At the Jaws of Fenrir:

Chapter 2: The Knight

By tremor3258

A Retelling of the 'Ragnarok' mission


2411 AD

"Ah, the shining opportunities and outposts of future technology," Tarsi zh'Shela of Andor said, in the copilot seat. "Think we'll ever get to see them?" That got some nervous chuckles, but not too much – it was hitting too close to home. The space was too tight as well, but the old Type F shuttles hadn't been designed to carry eight and a load of cargo as well.

Captain Dean Foch, official Starfleet hero and Federation martyr, hunched over the helm controls and tried not to accidentally jab Tarsi in the elbow. He certainly wasn't feeling cutting edge, either – the disruptor induction coils they were carrying were a design older than any of their actual birthdates, not what their doctored records said.

They were absolutely huge for something intended for ground even by Foch's only rough engineering background. But for a third-rate weapons auction, they were just the thing to sell to planets that had just cracked the light barrier and found there were not only people out in the stars, but a lot of them were better than you at killing things.

And it did help to look the part, which was why there literally wasn't a Starfleet uniform within four light years. Tarsi had found some smoked-glass eyepiece and even some hat from a period drama out of ship stores. Poor 218 had corpselike makeup on a bunch of metal piping glued on. Ex-Borgs were just common enough to be distinctive; and no one tended to look past for any other details. Skarvin had found the traditional silver piping and bright fabric of a Tellarite engaged in mercantile negotiations – and it fit so well Foch strongly suspected it had come out of his engineer's own closet. T'met had kept it simple – the heavy quilted fabrics often favored by Romulans; and a few not-quite-discretely hidden tokens to indicate ex-Tal Shiar. Foch had tried to work on her expression, but the stoic Vulcan just couldn't sneer enough.

Foch was going the traditional hard-wearing animal-skin analogues of a mercenary who needed something that could look dashing even if one hadn't seen a shower in a week. Leather jackets and heavy cloth also were flexible enough for phaser combat, while giving some resistance in hand-to-hand. It also just said 'human' not necessarily 'Starfleet'.

And, vaunted, unprecedented impossible Khitomer Alliance aside, this was no place for Starfleet. Not that it was stopping Foch; between the transwarp and temporal technology, this far side of the Romulan/Klingon frontier took as much effort to reach as buying a ticket on the White Star line between Andoria and Earth had in his original time. But one of the House-owned stations supporting KDF listening posts was a terrible place to pull up in a Federation-flagged battlecruiser.

So Roland was six light years away, systems on standby, shedding a blend of chroniton and tachyon particles in case the emission nebula it was near was not enough. Lieutenant Newness, Weapons Officer and Tarsi's second in that department was managing the store. Foch had no worries there; Aaron was the most calm and focused person he'd ever met behind a gunnery console. Even temporal displacement hadn't wrecked his calm, versus just about everyone else.

The tiny shuttle Yvon had been rescued by Daniels off the dear old Conestoga-class Pioneer, but was an old enough model to have drifted into civilian use in the current day. Of course, its cutting edge short-range warp pods had been replaced by modern cutting edge engine modules off a Peregrine fighters, but Foch preferred to keep that detail irrelevant.

Hopefully, the mission would allow it. Temporal Defense had picked up something they insisted as referring to as a 'blip', apparently – or rather, Temporal Defense's cautiously allied downtime counterparts. This was a Daniels mission; which meant the objectives being sought often weren't simply the same as truly corrective action, unfortunately. And Daniels as usual seemed to be ignoring the rest of the hard-won Iconian Alliance, which is why someone

"You could be stuck with our poor friend Captain Revka on some backwater Gorn world hundreds of years ago, hoping not to get your throat ripped out for being a foreigner and trying not to get shot by an assassin that may or may not exist," Foch said aloud, partially reminding himself. "We should get shot in the front, and of course, weapons are not permitted at the auction itself." They all laughed at that.

Revka and he had the 'fortune', along with their crews, of being the most experienced at dealing with Daniels and his twisted missions. But when the possibility of an attempt to remove the Gorn ambassador to the Klingon Empire from history arose at the same time, they'd split up. Captain Revka, from an alternate version of the current time, was from a time when an alien planet was a week away, and had better first contact and alien societal training. Foch was pretty good at punching Klingons, in his own humble estimation, so they'd split the tasks thusly.

"Oh, 718," Foch said, "As a reminder – I'm not sure what the Klingons were like in your time or how much contact you had – the Klingon Empire relies on an honor framework for its societal controls and justification for military control; but its leadership has always been pragmatic. Expect security to be open to bribes, especially at a quiet post like this."

The cybernetically enhanced officer nodded, and scratched his head. The fake Borg prosthetics, despite their best efforts, were apparently still itching.

