Disclaimer: Star trek isn't mine and never will be. This story is, though, and all the characters not associated with ST are too.

The Lost.

By

Isolde Jansma.

Blood red, the foaming water reached to towards the scarlet sun in the magenta sky, sending spume hurtling upwards as it attempted to quench the fire. It fell back into the wind, splattering into a million droplets, and then tried again. Endlessly. Ceaselessly it crashed, a violent churning of the depths, throwing itself vainly against the jagged rocks of the headland.

The watcher, standing on that head of land, turned away into the face of the wind, strong and easterly, gripping the waterproof covering even more tightly as it attempted to rip it from her grasp. She began the slow trudge down the pathway and heard the footsteps of onr of her companions on the shale as he followed. She headed unerringly to the house, built into the face of the great granite cliff left so many million years ago by the now extinct volcano, pausing only to open the door and enter.

The final figure on the knoll stayed, watching the waves thrash themselves, break, retreat, break… The stark smell of iron, copper and salt, the reek of some dead thing close by, filled his nostrils until he could bear the stark reminder no longer and he vomited, spewing the bile his stomachs contained onto the wiry, sparse grass. It lived on in him, the memory of his first kill, the quick and the dead tied up into one huge knot; it choked him. The image burned; it would always be there. Strange the first should haunt him so, and not the many others that had followed? He could see it again, that telecast memory of vivid colour – the head bursting and grey brains floating like some loathsome flower into a slick red-brown cloud… grey rain…

The water of the sea swept on inexorably, bubbling over the pebbles and rocks of the shallow beach, hissing through them, washing them it always had, always would…. oblivious to pain, or sorrow. And the sound of anguish was no more than a whisper in the lament of the wind…

The stench made him gag again, and weep bitter tears for what he, no; they had lost, for what they had had to do. For the loss of all that was precious, to him and to them… their 'humanity', a price that was counted in the numberless dead that lay rotting in myriad cities.

He wept on, insensible in his grief, and fell to his knees, tearing at the sparse covering on the soil, covering his hands in his own puke, digging into the turf with the kind of madness known only to those that sorrow.

Eventually he lifted his head, all the rage in him gone for a time, controlled – replaced by an empty, echoing hollowness where all emotion had disappeared.

It is better so, he reflected. The thoughts bore not a trace of his earlier bitterness; he knew he could ill afford any sentiment in this. It was regrettable, but necessary. In an easy movement, he bent his head back into the icy fingers of the rain as it fell on his pale-skinned face to run in rivulets down the broad expanse of his flat nose. It trickled along the planes of cheeks and over his wide mouth; the wetness was a caress on his skin, washing the filth crusting his features away.

Rysab, self-styled Lieutenant of Tlojne, brushed his hands over his face before rising to his feet. He pulled a corner of his coat up and cleared his eyes with it before heading in the direction the others had taken. His feet were as leaden as his soul and he could not help feeling they were wasting their time. Silek had told them the Federation would not intervene even to save the life of an important personage such as himself. He believed the Vulcan; it was reputed they could not lie, and why should he? It would profit neither him nor his family.

The Jesavaen was curious about the Special Envoy; it was something he had had to fight against all his life. An excess of curiosity was never a good thing for an adult Jesavaen to have. It was all right in children… but in an adult it was most improper, and led to thinking outside of the accepted parameters. He could ill afford such luxuries now, and he fought the emotion into a tight knot inside his stomachs, resting it against the despair he held in such vast quantities.

Musing so had made the journey to the house so much the shorter, and he stepped across the threshold to its comparative heat, welcoming the scents of home and the delicious warmth seeping through to his wind-chilled skin. She was waiting for him.

Tlojne turned her breeder's face towards him with its dark eye markings; her nostrils closed as if stung, offended. "You stink", she hissed.

He inclined his head gravely in apology; he had not realised the stench that clung to him. "I will cleanse myself, Madame."

