimeter – the equivalent of a Vulcan frown. I should have known. "Helm, execute at maximum warp, or your next station will be inside the Booth," Skon warned evenly. Although a recent innovation, the Booth was quickly becoming legendary for quelling insubordinate crew members.
Turning to Berman, Skon then replied, "That applies to you as well, Commander."
Berman practically shook with rage, his face assuming an interesting hue of pink and purple. "We've received no change in our orders!"
"We have not. I have," Skon corrected coldly. "This is official Starfleet business under orders from Sector Command, coming directly from Admiral Paris. This supercedes any authority, save that of Starfleet Headquarters or the Empress herself."
To Skon's satisfaction, the helmsman engaged warp drive as soon as Skon mentioned Admiral Paris.
Whereupon Berman unsheathed his phase pistol –
Before getting cut down by EM rifle blast from behind, his body crumpling to the floor in a heavy lump.
"Thank you, Corporal Becerra. Please escort Mr. Berman to the Booth." It was within Starfleet Regulations to have Berman executed immediately, but Skon opted not to for the moment – Berman's family was well-connected and might try to avenge his death.
Besides, Skon himself had never actually seen the booth in action, and he was curious to test it's effectiveness. And it would be illogical to execute an able-bodied crewman. No, better to reduce him in rank and sentence him to serve out the remainder of the tour toiling in the engineering compartment.
And if anything happened to Berman down there….well, accidents happened all the time.
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The Second Officer – now the First Officer, Lt. Robert April – grinned widely. "You've done a great service for this vessel today, Captain," he replied in his cheery Welsh accent. Commander Berman's fondness for flogging - even for trivial infractions - had not made him a beloved figure with the crew.
"I did nothing Mr. Berman did not bring upon himself," Skon said dismissively as he looked out at the distorted star field outside his quarters as the ship – his ship – cruised at warp. "How long until we reach the Cochran system?"
"Another 37 hours, sir."
"Speak with Engineering about increasing engine efficiency. I want us at that star system as soon as possible."
"Sir. May I ask what our new mission is?"
"We are going into action to preserve the Empire from it's enemies, Lt. Commander," Skon replied, making it clear that an elevation in rank would accompany his elevation in position, prompting a grin from April. "You'll know when the time is right. Dismissed."
Skon lingered alone in his quarters. He thought about meditating, but was far too agitated to concentrate clearly at the moment. In truth, even he wasn't sure why they were being sent to the Cochran system either…
Speculation is pointless. Far more logical to concentrate on factors within my control.
He earnestly hoped that his promotion of Lt. Commander April would not turn out to be a mistake. Although the skinny, pallid officer was extremely young, he had proven eager and highly competent – and the least likely amongst the senior officers to kill me in my sleep.
Even if he did, April was far too junior to command a warship, no matter the personnel crunch. Without any notable political sponsors to back him, it would only be a matter of time before Starfleet appointed someone else, even if he did take command. Mr. April was an astute officer – he had to know that. Did he not?
Nonetheless, Captain Skon slept with a paid MACO guard at his door and a fully charged phase pistol beneath his pillow that night, as he always did.
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Vice Admiral Paris watched the yawning hole in space with undisguised interest. "A passageway to another universe," he remarked with awe. In truth, he had never expected the trans-dimensional experiment to work.
However, after the treasure trove of shield and weapons technology gained from the extra-dimensional vessel taken from the Tholians, Empress Sato had appropriated lavish resources devoted to duplicating that experiment, using what data her extra-dimensional flagship had on the transition as a starting point.
"You doubted my ability?" Dr. Ling En-lai sneered, bristling at the denigration of her competency. "The quantum imprint from our probe telemetry proves it. The quantum signature of the space on the other side is out of synchronicity with our space."
"I doubted the ability of the Research Section to produce something that actually functions," Paris corrected. Starfleet was military organization, not a flock of stargazers: results mattered. "If this works, you'll get all the funding you ever need."
"Of course it works!" Ling snapped, eyes blazing. "We've sent two probes already."
"If I recall the technical briefing correctly, the Tholians created their rift on accident and were never able to duplicate their success," he said pointedly. "Even then, the only ship that ever made the transition got the hell torn out of it."
