Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek lor its related properties. All such rights are owned by CBS/Paramount.
This is the third installment of the Special Investigation Division series. Hopefully you'll enjoy this because there's more too come.
Sea-green eyes peered through the hazy smoke filling the bridge. Unlike the rest of the scientific crew, she'd previously served aboard deep space vessels. She also held the dubious honour have having been the only crewman aboard who'd survived being attacked aboard a starship. That is if you could count the surveyor we're aboard as a starship, Lisea Danan thought dryly.
The venerable Oberth-class science ships had a long and proud history dating back to the late 23rd century. Once the mainstay of Starfleet's survey crews, the ships had finally started to be retired a century later. Ironically the Nova-class ships that replaced the Oberth were now being replaced by the upgraded Nova-X-class. While that meant that the original ships were being refitted or retired, none had been made available to the Daystrom Institute.
Danan's Starfleet career had made her a logical candidate for this mission. The Advisory Planning Commission could not have expected a situation where her experience as a Maquis would prove useful, but here it was anyway. Danan could think of a dozen different ways to end this assault, even with the limited resources of the SS Countess. The Commission had selected the survey team's head to act as the Tessie's captain as well.
"Ca…" Danan began to say then gritted her teeth, "Dr. Syrik, we can't compete with their firepower and the warp nacelles are too badly damaged to outrun them. They've refused to acknowledge your request to surrender. We have to make a stand."
Syrik cocked an eyebrow as the deckplating shook from another phaser strike, "That would be illogical. We have nothing of value. Logically, they should cease their demands and pursuit and let us on their way. Since they have rejected the logical course, they should realise we have no quarrel with them and are content to let them have what they wish from us."
The ship shuddered again as Danan resisted the urge to strangle the stubborn Vulcan; "Logic doesn't have anything to do with this, you moron! They won't know we don't have anything until they board."
The Vulcan bristled at her words; "I will not allow hostile aliens to view any classified research projects that are aboard this ship."
"They weren't hostile until you refused to abide by their demand to heave to for inspection." Danan snapped.
"You are being highly emotional and this is affecting your reason." Syrik remarked, ignoring another shuddering groan from the abused ship; "The Federation's astronavigation charts list this system to uninhabited. Therefore there is no legal authority to which I must surrender. I suggest you retire to your quarters and meditate on a…."
Syrik slumped over as Danan tucked her Type I phaser back into her pocket. She then rushed to the Helm, "Bring us about."
Although startled by the authoritative tone in Danan's voice, the slender Benzite manning the station refused, "Dr. Syrik ordered me to maintain this course."
"Do you want me to stun you too?" Danan's exasperated tone left no doubts as to her willingness to do so.
"Bringing us about." The Benzite replied.
"Arm phasers." She ordered, then softened her tone; "These people have reacted negatively to every conciliatory gesture. With luck, they'll respond better to a show of strength. Fire a shot across their bow."
A long tense silence followed before the communications circuits activated, "Acknowledged Countess. We will discuss terms with you. I'm looking forward to meeting the person with enough courage to challenge us."
Danan sighed as her shoulders sagged in relief. The helmsman was already slumped across her board. She turned to study Syrik's limp form. Her years with the Maquis had altered her methodology of dealing with the universe, perhaps permanently. She slowly came to realise that the remaining bridge crew was staring at her in fear. She couldn't blame them.
Her concern was with the voice she'd communicated with. It was impossible to judge vocal intonations until one became familiar with a species and a culture, as Danan's long life and wandering hosts could attest to. Still, there was an ominous quality lacing even the computer's rendition of those tones. Coldness clenched her gut and she turned towards the linguistic specialist manning the comm station.
"Check the translator logs." Danan ordered, commands flowing more freely now; "What similarities are there between this language and any known tongues?"
"That's easy." The linguist's expression bore both hope and fear as he answered, "It's nearly identical to an ancient Earth language. This variant is actually far more intact than the derivative samples left across Earth."
"And this language would be?" Danan asked impatiently.
"Latin."
Lisea plumbed Danan's vast experience and memories for a clue as to the significance of this news and the feelings of dread that it inspired. She shifted to her astrometric station and took a location fix. The ship's co-ordinates locked the last vital bit of information into place and she knew whom they faced. Lisea suddenly prayed her actions had aided her comrades' position, not simply delivered them to deaths more painful than those available in space.