She waved him to silence impatiently, expecting and receiving instant obedience. "That is unimportant, Rysab. The message has been sent to the Starship by Winczk."

He stared like a cretin for a moment, his jaws slightly agape as he took in the scent of her excitement. "They are coming…?" The pungent aroma of his own excitement joined hers and mingled in the small room.

Tlojne chewed rhythmically for a second, gloating inwardly, before allowing him to see the smile on her face. "Yes."

Rysab stared at her for a moment longer, then shook himself out of the fierce surge of pleasure he had on hearing this news, and inclined his head again. "Madame," he breathed, almost sighing. "Now I will prepare myself in celebration." He sculpted a bow to her, and left the room to prepare himself in a manner better fitted to his rank.

Tlojne watched his retreating figure then she, too, stalked away to the place where their captive waited, intent on delivering the news to him, relishing that he would be ill-pleased to receive it. She paused at the edge of the stairs, then stepped down the first as the light flooded the darkness, finally reaching the door at the bottom and opening it into a narrow corridor with the bars of a cage set solidly into the rock. She hesitated, as if in mid-flight, attempting to calm her raging heart, and drew a deep breath against the alien stench as she walked upto the bars, shutting the door quietly as she came but not so quietly that the humanoid in the room had not heard her. Tlojne slitted her nostrils, offended by the alien's rank smell, and regarded him with revulsion.

Silek observed the Jesavaen female from the other side of the small chamber with undisturbed calm, but he rose to his feet. Jet eyes regarded her slow, almost choreographed movements, and the carefully closed nostrils, cataloguing the body language carefully. He knew she hated him, loathed him, and would cheerfully give the order that meant his death if he ceased to be useful. What possible use he was, however, eluded him as he had made it clear that he was unlikely to be considered a hostage, so he said nothing, just raised a saturnine brow as she came as close as she dared.

"Special Envoy." She used his title as a greeting, and thought again how very ugly these Vulcans and humans were. Didn't they know how their very presence offended any right-thinking Jesavaen? The look of them… Smooth skinned… She stopped herself from dwelling on them, began to speak to fill the silence.

"Special Envoy Silek, the Federation has responded to us and they will –"

Silek raised both brows in disbelief. "Madam," he said in his even tenor, "the Federation have responded to no threat of yours. They seek merely to close the Embassy and recover their personnel – if possible. To suggest my kidnap is cause for them to intervene is highly illogical."

The female stared at him uncomprehendingly, blinking her massive dark eyes as she turned over what he had said. "Illogical, surely, Special Envoy, to be so certain they will not attempt your rescue?"

Silek's face betrayed nothing, an impassive mask, and he reflected that the Jesavaen were a difficult race to deal with – their motivation was often not subject to any logic he had dealt with before. Their society contained so many layers that it was the subject of much debate, and it was oftimes caught up so much in ceremonial detail that attempts to separate the two were nigh impossible. However, what was certain was that only Vulcans could approach these people who gave insult by their every posture to other species. He had seen human members of his staff, and some of his Vulcan staff too – well-seasoned, experienced men and women – enraged by the unthinking, xenophobic impoliteness of the Jesavaen's. It is not that they are unaware of how they cause offence, or lack understanding of this. It is that they do despite the knowledge. The Vulcan returned his dark gaze to the female.

Tlojne shuddered visibly. His eyes with that unhealthy rim of white surrounding it – like beads. Disgusting…! The thought was instantaneous, unbidden. Aloud, she stated, "They come, and they will seek you out." On those final words she turned on her heel, heading out of the door to leave the Vulcan to his thoughts.

She offered a parting shot before it closed behind her. "They will supply the weapons we require, or it will not go well with you, Silek. That is my solemn oath as a Breeder."

"I do not doubt it, madam," Silek murmured to the now closed door. What precisely she felt she could achieve by making threats to him he could not assess? Jesavaen's insisted on judging all species by their own narrow set of values. He stifled the urge to sigh. A habit he had picked up after long association with humans.