Dr. Ling lifted her chin defiantly. "The data we retrieved from the ship that crossed the rift gave us a big head start. If those overgrown grasshoppers hadn't been so eager to strip the ship for parts, they could have retrieved that data themselves." Her glossy lips twisted in a triumphant smile. "As it is, I was able to isolate the precise frequency at which to detonate a quantum singularity charge to open a rift of our own. We made the charge a big one, to ensure that this rift would be more stable."
Paris shrugged noncommittally. "We'll see. The real proof will be sending a canary down the coal mine," Paris observed mildly, his hazel eyes flickering with amusement. Ling's fiery temper didn't bother him at all; it made her more explosive in bed.
An annoyed voice interrupted their verbal foreplay. "Are you sure the canaries you're sending are up to the task?" Lt. General Georges Emile Picard grumbled. With his curly, dark brown locks closely trimmed, nothing obscured his scowling glare. "There are certainly plenty of other candidates to choose from," he said, gesturing toward the window at the 40-ship assault fleet Admiral Paris was gathering.
Paris grinned. It wasn't the craft that concerned Picard. "The George Bush is one of the new Daedalus boats, like every ship assembled here. Ship for ship, only Empress Sato's flagship has more firepower than them." He specifically hand-picked the Bush for this mission; he wanted his theory on incorporation to be proven right.
"It's your ill-advised choice of personnel that concerns me," Picard replied, scratching the imaginary itch on his prosthetic leg. He had lost it to a Romulan plasma mortar during the Ursula Minor Campaign. "After the Rebellion, why would you trust Vulcans aboard your ships? And promoting a Vulcan to Captain?" He shook his head in disgust. "Tabernac! They're nothing more than antiseptic Romulans! They would slit our throats at the first chance."
Admiral Paris sighed. He grew tired of rehashing the same arguments with knuckle-dragging tartars like General Picard. "Our manpower is stretched thin as it is. Suppressing the Rebellion and securing Romulus only solved our immediate problems. Nausican insurgents are still harassing the peripheral shipping lanes, the Tholians are still sparring with our border patrols, and don't even get me started on the Klingons."
The Admiralty had considered it a minor miracle they hadn't intervened during the Romulan War. No one expected the shaky truce with the Klingons to last much longer.
"Fully integrating the MACOs into ships operations would solve the problem," Picard insisted stridently.
Like many marine officers, Picard chaffed at the way Starfleeters treated them like glorified hall monitors and mindless thugs. After all, it was the MACOs and their pure, all human ranks that won the war – not Starfleet with their expensive barges and pleasure yachts.
Admiral Paris smiled back at General Picard with icy contempt. "MACOs are suited for their security roles and tactical operations. However, I've found they lack the…subtle technical expertise necessary to maintain more complex starship functions. In the absence of trained Terren personnel, the Vulcans are the only client species with both the education and the temperament to serve our needs."
Like many naval officers, Paris was convinced his marine counterparts would blow their brains out if they farted. Besides, fully incorporating MACOs into general ships functions might boost the prestige of the MACO Generals at the expense of the Admiralty, and that was not something Starfleet would allow.
Picard shook with rage. "Are you saying we're inferior to a pack of treasonous aliens?"
Paris' polite, plastic smile never wavered. "I'm saying that if the Rebellion has taught us anything, it's that we could use a partner to make the Empire function better. For all their defects, the Vulcans have always been technically proficient. Their devotion to logic is a lever we can use to enlist their cooperation."
"And the next time they rebel, you can always sacrifice another 500,000 MACOs to subdue them," Picard sneered. "How convenient."
"They won't rebel again," Paris insisted. "Not after the pasting they just took. If I read their psychology right, their remaining numbers will see the logic of cooperating with the Empire instead of raging against it – if we give them a stake in the system. Throwing in their lot with the Andorians and Tellarites would then look a lot less palatable to them, and make the Empire easier to govern."
This was the kind of divide-and-rule thinking that Admiral Paris had advocated for years. Command officers like Admiral Paris, the late Admiral Black, and the late Captain Forrest were the first generation of Imperial Starfleet officers to truly embrace it.
However, such enlightened Starfleet thinking contrasted sharply with their conservative colleagues of the Military Assault Command Operations (MACO), who stubbornly insisted on preserving "the integrity of the service."
Picard twisted his lips in disgust at Paris' explanation. "You even sound like one of those pointy-eared devils…."
Rolling her eyes, Ling quietly excused herself and slipped away, pointedly ignoring Picard's covetous glances.
Men.
Why can't they just take off their pants and measure which one is bigger?
It would save time.
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