Star Trek: Dagger

by MorbiusXX

This is a story of the Romulan war based on the Star Fleet museum website. You can view the types of spaceships on that site. I've used characters from Enterprise but the story departs that storyline.

2. Chapter 2

Taskforce 15, UES Fearless

"Incoming transmission," MSgt David Guerrero announced from his position at communications. Normally the olive-skinned southern California native occupied a gunnery position. But working for Captain Pierre 'Grizzly' Oulette carried the additional responsibilities of learning every phase of the Pioneer class cruiser's operation. That meant learning almost every job a navy officer or enlisted man was qualified for. "It is Commander Anwar. He is requesting a private with you."

The commander of the Fearless got up out of his command chair and stretched. At 183 centimeters the French-Canadian captain of the starship was thought of to be almost as broad as he was tall. At almost 40 years old Pierre 'Grizzly' Oulette had earned his nickname based on his appearance: A large menacing looking moustache complimented a thick shag of brown hair cut in the short military style. The sight of Grizzly Oulette stretching brought to the minds of some the attack posture of a polar bear. Grizz walked over to David's station's to verify the message as well as to inquire why Tariq was being so covert. The commander of the Fearless agreed to receive the rest of his friend's message in the privacy of his cabin. Oulette turned the bridge of the Fearless over to his first officer and left via a narrow companionway for his quarters.

Grizz arrived at his cabin less than a minute later. At just over 190 meters long the Fearless' crew section was in a relatively small area toward the interior of the Pioneer class cruiser. The captain's quarters were a little over 20 meters from the bridge. Oulette pulled down the surface that constituted his desk and activated the viewscreen tucked away there into the wall of the ship. The big Canadian officer punched up the bridge comm.-interlink and was soon greeted by the concerned face of his friend Commander Tariq Anwar.

"What is so damn important that I must talk to you in secret?" Oulette inquired playfully to the first officer of the Pathfinder.

"Check your buildup coils my friend," Tariq said with conviction. The buildup coils allowed the limited power from the ship's fusion reactors to be stored for rapid use by the ship's warp nacelles. It was one of the features that delineated a warship from a freighter. Without a buildup coil ships had to build sufficient speed in Einsteinian space before they could initiate a warp field.

"There is nothing wrong with the bloody things!" Grizz shot back spastically. "You know I have the engineer run routine diagnostics!"

"I know, I know," Tariq said sadly. The Egyptian commander sighed then launched into the tale of what had just transpired on the bridge of the Pathfinder. Oulette had seen the same data when the orders had been transmitted so the news, though new was not surprising to Grizzly.

"He is right Tariq," Oulette replied soberly. "We are not at war. I see your point about not deploying the entire taskforce. But Gellar may have a point as well."

"Do you think the entire taskforce is needed to rescue one freighter?" Anwar asked his friend.

"No," Oulette replied after a moment's thought. "I guess you are right. So you want me to stay back is what you are saying?"

"Exactly," Tariq answered in an agreeable tone. "You have the new sensors and Guerrero is supposed to be an ace on those things. What is wrong? If I am wrong then I look stupid and I'm in your debt."

"You mean like allowing me to date your sister?" Oulette replied mischievously.

"I would rather it didn't come to that Grizzly," Anwar said with a chuckle. "Surely you can meet a girl more to your liking in the woods of North America?"

"They are all afraid of me and most have more hair on their bodies than me!" Oulette replied humorously. Then the commander of the Fearless grew serious. "I will grant your request Tariq. You will look silly in a few hours my friend!"

"Insha'Allah my friend," Tariq answered then severed the connection.

Oulette considered his friends warning briefly then called over to the engine room. Ten minutes later Pierre notified Commodore Gellar that he had to drop out of warp due to an overheating coil. The Canadian officer returned to the bridge to see the video transmission of his ship dropping out of subspace. Grizzly spoke to Guerrero and had the sergeant back on sensors. The commander of the Fearless thought his friend was overreacting; nonetheless Grizzly ordered a general power reduction throughout the Fearless. The old trick of reducing the electromagnetic output of a vessel still held true since the days when vessel's of war started emitting radiation.

Deneva Apr 2156

She was smiling at Billy. The blonde was wearing some of the strange flowers that Deneva's soil produced in her hair—and nothing else. Billy walked over to the girl. He had seen her before; working at the colonists' general store. Right now Walters thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The sun shone down in the Deneva field with its characteristic whitish light; so different from Walter's native Kansas. Pleasing in a lot of ways disturbing in some others. The girl's name was Misty. Walters liked it because he thought it was an ancient romantic name. He had always hoped that Misty wanted him in that fashion; now he was realizing his dreams. Misty looked odd in the light of Deneva's blue white star. The light of which seemed to grow brighter. The brightening light seemed to be followed by a horrendous booming noise.

"Wake up you slime devil!" Gunnery Sergeant Vernon 'Doc' Gibbs screamed at the top of his lungs. That was especially loud considering that his mouth was only 4 centimeters from Private William Walter's ear. His platoon Gunnery sergeant had turned on the barracks light exposing Walter's sleeping platoon to a harsh glare. "What are you doing sleeping in my Corps?" Gibbs asked rhetorically. Of course, Billy thought Sgt. Gibbs lived to wake up others. "Get your maggot infested carcass on the deck and dressed! Fall out for shield drills!"

Private Walters fairly leapt from his small bunk to his locker. The United Earth Colonial Marine private put his battle dress uniform on in less than a minute. Walters was dressed to parade ground specifications. That he had done so in mere seconds no longer even occurred to the private. Such was the life of a marine attached to the Colonial Corps. Walter's, dressed at last ran out of the door to the parade ground. His platoon quickly formed into a line formation. Sgt. Gibbs walked up and down in front of them checking their uniform and weapons status. As he did his inspection the gunnery sergeant also worked in comments on his low opinion of the platoon member's; ancestry, intelligence, ability and some choice comments concerning parents who were inter-related.

The inspection lasted until Lt. Amardeep Singh ran out of the headquarters building. The entire base sat under a metal dome. The metal walls, when polarized could provide defense against laser and radiation weapons. This was the signal Walters was familiar with. The lieutenant would run up to the formation, declare an emergency; then they would go to their bunkers to wait out the simulated attack. True to form Singh informed Gibbs of the situation which caused an immediate reaction from Gunney Gibbs.

"This is an attack!" Gibbs bellowed at the group of marines. "Get your lazy no account butts to your action stations. Get the dome plating polarized and get into your bunkers!" Gibbs started to literally chase the slower members of the group. The gunnery sergeant was barking orders at them like a vicious dog: "Move, move move! We don't have all goddamned day! This isn't your goddamned prom and I'm not your date—get moving!"

Billy got into his armored shelter, or coffin as the marines referred to the small armored compartment. He was surprised to see Corporal April Martinez sitting opposite him. Each small chamber, no more than 3 meters by 2 meters with barely enough room for a short man to stand erect was built for two marines. The marines would wait out an attack then emerge ready to fight. Walters checked the final readings per his training then dogged the heavy metal hatch closed. He sat down and took a deep breath.

"About time you got here Sluggo!" Martinez chided him. Sluggo had become Walter's less than complimentary nickname among the members of his platoon.

"Good thing this is a simulation, your ass woulda been fried."

"Okay, okay," Walters replied. "I'm here. If I climbed in this hole any faster Gunney would just set that as the new baseline. We gotta move slower next time."

"No one moves slower than you," Martizez replied. She was about to continue when the tiny control panel that regulated the survival capsule's environmental systems erupted in a shower of sparks. Both marines jumped up to check the damage.

"What the hell did you do Sluggo?" The corporal asked Walters angrily.

"Nothing, I sealed us according to the manual!" Walters protested. Both of the marines were examining the panel. It was still hot and there was evidence of melting electrical components. The two looked at each other wondering what to do when the ground shook nearly knocking the pair off of their feet. The single loudspeaker in the chamber rang out with the clear tones of Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs:

"This is it platoon! We are in the shit! Deneva is under attack by a group of hostile unknowns—this is no drill! The surface has been irradiated by what we think are enhanced neutron bombs. Get your NBC gear on and get the hell out of shelter!"

NBC gear meant that the marine platoon would be in full protective gear against nuclear, chemical and biological attacks. Walters sighed inwardly. The temperature on the surface was in the upper twenties. That would make the cumbersome NBC protection suits even harder to bear. Walters got up as he saw Martinez already grabbing her gear out of a storage locker.

Soon both marines faced each other checking the fit of the other's gear. Both of them looked like a cross between an ancient knight and a gargoyle in their breathing masks and battle armor. Martinez cinched up Walter's flak jacket. The torso covering still had that ancient name referring to anti-aircraft gun discharges. Martinez checked in on the platoon's common communication circuit. Walter's checked in as he had done in so many drills before. Was this another drill he wondered? The marines checked the external readings before exiting the capsule. Walter's shivered at what he saw. The radiation level was high enough to kill an unprotected in less than a minute. Their commanders had never rigged the readings on the external detectors in any of the other drills.

Walter's undogged the hatch. An uncharacteristic light showed in the dome. The reason became apparent as the pair ran to form up with the rest of the platoon: One-quarter of the dome was gone. Torn smoking metal lay under the ruin of the blasted piece of the dome. The lieutenant instructed the platoon to form into a skirmish line and make their way into the small colonial town to repel any attackers.

"What happened sir?" A marine asked over the commlink. "How could this happen? Maybe a ship blew up. We ain't fighting nobody; I mean no one even declared war."

"Shutup Carson!" Gibbs exclaimed.

"We have to face the fact that we could be dealing with a species with an entirely different values system." Lt. Singh said breaking into the commlink. "If we hadn't been having a drill when they hit you would all be dead. The radiation levels are too high to tell what is going on but we had radar on ships heading for the settlement. That seems the most likely place for an invading force to set up. Depending on the size of the force we either counter-attack or…" The lieutenant trailed off into silence for a moment. Then he continued in a grim voice. "Or we return and two of us will try to take the Armadillo off-planet and report what has happened."

The Armadillo was one of the small Minotaur class craft that the Marines had been budgeted for. The two-man thirty meter long ship had a disposable matter/anti-matter packet that powered its warp engine. The ship also boasted a small fusion reactor made the ship highly maneuverable on impulse power. Two Teledyne I pulse lasers rested in the nose of the craft. Marine generals had commented that the craft would make an effective fighter ship. It was thought by many in the Corps and the upper echelons of the Navy that that particular comment was what had led to the cancellation of the Minotaur program. Politicians were more than willing to spend taxpayer's money in their districts on Earth but the military had become a secondary consideration since the decades' long peace. But a few of the hearty craft had nonetheless made it to the field. Those few being used by the marines and navy saw primary duty as search and rescue vehicles.

Great, Walters thought as the platoon made its way out of the dome and onto the surface of Deneva; he would doubtless be one of those left behind. Billy had joined the Marines with the idea of getting pilot training. Walters groused internally that he had received training on the Minotaur. The young marine had to admit it was his own foot-dragging that has caused him not to become fully flight qualified. Walter's had pleaded sick so that he could go into the settlement and look at Misty Johannsen during his last opportunity to become warp qualified. Gibbs had cast a weather eye at Billy but had excused the marine from training for that day. There was no time to learn now Billy thought bitterly as his boots made a crunching noise on the dead grass.

One of the troopers had asked about riding into the settlement. This had drawn a hostile reply from Sergeant Gibbs. The Gunney went on to explain that the radiation had burned out the electronic systems on their vehicles. That and most likely this enemy would have ground radar to see oncoming land vehicles. The platoon sergeant had concluded by telling the marine that his fool action would most likely get them all killed at once.

Deneva was a Minshara class world. That word was a Vulcan word that designated terran type worlds. When man had first reached for the stars they had accepted as much advice from the Vulcans as those somber beings were willing to give. Early human starfarers had adopted the Vulcan language planetary classification system. Most spacers now merely said M-class. Humanity always seemed to be able to translate the most majestic concepts into a verbal shorthand.

Normally the two continents of Deneva that man had settled were a lush forested land. But rather than the odd greens and blues perceived by human vision because of the blue-white star's ultra-violet radiation the landscape had a brownish cast, much like an old sepia tone photograph. As Billy pushed past a bush he noted with horror how its branches and leaves withered to dust upon his touch; just like a leaf consumed by fire. Walters looked behind him to see that he was leaving a trail from his walk through the dead plant matter. None of the planet's native birds or insects were in evidence either. The marines had been walking for over half an hour now. The lieutenant and the sergeant had led them through the lifeless forest instead of along the vehicle road that ran from the small marine base to the settlement. The platoon was strung out in a line with at least thirty meters between each marine. Billy walked up a small rise; emerged through some radiation drenched vegetation and stopped. The marine threw himself onto the ground.

Billy was glad that training had kicked in as the strange aircraft went roaring overhead. The settlement set in the bottom of a small bowl-shaped depression. There was life in the settlement but it was not that of the colonists. Armored bipedal figures scurried out of what had to be some sort of shuttlecraft. Some of the craft were large and boxy; that implied to Walters that they must be transports. The armored aliens marching down the ramp of these ships seemed to confirm Walter's suspicions. The other craft were more dangerous looking: These were obviously warplanes of some sort. Each of these ships had large wings and a drooping nose that gave the impression of a large metal bird. Pods hanging on the lower wings had a variety of devices attached to them. None of them Billy thought looked like devices to be used for peaceful exploration. Walter's watched as one of the warplanes took off and quickly accelerated over where he was observing the former human settlement. Billy noted a garish looking bird painted on the bottom of the craft as it thundered overhead and skyward.

"Okay that is enough," Gibbs said over the combat network. "Looks like there is nothing left to defend. We need to head bac--."