Briefly he wondered where his wife and daughter were being held, but could not allow himself the luxury of concern; he had overheard some ill-hidden talk from his captors, but they were aware of the greater range of Vulcan hearing and tried to keep the information from him. He knew they were held in a separate place at some distance from his current position, but he had been unable to define exactly where even through the bond. Logic told him this was a ploy that suited the Jesavaen very well indeed and would be used to provide better leverage against himself, and the Federation. A child as hostage always held greater value than any adult, no matter the species. Children were the future and precious.

Silek seated himself again and stared at the blank wall, tracing the grains of mica in the stone, before retreating into a contemplative trance. This way he would conserve what energy he had, and possibly think his way round the problem of being held against his will.


Captain'sLog, Stardate 48215.5.: We are currently en route for Jesava IV to remove all Federation citizens since the outbreak of war. There are approximately 350 people remaining on world including Embassy personnel.

It is a sad day for the peoples of this world, and for the Federation, that they are unable to solve their differences equitably.

Picard stabbed his forefinger at the computer console to switch off the small screen. He leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers thoughtfully over his belly to stare at nothing, lost in his own mind.

Sad indeed, he contemplated, but could not shake off his sense of impending doom. It was not often the Federation deemed it necessary for their citizens to be removed or Embassies emptied, but all efforts at peace making, at negotiation, had failed. There was no mediator the three factions trusted, and people were dying for it. This revolted him, and he felt inadequate. It was a feeling he found he cared little for.

"Captain, I think you need to take a look at this."

Picard frowned and drew a deep breath before answering. "On my way, Number One"

He rose and headed through the ready room doors to stand before his First Officer who was consulting with Worf. "Yes, Will, what's the problem?"

Riker faced his Captain squarely, a grim expression setting his mouth into a hard line. "Put it up, Worf," he instructed, and then continued. "We received this a few moments ago from Jesava." He jabbed a big thumb at the viewscreen.

Picard raised a brow, turning to look at the viewer.

The screen wavered momentarily, flickering, lines of interference racing over its normally matchless surface, and the Security Chief fought with the transmission to boost the signal.

"That's the best I can do, sir," Worf rumbled regretfully. His commanding officers stared at the screen thoughtfully.

The shape of a Jesavaen male coalesced, talking rapidly, his speech staccato with stress, and in the background they could just about make out the shape of what appeared to be human figures. The Jesavaen repeated his message, the computer enhancing the noise levels in response to Picard's request.

"To the Commander of the Federation Starship Enterprise, hear the words of The Favoured… We hold the Federation Special Envoy prisoner for the glory of the cause. If the terms of release are not met, then he will die, as will his family." He seemed to throw a glance over his shoulder before saying bluntly, "Stand by for further instructions."

That was that. No more, no less. Picard clenched his jaw – this was a development they had not expected. He addressed the Second Officer. "Mr. Data, were you able to trace the communiqué?"

The android rechecked his instrument panel, but had to reply in the negative, swivelling to gaze at his Captain. "I am afraid not, sir. The interference present in the Jesavaen atmosphere blinds our sensors effectively, making accurate placing of the signal nearly impossible. However, if the information is correct, and they do indeed hold Special Envoy Silek, then the coastal city of Eroc would be the logical choice."

"Question," Riker said slowly, "why the hell haven't we heard from the Embassy about this, or what passes as a ruling body?"

"That, Number One, I do not have an answer to." Picard gave the Klingon a faint nod indicating the big man should attempt to communicate with those in a position of power, or some semblance of a governmental body, if any was to be had. Worf obediently addressed the problem only to look up with an expression the Captain correctly interpreted as non-helpful.

Worf added, after checking the instrument panel again, "The transmission would appear to be recorded and not real-time."

