EPIGRAPH
"And a man's foes shall be those of his household."
- Matthew 10:36 (King James Version).
PROLOGUE
That smell: that distinctive, acrid smell of fused circuits, smouldering cables and burnt flesh. Familiar it was, enveloping in an instant the nostrils, gripping the back of the throat then reaching for the pit of the stomach to compress it into a tight ball.
"Stop there! Don't move!"
Through smoke and the last red-green residue of transporter haze, the boarders saw a figure in a Starfleet officer's uniform of gold and black. Tall, lithe with broad shoulders askew, large, shaking hands gripping a phaser at full arm extension. For the officer commanding the Romulan away team, this was not the time for heroics. Taking one step toward the shaking phaser, the commander raised his arms from his sides, palms turned up.
"Captain, please, we are an unarmed medical team here to render help to you and your crew."
"I am not the captain," the young man growled, moving his weight gingerly from right leg to left and back again, the phaser following the direction of his next words, "the captain is there, next to the helm."
The body of a woman clad in smouldering Starfleet burgundy and black lay ten metres to the away team's left and in that moment their eyes began to make sense of the devastation to the stricken vessel's bridge. Taking another cautious step, the commander raised his arms higher and spoke with a calm that betrayed the carnage surrounding them.
"I should introduce myself, sir. I am Senior Commander Jaron i-Mnaeha tr'Tahhn, commanding officer of Imperial Tactical Assault Wing Sigma. And this," he tilted his head to the shorter, female officer to his left, not allowing his eyes to leave the view of the weapon, "is Centurion t'Siral, the Wing's Chief Medic. I would ask that you allow her team to examine and treat your surviving crew and passengers."
For the first time the young officer took account of the full scene before him. There were six Romulans in all, the commander and chief medic and four others who stood behind. All except the commander carried tricorders and what seemed like standard medical kits. They appeared to be all he said yet the human instinct prevailed. Absently he heard himself tell the intruders that the ship's command officers were dead and that he would not allow himself be taken prisoner. He studied the uniform of the Romulan, hearing his words about scans, life signs and triage, focusing on the unfamiliar tight fitting tunic of lavender and light grey checks; a small gold lozenge shaped like an arrowhead on either side of a raised collar, each pointing to the front and inclined down; the omnipresent shoulder padding much too prominent for the young man's liking.
"And you are, sir?" Jaron asked after a long silence.
"Err, Mikhail Ali Altan, Lieutenant junior grade, the Security Officer aboard the Federation Starship T'Paal."
"And now captain it seems."
"Maybe." Mikhail pondered the word for a moment then narrowed his eyes to a second thought. "Are you some sort of Romulan admiral?" he asked.
Jaron took another small step forward with his reply, "I'm the equivalent of a Starfleet commodore, if such rank still exists," after a beat "and the uniform? Yes, we've discarded the quilted upholstery and harness in favour of greater utility when in close combat with the Bhorgsu."
A small nod of acknowledgement; instinctively, as Jaron stepped closer, Mikhail stepped back to take in the rest of the uniform and for all urgency to return.
"Stand fast, Commodore!" the young man's shouted demand louder than before "You said you were unarmed. What's that?"
Jaron's smile set in place, the voice calm.
"You mean this?" Jaron raised his left foot to afford a greater view of the right side of the boot, "Allow me to show you." Ignoring the phaser aiming at a point between the twin golden arrowheads on his collar and using only his right index and middle fingers, Jaron pinched the tip of the hilt of a twenty centimetre dagger, carefully extracting it from its scabbard nestled within the boot's outer hide and in the same motion, holding it to his front for inspection.
"We find this to be an effective weapon of last resort against Bhorg intruders," he continued, "they rarely adapt to a sharp tritanium blade." Jaron ignored the order to let the dagger fall where he stood and took a larger stride forward. "Yes, I know that for the moment we are mere allies of convenience against this common enemy," another smaller stride, the phaser lifted to head height "but please, sir, take this in the good faith it is offered. And perhaps then you may allow us to render your crew with the assistance they need."
A hand left the phaser to grab the hilt of the blade and in the same motion tossed the two-edged weapon back and to the right, a short clattering sound company to its ricochet across the oxy-trinitrate tiles of the aft bridge decking; the young officer pushed at the Starfleet insignia sitting a little lopsided above his left breast and loudly demanded the attention of the ship's surgeon and sick bay.