Elim Garak wore darkness like a shroud. Despite his insistent claims as to having a dull imagination, his years of forced exile in the guise of a tailor coloured his perceptions. He saw the bomb-ravaged alley he'd secreted himself in as an intricate tapestry of light and shadow, symmetry and chaos, and in the final sum, death and hope. Untold lives had been lost here and the survivors driven to refugee camps. These same tenements were now slated for the next phase of reconstruction. Their once and future occupants already queuing up for volunteer labour units.
Seeing his people's vigour in the face of desperate losses revitalised Garak's limited faith in other beings. His return to his birth world was also something of a pilgrimage, having spent the bulk of his adult life offplanet undertaking missions for the dreaded Obsidian Order. His exile for failing that same order brought him to Terok Nor. When the Cardassians withdrew and the Bajorans renamed the station Deep Space 9, Garak remained aboard. Having no other home or refuge besides his tailor shop on the station's Promenade, Garak found himself alone on the wrong side of the border of his beloved homeworld while denied even the slightest hope of returning.
Much to his everlasting joy and sorrow the Dominion War brought him home. Garak offered his intelligence tradecraft skills to Starfleet during the war. Legate Damar's fledgling uprising against the Dominion drew Garak back inside Cardassian space and to his planet of birth. When Damar fell during the Cardassian patriots' fateful assault on Central Command, Garak picked up the rallying cry and inspired the others to rise up and overthrow the Dominion's puppet government.
Since the cessation of hostilities, Garak had briefly served as Interim Legate until elections could be arranged. He gladly stepped down and offered his services to the reconstruction efforts rebuilding his planet. Along the way, Garak discovered an ancient and long repressed religious faith that was once again taking seed amongst the people. As ludicrous as it once would have seemed, embracing the faith of his stepfather filled holes within Garak he'd never realised he'd had. Obviously his time in Federation space had changed him far more profoundly then he would have dared imagine.
His interstellar connections had led him to providing introductions for the Bajoran vedek peace delegation that successfully bypassed and thwarted the official talks sabotaged by the alien infested Shakaar Edon. With the First Minister's condition and culpability revealed, the civilian initiative garnered instant acclaim. Garak had been delighted at the course of events. So few things surprised or amused him any more that the rare quirk of fate that tickled his fancy was to be treasured. It was one such quirk that had brought him to this place on this particular evening.
This particular section of the capital had once been very affluent. Although the bones of the ruined homes had been picked over by scavengers many times over, there was still the occasional homeowner who returned in order to search for some lost titbit of personal treasure. Seeing as how the scavengers still made regular rounds of the debris sites hoping to find intrepid searchers, such outings usually went badly for the former occupant. The news agencies reported dozens of attacks every morning.
Owing to contacts in the gendarme, Garak knew these numbers were vastly underreported. He had few qualms however, as always he had prepared for his own excursion with meticulous care. The phaser at his side was hardly his only means of defence and primarily served as a distraction. The truly lethal implements were discreetly hidden about his person and a hundred-metre radius in all directions.
Hearing a noise, Garak tensed slightly. He slowed his breathing even as his senses focused and sharpened. The outline of two figures could be made out in the dim light. The number was correct but there was no guarantee that it was still Garak's expected party. He waited in perfect silence while they drew close enough for him to study their body language. It did not take him long to ascertain that the two approaching figures were not Cardassians, which meant they were here for the rendezvous.
The two figures stepped into the brightest patch of the alleyway and stopped. They were both humanoid. One humanoid was male, the other female. Although Garak had seen them before, he took a moment to reappraise them.
The man's name was Brin Macen. A former Commander in Starfleet Intelligence, Macen had left the service just under a year before in response to disciplinary action received for exceeding his orders. An El-Aurian, Macen departed with eighty accrued years of Starfleet service. He'd formed an independent consulting and security firm, Outbound Ventures, Inc., and taken to the life of a privateer.
Garak had first come across Macen's name in relation to the decade long undeclared border war between the Federation and the Cardassian Union. Macen had become something of an expert in Cardassian affairs and was highly observed by the Obsidian Order's agents. This body of knowledge later inspired Starfleet to insert Macen into the Maquis in order to observe, redirect, and if necessary, arrest them. Macen turned the tables on all expectations by throwing in with the Maquis.