That was the last time Private Billy Walters ever heard Doc Gibb's voice. There were muffled exclamations over the net. Then someone screamed over the radio. The screaming went on and on for what seemed indefinitely. Billy wanted the sound to stop like he had never wanted anything so badly in his life. Yet he felt a twinge of guilt knowing that most likely one of his comrades lay wounded somewhere. Walter's looked about in confusion. Another marine was scurrying toward his position. Judging by the person's size it could be Cpl. April Martinez or Lieutenant Singh. Whoever it was their entire body exploded in a huge expulsion of red blood. Billy caught sight of some of the armored invaders coming out of the undergrowth beneath his position. The private pointed his Beretta Mark XI at the group. His first squeeze of the trigger locked the targets into the gun's sighting system. The second squeeze let loose a stream of 9.9mm explosive ordinance in the direction of the enemy.

Billy took off running. The screams of his unknown wounded companion faded to nothing. He briefly heard someone—unmasked Walter's realized in horror; he could tell from the sound of the person's voice as they begged for their life. Then he heard a moist explosion for a brief second. Walters plunged through the undergrowth with his right arm out behind him firing away with the Beretta. Walters looked up in time to see Stuart Carson. The Marine was bent limping through the forest. Billy looked briefly at Stu's wounded leg—and almost threw up. How the marine was walking on what was left of the bloodied limb Billy couldn't even begin to guess. Walters was going to help his fellow marine when Stuart Carson's torso separated from the rest of his body. The dead marine's legs walked two more steps before crumbling into a heap.

Walters was running as fast as he could. His lungs burned as he tried to take in air through the mask's restrictive filter system. Billy stopped briefly to catch his breath. The marine looked behind him as he tumbled to the ground to rest; just a second he thought. Walters hit his reserve oxygen system sending a short burst of fresh oxygen into his mask along with the filtered air of Deneva. The burst of fresh air seemed to clear his head. As Walter's vision cleared somewhat he looked up to see one of the armored aliens burst out of the dead forest. The being leveled its weapon at Billy. Billy brought the Berretta up and fired at full automatic. Walters finally noticed as the gun barked one last time—out of ammunition. He looked to where his potential executioner had been only to see a heap of something on the ground. Billy got up and lunged for the dome.

The marine base was in sight. Billy was sure everything from their arrival at the settlement to his return to the base had taken less then a minute; so hyped up on adrenaline he was. Billy headed to the Minotaur's launching area. He hoped he was not the only one. The marine turned the corner in front of the small building where launch operations were carried out. He tripped and fell into a heap of garbage that someone had left on the walk way. Billy thought angrily that the area was usually policed for trash. Then he realized sickly that he had fallen into the remains of April Martinez. Billy could see the half of her face that remained. Walter's had once went hunting with his father. Father and son had come upon the carcass of a deer that had been wounded by some other hunter perhaps. Wild dogs had been chewing on the fresh body. That is what Billy thought of when he looked at April's remains. It was too much.

Walter's mask filled with vomit. Billy had no choice but to lift the protective mask off of his face. The private spewed forth the remaining contents of his stomach then heaved in great amounts of the poisonous air of Deneva. He heard a sound like the wind and somehow realized another of those wicked looking aircraft was in the air. The marine sprinted for the Minotaur's launch silo. He opened the old style hinged door just in time: Half of the metal door was severed midway down its length in a shower of sparks and molten metal. He descended into the launch bay and got to the small marine craft. The entrance hatch was shut. Billy shuddered inwardly as the thought occurred to him that he was the only one of his platoon left. He called out on his headset for any survivors. Silence answered his desperate call.

Walter's entered the small ship. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind the marine realized he was breathing in poison. Walters hoped that hyronaline was all that it was made out to be. Walters sat himself in the pilot's seat. Billy had been checked off in atmospheric and orbital operations. He initiated the launch sequence. Billy knew he was skipping steps but he had to get out of here. Walters tripped the navigational shielding to the on position. That was stupid he thought, that was not needed for atmospheric operations. Then Walters thought how lucky he was when a calm mechanical female voice informed him that radiation levels were dangerously high. Billy checked the threat warning system. It looked like their enemies had exploded another neutron bomb over his position. Had the Minotaur been unshielded—Walters trembled as he thought about that outcome. Billy opened the launch bay doors. The marine hit the primary impulse causing the small metal tubular craft to launch out of its protective berth.

The miniature search and rescue/starship climbed out on the 45 degree angle in had been parked at. Billy was punching buttons on the warp computer frantically trying to remember his warp flights with those who were qualified in faster-than-light operations. The small ship rocked; Walters surmised that the shaking was from weapons fire. The marine had felt nothing like that in any of his other flights or simulations. Finally a set of coordinates showed on the navigation computer. According the ship's electronic brains the Minotaur had enough power in its matter/anti-matter packet to make the destination. Walters accepted the coordinates then waited. The marine new he couldn't engage the star drive while the ship was this deep in a gravity well. Walters looked at the viewscreens showing him the surrounding space.

He was surrounded by greenish ships of many kinds. Walters surmised that he must have flown into a formation of the invaders. The marine was surprised that he was still alive; then the words of Lt. Singh came back to him. The Minotaur was too close for them to shoot at without them risking shooting at themselves. Billy realized the cover would not last for long. Walter's checked the warp critical display. The shifting graph showed an increasing line that represented the tiny Minotaur's speed displayed along with a shifting sine wave looking line that represented prime warp entry; a third line was a gradually curving line that grew smoother as the ship climbed further out of Deneva's gravity.

Walters couldn't believe it; according to the little ship's radar he was out of the group of hostile newcomers. He was still alive. Walter's looked at the unknown traffic being displayed by the radar. There was the answer; that was why he was still alive. The IFF system showed the green numerals of friendly contacts. Somehow maybe some ships had survived; if not on the continent Billy had been assigned to then perhaps the other settlement an ocean away. These invaders had other things to take care of so perhaps that had spared Billy. An alarm sounded over Billy's headset. The curves were at optimal position. Walter's engaged the Minotaur's small warp drive. The marine spaceship was enroute to the nearest Earth outpost in range—Station Salem One.

Earth Saint Louis, Missouri, Apr 2156

"Ain't this grand!" Trip tucker exclaimed to his commanding officer. The navy lieutenant made a sweeping gesture around the suite that the Boeing-Teledyne Corporation had provided to the two officers. As much as exploration was in the blood of the starfarers being back home on Earth was always a treat.

"I don't know about you Maj," Tucker said humorously. "But I cain't get over bein' in a bedroom bigger than a lot of ships I've been on! And the room service was great! If I stayed here for a week I'd gain 10 kilos easy."

"Don't let it get to your head Trip," Major Jonathan Archer chided his friend. "This is the sales pitch from Brack's people. You can bet your ass that is what this is about; now that X has been officially shutdown."

The project the officers had been assigned too had indeed been officially terminated two weeks earlier. Archer's advanced starship was in all likelihood waiting to be scrapped. The ship's skeleton would probably be part of an ore freighter by next year. Archer had not taken the news well. The officers along with the military technicians and MIG-Bell contractors had left Hangar 51 amid a general feeling of betrayal. No one who had been assigned to the secret installation on Ganymede was happy to leave. The staff, construction gang and the contractors had all adopted an abiding faith in the success of X. Now their dreams were gone; like those of a man hastily awoken from a pleasant slumber.

The two men's banter was interrupted by the door chime. Archer got up from the suite's table and went to the ornate double doors and opened them up. The major was most surprised when a dour looking man and woman in elegant black suits greeted him. They appraised Archer coolly. The pair also did a thorough job of examining the suite from where they stood. Archer was about to ask what the hell was going on when another individual joined the group of the door. Archer's jaw almost hit the floor then he snapped to immediate attention and made sure that Trip did too.

"It is good to meet you in person Major Archer," President Christophur Thorpe proclaimed as he stuck out his hand to Archer. "And you too Lt. Tucker. The future belongs to men such as you." Thorpe stopped and chuckled out loud as his security contingent swept the rooms. "There—still too much of the politician in me!" The president introduced another man as he entered the room. Archer recognized this person as well. "Major you know Mr. Micah Brack but I believe Lt. Tucker does not?"

"Everyone star ship and powerplant engineer knows Mister Brack's work sir," Tucker said happily as he crossed the room to shake the president's hand. He then went to Brack who it seemed, Trip was much more of awe in than the president of the United Earth government. "It is so good to meet you sir! I've read through the all the articles you ever published in engineering journals!" Trip said as he pumped Brack's hand.

Archer was a little surprised at the industrialist's appearance. It was exactly as he recalled the man from his memories of meeting Brack with his father. Brack still had the same compact athletic physique and iron gray hair that Archer remembered. Brack noticed Archer's appraising gaze as he broke the handshake with Trip.

"I remember you too Major Archer," Brack said. "You didn't marry that lovely olive-skinned girl from Barstow did you?"

"Uh no sir I'm afraid the marriage ship passed me by." Archer replied.

"Ah well there is time for that," Brack replied with a distant look in his eye. "You should make time for someone else in your life. But I'm not here to advise you on your love life major—and as far as my appearance goes; vitamins do work wonders as does plastic surgery. Begrudge an old man his vanity sir?"

"I know this must seem strange to you major, lieutenant," President Thorpe interjected. "After all I am the enemy as far as you are concerned major?"

Archer fell silent. Yes, the Air Force officer had been openly vocal; as vocal as a military officer could be, of the government's military budget. The president as titular head of that government had borne much of Archer's criticism. Now here Archer was face-to-face with his apparent nemesis.

"Mr. President," Archer began clumsily. He was interrupted when the president spoke up:

"Forget it about major," Thorpe said, and then turned to his protective staff: "You two may go. If I'm not safe with two of our military officers where would I be safe." Worded as a question it was a statement. The two guards departed grudgingly.

"Let's all be seated," Thorpe said invitingly. When everyone but the president had found a seat Thorpe, launched into his statement:

"While it is true that I've never been in the military I do appreciate the job of the military. It is for that reason that I allowed X to be cancelled—as far as was publicly known. What you may not realize gentleman—although I know Micah knows it; is that there has been an enormous effort to do away with our armed forces. The Earth Council in league with some of the companies that are receiving taxpayer money would like nothing better than to see the military dismantled in favor of a mercantile fleet."

"Why tell us all of this?" Trip Tucker asked flatly.

"Because we need a viable military," Thorpe replied grimly. "You've heard about the ships disappearing in sectors 12 and 13?"

Both officers nodded Archer chimed in: "I thought that the disappearances were confined to sector 13?"

"We have gotten reports of missing ships from sector 12 this month," Thorpe said sadly. The United Earth President continued. "You two have the highest clearances—almost. What I am about to tell you is beyond Top Secret. The installation on Ganymede is named Hangar 51, you of course no the history of that particular numbered area?"

"You mean that," Trip Tucker answered; "That UO thing?"

"UFO," Thorpe replied. "And yes, Hangar 51 was given its name in homage to the old Area 51 out in the Nevada desert—not far from here as a matter of fact. I know you've heard the stories. Funny aren't they? But in the most incredible stories there lurks a grain of truth."

"Now wait a minute," Jonathan Archer said. "You expect us to believe that an alien ship landed on Earth in the 20th century?"

"Yes I do major," Thorpe deadpanned. "In 1947 a ship from a race called Ferengis landed outside of the United States Army Air Force base near Roswell, New Mexico."

Archer and Tucker looked at the president as if the man had just winked at them with a third eye. Their disbelief was apparent. But it was obvious the president had the floor. The executive continued:

"It has been a closely kept secret. I will tell you that the Americans of that time got very little technology from the ship. What was found out; or at least hinted at was that Earth would become part of some greater stellar organization. The point is gentleman; we know there are more races out there. There was no hint on when we would become part of this…alliance. But since there are more aliens out there we can't assume just because the Vulcans, Denobulans, Andorians and Tellarites are friendly that every race we encounter will follow suit. We need a strong fighting navy. Earth needs an exploratory force. Earth needs the X—the alliance needs the X."

Archer and Tucker were aware of the president's failed overtures for a multi-planetary alliance. The news of the Ferengi's visit to ancient earth made the reason for Thorpe's candor in his diplomatic adventures apparent. With the news of the landing of aliens on old earth still sinking in a question occurred to Archer:

"But with all do respect sir, your alliance idea failed. I'm not sure where you are going with all of this."

"Do either of you know the names Vanor or Mavik Dis?" This time Micah Brack chimed in the conversation.

"Vanor," Trip replied quickly. "You mean the Andorian engineer Vanor?"

"The same," Brack declared agreeably. "Mavik Dis is his Tellarite counterpart—your counterpart lieutenant." Brack said indicating Trip. "Through the efforts of the president, Andor and Tellar are lending us their top engineers—and other resources."

"My term of office is almost over gentleman," Thorpe added. "I won't see the alliance. But it is my fervent hope that from the seeds of a joint effort to build a new class of starship that a melding of the races will take place. When our people, and the Andorians and Tellarites find out what was accomplished—together; then I hope then that will be the start of the alliance."

"So this is a secret venture," Archer declared. The major had listened to the president's words. They left only one conclusion: Whatever was going on here was to be cloaked under the cover of secrecy.

"You see very well major," The president replied ruefully. "Have you ever considered a career in politics?" Thorpe continued in a more serious manner. "Yes, if you accept, you Major Archer and you Lieutenant Tucker will in one week receive orders to different assignments. Officially you will be going to those places; unofficially you will return to Hangar 51 where you oversee a team of humans and aliens. Mr. Brack here is providing the industrial help that you will need."

"And we will report to," Archer left the question open-ended.

"My office through secure channels," Thorpe replied. "Do not speak with any of the admiralty."

"What about the Vulcans?" Archer asked sourly. The Air Force officer thought he knew the answer already.

"Our logical friends are not interested in helping us." The United Earth President replied. "You know their directives on the sharing of technology."

"I sure as hell do!" Archer exclaimed. The major was about to say more when he felt his friend Trip's warning grasp on his arm.

Archer looked at Tucker. Both men had that unspoken connection that said that they were of one mind. Trip nodded to his superior officer and friend. Archer took a deep breath:

"We'll do whatever we can for you Mr. President."

Task Force 15 Gamma Hydra UES Pathfinder Apr 2156

"Nearing the coordinates of the freighter sir," The CPO said from his position at radar. "Returns are scrambled all over the place with all these asteroids around us. There is also a good bit of debris—probably asteroidal material. But it is playing hell with the radar."