"Yes, apparently Klingon Intelligence regularly shares their material from these stations to us – there is a host of minor infractions indicating lax oversight or poor leadership. Republic security seems more thorough in this zone, but the Republic's continued limitations prevent a sufficient large patrol force to prevent all such forces from moving through their space, though it seems Republic colonies are no longer 'easy pickings'," the science officer explained.

"Good for them," Foch said. "But this isn't a Klingon house planning for the next round of civil war, yes? Some minor power."

"Yes, the Atodes – achieved warp power three decades ago. They were closer to the Klingon sphere of influence than the Romulans, but the Star Empire's repeated issues has kept the Klingons focused on their larger neighbor," 718 reported.

"Just waiting for the Klingons to pick them off," Tarsi said grimly. That never seemed to change.

"Correct, given Jm'pok's reputation as a military commander, but the general war exhaustion from the Iconian War, the Federation Diplomatic Corps has the Atodes at an estimated ninety-five percent chance of being the next victim of 'military demonstrations' into throwing fealty to the Empire. At least some political factions seem to be feeding weapons technology to destabilize their current social structure to make assimilation easier," 718 said.

"Never mess with the classics, it seems," Foch said. "A bunch of minor powers – whatever happens must be far in the future – some future dignitary or descendant, then, so everyone must be worth protecting. Everyone's got their fancy chroniton webs polarized and on passive?" The crew nodded – Skarvin cursing as he bumped a support overhang for the small transporter. The fanciful gear gave some passive ability to receive messages, worn next to the skin. Testing had mixed results in the past, though.

"All right, Roland should be able to ping us using them as well," Foch said, "And Yvon's got a transporter crammed into her now – sorry Skarvin." The Tellarite growled, high in the throat. "So we've got that for backup. Warping out now." Foch tapped the throttle down with familiar practice, though the sound of the new pods cutting out was still unfamiliar.

Before them through the windshield, and in far more detail on the scanner screen, stood a small Klingon outpost. Its proud green hull metal had worn to a dull green, time claiming from everyone. Originally built to serve as a resupply point for Klingon fleets going into grand adventures into Romulan space; time had brought the universe closer together until it was too close to the border, and too small, to support full KDF fleets on the warpath. The Council had sold it off to one of the smaller Klingon Houses, helping one of the less military Houses fill its defense commitments by maintaining the station.

Now it was just one of dozens of transshipment stations supporting hundreds of listening and observation posts along the legal border demarcation; each of those supporting dozens of unmanned satellites. To the privateers and adventurers who used it, it was just another tired old station, its grander history ignored.

Station DR-3335 knew its business though; the weapon satellites surrounding it, and the heavy turrets on the station itself made it immune to the threat of a true pirate in an upgunned freighter – and the tachyon grid shining on their sensors showed it was protected against the more likely threat; a squadron of raiders from a rival House. Even a heavy cruiser on its own would probably be unable to cripple the station, hence the subtle approach they were here to counter.

Tarsi was checking the sensor hood for more detail, and then gave a low whistle. Pressing a few buttons, she swapped the scanner over to a tactical view of the area. That got a whistle out of everyone but T'met, naturally, though 718's sounded like data over voice line, in Foch's opinion.

"Fascinating," the Vulcan biologist said, keeping calm. "I would never anticipate that a relatively minor technic civilization would have the available assets or easily transportable resources to attract so many ships." Orbiting uneasily beyond the weapons platforms were at least a dozen full starships and another two dozen freighters – Foch nearly went for a scan to see how many shuttles the station was holding but stopped himself. This was not the place for Starfleet nosiness.

It was a stunning statement of diversity – Foch counted what looked like an old Risan courier busy keeping the station between itself and a pair of battered old Marauders. A few of the many Voth Palisades captured in the Sphere that had seen better days hung around – even Foch could tell their impulse units had been swapped for commercial models, and he was no engineer. A couple sleek destroyers or escorts of uncertain origin were keeping every sensor short of disruptor lock on each other.

"I think it's a real sign how the mercenary and secondhand weapon markets have been drying up the last few months, no?" Foch said, adjusting the scanner to focus. "See – behind the Nandi Daniels did say would be here for the Atodes – I'd swear that's a Xindi bugship and they're closer to Bajor than here." Sure enough, one of the claw-shaped Insectoid vessels, dread specter of many an Academy simulation, was resting a discrete distance away from the ships crowding the approach orbits.

"I guess people realize the Iconians are gone, finally – glad we missed that one," Tarsi said. "But I can't believe the Xindi would wander this far from home."

Skarvin said argumentatively, "I'm sure that's one of their heavy combatants. I remember seeing in those briefing tapes that the Xindi sent a rep to the Khitomer Accord resigning. From one planet killer to another, eh?"