"Your computer is dead, Lieutenant." Jaron told him.
"Then why can I understand you, Commodore?"
"I speak some Anglish," Jaron's smile, always present, widened to its fullest, "some tell me it's with a British accent and, yes, I've been to London the once. But then others say it's the accent of Villera'trel and I've never been there at all."
At last Mikhail found something disarming in Jaron's unexpected wit, nodding agreement with added amusement. The older man didn't care whether it was his candour, humour or just plain perseverance, breathing a quiet relief at the sight of the phaser hanging limply, all but forgotten, by Mikhail's left side, his stronger right hand pointing toward the captain's body. Jaron didn't need a further invitation, ushering his chief medic to the fallen woman for immediate report.
"Rihanha, Enriov," cried t'Siral; Jaron immediately wishing she wasn't so surprised that they'd betrayed the 'Vulcan' captain as one of their own.
"What'd she say?" barked the young security officer.
"She said your captain is dead." Jaron answered and took a few steps toward the body, speaking in Rihan to his medic and turning back. "Killed by a phaser blast it seems."
"Impossible!" Mikhail objected.
"Sure." Jaron took a long breath, "But perhaps we should just focus our attention on the living. Will you allow my engineers to restore sufficient power to your systems so that my medical team can reach the other decks? That should enable you to make way to your nearest starbase."
"Yes … yes … do what you can."
Giving away to reality, Lieutenant Mikhail Ali Altan fastened the phaser to his belt holster and took careful, painful steps toward the command chair some ten strides distant. Nearing arrival he was intercepted by a medic waving a hand scanner from shoulders and waist and satisfied with a diagnosis, a hypospray produced like a wand to inject the human in the right side of the neck.
"Aihr'ketean," the hard faced medic told him, pointing to the tube of the hypospray for effect. Mikhail guessed the Romulan was telling him it was a drug and his own sudden gasp brought a second sentence, "Ketean vr'aehkhifv."The words seemed to be repeated, but again Mikhail could only guess at the meaning; the medic patted his own ribs and said "Krek." Mikhail smiled, for that much he knew already. The medic, encouraged by his lingual breakthrough, pointed at his patient's face: "Yu" he said. Mikhail nodded in reply. "Yu. Rrst."
'The medical advice of all ages and cultures.' thought the Lieutenant, the Romulan medic given a respectful nod of dismissal; the human taking that final step up and turn to ease into the captain's chair; the bridge, his bridge, filling with black haired, pale-featured Romulans of both genders and all ages talking at and over each other. The pain in his side receding and the stench of the battle subsiding, Mikhail sought out the Romulan commodore: height and an unusual smoothness of brow distinguishing the senior, lavender clad officer from an anonymous huddle of grey-check tunics abreast the bridge's helm.
"Commodore. That … cube … what happened?"
"To the Bhorgsu?" Jaron replied over the heads of those around him, "We forced them to self-destruct."
Fighting the onset of drug induced stupor the Lieutenant's thought processes silently struggled with the notion that the mighty Borg would willingly destroy their craft and thereby themselves. "It's a survival instinct." Mikhail heard Jaron's voice near to his right shoulder, "They refuse to allow themselves to be captured, so … we assault them by a plan intended to set off a collective apprehension within the hive. If we succeed, they believe we are some insurmountable threat and will either attempt to run or self-destruct. But if we fail …"
To Mikhail's eyes the bridge, the consoles, to the front and side of him were fading to black. He wanted to know more of the attack plan; how this mere wing of eight Romulan warbirds could vanquish a foe that on any other day would destroy half a fleet of the Federation's finest. But it was too late. His mind gripped with atrophy; his eyelids closed, unable to force them to reopen. They had beaten him like they beat that cube.
"It's a strong analgesic we use, Lieutenant. Please … don't try to fight it."
That wasn't the senior officer this time but someone else, someone from behind him, their strong hands pushing his shoulders and body into the economically cushioned captain's chair, 'What is this? Are they restraining me? Why did I let them … let them inject me …" And drifting away Lieutenant Mikhail Ali Altan heard one last clear voice, spoken in the perfect pitch of the universal translator, "Security is compromised, sir. Uploading the ship's database has commenced."