Another technician manning the new sensors had much the same news. The one exception seemed to be that the sensors were not getting a good return on the freighter. The officer remarked casually that it was almost like it wasn't there.

"Commodore, if I may order a call to general quarters?" Tariq Anwar said from his position at the first officer's panel. Commodore Adrian Gellar nodded to his number one. Warning klaxons sounded throughout the Pioneer class cruiser.

"Sensors do you have better resolution on the Maru?" Gellar asked bluntly.

"No sir," The NCO's voice rose in pitch and volume. "Sir, it isn't there! Wait…I'm reading multiple contacts."

"Can we see them?" Gellar asked.

"Sir we need to get a targeting solution on these bogies!" Anwar exclaimed.

"And start an interstellar war?" Gellar replied bitterly.

Anwar had heard enough: "Sir, the freighter we were sent to rescue suddenly vanishes and now we have multiple inbound contacts!" The first officer of the Pathfinder turned his attention to the gunnery officer. "Prescott, get a firing solution on these unknowns; uncap the safeties on the Narwhals and power up the laser turrets."

The Narwhal antiship missile was a high velocity ship-to-ship missile that mounted one 50 kiloton enhanced fusion warhead. The missile could obtain one-quarter light speed in under 5 seconds. It was the missile's high velocity that gave the device its lethal punch. In the five years since its installation on Stellar Navy ships it had only been fired at drones. The missile had a hundred percent kill ratio against those, of course.

"Sir," The NCO at the sensor console yelled out in alarm. "They are firing something!"

The video display on the viewscreen showed the majestic sight of the Kinshasa and one of their sister ships: The Victory. The bridge crew watched in horror as a white beam struck both vessels cutting the Stellar Navy ships in half. The spinning fragments of the starships had a shorter life as the powerplant of the Kinshasa exploded into a glowing ball of nuclear fire. The bridge crew of the Pathfinder had only seconds to consider the fact that the enemy beam had been visible. The light from lasers was invisible in the vacuum of space. The gunnery crews had managed to obtain a firing solution. The Crusader and the Comfort both fell to the unknown beam weapon of the hostiles in the meantime. The Jakarta and Bremen narrowly avoided being destroyed.

"Evasive action!" Gellar ordered. "Number One fire the Narwhals! Target the closest attacker with both laser turrets and fire at will! Order the fleet to engage and fire."

Anwar had already given those orders. The commander of the Pathfinder lamented that it might be too late as the St. Helens blew apart in a spectacular explosive display. Tariq looked at the viewscreen as one of the attackers came into focus. A large green ship that looked like an inverted bowl on stilts faded in and out of focus. Anwar thought there was some sort of marking on the craft. Tactical said there were eleven such craft confronting them. The Egyptian watched the tactical display as the Narwhals headed for their targets. Two of the bowls ships were disintegrated by the nuclear missiles. The rest of the missiles seemed to be exploding short of their targets.

"It is like they are throwing some kind of stuff out at the missiles!" The nervous sensor operator exclaimed. "Christ it reads as really dense—neutronium maybe."

Anwar briefly remembered reading an article about the use of neutronium pellets to defeat inbound missiles. His revelries were interrupted when the Pathfinder's artificial gravity lost hold. The lights went out; the only illumination besides the emergency lights was provided by the shower of sparks and flames erupting out of control panels. The Pathfinder had been hit. The first officer turned to the commodore.

"Sir, I suggest we withdraw! We are over matched here. We are down to six vessels and two of those are tankers."

The reports were rolling in. Some of the taskforce might escape but the Pathfinder would not. Anwar's ship had been hulled near the tail section. The fusion reactor was shutdown lest it overheat. The build up coils for the warp drive were destroyed. The Pathfinder's first officer realized that his ship would go no where without a miracle from Allah. Another of the bowl ships was destroyed. But so was the Paine and Jakarta.

"Number One," Adrian Gellar said distractedly. "Give the order…get…get us out of here."

"I am afraid it is too late for that sir," Anwar informed his superior. The Egyptian watched as the threat warning system showed inbound high speed contacts—missiles.

United Earth Stellar Navy Ship Fearless, near Gamma Hydra Apr 2156

Grizzly Oulette crossed himself in the ancient way. The sensor readings were horrible. His friend Anwar's worst fears had been confirmed. Oulette watched the graphic displayed on the viewscreen less than 3 meters from where he sat. Ship after ship of Gellar's taskforce vanished with only a momentary surge in energy readings marking the locations of the UE ships as they exploded. A subspace distress call came over the speakers. It was the last word anyone would ever hear from those ships that had been part of Taskforce 15.

"Tabernac," Oulette muttered under his breath. "Is there any possibility that they can see us Leonard?"

Leonard Zimmermann was a medium thinly built American navy officer. The commander was one of those unfortunate people to whom baldness had come too early. At only thirty-three Zimmermann's black hair was mostly gone.

"Guerrero," Zimmermann inquired of the sensor operator. "What do you think?"

"I'm still running these readings through the computer," The southern Californian native replied. "I think, based on what the spectra showed that those guys are using some kind of subspace radar like ours. I'm not showing any interference like we get from another subspace scanning rig."

"What about that weapon?" Oulette asked the sergeant directly. The commander of the Fearless was referring to the visible beam weapon the unknown hostiles had used.

"The computer is running an analysis," Guerrero answered. "But it's just me, but that sure as hell read like plasma; like the expulsion of a solar flare. Only that stuff was moving at .99c."

"How do we fight something like that?" Zimmermann said thinking aloud.

"The only thing good—maybe," Guerrero added; "Is that they didn't fire that thing till they got within 4000 meters. And they mostly fired just once then there was a three minute pause; also the power curve was dropping off just before it hit—like it has a range."

Oulette sat grief stricken for a moment. He recalled his friend Anwar among others from the taskforce that was no more. But Oulette knew that there was no time for grief; the commander of the last surviving ship of Taskforce 15 came to an abrupt decision.

"Len," Pierre said to his first officer. "Set a course for Station Salem One. Engage at warp 2.4 for one hour." Oulette was ordering the maximum warp speed for his 1100 man cruiser; "Then inquire of the engineer what our best fuel consumption curve is and slow to that speed."

"Sgt. Guerrero, I know it is past time for your duty tour to end; but I need your experience on the sensors. Perform a max scan behind us. Make sure we are not being followed Dave."

Talhava, Capital City of Andor, The Season of Thaw, Earth time Apr 2156

Rastan looked out over the gleaming landscape. The sun was setting causing the icebergs to light up like they were on fire. Light reflected in odd and beautiful patterns off of the melted water that gathered into pools beneath the bergs. The venting steam from Andor's many geothermal power plants broke the rays of the setting sun into a cascading rainbow of colors. It was against this horizon that Rastan, Shahar of the Andorian people stood peering out over the landscape.

At well over 150 Earth years old the Andorian leader was at the twilight of his life. But despite his age Rastan stood tall and straight. The Shahar had been selected from Andor's military. Rastan had maintained the physique of a Guardsman's as well as he could. That appeared to be successful as the symbolic head of the Andorian people stood at just under 196 centimeters while massing over 122 kilograms. The ruler of Andor had a long thick mane of white hair. Rastan drew his cloak tighter about him as an evening wind blew across the surface. His antennae perked up as the gigantic ornate poly-crystalline doors opened onto the balcony.

"Shran," Rastan declared with his back still turned away from the individual who had come out in the cold to join him. "I thought that I would be seeing you."

"Shahar," Shran said in greeting as his leader turned to the ambassador. Shran had his hands out to his sides, palms outward; his antennae were dipped to their lowest position. It was the traditional greeting when an Andorian greeted their Shahar. Rastan dipped his head in acknowledgment of Shran's humility.

"I expected you," Rastan said quietly. "I can even guess upon the nature of your calling—the humans." When Shran dipped his antennae in agreement the Shahar continued with a sigh. "I cannot go before the Caldonè with what you and Thorpe seek." When he saw Shran's look of disappointment Rastan continued:

"Look out at the sky," The Shahar said making a sweeping gesture of the night sky. The curtain of black night with its accompanying swath of stars was descending onto the Andorian horizon. "How long can we stand against that and not fail to see we are one lone species in the universe among many others?" He continued:

"I can see that and so can you Shran. But many still do not. They think were we to ally ourselves that deeply with the humans then we would stop being Andorians. But how could that be? We could never lose the warming fires of our souls. We would always be Andorians—Andorians who are part of a greater unity. I support your gesture Shran. No one feels as passionately towards the humans as I do."

The Shahar was a childless ruler. His older son had been a member of the Imperial Guard. Caszak's ship had been on a routine training mission when a malfunctioning warp nacelle had caused large areas of the Andorian military ship to become lethally irradiated. A passing United Earth Stellar Navy cruiser had picked up his son's ship's distress beacon. The humans had boarded the Andorian cruiser; they had rescued well over half of the survivors at the cost of twenty dead humans. The humans had searched every corridor of the Cehavla incurring lethal doses of radiation in the process. The Shahar's son had not been among the survivors. But Rastan never forgot the courage of the rescuers.

"I know they are not all a good and noble people," Rastan continued. "But neither are we. One need only spend an hour in the Caldonè to see the dregs of our society. I don't know Shran, were it a choice between a politician and an ice worm…"

"I would choose the worm," Shran replied with a chuckle.

The Shahar laughed as well: "As would I Shran. One day we may throw off this sense of self importance. But it is not today. I could not move the Caldonè unless there was some sort of reason."

"Ships are disappearing," Shran declared; "The humans mostly but some of ours as well. Have you spoken to the Vulcans?"

"They of course know nothing," Rastan declared bitterly. "It almost makes me wish the humans had not brokered a peace between us. How ironic that we of a frigid planet have such warm hearts and those from the desert possess hearts colder than the ice of our poles."

"Christophur's people have had the same results with the pointies." Shran said.

"I have endorsed a military exchange program between the 2nd Guardsmen and the Stellar Navy's Taskforce 12." Rastan said in an apparent change of subject. The import of his emperor's words were not lost on Shran.

"Would this combined force perhaps be going to the area of space the humans identify as sector 12?" Shran asked slyly.

"It would indeed," Rastan exclaimed. "Perhaps I was premature in removing you from the Guard Ambassador!"

"I serve our people in whatever capacity I may," Shran declared in a serious tone.

"Too few of us do these days," Rastan said with conviction; "If there is anything else Ambassador Shran?"

When Shran replied in the negative the two Andorians bid each other a good evening. Shran left the emperor of his world as he had found him: Looking out over the balcony of the Imperial Palace. The frigid wind picked up in speed giving a bitter bite to exposed flesh. Rastan thought that it was unusually cold for the Season of the Thaw. The ruler of Andor wondered if that signified the coming of a stormy year to the continent.

Earth Station Salem One, Apr 2156

"Well, well," Commander Sharon Sileski declared humorously from behind her desk. "Are we having another indoor soccer match Arkady?"

"This is the required duty uniform Comrade Commander," Captain Luchenko said in a detached manner. "So it has been told to me by Satan."

The 35 year old commander was the Director of Operations for Salem One. The short browned haired American Army officer was often chided for her diminutive size. Unfortunately the small size did not follow through on her more than ample hips, despite numerous trips to the gym. Her laughter at the station's Deputy Commander died on her lips.

"I've been reading the directives." Sharon said morosely. "Christ, I can't even remember if I packed mine—gold right?" The DO ran her fingers through her short hair. "I keep thinking the supply noncom gave me a red one; guess that makes me dead as far as our new commander is concerned?"

"There is a stock of them on hand." Luchenko replied helpfully. "Are you going to wear the skirt combination—I rather like that!"

"Then why don't you wear one Captain?" Sileski retorted.

Alright, alright comrade," Luchenko said. "And please forget my Satan comment. That was unprofessional." The captain changed the subject and continued: "I was interested in who is going out to Gilligan's Island?"

The Deputy Commander of Salem One was referring to the station's sensor pod. The Navy budget hadn't allowed for integrating the new subspace sensors into the station's system so in lieu of that they had converted an old way station capsule for the installation of the sensor. That also allowed the new technology to be employed at its maximum capacity. The small capsule had no artificial gravity and barely enough room for its two man crew. Teams were sent out for five day rotations in the sensor pod. It had earned its nickname when an American officer who had seen a particular Broadway show before being assigned to Salem One was humming a tune about a three hour cruise. Three hours being the time it took a shuttle to make a one-way trip to the pod. The nickname had caught on and stuck.

Sileski brought the duty roster up on her computer terminal. One of her duties as Director of Operations was to ensure that the various duty positions were manned on a day-to-day basis. She perused her lists until she found what she was looking for:

"It looks like Lieutenant j.g. Hudson, and Ser— excuse me—guess we are using these fleet ranks; Petty Officer Subtrahama. They are next up on the duty roster Captain."

"Wait a minute!" Captain Luchenko exclaimed. There was suspicion in his voice. "Those are two new people are they not? What about—ah, Mr. Kobayashi and his partner Sergeant Custis?"

Luchenko had a feeling where these two particular men were involved something was as the British would say, afoot. Sharon ran through her records and it did appear that somehow the two crewmen in question had moved further down the duty roster. It did not surprise Luchenko. The Russian captain had a feeling that those two would go far; unless they were hung first. But Arkady had no desire to see two new people's introduction to their station being a five day stay at Gilligan's Island. He could imagine the conversation already. 'I hope you gentlemen are familiar with zero-gee toilet operations?'

"I'll inform the lieutenant and his friend about the duty change myself commander," Luchenko said adding a twisted laugh. "I'm sorry Sharon but Petty Officer Custis will not be able to make Friday's dance; moot now since our commander has cancelled that event."

Sharon's face turned beet red. "You know me and Peter aren't…" The Director of Operations seemed to be struggling for words. "That would compromise the chain of command!"

"дерьmо!" Arkady cursed in his native Russian. "Look Sharon I know you are an American—loosen up! There is life out of a uniform. Sure you two are an item. The crew has nothing else to talk about out here but the romances of others!"