Picard gave a faint grunt as he mulled over the information. "Conference," he announced, and went through to the observation lounge.

His senior officers wasted no time in following him, spreading themselves around the long table. Nor did he squander time, but launched immediately into the meeting with the thing uppermost in his mind. He needed data, and he wanted it now.

"What do we know of the war on Jesava, and its people?"

It was the android that offered first. "The war on Jesava involves three factions, Captain: the Freedom of Castes, The Favoured, and the Mec'hyM'Poyr. They –"

Riker interrupted. "Mec'hyM'Poyr?"

Data nodded gravely, and addressed himself to the Commander. "It is an archaic term which has no real translation in standard; its closest literal meaning is 'Those Who Might Be'." Seeing the First Officer had accepted his explanation he went on, "These three factions are responsible for the current upsurge in terrorism, basically due to a difference in Theology. Certain areas within texts sacred to all sects have come under dispute, and it is this contention over dogma…"

Riker's lip curled in disgust. "A jihad, by any other name…"

"Essentially that is correct," agreed Data equitably, and lapsed into silence as it registered his colleagues were disquieted by this news.

Religious warfare," murmured the Captain unhappily: he addressed himself to another question. "However, we do not have conclusive evidence they hold the Special Envoy, as it has not yet been confirmed by the Federation Council."

There were murmurs of agreement from round the table, then Worf put in. "I advise that we assume they do, sir, and act accordingly."

Picard grunted in affirmation; he steepled his hands in front of him and asked Troi, "Were you able to sense the kidnappers, Counselor?"

The Betazoid shook her dark head. "No, Captain. Which leads me to agree that they were not transmitting in real time."

The Captain digested this. "Indeed?"

"Jesavaen's are a race who rarely deal with others if it is not to be conducted in person. It would be regarded as extremely bad mannered for someone to deal with a third party through a viewer. They much prefer to be in physical contact or, if that's unavailable, in real time. It's something to do with their sociological makeup, and the fact they evolved from herd animals who needed to be in sighting distance of predators." She paused, and added, "Of course, having warp capability has added to their xenophobic behaviours considerably."

"Hmm, yes," agreed the Captain and went on, "You sensed a lack of emotional output, then."

Troi nodded her head. "Yes, Captain. The method was chosen as a deliberate insult."

"Good job we've got thick skins, then," remarked Riker flatly. He frowned. "I can see how it's a good way of concealing the whereabouts of Silek, as well as giving us the finger. They may be presuming we have a telepath to help us."

"It is possible, also," Data added thoughtfully, "that they may decide to transmit a live broadcast as we approach Theta 44.362 Epsilon V, so that the Counselor is able to sense them."

Troi's brows drew together as she considered this. "No –" she shook her head fractionally – "no, Data, I don't think so. Their mind set is so xenophobic – to such a disturbing degree – that to allow me to sense them, even if they knew I was an empath, would be far too revealing. I believe they will continue to play this rather dangerous game."

"And I gather we are still too far away from the planet for you to receive any more information?" asked Picard.

"Yes, Captain," she agreed.

The Captain rose to his feet, moving to one of the large windows in the observation lounge. He stared thoughtfully out at the growing planet and its incumbent trio of satellites, whirling endlessly like marionettes on strings through the eternal velvet night. He watched without seeing, for long moments, the star at the hub of the system burning reddish-gold like a fire opal, and finally turned to regard his officers.

He addressed the Klingon. "Mr. Worf, apprise Starfleet Command of the implications we have just encountered on a secure channel. State I want a reply giving thorough guidelines, and include policy in that, on how we are to deal with this potential… powder keg. I need the information within the next five hours, and they must treat this request as a matter of urgency."

Worf inclined his head minutely, and disappeared through the doors back to the bridge.

"Then what, sir?" enquired the First Officer.

Picard's mouth drew into a thin line. "We wait, Number One. We wait and see which of the factions contacts us first."