The destruction of the Maquis and the ever-changing fortunes of the Dominion War provided Macen with redemption in the eyes of Starfleet. Macen and a select band of Maquis, including Ro Laren, provided intelligence and territorial expertise for Special Operations Forces operating far beyond enemy lines. The specially recruited commando force being comprised of Angosian super-soldiers. Time and again, they ventured into the heart of Dominion space and accomplished the impossible. The battered and exhausted veterans would return to Federation space merely to offload the wounded, restock supplies and head back into the conflict. It was warfare Maquis style and it achieved impossible results bought at horrendous costs.
After the war, Macen had been inducted into a newly created Starfleet agency christened the Special Investigative Division. It was while working for this entity that he was cashiered. Many still wondered whom he truly worked for at this phase of his career. Was his defection another ruse or was Macen truly an independent operator?
His physical appearance was identical to Garak's recollection of their brief encounter several months before. Macen was still tall with a medium build. He had reddish blonde hair and a goatee that complimented his fair complexion. His eyes drifted between blue and green in adaptation of their surroundings.
His mode of dress was telling. Although not a uniform, it possessed a militant air that reflected his years in Starfleet and the Maquis. Macen wore a moss green shirt under a dark leather jacket that barely hid his holster. A Bajoran phaser hung from the black utility belt at Macen's waist. Black pants and boots completed his ensemble.
Macen's companion presented a far more conflicted image. Garak knew of T'Kir through reputation alone. Upon meeting her, he could see why many Cardassians still spoke of her. She could easily slide back into the "Mad Vulcan" role that earned her infamy.
The only evidence she presented of being of Vulcan origin was her delicate upwardly curved ears. Her ovular face found itself highlighted by high cheekbones, pouty lips, and a slightly rounded nose. T'Kir's blue eyes and voluptuous curves were unusual for Vulcan norms. Her trademark short, chaotically spiky raven hair was now blonde and nearly came to her shoulders.
Her known disregard for her people's rigid constraints extended beyond their emotional restrictions to their mores regarding clothing. T'Kir wore a leather trenchcoat over a charcoal sweater. Paired with that were black leather pants and Starfleet uniform boots that dated back over a century. The Vulcan anathema to wearing skins was nowhere to be seen here.
"You can come out now Garak." Macen broke the still silence, "You've had plenty of time to confirm our identities."
Garak smiled thinly to himself. No one took time to play the game properly anymore. Meetings like this weren't merely an exchange of information. They were a soliloquy, a performance to be savoured and enjoyed. Each movement and word a step in an interwoven tapestry of life and death. There were no losses or victories because there were no spectators, only judges, and an unsatisfactory performance yielded death.
Then again, Garak mused to himself, all the rules of changed.
Garak stepped out from the deepest shadows; "I am here as agreed Captain Macen. Now, if I may be so bold, may I ask why my presence was required here at this late hour?"
Macen smiled but his eyes did not, "Your presence is necessary to hand over information your government needs but I can't deliver to them."
Garak's interest perked, as did his wariness; "Indeed? And what manner of information might this be?"
Macen reached into his jacket. Garak's hand tightened around the discreet controller mounted on a ring around his finger. His hand relaxed as he noted that T'Kir had managed to draw her phaser without a sound. He nodded and flashed her commending smile.
Macen withdrew a Federation style padd and handed it to Garak, "The information is unencrypted so you can read it immediately rather than later. I'll sum it up for you in one brief stateroom: all the surviving Maquis arms stockpiles, ships and weapons are missing."
Garak's eyes widened slightly, "I thought all of the Maquis were either slain, enslaved, or driven from the Demilitarised Zone by the Jem'Hadar."
Macen nodded, "The Jem'Hadar were ruthlessly efficient but even they didn't have the time or numbers to trace every supply cache and remove its contents."
"Why are you telling me this?" Garak asked with more than his usual level of suspicion.
"Because Admiral Nechayev asked me to survey and catalogue these sites and then share the report with the Provisional Government here on Cardassia." Macen answered.
"Ah," Garak smiled knowingly, "so you are still a Starfleet operative."
Macen smiled his head but shook his head, "No, Garak, I'm just a civilian. I was contracted because of my unique knowledge of the area. My being here is a direct result of that same contract."
Garak mused over that, "I wondered what would make you betray your fellow Maquis."