Luchenko knew the American officer was embarrassed. The Russian couldn't for the life of him understand the rank structure of the supposed egalitarian Americans. Thank God he was Russian Luchenko thought. He took his leave of his DO after ensuring she made the necessary notations into the duty roster.

Sensor Pod 1, 50 Trillion kilometers from Station Salem One, nickname: Gilligan's Island Apr 2156

"I thought you had this sewed up sir!" Petty officer Peter Custis asked his superior officer. At 42 the tall lanky NCO was near the end of his career in the Stellar Navy. Custis was getting tired of being referred to as 'pops'; in reference to his thick pate of prematurely graying hair.

"I did," Lieutenant Genji Kobayashi answered defensively. "I had us moved down. I talked to one of your scheduling NCO buddies. He made the swap in exchange for some hooch." The short, slim oriental officer was at the door of his thirties. Hooch was the name given to liquor that was distilled in the unofficial officer's mess; otherwise known as the Auger Inn.

"I would've thought you had more pull Serge—Chief," Kobayashi replied slyly. "I mean after all you are sharing the DO's bed."

"It ain't like that sir," Peter replied without humor. "I mean maybe it started out being sex but…"

"You see," Genji replied triumphantly. "I knew some of my attributes would rub off on you. That is a very noble sentiment Pete. You would not have had that nobility had you never shared my company. I will make an officer of you yet; in my image!"

"If by that you mean being short and obnoxious," Custis answered with a grin. "No thanks sir!"

Kobayashi laughed heartily, and then became serious. "Peter, if you love her don't let her slip through your fingers. You are not getting any younger—or any better looking!"

Chief Custis was about to make a snapping retort when a reading on the sensors got his attention. The new subspace sensors were an art form unto themselves to use. Lt. Kobayashi and he were considered the station's experts on the new scanning device. Hence their mutual dislike for the repeated tours at Gilligan's Island. They had served many rotations there training others in the use of the new sensors.

"Sir, take a look at this," Custis said as he transferred the graphics onto Kobayashi's display. "It looks like a group of ships."

Genji examined the readings, stopped, went back and examined them again. The lieutenant unstrapped from his chair, fishtailed over and pushed himself over to the station's inbound roster.

"It has to be Taskforce 15," The officer said. Kobayashi's tone was one of a man trying to convince himself as well as someone else of the validity of an untruth.

"Genji," Custis replied. "I read the dispatches after Col. Luchenko rousted us for this gig. Shouldn't Taskforce 15 be coming in along this axis?" Peter caused a line to be illuminated on the viewscreen. It was offset from the group of unknowns by at least 45 degrees.

The officer seemed to be thinking for several tense minutes. Finally he seemed to have arrived at a resolution: He announced his intention to radio the station about the anomalous readings. Custis set up the link to Salem One. Things seemed to go normally until an angry Admiral Arroyo burst onto the viewscreen:

"Are you gentleman aware of the new standing orders for the use of scrambler codes for ship-to-shore ops? Why do I even ask—of course you are not. Refer to your code wafers and call back using the proper channels. Consider yourselves both on report upon your return. I will see you both—in the proper uniform."

The admiral abruptly cut the channel. Lt. Kobayashi's Japanese Defense Force fatigues and Peter Custis' US Army flight suit hadn't escaped the admiral's attention. The two men looked at each other in puzzlement and anger. Both wished they had initiated a voice only contact. But they both knew that it was too late for that. Peter floated out of his seat and went through the equipment they had signed out prior to their departure. The lieutenant had signed for the Top Secret code wafers; that was standard operations. But no one on Gilligan's Island had, to date used the code key for communications.

"Christ sir," Custis exclaimed. "These wafers are out of date!"

"Plug them into the computer anyway Pete," Kobayashi said morosely. "How much more worse can this get?"

UE Stellar Navy Bison class Beagle, near Tarod

"I hate these EVA's," Petty officer Mary Vong remarked to Lt. Jocelyn Stiles. "I hate hearing my breathing like this!"

"Would you rather not be breathing Mary?" Stiles chided her EVA partner. "Anyway we'll patch the hole in the radar emitter and get the hell back in the ship. I ain't crazy about being out in this radiation."

The Beagle was in far orbit of Tarod's sun. Stile's wondered why she was complaining about radiation. She had just finished working with the ship's armory officer replacing the modified Narwhal's warheads for sounding work. They had taken down the heavier ship-to-ship fusion warheads in exchange for a smaller yield nuclear warhead. Part of the Beagle's mission involved shooting small shielded nuclear bombs into the sun's surface in an attempt to cause a solar eruption. Some of the expelled matter then could be hopefully trapped by a specially designed probe flying close to the sun.

The two women preceded along their safety lines until they arrived at the radar emitter cone. It chilled Jocelyn's insides some when she thought that the small hole in the emitter cone had probably been caused by a meteor no larger than a sliver of her fingernail. The navigational deflectors were not always up to par. Jo-jo reflected that it was better than no shielding at all. The officer and NCO took out their tool kits and started their repairs.

"How are you getting along ma'am?" Vong asked Stiles.

"Fine this is a good ship," Stiles replied quietly. "Captain Huang seems like a good commander."

"No I mean about you and your man?" Mary asked. "It is a closed circuit ma'am—no worries there. Sorry, the Beagle is a small ship; news travels."

The Beagle had a crew of almost 200 people. Coming in at just under 250 meters the Bison was a converted commercial freighter. The UE Navy had equipped the Beagle with a single Teledyne pulse laser and 20 Narwhal anti-ship missiles with just one launch tube. A single rack of spider area defense missiles completed the ship's layout. The Beagle was carrying an additional 10 Narwhals for use as solar probes during this mission. But Mary was right: News traveled fast on a small ship like the Beagle. So it was that the majority of the crew knew about Jocelyn's impending marriage.

Stiles thought back to the couple's last day. It had been a sad time at the home of Jocelyn's parents. Everyone had of course had tried to put on a façade of happiness. That had not succeeded. The remainder of the family had made excuses to allow Stiles and David Hudson to have a little time alone before the couple went their separate ways. It had been a hard separation. David and Jocelyn had talked about how short the time would be and how quickly it would go by. But now that the time was at hand the sadness had sunk into both of them like icy fingers grabbing at their hearts.

"We have a year," Jocelyn told the NCO as they opened the cone and surveyed the damage. "David can apply for a hardship after we get married; same with me. That way he won't have to do the whole two years at Salem One."

"A year is a long time," Mary said. The pair replaced the shattered electronics and was in the process of applying the gooey repair patch to the hole. "I know it is tough. I met my first husband before I shipped out. You see what the Navy did for that marriage. Anyway number two didn't work out much better." Vong said in reference to her second husband. "I have high hopes for number three though!"

"Well we aren't making a career of it!" Stiles exclaimed indicating her and David Hudson. "I thought for a while when I was at the Zoo that I would go career; General Stiles!" This last she added with a chuckle. The Zoo was the time honored nickname given to the US Air Force Academy by its luckless graduates.

"How about your man l-t?" Vong asked spelling out Stile's rank.

"Same with him," Stiles said. "His dad is a lawyer in Virginia; he wants David to join his practice. Dave would have to go back to complete law school but with full employment that is not going to be a problem."

"Let me guess; you are just going to stay home and have babies?" Vong asked bluntly.

"Women don't have to prove themselves anymore," Jocelyn replied as the two women gathered their tools; satisfied that the repair was complete. "I suppose I could get a corporate engineering job; they are always snatchin' up the military. But yeah; staying home and having babies sounds good to me. I sort of want what my parents have."

"If you two are through getting a tan," The Beagle's first officer Commander Jan Wislicki said breaking into the command circuit. "The captain would like to see Lt. Stiles on the bridge."

Stiles was not a happy woman. Capt. Huang had so far had her working with the armory officer and then completing the repair to the ship's radar. Jocelyn was more in the mood for hot shower. She would rather it would be a bath in hot scented water but that luxury would be denied her until their return to a base. Stiles arrived on the bridge fifteen minutes after Cdmr. Wislicki had notified her. Jocelyn was a little embarrassed by her appearance. The EVA had been hot work. Her Air force flight suit was drenched with sweat. Stiles wished that she could have taken her long hair down; but that would have to wait until she was off of duty.

The Beagle's crew consisted of 196 people. But the command staff was made up of only 7 officers. Many of those on the survey wore officers' ranks but they were out of the sciences division. Those officers were considered much the same as medical officers were or chaplains had been when those holy people were assigned to military units of the past. That is to say that science division officers held a nominal rank but were not part of the command structure. Besides Captain Huang and Cmdr. Wislicki the command staff consisted of Lt. Marcus Corrigan in navigation, Ensign Terrell Owen in the armory officer position, Lt. Devon Foster in charge of the Beagle's small marine detachment, Ensign Marilyn Peaks in operations and herself. Stiles was surprised to find that through a variety of administrative errors Jocelyn was actually quite high up in the command structure.

Foster had just completed Annapolis so the Beagle was his first assignment. Owen and Peaks were both newly minted graduates of the Starfleet Academy. They suffered endless haranguing from the other officers for that. Mostly the questions pertained to their majors at the San Francisco school. The Starfleeters were often asked if they had 'taken up space' with regards to their chosen professions. The rank arrangement made Lt. Corrigan, Jocelyn's immediate superior. That was fortunate as Stiles had been assigned as the relief navigator. Her Air force Academy instructors had always remarked about her exceptional abilities to operate in a three dimensional environment. The entire arrangement made Stiles the defacto third officer of the Beagle.

Capt. Huang Yi was a short pleasant faced man in his mid forties. His black hair had been seeing streaks of gray in it during the last two years. The Chinese Space Force captain had been in command of the refitted freighter ever since its first cruise. Huang was publicly declaring his intention to retire after this mission. The oriental officer had been in the space service since his early twenties. Huang looked comfortable strapped into the captain's chair.

"Ah, lieutenant," Huang said in greeting to Jocelyn. "I'm sorry; I know you have had a long day. But if you will check the sensors I think you will see we have company."

"Yes sir," Stiles said as she moved to the abandoned sensor console. Sure enough radar showed three contacts. There was no IFF return from any of them. "Could they be Tellarites sir?" That race, although friendly with Earth was not always good about sharing shipping information.

"We have been listening in to their communications," Huang replied. "No they are not Tellarites. They are using scrambled signals; it is nothing we are familiar with."

"Could be explorers such as ourselves," Wislicki said expectantly. First contact with new species was always high on the list of Stellar Navy commanders' goals.

"I have them sir," A petty officer operating the Beagle's external video pickup exclaimed.

The three vessels were making their closest pass to Tarod's star thus far. That put the visitors less than two thousand kilometers from the Beagle. The exploratory ship's fine Zeiss telescopic lenses were able to get good imagery on the unknowns. The video feed was fed into the ship's computer and enhanced for clarity. The Beagle's bridge crew was greeted by the sight of three greenish looking ships. Pods of some sort were laid out behind the mystery ships. Almost everyone surmised that those pods must be warp nacelles. A yellow and green marking seemed to dominate one side of the ships' bowl-like crew compartment. The picture was not clear enough to see what that marking was. Man had so far encountered only humanoid type species. Stiles supposed the ships could be manned by intelligent plants. Perhaps in that case the pods were the living section and the saucer top was a drive section.

"Looks like a big cabbage," Corrigan exclaimed humorously. "I wonder if they see us in all this electromagnetic soup?"

"I'm guessing not," Huang said as he reviewed the strangers' flight path. "I think we should say hello!" The captain declared excitedly. It was apparent to everyone that a first contact would be a jewel in the crown of the captain's retirement. The crew too was anxious to learn more. It was after all the lure of discovery that had led them all out into deep space.

"Sorry again Lt. Stiles," Huang remarked. "I know you must want to hit the shower after your day. I know—did I tell you I have twelve daughters? I know about girls lieutenant." Huang asked Jocelyn with a smile on his lips. The Chinese captain also had a known propensity to exaggerate.

"Yes sir," Stiles replied in a serious tone. "You told me about your daughters during my inbrief."

"Well cleanliness will have to wait!" Huang exclaimed. Huang turned to his first officer. "Jan, contact Marquez in communications and tell him to get the liguacode online. We might be having friends over for dinner!"

Earth San Francisco, Apr 2156

"Ambassador Karzai," Thorpe said as he bowed his head to the Vulcan ambassador. Thorpe was aware of the telepathic Vulcan's disdain for random physical contact so he did not offer his hand to the ambassador.

The Vulcan was tall and nearly olive-skinned. Karzai was entering the twilight years of his people. The diplomat had just passed his 225th earth year this last summer. He was of average height and thin for a humanoid. The ambassador's face was so sharp as to appear almost hawkish. This look was accented by piercing grey eyes.

"President Thorpe," Karzai replied in his characteristically emotionless voice. Without ceremony the Vulcan diplomat made the reason for his visit clear.

"President Thorpe, we have great respect for your people. But remember that just over one of your centuries ago you had nearly annihilated one another. Now you have colonies far from Earth. We have counseled you in the past about this unprecedented expansion of yours."

"Yes Ambassador," Thorpe answered dryly. "But we have no ill will toward anybody. We have not encountered a hostile species since our trek to the stars began—unless you know of any sir?"

"We have shared our star maps and some of our linguistic database with you." Karzai replied. "We think that is enough in your stage of development; which leads me to my government's current concern: That you and the Andorians and Tellarites are sharing technology in a joint venture of some sort."

"And if we were?" Thorpe replied sharply.

"You are moving ahead too fast," Karzai replied. "Were you to be found doing this then your world could find itself without the goodwill of the Vulcan people."

"That goodwill seems to be lacking lately," Thorpe sighed. "Sir the people of Earth are in your debt for the supplies you delivered after First Contact for those stricken by radiation sickness. But beyond that; I am sorry ambassador, but beyond that man has done much of the work in saving ourselves. The knowledge that we were not alone in the universe and our own near self-destruction woke us out of a dangerous slumber."

"While that is true Mr. President we of Vulcan have stood by and advised you. We want man to join the community of the stars—but not at the pace you are following. If you are consorting with the Andorians and Tellarites we beg of you to stop. The Andorians cannot be trusted."

"Your people fought with the Andorians," Thorpe said bluntly. "We have found them to be a people much like ourselves. We worked with your race and the Andorians to bring about peace. We humans have no wish to harm or conquer others."

"Yes you humans," This last word, despite Karzai's professed lack of emotion seemed to be expressed with a distasteful sound to it. "You humans are full of good intentions. But those noble intentions are the very thing that could invite disaster. Not everyone is as desirous of peace as you claim to be President Thorpe."

"Like the people in sector 12?" This last Thorpe added quickly.

"We know of no races in sector 12 or 13," Karzai stated sharply. "We have told you that before. No doubt when you go out that far in your relatively primitive ships you invite disaster. I would not seek answers for your losses in unknown hostile races—or joint ventures with dubious partners sir."

That said the thin Vulcan bid Thorpe a good day and left. Thorpe sat back in his seat and contemplated what hadn't been said: That there could be other races out there that were hostile. That notion had been gnawing at Thorpe's mind as the losses in ships mounted. Admiral French still had no answers and today the executive's first dispatch had concerned the loss of communications with their colony on Topaz. Subspace radio repeaters were known to frequently malfunction; that was true. But added to the missing ships it made for troubling news. Thorpe again looked ahead to his retirement.

Christophur, despite a shining record of domestic improvements had not gotten the alliance he wanted. Thorpe had so wanted his legacy to include that. It was not for his own personal aggrandizement but rather that the president saw that the races were at a point where they could no longer go it alone. Even without the Ferengi's foreknowledge of the future Thorpe realized that humanity would grow stronger by melding with others. But, alas Thorpe thought it was not to be during his term; probably not during his lifetime. A federation the little Ferengi was reported to have called it.

Station Salem One, Apr 2156

"When did this message come in?" Commander Sharon Sileski asked the communications operator. The Director of Operations was clearly agitated.

"It came in two hours ago ma'am," The young enlisted woman replied. "Admiral Arroyo cut communications with Gilligan's Island because they weren't using the proper codes. When they called us back the codes they used were out of date. The admiral wanted the messages trashed but Lt. Parsons decoded them anyway."

The DO looked at the message again and again. The inbound unknowns could not belong to Taskforce 15. They were coming in on a different tangent than that force would use. And there were over three times as many ships as Taskforce 15 had. Now Lt. Kobayashi and Petty Officer Custis' last message had indicated that the inbounds were not squawking an IFF code. Sileski had no idea who these strangers were but they seemed to be trying to make a covert advance on a military station. Sharon arrived at a decision:

"Call Capt. Luchenko to ops," Sileski ordered the comm NCO. "Damnit, call the station to general quarters."

Klaxons sounded throughout station Salem One. There had not been a general quarter's drill in over two months. The station personnel made their way to their defensive positions. Sileski hoped that this would all be some sort of stupid mistake. The strange ships were now entering radar range. Thirty-two of the ships approached Salem One. The small fleet was still over 20,000 kilometers away. But they were showing no signs of slowing. They were still too far away for video.

"What the hell is going on here?" An angry Admiral Arroyo exclaimed as he entered the station's operations center. "Who ordered general quarters?" He turned his attention to Sileski. "You? Who gave you that auth--"

Sharon interrupted the admiral and explained the situation. The couple was joined by Capt. Arkady Luchenko who caught the majority of the information that his DO was passing on to the station commander. The conversation was stifled when several of the intruders cut loose with a visible white beam weapon.

The station shook as the artificial gravity tried to keep up with the impact of the beam weapons. Damage reports came pouring in: One-third of the outer ring had been destroyed.

"Target those unknowns with Narwhals!" Luchenko shouted to the gunnery officer. "Where in the hell are our point-defense batteries?"

"High speed inbounds!" A radar technician exclaimed from his station.

"Point-defense batteries manned and ready!" The gunnery officer declared from his position.

"Get our rail guns and lasers on those missiles!" Arroyo squawked in a high-pitched voice. The admiral continued in a calmer voice. "Try to raise them, we must see what their intention are."

"I think their intentions are to kill us!" Luchenko declared. "Guns, launch a spread of spiders!"

The space between the unknown ships and Salem One filled with glaring light as some of the inbound missiles were hit by the high velocity depleted uranium slugs expelled from the rail guns. The only indication of the invisible lasers' effectiveness was evidenced by enemy missiles that seemed to explode of their own volition. White beams were expelled from the ships of the approaching intruders again. The devastating fire raked across several of the station's clusters of defensive weapons this time.

Somewhere on the station someone had left an intercom switch open. The ops crew listened in horror as an unknown person screamed. The screaming went on for what seemed like an eternity until it was silenced by the final sound of an explosive decompression. Other voices calling over the station's circuit were not as panic stricken but the information they conveyed was not good.

Over half of the station's rail guns had been destroyed. The laser turrets had not fared much better. There was a little over half of the concentrated light beam weapons left. The spider missile racks had been totally destroyed. Half of the outer ring had been destroyed and the inner ring had taken severe damage. Arroyo seemed to have finally picked up his stride as the ordered a flight of Narwhals to be dispatched. The high-speed anti-ship missiles leapt out of their tubes seemed to hang motionless for a split second then accelerated away.

"The first wave of inbounds are destroyed!" The radar operator declared happily. His happiness would only last briefly though: "Oh hell…more high-speed inbounds! And…our missiles, they are exploding short—no wait, three have hit their targets!"

The video display was finally able to resolve the hostile alien ships into solid images. The ops crew looked on as three of the ships were consumed in the nuclear fire of the exploding Narwhals. The video display also showed the pinpoint track of incoming enemy missiles.

"Communications," Arkady Luchenko bellowed. "Max boost a subspace general distress; include the recordings of this attack. Do it now!"

The communications NCO had already programmed that sequence in. Her military training had taken over. It was the last message she would ever send.

"Two missiles have gotten through!" The sensor operator exclaimed.

The nuclear devices hit the station almost simultaneously. The station went up in a hellish blast of nuclear release. The station's stored fuel added to the pyre creating an intense but brief fireball in the blackness of space. The light winked out as abruptly as the energy release was complete. A few torn fragments of metal were all that marked what had been man's furthest outpost. The victorious ships stayed in the area for a few minutes after the complete destruction of the station; then their hulls elongated and vanished with a flash into subspace.

Savannah, Georgia Earth, Apr 2156

Henry Aaron Stiles was using the farm's old pickup truck for his trip into town. The old antique burned alcohol distilled from the mash of some of Henry's last corn crop. It was a mark of pride in the Stile's male side of the family that the old vehicle still ran. Last year had been a good year. Despite organics and the advent of synthetic foods people still craved garden raised vegetables. Henry thought more so now than ever since the tasteless artificials had come onto the market. Today Henry was going to the Co-op to see about buying seeds and fertilizers for this year's planting season. The old truck clattered around a corner when Henry saw something that made him stop and shut the truck off.

Normally most people looked around when they heard the noise of the 2008 Ford truck's antique internal combustion engine. But the group of people Henry had spied had not done so. The small pack of three local youths was intent on their work. The group of young boys ranging from 10 to 12 was so absorbed in what they were doing that Henry was able to get out of truck and creep up on the children. Stiles knew all of them: He had seen two of them in church and one was the son of an ex employee of Stiles. He grabbed that white youth and one of his dark-skinned accomplices by their ears invoking an immediate shriek of pain from both. The other youth was about to run when a commanding shout from Henry made him hold his place.

"Frank Hawkins," Stiles declared to the white child. He turned to the other boy; "And his good friend Terry Devereaux! How nice to see you here! Doing some fine art work I see; and Kevin Alexander, nice to see you have an interest in art too." Stiles said to the frightened boy who he did not have a hold of.

The work to which the farmer was referring to was a rendering of a greenish person drawn against on a stone wall bordering one of the small town's public parks. The horribly drawn figure was hardly distinguishable. The one feature that was prominent was that of two incredibly exaggerated pointed ears. The picture of the being also seemed to indicate that its genatalia was lacking. An ugly word was scrawled under the figure. The farmer had read about varieties of those words in his history classes.

"Now what do we have here from you Picassos?" Henry asked sternly. He gripped the boys' ears tighter. "Now which one of you came up with this? I know it wasn't Kevin here now was it? Which one of you did it?"

"Frank said we should do it 'cause of how the pointies are!" Alexander blurted out.

"Shutup!" Hawkins and Devereaux exclaimed together.

"And have any of you ever seen a Vulcan?" Stiles asked the children sharply.

"No Mr. Stiles, but Frank's dad says he knows all about them pointies!" Devereaux said in an accusatory voice.

The only thing that Henry was sure Frank Hawkins' father knew about was how to get out of work. Despite full employment the man seemed to perpetually languish at home. Henry had once tried to employ young Hawkins' father. The man had some talent with numbers. But after a month Stiles had discovered that the files for his accounts had remained relatively untouched. It had taken Henry two solid days of work to catch up on his farm's accounts. Hawkins had been summarily dismissed after the discovery.

"When did your father ever meet a Vulcan Frankie?" Stiles asked the boy.

"Well he," The boy stumbled for words, finally he said in a quiet voice. "I guess he ain't seen no pointies sir."

"They are called Vulcans," Stiles corrected the boy in a harsh voice. "I don't want to ever hear you say the word 'pointie' again—got it? And no, I didn't think your father ever had seen one. So you really don't know much about them to be doin' any artwork showing what they look like do you? I'll have to report you defacing public property to the constable."

All three children piped up loudly in protest and apology. Stiles let the three youths sweat for another minute before he changed his tone to a kinder one.

"Well then boys," Stiles proclaimed grandly. "Today is your lucky day. I know Frank lives just around the corner. And you Terry live just up the street. Between the three of you, you should be able to scrape up some soap and brushes to wash this wall off. Now I'm heading to Barley's for some seeds and chemicals—should take me two hours; me and old Barley love to talk. So when I ride past here at 11 I expect this wall to be clean—got it?"

The frightened children shook their heads vigorously in agreement. There was fear of the local constable; and fear of what some of their fathers would do if they discovered that their sons were involved in vandalism. Henry left the children as they bolted off towards their homes. Stiles sincerely hoped they would do as he said. The farmer was serious about turning them in to the local law if the children did not follow through. It seemed to Henry that no matter how far man had come along some things just reared their ugly heads from time to time.

United Earth Stellar Navy Cruiser Beagle near the Tarod sun Apr 2156

"They are turning to captain," The red-haired freckled face petty officer manning the sensor console reported.

Huang had been about to move the Beagle out of the radiation of Tarod's sun and send the strangers a communication when the mysterious ships turned on the Beagle. The green craft picked up speed as they headed for the small Earth ship. Huang's face betrayed his concern at this sudden change in the state of affairs.

"Recall Cmdr. Wislicki to--," Huang started to say when the sensor operator spoke up loudly.

"High speed objects inbound! I'm…I think I'm reading a heavy metal core."

Huang was speechless for what seemed like forever although it was really only a few seconds. During that brief period the missiles drew closer.

"Helm!" Huang declared loudly. "Hard about, try to get us back in the sun's radiation!"

The crew felt a brief stomach churning loss of balance as the artificial gravity tried to compensate for the lumbering Beagle's sudden course change.

"Contacts inbound!" The NCO was almost shrieking; "Two missiles; 6 seconds until contact!"

"Deploy spiders!" Huang ordered sternly. Ensign Owen had already programmed the sequence in. The rack of fast interceptors left the belly of the Beagle and sped toward the incoming missiles. There appeared to be a small explosion as one of the spiders defeated one of the incoming spears of death.

"Missile is inside 1000 kilometers!" The sensor operator said; "Seven-hundred, five-hundred, three-hund—."

The Beagle lurched sickeningly. The sensor panel exploded outward in a shower of shrapnel instantly killing the NCO in her seat. Smoke and flames erupted from several stations on the Beagle's small bridge. Jocelyn went to the sensor position to check on Petty Officer McSwain. That probably saved her life as a primary power conduit running across the ceiling broke in half. The live conduit fell onto Capt. Huang's seat.

The result was horrible. The captain was killed instantly as thousands of volts coursed through his body. His hair burst into flames as the voltage heated his body. Mercifully the electrocution stopped. Power had either been cut to the bridge by engineering or by accident. In either event it was too late to help the former captain of the Beagle. Jocelyn retched as the smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils.

Jocelyn Stile's father had kept a few pigs on the farm. One summer their small pen had caught fire during a particularly dry year in Georgia. Jocelyn had been all of ten years old. But the young girl and the now young lady she had grown into had never forgotten the smell of the burnt animals. That was what Jocelyn thought as the putrid smell of their deceased captain hit her nose.

There was no hope for Petty Officer McSwain. Stiles started to lift her up by the back of her flight suit when she noticed that there was nothing where her face should be; nothing but a bloodied scorched mess. Jocelyn surveyed the remainder of the bridge. Terrell Owen was visibly shaken but he seemed to be functioning. Lt. Corrigan appeared to be alright as well. The navigator was sitting straight up in his seat. Too straight Stiles thought. Stiles left the sensor position and the body of Karen McSwain behind to walk over to the navigator's position.

Marcus Corrigan's eyes were wide open; but Stiles realized they would never see anything again. A sliver of metal passed through the back of the navigator's seat and ended in a protrusion sticking out of Corrigan's chest. His ochre navy jersey was darkening as blood from the wound seeped out of the navigator's body. Jocelyn looked down at the lieutenant's console. Stile's realized that the Beagle was still under power. Jocelyn stabilized the ship's orbit. Without consciously thinking about why; she programmed the Beagle's course for the sun's magnetic pole.

It was like a dream, Stiles thought. Everything looked and felt so unreal. From somewhere in her mind she realized she was moving the ship to a point where their radar and sensors hadn't been able to penetrate. She heard her father's voice ensuring her it was going to be alright. The pigs hadn't suffered in the fire he told his little girl. Nothing felt real to the touch as she entered commands into the navigation computer. Wisicki the lieutenant thought. She had to recall him to the bridge. Wislicki would know what to do. The first officer would take care of things. She toggled the control for the Beagle's PA system. Jocelyn called the Polish first officer to the bridge.