"You truly misunderstand me." Macen replied with a trace of pity, "There are no Maquis to betray. The DMZ is still firmly in Cardassian territory with renegotiations planned. Most of the few survivors of the work camps are re-immigrating to the Federation. What that left was a sizeable amount of weapons scattered across the Zone. Now it seems as though someone else with the knowledge of where to look and the time to do so has recovered all the abandoned equipment."
"What do you think it means?" Garak asked, feeling uneasy for the first time.
Macen shrugged, "Who knows? You don't collect weapons unless you plan on using them. Whoever they are, they must know that there's been too much destruction in this region of space."
"And how vulnerable Cardassia, and especially her colonies, are." Garak commented bitterly.
"The help is there for the asking." Macen reminded.
Garak's smile was bitter, "You forget how stubborn my people are."
"I'll never forget that." Macen assured him, "Our job here is done so we'll be leaving."
"No reminiscing? I'm terribly disappointed." Garak chastised.
Macen turned back, "Speaking of which, thank you again for your help the last time I was here as well as on this matter."
Garak lifted the padd in salute, "I'm gratified that I took the time. Now in order not to undermine my efforts, I should warn you that you'll probably have a welcoming committee near your ship."
"The usual dockside reception committee?"
Garak bowed slightly with a pleased smirk, "Exactly. A pleasant evening to you then."
Garak sunk back into the shadows as T'Kir and Macen strolled back to the groundcar they'd rented. It was a triangular framed vehicle with three tires and a roll cage shrouded cockpit. T'Kir activated the engine and the driving lights. She threw the vehicle into gear and sped off towards the shuttleport where their runabout waited.
"What was that talk about 'the usual reception committee'?" she asked over the wind noise.
The instrument lights revealed Macen's grim smirk as he replied; "Cardassian ports are infamous for their roving band of dockhands that exact 'unofficial' duties from visiting freighter crews. The practice extends back before the Federation Wars and Dominion affiliation."
"So we're gonna get mugged?"
"Exactly."
"Cool." T'Kir replied brightly.
Admiral Amanda Drake sat back in her chair behind her desk in Starfleet Headquarters. So far, nothing in known space had occurred that required her attention. Since she commanded the Special Investigations Division of Starfleet Intelligence, things requiring her attention were generally unpleasant to say the least. Normally she couldn't go ten hours before receiving an unwanted report of distress of escalating tensions somewhere. Drake watched the chronometer mark the twelfth hour since she had logged on duty and breathed a sigh of relief.
A new record, Drake thought happily, maybe things are finally settling down after the war.
Her desktop's insistent comm chirp deflated that notion, "Sorry, Admiral, but we're receiving a distress call that I think will interest you."
Drake grimaced. Ambril Delori was her most trusted aid and analyst. She'd attached her star to Drake's own and in doing so propelled Drake into her current job. Drake implicitly trusted Ambril's hunches without reservation.
"Send it to me Ambril." Drake's eyes widened as she saw the location indicator of the distress call and reactived the comm, "Ambril, get my Admirals Nechayev, Ross, Jellico, and Marrin'g as soon as possible."
"Yes, ma'am" Ambril replied crisply and signed off.
Dear God. What are we in for? Drake wondered dismally.
They left the transport at the rental provider T'Kir had chosen. An elderly Cardassian came out to assess the vehicle for damage and log its return into the office computer. He finished his tasks by issuing a refund chit exchangeable for Federation trade credits or gold pressed latinum. Macen studied the chit and then offered it back to the aged man.
"Your tip, sir." Macen said with a smile.
The Cardassian wore a stunned expression, "What trickery is this? That chit is worth more than most people's life savings around here."
Macen shrugged, "Then give it to someone else, or several people. I'm on an expense account. The bill for the vehicle has already been submitted and it contains that deposit. Since I'm not in the habit of defrauding my employers, I prefer to give it away."
That caused the Cardassian to struggle for words, "I don't know what to say."
"Just say you'll try to prevent any future wars between your people and the Federation."
"It's a pact!" the Cardassian vowed.
"Good night to you then." Macen bowed his head.
The Cardassian watched, mystified, as Macen and T'Kir walked off into the shadows. The mysterious Vulcan had smiled throughout his exchange with the presumed human. That fact had sent as many shivers through his spine as his newfound wealth. Every day eroded the ingrained derision he'd always felt for aliens. Tonight had been no exception, in fact, it had provided the greatest instructor: personal experience. The Cardassian, a grandfather many times over, returned to his post and envisioned the delighted squeals of his family as they basked in comforts of a rebuilt house thanks to the Federation man's gift.