"Medical officer to bridge," Dr. Gertrude Schultheiss voice came out of the small bridge speaker. The tall German woman was another person who had been with the Beagle since its launch under the Stellar Navy's flag. Jocelyn had been a little frightened by Dr. Schultheiss' appearance when they had first met: Besides being taller than most men the woman had her jet black hair cut in a severely short style. Stiles was only lately becoming aware of how practical that was for a woman on a spaceship. "Cmdr. Wislicki was just brought into the sick bay. If you need him you will have to come over here. You should do it soon I think."

Jocelyn replied that she would soon be on the way then asked for a medical team and damage control party for the bridge. She explained her plan to Terrell Owen to hide the Beagle over the magnetic pole of Tarod's sun. Stiles turned command over to the Starfleet ensign and departed the bridge for sickbay. She made a few steps down the passageway then lunged for one of the ship's disposal units. Stiles made it in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the Beagle's reclamation system. Jocelyn was crudely wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her flightsuit when Lt. Devon Foster emerged from one of the Beagle's maintenance crawlspaces.

"What the hell just happened?" The Marine asked emphatically. Stiles filled him in on the Beagle's contact with the unknown vessels and those ships hostile actions. Stiles also told Foster about the death of Capt Huang.

"Bloody hell!" Foster exclaimed. "We survived a nuke hit?"

"No," Jocelyn replied seeming to finally collect her wits. "I think it went off prematurely. Either it was fused for proximity or it detonated by accident. If it had hit us we wouldn't be here."

"Any idea who shot at us—or why?" Foster asked angrily.

"No," Stiles replied simply. Then she recounted their talk of communicating with the hostiles and the mysterious ships sudden attack on them. "I think it was an ambush. It was like they spotted us and just jumped on us like a pack of dogs; no warning, no nothing." The couple headed for sickbay as they spoke.

"How did we get away?" Foster asked.

"I moved us into the sun's magnetic poles," Stiles answered. "Capt. Huang had us heading back into low orbit before he died. I took a sensor and radar shot before I left the bridge: Can't tell much but I'm hoping those guys can't either. Only thing is we can't stay here too long. The hull polarization will only protect us from the radiation for so long."

"Goddamnit, are they still out there?" Foster asked.

"I think," Stiles answered wistfully. "I read three solids. That is the best return I could get. But there was nothing where these returns were coming from before. So I'm betting it is them."

They arrived in the small cramped sickbay of the Beagle. The bay was really nothing more than three large rooms and a small office for the chief medical officer. Today it was packed with people. Most of those reporting to the sick bay were burned over various parts of their bodies. There appeared to be a few people with broken bones as evidenced by three crewmen walking zombie like out of the sick bay with bandaged and splinted arms. There was a smell of vomit and a slight undercurrent of that burnt meat smell that had been so pungent on the bridge. Dr. Schultheiss was administering an injection to a screaming man while her technicians held him in a sitting position. Where his right arm should have been there was a blackened stump instead. She completed her task and turned to Stiles after giving her techs instructions for the man's care.

"Where is Captain Huang?" The doctor asked in the clipped neat tones of German accented English.

Stiles recounted to the doctor the story of the attack and the death of the Beagle's captain. All the while Schultheiss walked Jocelyn and Devon foster back to the last room of the sick bay. A thick glass partition divided over two-thirds of the room off. Behind the partition three people lay in beds. A medical technician in a protective mask and anti-radiation suit ministered to the three in the bed. One of those people was the Beagle's first officer.

"They cannot hear us from behind the glass," The doctor stated sadly. "And we are protected out here as well. They were near the outer hull in delta section when the bomb hit. Two of them have incurred lethal doses—Commander Wislicki is one of those. I can make him comfortable; if one could ever be comfortable being burned up from the inside out."

"Can I talk to him?" Stiles asked. Schultheiss replied that the commander was still lucid. The doctor toggled a switch allowing communication with the rest of the room.

"Cmdr. Wislicki," Jocelyn said. The Air Force officer told the Beagle's first officer what had just transpired. The dying man turned his head toward the glass. He coughed up a great gout of blood then replied in a thin reedy voice.

"Fight the ship," Wislicki stated with as much force as the man could muster. The commander mumbled in his native Polish then continued in English. "Don't…don't give us up. Fight, you must fight." A coughing spasm racked the commander's body. The medical technician moved to put an oxygen mask on him. But that would not be necessary as the commander's physical readings, displayed graphically above the bed flattened out to a straight line. The technician looked back at Dr. Schultheiss. The CMO nodded. The technician pulled the former commander's blanket up covering the man's head.

"Der Scheißkerl!" The doctor cursed.

Foster turned to Stiles: "Guess that leaves you in command."

Jocelyn considered the implication of that statement for a moment. The next thing she knew the doctor and Foster were standing over her. Stiles had collapsed in a heap. From a long distance away she heard Commander Schultheiss telling her it was a natural reaction. From a different direction many miles away Foster's voice was calling to her seeking instructions.

"You…you take over Devon," Stiles proclaimed weakly. "You, you are a marine. Get us out of here."

Salintac: Capital city of the Tellarite Union, Tellar

"Why are you here you disgusting sack of excrement?" Creel Zarn asked the human ambassador to Tellar for the United Earth government.

"Not to observe what a handsome creature you are Zarn," Kelly O'Donnell replied. "You have to be the ugliest bastard I've ever seen. You know I have pictures of you that I put in dark places to scare the rodents off?"

Earth's ambassador to Tellar had just passed his 50th year. O'Donnell was a short portly man who obviously liked to eat. He had a long mane of black hair that had only recently saw some addition of gray.

"Then you must scare yourself with it," Zarn replied with a laugh. "You humans are nothing but rodents! So what are you here for friend?"

Creel Zarn was the chief administrative officer to the Tellarite congress. He was just seeing his 60th year in terrestrial terms. That made him old since Tellarites aged at roughly the same rate as humans. Zarn's thick pate of hair was graying for the most part. As far as the Tellarite's slightly anarchistic government was run Zarn represented his people in the same capacity as a president. The difference lay in the fact that Zarn held no real power.

"You know my mission Zarn," O'Donnell replied.

"Usually your mission is to get invited to my family's feeding hav'a," The Tellarite answered bluntly. "But yes I know: The alliance. I'm sorry Kelly but my government sees no reason to change. We have agreed to mutual trade and defense. But really you would have our people running around in those stupid uniforms your military is starting to wear. Personally most Tellarites would rather vomit a c'nestra out than do that. You humans have a horrible fashion sense!"

"What do you think about it all you fat bastard?" Kelly asked pointedly.

"Your Ireland must be the most obnoxious place on Earth," Zarn answered. "Is that where men decided to bury the fissionable wastes from your old reactors? Look Kelly," Zarn wrinkled his snout and said in an abrupt change of subject. "We like your people, Gods know why with that smell you put off, but we do. So we'll continue to trade and exchange technology with you. As far as defense we will help you there too. Who in the c'harga is going to start a war in space? And hopefully Kelly, one day this project of Thorpe's will show all of us what we can do together."

O'Donnell knew that Thorpe was collaborating with the alien governments in some sort of project. What that project was O'Donnell was not privy to. But the ambassador had ridden Thorpe's coattails on that individual's rise to power. The terran ambassador believed in Christophur Thorpe. O'Donnell always had. Obviously Thorpe's hope had carried over to the Tellarites and Andorians. That was good news. Of the Vulcans O'Donnell knew there was little help they would give. That fact came with little surprise to the Irishman.

"I suppose that is the best we can expect from a people as backwards as yourselves," Kelly O'Donnell declared. "By the way," The Irishman asked in a solicitous voice: "Just what are you having for dinner tonight?"

UE Stellar Navy cruiser Beagle in holding over the magnetic pole of the Tarod sun

Jocelyn was wrapped in a warm dream. David and she were walking hand-in-hand through a winery. The heady smell of fermented grapes was thick in the air. David had proposed to her outside of the winery. He had descended to one knee before her in front of gawking tourists and proclaimed his desire to be wed to her. Jocelyn was embarrassed, overjoyed and ecstatic. Suddenly David seemed to be farther away from her. Then Stiles realized that he was gone altogether. She went through the winery looking for him. Somehow she knew that her future husband was not there anymore.

"Ma'am, ma'am," Chief Mary Vong said in an urgent voice. "Lieutenant; wake up!"

"What, what is it?" Stiles asked coming awake from the grip of the uneasy dream. "What happened?"

But then Stiles knew what had happened. The doctor had awakened her after she had fainted. Stiles remembered turning the ship over to Foster. The marine had taken her back to the small cabin that Jocelyn shared with a lieutenant from astrophysics. Stiles had collapsed into her bunk and pulled the covers up around her. She had soon fallen into blissful and healing sleep.

"Did you really turn over command to that idiot Foster?" Vong asked angrily. Then the petty officer continued. "Do you know what your hero has been doing? I'll tell you; he is running around asking people if we should surrender. He said it could all be some kind of misunderstanding; that we don't have the firepower to fight back. Don't tell me you are gonna let this happen ma'am!"

Jocelyn sat up in her bunk. The US Air Force officer was after all in outstanding physical shape. Her body was ready, but her mind was still clouded in the confusing unreality of the situation. Stiles asked Mary to explain what was going on again. The petty officer seemed to cool her anger then calmly related the events of the last three hours.

Foster had started talking to some of the linguists aboard. The marine had apparently somehow concluded that the attack could have been because the Beagle was in someone's territory. The Annapolis graduate had begun to talk of concessions and then of surrender. He had been canvassing the crew and the consensus seemed to be for a peaceful overture. The Beagle could stay in its present location for five more hours at most. After that radiation levels would begin to cause physical damage to the ship's human crew.

It was wrong. Every part of her being screamed no. Stiles heard the voices of her mother and father and their endless references to right and wrong. What those aliens had done to the Beagle—to its crew was wrong. It was wrong to surrender to them. But Stiles had no idea how they would fight them. First things first though Jocelyn realized she would have to reclaim command of the converted freighter. She planted her feet on the floor; realized that someone had taken her boots off, found those and put them on. Stiles left the cabin in the company of Chief Vong. She guessed that Devon was on the bridge. That was where the officer and enlisted woman were going.

"When can we get radios back?" Lt Devon Foster asked from the command chair of the Beagle. The gory remains of Capt. Huang Yi had been removed and stored for burial. An unpleasant odor remained however.

"About another hour sir," The corporal replied. "We had to break out parts from spares. Most of our gear was burned out. There was some damage to the external antennas too. I've got some of my boys rigging something in airlock three."

"Lt. Foster," Jocelyn Stiles announced as she stepped into the small nerve center of the starship. "I need to have a word with you."

Foster turned the seat to face Stiles. "If it is about my plans forget it. You put me in charge. Look we were taught in the academy about how enlightened aliens must be—just look at us humans. This is all some kind of crazy mistake. It's the best course Jo-jo." Foster had learned of Stile's nickname during a dinner at the captain's table during the beginning of the Beagle's journey. Jocelyn seemed on the verge of pushing her point more stridently when Foster continued.

"Sgt. Asahina," Foster commanded in a warning voice. A marine armed with a Colt AR25 assault rifle got up from an auxiliary console. "I'm sorry lieutenant, ladies. I know some of the crew thinks this is not the best solution. You'll see. You all will see. Now please leave the bridge before this turns uglier than it already is."

"They meant to kill us," Stiles declared as Chief Vong took her arm and started pulling her towards the bridge hatch. "Think about it Foster--please."

"Smitty, you smelly old coot!" Mary Vong said in greeting to the Beagle's Marine Gunnery Sergeant. "I can't believe they let you stay in the Corp. They should just stuff you and put you on display somewhere!"

"Mary, Mary," Gunnery Sergeant Ryan Smith answered. The weather beaten Colonial Marine was on the bad side of his forties. His close cut hair, what there was of it was completely gray. An ugly moustache rested under his pugnacious nose. At 190 centimeters the sergeant was a lean wiry man. "I shoulda married you Mary, Mary, but some poor dumb bastard got there before me! What is that number five now?"

"It is only three you lecherous old goat," Vong shot back. "But you may get your chance yet. In the meantime what do you think about your l-t's dumbass plan?"

Smith didn't think highly of it at all. But he, like Stiles and Vong had been told to shut up. Vong introduced Stiles to the grizzled marine NCO. The three talked about the insane probability that perhaps Foster was right; but nothing added up to that conclusion. Smith had given a resigned shake of his head.

"What are ya' gonna do about it?" Smith said calmly. "He is in charge."

"I'm in charge," Stiles was surprised to hear her voice saying the words; as if spoken by another. "I'm the third officer on this boat. I don't know what we're going to do but first we have to get Foster off the bridge."

"Okay ma'am," Smith said after some thought. "But Foster has the guns—and the key to the armory. I'm even locked out. When I politely told the l-t how fragged his plan was I was disarmed by Sgt. Asahina. Next time that kid points his weapon at me I'm going to take it and stick it up his--,"

"Don't worry about the armory," Vong declared interrupting Smith's colorful rant. "It is just a locking device. I defeated all my second husband's locks on our house; cleaned him out good too!"

"Sir I got strict orders from Lt. Foster to not let you near the armory." Private Daniel Gates said nervously as the trio including Stiles, Chief Vong and Gunnery Sergeant Smith approached the access to the Beagle's small weapon's locker.

Stiles and Vong stopped as smith continued walking towards the young marine. Gates nervously leveled his Colt at the approaching NCO. It was apparent to the two women that the young man; he couldn't have been more than 18, was frightened out of his wits.

"Don't come any closer Gunney or I'm gonna have to hurt you!" Gates squeaked out nervously.

"I don't want in the armory Gates," Smith said as he stopped about a meter and a half away from the quaking private. "What the hell are you doing son? Pointing a gun at an NCO is a serious offense."

"That is right," Lt. Stiles said from the entranceway. "I'm an officer Private Gates. You are in deep trouble!"

The nervous young marine shifted his eyes from Smith to Stiles. The private started lowering the muzzle of the assault rifle. That was all the time that Smith needed. The Gunnery Sergeant crossed the short distance; knocked the muzzle of Gate's rifle aside and planted his knee in the young man's crotch. The private lurched forward allowing Smith to plant a solid blow behind his ear. Private Gates fell to the deck.

"Don't wanna hurt me huh Gates?" Smith said to the unconscious form of the private. "You better get your ass in gear Mary!"

The CPO bolted to the entrance of the Beagle's armory. Stiles followed. Vong laid some tools out from a pouch and went to work. Two minutes later the remains of the entrance panel hung by wires. The hatch to the armory was wide open. The trio emerged each armed with AR25's. They headed back to the bridge of the Beagle careful to avoid any personnel they could. They had no idea who supported Foster and who didn't.

"You want to watch that Sergeant!" Stiles declared as she leveled the assault rifle at Sgt. Asahina. The trio of Lt. Stiles, Sergeant Smith and Chief Petty Officer Vong burst into the small bridge as best as one could rush into a small confined space. Stiles had hit the bridge emergency lighting system before they went in. The bridge was normally kept somewhat darkened. The sudden intense burst of the emergency lights disoriented the present occupants of the Beagle's bridge.

"What are you going to do Jo-jo?" Foster asked: "Shoot me; you might faint before you do that." The marine officer said in a mocking voice.

"If I have to I will," Jocelyn declared bluntly. "Your plan is suicide anyway. So it doesn't much matter how you die."

Foster tried to stare Stiles down but he saw a terrible resolve in her eyes that had not been there before. Finally he raised his hands; Sgt. Asahina did the same as he watched the capitulation of his superior officer.

"You are going to get us all killed!" Foster protested loudly as he got up out of the captain's chair. The marine turned to rest of the people assembled on the tiny bridge: "She doesn't know what she is doing. Stiles will get you all killed."

"That is enough Devon!" Stiles exclaimed. "Sergeant Smith take the lieutenant to the brig." The Air Force officer turned to the rest of the bridge crew. "If you aren't with me I need to know now. I don't know how we are going to get out of this. But surrender isn't an answer—think about it; would we shoot at an unknown ship like they did to us?"

Ensign Owen, Cpl. Allen and a navy enlisted man manning navigator station all looked thoughtful for a moment. Finally Cpl. Allen spoke out:

"Ma'am—can't speak for the rest here but I'm with you. I just do what I'm told ma'am but it sure would be nice if we could get out of here; better if we could give some payback to those bastards."

There were nods all around the bridge as well as a few uh-huhs. Foster was leaving under the watchful eye of Gunny Smith. Jocelyn sensed that she was in control of the bridge for the moment. When that fact sunk into her Stile's next thought was what in the hell she would do? They were all looking expectantly at the lieutenant.

Stiles desperately searched her memories from all the tactical courses she had endured as a Zoomie at the Air Force academy. Nothing seemed to crystallize. They were outnumbered and apparently outgunned. Finally a strange memory popped into Stile's mind. She was ten again. Stile's father had labored under the impression that his daughter was in fact a boy. That explained Jocelyn's involvement in sports. But the memory that presented itself was of the time her dad had taken her and Hank Jr. duck hunting. Junior hated the boom made by their father's shotgun and Jocelyn suspected that he was a little afraid of the weapon their dad had given to him. Young Jocelyn just hated being out under the camouflaged duck blind sitting on the cold ground.

"Corporal Allen," Stiles said to the NCO after what seemed like an eternity but in fact was less than a minute. "Continue your work repairing our communications system."

"Wait I thought you were going to come up with some sort of idea ma'am!" Mary Vong exclaimed. "That is the same thing as Foster had planned—just a quick way to die!"

"Cpl. Allen," Stiles said sternly. She was surprised to hear the voice her mother used when she absolutely wanted Stiles to do some unpleasant chore, come out of her own mouth. "Carry out my orders. Can you install your most powerful transmitter in a shuttle?"

"Sure," Allen said as he absently rubbed his shaven head in thought. "I mean yes ma'am but what for; are we gonna escape in a shuttle?" The technician asked in a dismayed voice.

"Ensign Owen," Stiles said turning away from Allen to the gunnery officer. "Can you find a way to fire three Narwhals simultaneously?" After a moment where the Starfleet ensign looked confused then thoughtful he replied:

"I can use the starboard cargo airlock and put two out that way. The hull will get a little scorched when they first light off but yeah—yes sir."

"What are you planning l-t?" Chief Vong asked.

"Gonna shoot me a few birds Mary!" Stiles declared in a bragging voice. She hoped her plan justified her bravado; if it did not they would all shortly be dead.

Gilligan's Island, Apr 2156

The sensor pod rolled through space looking much like a piece of space debris. There was no light visible in the pod's tiny viewports. That was much how the occupants had wanted it.

"How much longer do ya' reckon we can hold out without heat lieutenant?" Chief Peter Custis ask his superior officer as he visibly exhaled a frosty stream of air.

"Not long," Lt. Genji Kobayashi replied. "It has been over five hours and we are still here. I'll wait another hour then power up long enough to heat us up in here and clean the air a little."

The lieutenant had thought quickly after the destruction of the station. His friend Chief Custis hadn't been so quick to react; but given the fact that someone he loved had just likely been blown to bits Genji could tolerate the chief's sluggish movements. Kobayashi had fired Gilligan's Island's maneuvering thrusters in an erratic manner. The officer knew that this station might be next on the hostiles' list of targets. Kobayashi was hoping to make the pod look like a piece of interstellar flotsam. He had next removed power to all the major systems. That had included the environmental systems. Without the scrubbers warming the recycled air supply it had soon gotten cold in the small capsule. The two men had then settled back in sleeping bags and lay still. They had both been in space long enough to know that the less movements they made the more air they could conserve. Genji looked at Pete with concern.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kobayashi asked the NCO.

"Nothing to talk about anymore," Custis replied morosely. "She's dead." There was a long moment of silence before the sergeant continued. "I was going to retire next year. Sharon was working an assignment to BuPer. I bought some land in New Mexico. She said she always wanted horses—she liked riding—hadn't did that since she went in the navy. So I thought; okay I'll get some land and we can build a ranch on it. She coulda shuttled to San Fransisco; lot's of folks do that nowadays they tell me. Forget about all of that now. What the hell am I going to do?"

"I'm sorry Pete," Genji declared. "I guess I should say time will heal all wounds. I don't know I wish--." Whatever Genji Kobayashi wished would not be known as a firm clang echoed through the small station.

"You got that flare gun sir?" Custis asked as he floated out of his sleeping bag. The NCO had a heavy spanner in his right hand.

"Yeah," Kobayashi replied as he leveled the single shot flare gun at the entrance hatch. The lieutenant wondered for probably the one-hundredth time that day why anyone would put a signaling flare gun in the survival equipment of a space vehicle.

What seemed like intense light to men who had spent the last five hours in the dark filled the interior of Gilligan's Island. The hatch opened. Kobayashi squinted into the glare as he pointed the signaling device toward the open hatch.

"Whoa buddy!" A human voice cried. "For Chrissakes don't fire! Hey is that—Genji? It's me Len Zimmermann! The Fearless is here. Thank God; someone is alive!"

There was a visible sense of relief for the two castaways. Custis and Kobayashi recognized the balding head of Commander Leonard Zimmermann. The first officer of the Fearless had been a regular at the Auger Inn when the Fearless would put into the station. The man pushed himself down into the capsule and did a back flip righting himself relative to the two survivors.

"Get your gear." Zimmermann said with a shiver as he took in the capsule's cold air. "Capt. Oulette is going to want any recordings you made of what happened. Get your asses moving we have people to rescue."

"You mean people from the station survived?" Pete Custis asked expectantly. The sergeant's excitement was visible.

"There is someone special to Pete on the station Len," Kobayashi interjected in a warning voice.

The first officer of the Fearless look startled for a moment; seemed to collect his thoughts then said quietly: "I'm sorry Chief, no one survived from Salem One. Some survivors made it in from Deneva and Topaz. I am truly sorry." Zimmermann could see the enlisted man's distress. Zimmermann filled the two rescued men in on the destruction of Taskforce 15. "Look these bastards like to ambush. There hasn't even been a declaration of war. I know you must feel like hell; but it is time to think about setting things to right."

That said Kobayasi propelled himself purposefully through the little capsule collecting his effects and the recordings of recent events that had been rendered into data wafers. Chief Custis didn't move as fast as his friend but he did move with a sense of direction. The two men were soon in one of the Fearless' rescue boats. The small shuttle made the trip to from Gilligan's Island to the starship in a matter or minutes

United Earth Stellar Navy cruiser Fearless Apr 2156

"Got them sir," Leonard Zimmermann's voice proclaimed as it came out of the grill of the bridge PA system. "Looks like two survivors as we expected. They have wafers detailing what happened."

Grizzly Oulette acknowledged his first officer's news. The commander of the Fearless next ordered his helmsmen to put some distance between the sensor pod and the Fearless. When he felt they were at a sufficient distance Oulette ordered his ship stopped. A single Narwhal anti-ship missile left its tube. Seconds later the pod was a glowing mass of nuclear energy.

"There," Oulette proclaimed. "Our opponents will not be able to get any of our technology. Helm, set a course for the survivors—engage at full impulse." Oulette turned his attention to his sensor operator. "Sgt. Guerrero what do we have here?"

"IFF returns show the ships to be the Hunt and the Star Bucket," The NCO replied.

"The Hunt," Oulette repeated as he casually twirled the end of his moustache. "That is a Schneider; I know of her but what of this Star Bucket?"

"DY300 class," Oulette's navigator Lt. Lisa Somers declared. Somers was a short and broad woman in her late twenties. She was a frequenter of the gym and it showed. She kept her mane of long black tied securely in a bun. Oulette was as startled as everyone else so he asked his navigator how she had come by her information.

"Last time we made planetfall at Topaz," The navigator started. "A few of us went to that pub the Frontier Club." Oulette rolled his eyes at the mention of that establishment. It had been placed off-limits to Navy personnel after some unpleasant incidents. It was a well known fact in the Stellar Navy however, that places listed as 'off-limits' by the higher ups were the places to go for real fun. The lieutenant continued: "We were drinking with the locals when this old guy comes in. Tells us he is going to strike it rich mining the system's asteroids. Says there is a future in that stuff dilithium. We thought he was some kind of nut but he bought us all drinks so we listened to him."

"He was babbling away when Dave," Somers said indicating Sgt. Dave Guerrero. "Dave asks him where his ship is and he goes on to tell us he has a DY300 called the Star Bucket. I figured there aren't many of those left and I doubt any outside of the Sol system—except for this one."

"Let us see this relic--uh ship then," Oulette said with wonder; "Helm how long until intercept?"

"One plus two sir," Somers replied meaning one hour and two minutes.

The End of Innocence

Washington DC, Earth Apr 2156

Lt. Tarang Gupta arrived in Georgetown via the old city Metro. The intelligence officer liked the sense of nostalgia that riding the ancient transport invoked. Gupta, however did not like to think of those who had died in these man-made tunnels when the Eastern Coalition had lobbed warheads full of nerve gas at the US Eastern Seaboard. The officer prayed that such a thing would never happen again. When the train grinded to a halt Gupta got up and walked up the long stairway to the surface. It was cold and damp in Washington. Nothing like the lieutenant's native New Delhi.

The restaurant was a short walk through the quaint old neighborhoods of Georgetown. Gupta also liked the fact that he could set aside his uniform for this meeting. Since the directive requiring the wear of the new jerseys had come down Gupta had not felt the same about wearing a military uniform. The Indian supposed that was what one got when the civilian government picked the military's garment designs. Tarang reflected that it was lucky there still was a military considering the frequent budget cuts. The officer had a brief pang of homesickness as he smelled the scents of food made from recipes from his homeland. He had arrived at his destination.

The old woman had been the sole owner of the small restaurant since the death of her husband. Tarang had discovered the place by accident. Harita always insisted on giving him too much too eat; claiming that Gupta was looking terribly famished when in fact the officer knew he needed to spend a little more time at the gym. But Tarang had come to value the woman's friendship and caring nonetheless. The restaurant also proved to be a good place to meet his friend. The woman sat in a small booth by the window. Her head covered by a severe looking gray scarf.

"Most punctual," The woman said in that eerie unemotional voice endemic to her race. "I wish all members of your race shared that virtue."

"The trains run on time here," Gupta declared. The Indian smiled at the woman. She really was quite lovely. "Have you eaten yet?" When she shook her head in the negative Gupta continued. "I think you would like the Karnataka; very spicy and it contains no meat."

"I will try that then," She proclaimed as seriously as if she were electing a catastrophic surgery. "It will be good to eat something hot. It is quite cold here."

Gupta took the lead and ordered for both of them at his friend's behest. The Indian officer ordered the same meal as he had ordered for his dinner partner. They sat quietly for a few minutes before Gupta broke the silence.

"I would imagine so given what the weather is like on your world." Gupta answered.

"It is," The Vulcan hesitated; "Much warmer on my world yes." In a change of subject she continued. "You are not having the curry with meat?"

"I know that your people are vegetarians," Gupta replied warmly. "I don't want to offend you by eating something you find offensive. I should be eating less meat anyway!" Tarang said with a grin while rubbing his small belly.

"I would like to say Lt. Gupta that I enjoy our small talk as you humans call it." She said in that same emotionless voice. "But shall we get on with what you came here for?"

Harita interrupted the meeting when she came to the table with the couple's meals. As always Gupta's portion was noticeably larger. The officer started to protest but seeing that would get him no where he thanked Harita in their common tongue. When the doting woman left Gupta continued.

"You said you may have more to tell me about sector 12?" The intelligence officer asked bluntly.

"This really is quite good," The Vulcan said as she took a cautious bite of the spicy vegetable dish. She looked around then slid a data wafer across the table to Gupta. "I think you will find interesting information on there."

"Do you know what is going on out there?" Gupta asked.