Meanwhile, Macen and T'Kir nonchalantly strolled onward through the docks.
With their ship, the Ju'day-class Eclipse, on its way to Starbase 514 Yards to repair damage inflicted during their last harrying mission, they'd had to utilise alternative means of transportation. They'd used a Danube-class runabout named Corsair. Unlike the hybridised Eclipse, the Corsair was a rugged, proven platform. Although listed as a downgraded civilian variant, the SS Corsair was fully stocked and loaded to Starfleet specifications.
One of her modules housed an emergency medical treatment centre. Another module served as an armoury and special equipment storage. The third module was rigged to serve as a detention cell. The fourth and last module contained a bed and a shower to supplement the beds in the crew lounge.
She had performed admirably on her debut outing. Macen had decided to restrict the crew to himself and T'Kir owing to the tight quarters. Trying to cram the other seven members of the team aboard was possible but unlikely to be comfortable for any length of time. That led to the other reason the others were not part of the mission. The battle damage they'd sustained proved to Macen that although their ship could be adequately handled by the team members, hiring trusted individuals to serve as ships' crewmen would greatly relieve stress and fatigue. The team's XO, Tom Riker, was currently recruiting from a list of names supplied by Macen.
Macen felt a surge of anticipation at the thought of having a fully functional scoutship to call his own again. The last had been a decommissioned Starfleet Blackbird-class scout christened the Odyssey. He'd acquired the vessel during his tenure with the Maquis and used it as an intelligence-gathering platform. It was a tough ship that had met an unnecessarily cruel end at the hand of an ex-Starfleet officer working for the Andergani Oligarchy's pirate cartel.
T'Kir interrupted his thoughts with a light touch of her hand against his, We're not alone any more. I think our farewell party is about to begin.
Inwardly, Macen was impressed and proud of her ever-developing control of her once rampantly unbridled abilities. Releasing her hand, Macen spun while going for his holster. T'Kir did likewise in the opposite direction. They stopped standing back to back, Macen holding his phaser in his right hand, T'Kir in her left.
Four Cardassians stopped dead in their tracks. Their plan had entirely depended upon surprise and sheer brute force to overwhelm their intended victims. Working at the docks had granted them impressive physiques but little in the way of mental exercise. However, they were more than capable of undertaking the mental algebra required to assess the odds of three pry bars and a blade overcoming two phasers. Reaching nearly simultaneous and identical outcomes, the Cardassians dropped their implements and ran back into the shadows.
"Awww." T'Kir mocked, "They don't want to play no more."
Macen responded with a half-hearted scowl of reproof. He'd known T'Kir for far too long to expect much else from her. It would have alarmed most people to discover that she stood among the few beings he had absolute confidence in. As Guinan, Ro Laren, Elias Vaughn, and Svetlana Korepanova made up the rest of this extremely brief list, T'Kir stood amongst an illustrious assembly.
"Let them go." He advised, "I'd rather just stow our gear and be off this rock."
"I'm not gonna argue with that." T'Kir consented. Her past was filled with as much tragedy and injustice as nearly any other settler in what became the DMZ. The rage had been enough to drive her away from the upbringing of her childhood and into the bloody throes of her ancestral heritage. Even in ruins, Cardassia Prime still evoked a primal rage within her.
With the incentive to avail themselves of real beds and showers, they packed quickly and managed to lift off of Cardassia Prime within thirty minutes. The heavy shipments of relief aid being shipped to the surface and the Allied garrison patrols filled the Cardassian skies. The fact the Corsair had secured an early departure and avoided interference while headed into orbit was nothing short on the probability scales of successfully orbiting a singularity's event horizon in such a way as to complete a revolution while arriving at your same point and time of departure. Never one to argue with incredible fortune, Macen and T'Kir set course for Brackenburn and engaged the warp engines as soon as they cleared the planet's gravity well.
"It's gonna be so good to relax for a while." T'Kir sighed, "I bet those lucky stiffs back at home have been lounging about whining about nothing t'do."
"You wish, and so do they." Macen grinned, "If they are lazing about, then we'll be joining them in just over ten hours."
"Can't we detour to Risa?" she whined.
"No."
"Crap."
Macen smiled as he tilted his chair back and closed his eyes. Things were already getting back to normal.