"The High Command," Gupta's contact said indicating the Vulcan military hierarchy; "Has sent ships into that area before with results similar to what is happening to your people now. We do not know who these aliens are. The High Command suspects that they are an xenophobic race. But since they have never had any direct contact with them they cannot confirm that."

"Do you know anything about them T'Pol?" Tarang asked.

"Just a name," T'Pol replied: "Romulan."

UESN Cruiser Beagle in stationary orbit about the magnetic pole of Tarod's star, Apr 2156

"Do you agree that they would come in along this axis?" Jocelyn Stiles asked Ens. Terrell Owen.

"They jumped us before but they didn't do anything exotic in their approach." The Starfleet graduate replied. "If we were making an attack I would come in along that vector; especially when it is three-to-one in favor of those guys."

"Mr. Davis," Stiles called the Beagle's engineer over the ship's intercom. Chief Ed Davis was a grizzled master chief petty officer who occupied a billet normally filled by an officer. The fireplug of a man had several advanced degrees in engineering and years of experience around spacecraft and their power plants. "Is the shuttle ready?"

"Aye sir," The engineer replied in his rough North Eastern American accent. "If Ensign Owen is satisfied with the placement of the missiles I'd say we are ready."

Stiles nodded to the gunner/armory officer. The Starfleet ensign looked a little unsure of himself but he shook his head vigorously in the affirmative.

"Okay, here is the plan folks," Jocelyn announced from an auxiliary sensor operator position. Stiles could not steel herself to sit in Capt. Huang's seat. "We send the shuttle out on autopilot. The tramsmitter is programmed to start squawking away two minutes after it gets in position. If those guys pick up our distress calls I expect they'll come back along this axis." Stiles pointed got up and walked the four steps to the bridge viewscreen. Jocelyn pointed out the line she was speaking of on the viewer's graphic display. "We are sitting in a position below them in the gravity well but geographically higher than they are. I hope to hell they can't scan us or we are dead. That is what this all hinges on. When they close for the kill with the decoy we climb out of the well and fire the Narwhals. I'm gonna stick with our sounding probes. They have navigational shielding that was designed to let them fly close to the surface of a sun before they explode. I'm hoping that'll defeat anything they might use to stop our birds."

"That's it!" Stiles exclaimed. "Let's get this show on the road—launch shuttle!"

The small shuttle departed the bay of the Beagle. It was fortunate it was unmanned for not only might it be destroyed as a decoy but anyone inside would receive a lethal dose of radiation this close to Tarod's star.

Stiles hoped she was showing confidence because she sure as hell wasn't feeling it. Jocelyn remembered an academy instructor talking to her class about the illusion of confidence. The crotchety old wing commander had claimed that knowing what one was doing wasn't half as important as looking like one knew what they were doing. Jocelyn hoped that she looked like she knew what she was doing. The young lieutenant couldn't help but notice the occasional expectant and concerned glances she was receiving from the bridge crew. Chief Mary Vong walked up behind her quietly.

"Sir," The chief whispered using the naval term of respect. "I know you don't want to; but you need to sit in the captain's chair. I know you didn't know Capt. Huang long, but I think he would want that; would expect it—please sir."

Jocelyn thanked the chief. Stiles walked over to the chair. After a long moment of hesitation she sat herself gingerly in the seat. Stiles gripped the armrests tightly then took a breath and relaxed. The ship's chronometer counted down the time.

"Contact!" Corporal Allen exclaimed.

"Corp—Chief," No Jocelyn reminded herself. They were in the navy; one navy one world one race. "Are they on the anticipated heading chief?"

"A few degrees off but nothing significant," The NCO replied.

"Tell me when they are at 3000 kilometers." Stiles said. That was approximately the distance from where they had fired before. It was also a prime position for the Narwhals to make a kill. The enemies' momentum this deep in a gravity well would prevent them from doing any exotic escape maneuvers; or so Jocelyn hoped.

"Range sir!" Allen called out.

"Helm full impulse!" Stiles commanded. The Beagle lumbered out of its position seeming to come out of the sun relative to the green cabbage ships.

Mary Vong was checked off as a relief navigator. The chief was currently manning the helm. Stiles was glad it was not like the old 20th and 21st century militaries where enlisted people were prevented from performing certain duties. Stiles would not have liked to try to fly the Beagle while giving orders.

"In position sir," Mary said quietly.

"Gunnery officer fire missiles!" Stiles ordered.

"Firing and away!" Owen announced from Stile's left.

Jocelyn looked at the bearing pointed on the navigation console. She was amazed at the bird's eye view that the captain's chair commanded. Vong's station was less than a meter and a half from where Stiles sat. The pointer jumped sharply; no doubt from the wash of the Narwhals that had been launched out of the starboard cargo airlock. Vong corrected the ship's course quickly.

"Reload primary missile tube," Stiles ordered quickly. If this didn't work against all three of them she might have a ship-to-ship fight. But the point proved to be moot as three detonations briefly lit the darkness of space.

There was no cheering or cries of victory. There were a few exhalations and sighs; as would come from a person who had finally completed a great physical labor. Stiles looked at her hands. Normally carmel colored she realized she had been gripping the armrest so tightly that her skin was turning pale. She let her hands relax. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Chief Allen cross himself in the old manner. She heard the voice of her father saying 'it is the quiet victories that are the really great ones sugar'.

"Sir," Chief Allen said in a breathless voice from the sensor station; "Looks like you were right about shooting birds. The computer just finished chewing on the video from our last contact."

"Let's see it chief," Stiles said. The curiosity in her voice was apparent.

One of the ships of their deceased adversaries was in sharp focus. A large bird adorned the ship's cabbage-like top.

San Francisco, Earth Apr 2156

"I'll miss the view," Maggie Thorpe declared as she stood next to the most powerful man on Earth. "Are you serious about Shran's offer?"

"We both fell in love with Andoria," Thorpe told his wife; "And after my term there will be nothing keeping me here." Thorpe thought quickly and amended his last statement; "Nothing political and just endless book and speaking tours. I'll be of no use anymore." Thorpe had to be careful: Magdalene Thorpe was a kind, lovely woman but a rare condition had rendered her unable to bear children. Despite Christophur's professed love for her regardless of their parental status he knew that his wife still felt a pang of guilt and regret over their childlessness.

"You'll always be of use to me," Maggie said playfully. The woman was a full head shorter than Thorpe. Maggie Thorpe had just passed her 55th year but she looked much younger. Her short-cut hair was mostly gray but that accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it.

"Some president I turned out to be," Thorpe declared sadly. "All the elements for a successful alliance and it went no where—all because of me."

"You can't save the world single-handedly Chris," Maggie said gently. "Think about all the good you have done."

Thorpe put his arm around his wife as the couple watched the fog roll over the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge. A cool breeze blew in chilling the older couple. Winter by the bay was not as severe as that of Thorpe's native Alberta but it could be cold nonetheless. Despite the chill the couple stood transfixed by the majesty of the moment. They both were holding glasses of bluish liquid. They toasted one another, their glasses clinking together then Thorpe stooped slightly and kissed his wife's mouth. They stared at one another for what seemed liked endless minutes. The phone chimed from in the bedroom.

"Damnit!" Thorpe cursed. The President of the United Earth had standing orders that no one on his staff should call him in the couple's private suite unless it was an emergency. There had not been a serious emergency on Earth since the Spaceship Wayfarer had crashed into a suburb of Tuzla; and that had been thirty-five years ago. "Probably some congressman needs a fix of taxpayer money." Thorpe groused with a sigh.

Maggie Thorpe turned back to the view of San Francisco bay. The first lady was an accomplished professional in her own field but she stayed out of her husband's political machinations. Maggie had chaired a large corporation so it was not that Thorpe's wife thought she lacked leadership skills rather just the opposite; she was keenly aware that in a position like Christophur's only one person could hold the reins. So it was that she only listened with half an ear to her husband's call. That was until she heard the increasing level of agitation in his voice:

"Now, say that again…….What...When...Are you sure………..When did the message get here?"

"Call a meeting of my staff and the military heads…yes…as soon as possible."

Maggie entered the couple's bedchamber. Her husband stood rigid. His face seemed drained of blood. The glass of blue Andorian ale dropped from his hand and fell to the floor where it shattered.

LaBarre, France, Earth, the vineyards of Lucien and Helene Picard, Apr 2156

The family sat around the table laughing for the most part. Crosby felt a little unsettled as his knowledge of French was not the best. Mr. Picard seemed to dominate much of the talk around his table. The vintner was a stocky broad-shouldered man with a face that seemed to have a perpetual smile pasted on it. At just over fifty years of age he still had a thick head of brown hair. His sharp gray eyes were at once startling and kind all at the same time. The elder Picard turned his attention on his future son-in-law.

"I am glad that you will be living in Paris," The man proclaimed. "But I wish you would stay with us. Mariel could commute to the university and when you find employment you could do so as well!"

"Let the couple be Lucien!" Helene Picard cried. Mrs. Picard was the same age as her husband. She was a short round woman with a mop of curly honey-blonde hair streaked with gray. "If they stayed at the guest house you would be over there every day in their business. Let the young lovers be you disgusting old goat!"

"My wife," Picard confided to his daughter and her fiancée. "She is the real power behind the Picard empire." Lucien turned to his prospective son-in-law. "You would do well to watch her Alvin," The vintner said indicating his daughter. "The women; they end up controlling everything."

Crosby laughed and put his hand possessively on his fiancée's. The meal went on until Crosby excused himself for some air. The intelligence officer nudged Mariel's leg before he got up indicating that she should follow him. It was an old signal between the couple and the young lady's frown came and went before her parents could notice it. Mariel got up a minute later amid her parents teasing about her needing to be kissed. She met Alvin Crosby outside on her parents' front walkway. The night was cold in LeBarre.

"Is everything alright Alvin?" Mariel asked in a subdued voice.

"Yes, mostly," Alvin took a deep breath then continued. "I don't want to live in Paris Mariel. My father can get me a job with Thiokol-Nissan. I want us to live in Portland."

"That is not what you told me when you asked me to marry you Alvin," The young lady said cautiously. Crosby took his hand in hers. He was very gentle; at first.

"I know but the more I think about it the less I like the idea of living in France," Crosby replied. "Your parents…." Crosby trailed off.

"I thought you liked my parents?" Mariel insisted. "You have never brought this up before. His grip on her wrist increased in force.

"Please Alvin don't do that," Mariel pleaded. "I had to explain away the marks the last time. We could start out in Portland, yes." The young lady said. The pressure on her wrist abated.

"I knew you would see it--." Crosby never got to finish his comment as Lucien Picard burst out of the door:

"You two! The vidcaster—there is some sort of problem! You must come in and see!"

Savannah, Georgia Earth, the farm of Henry and Kendra Stiles, Apr 2156

Kendra shook the sleeping form of her husband. He was in his favorite recliner—again. The woman would've loved to leave her husband alone but she knew how he would complain about his back and neck the next morning if she were to let him in the comfortable chair. She shook him again only to be answered by a loud snore. Then Henry's eyelids fluttered open. Kendra was about to tell Henry to come to bed when she heard a persistent chiming.

After the end of television over a century ago homes still needed news and entertainment. With most households wired into computer networks it was easy to deliver that which most people wanted on demand. Another advantage was the bidirectional interface. People could leave their vidcasters off. The average person could program the information and entertainment device to alert them for certain conditions; anything from a drama one might want to see to alerts concerning important news events. The Stiles had programmed their vidcasters to notify them only for emergencies.

"Now what on earth do you think that is about?" Kendra asked her husband.

"Don't know," Henry Stiles replied as he lowered the recliner and his feet touched the floor. "Couldn't be the weather I heard the forecast before I dozed off, clear and cold; Goddamned frost!"

"Shush!" His wife said in a warning tone. "You watch that cursing Mr. Stiles!" Kendra crossed the floor and turned the vidcaster on. A disheveled reporter spoke haltingly:

--still waiting on words from the president. Unconfirmed reports say that both Topaz and Deneva have fallen as well as what we previously reported. Earth naval units are under full recall—wait I'm getting a report—yes we will break now to take you directly to the office of the president.

Kendra returned to Henry's side. The woman sat down in her husband's lap as he put his arms protectively around his wife. The image of President Christopher Thorpe appeared on the vidcaster. The man looked haggard and beaten. Usually he would begin a broadcast with a smile; not so on this night:

"People of Earth, my brothers and sisters; tonight I must deliver the most tragic proclamation a president can deliver. Tonight I was informed by officers of our Stellar Navy of a heinous attack. This attack, this act of murder was perpetrated by an unknown race. Four days ago a navy taskforce under the command of Commodore Adrian Gellar was viciously ambushed without provocation. Our brave navy men and women were lured into an ambush and slaughtered. Over 8,000 personnel, Navy and Marines were killed. Two days after that act of malice our deep space Station Salem One was attacked by ships of the same type. The Station was utterly destroyed with a loss of life estimated to be well over 9,000 people. Our colonies at Deneva and Topaz have been invaded and are assumed to be lost to our foes. Between those two worlds there are over 5 million people on them. We have no idea how many have died in the invasion of our colonies. I pray for those people that our enemies will spare them. I pray for peace but it seems that prayer will be denied.

Immediately after this broadcast I will go before the World Council of Nations and ask for a declaration of war. It is a sad duty but also a mark of our maturity that no world leader has asked his nation or nations to grant a president this awful choice in well over a century now. We have received no such declaration from our enemy. They have crept up on us like a murderer in the night; dagger in hand. Whatever time zone you are in: rather you are on our green Earth or on the moon or our Martian Colony it is a dark night. It is a dark night for man. But night passes. Man has prevailed against great odds to be at the point we are at now. We will continue to prevail. The sun will shine forth once again. For those who pray; pray for our lost sons and daughters, pray for your families and for the family of man and especially for those warriors who will go forth to defend us all. Good night and God bless each and every one of you."

The Stiles would not know what the rest of the broadcast said for that night. Henry pushed a stud on his remote control shutting the vidcaster off. The couple sat huddled together on the old recliner for some time. The family room was silent except for the occasional sobs of Kendra Stiles. Henry Stiles made no such noises; but he was glad the room was dark. Tears of grief and worry ran down his face.