"Now there's a part of history no one wants to repeat. Hopefully this won't be a heavy combat mission. If the Xindi are being friendly to the Federation, I'd hate to ruin it." Foch said. "Let's let them all know we're here, eh?" He quickly thumbed the comm switch.

"Calling Base DR-3335, this is shuttle Galahad carrying cargo and personnel. Transmitting our credentials on associated frequency," he said.

The growling voice that came back had seen too many stimulants and not enough sleep; or was ethnically Klingon. "This is Flight Control. Shuttle Galahad map to our navigation control for final approach. You have been slotted in Shuttlebay Three. The, 'reception' will be held in an hour." The voice paused, then gloating, "Cargo handling fees have been increased twenty percent due to heavy traffic."

Foch paused a second to adjust his throat for the right blend of weariness. "Understood flight control."

"If he was looking for a fight, that was a pretty poor attempt," Skarvin, an acknowledged master, noted.

"I think he'd rather shoot down half of what's flying out here," Foch observed. "So that was playing nice."

718 noted, "Passive thermal readings on the subspace and E/M antennae intercoolers indicate a vast amount of short-range tightbeam communication going on between the station and ships. Energy modulation on the long-range indicate a vast amount of traffic going out over the Empire's deep-space communication net."

"Poor Klingon," Tarsi said without sympathy. "All these honorless dogs and having to listen to them talk."

"Remember everyone – it's their turf. We're not here to clean their house. If the Atodes see everything with the Klingons and still decide to provoke them, that's their problem today," Foch said with a sigh. "And tomorrow, and probably for years the way the Empire keeps lumbering on. So let's not confront all their stupidity and just let it glide, eh?" There were noises of agreement as, for demonstration, Foch removed his hands from the controls as the Klingon station took over, the shuttle gliding into the station's maw.


Yvon/Galahad glided into the bay, settling with a crunch as the Klingon pilot set it down hard on the skids. "Blasted idiots in any century. No appreciation for equipment, or maintenance. Oh, the tolerances say it can take at 15 meters per second, so 14.9 we will," Skarvin grumbled.

"And, they're pressurizing the bay," Tarsi said drily. Skarvin folded his arms and his jaw shut with an audible click as the atmosphere filled enough to start carrying sound.

"Ca – er, Dean," Tarsi said, "We're getting multiple intrusion attempts at our data tapes," Tarsi said from the second console. "Alternate overlays on our circuits – probably quantum induction through the floor of the bay and the engine diagnostic circuits."

"Good thing we wiped the core, yes?" Foch said. "Probable from the Klingons?"

Tarsi was one of the best information warfare specialists he knew, certainly one of the best in the Federation. Combine that with the rage of an Andorian pulled from her family, and it gave one a real passion for insight into the Klingon psyche.

"No," she said, "If the Klingon officials wanted our tapes, they'd just come in with disruptors and breach – we couldn't escape their tractors. This is deniable, no down side, but possible profits."

"Daimon Leng, then," T'met said. "He could easily divert attention to some Klingon faction if he was detected, keep his hands clear, and possibly make even more than his finder's fee. A well-played scheme with no downside, to Ferengi methodology."

"Or someone using Ferengi thinking as a cut-out for their own plans," Skarvin argued. "History's in the balance somehow here."

"Regardless, I suppose it would be polite to ignore it unless we can backtrace it for the moment. We're here to make a sale from our latest scavenging, not try and beat Ferengi Alliance technology," Foch said. He flipped on the comm switch. "Control, we read pressurization as nearly complete – where is the station factor?"

"A representative will be with you shortly," came back the curt reply before the channel cut again.

"Q'plah," Foch said to the dead mike, slightly amused.


Somewhat to Foch's surprise, the factor who greeted them was actually one of the Atodes themselves. Foch's mental file for the species was piscine but they were apparently primarily arboreal amphibians, from the briefing. Still, bulging eyes without visible lids did sort of always make him think fish. The crew had warily disembarked around the side hatch.

But, the man knew his business, and had one of the Ferengi's top-of-the-line tricorders (you could tell by the gilding). "Greetings, merchant," the factor said. "I am Representative Gr'mall. The Atodes Supremacy put out the initial call for equipment; all items submitted for the auction must be registered and will be placed in bond with the Ferengi Alliance."

Foch reached out for a hearty handshake. Atodes did not do that; but it wasn't a well-known fact, the handclasp being one of those nigh-universal bipedal gestures. The Representative was willing to cross bounds of his own species decorum, and took it. "Captain Fract," Foch lied cheerfully. "Got a load of just the sort of material that a wise and discerning customer could use to keep their orbitals safe. Seven of Eight, Tervi, hit the rear hatch."

He gestured, obligingly, letting the factor go first. The Andorian and non-Borg moved into position. With a quick gasp for the seal releasing, and the slow hum of hydraulics, the rear cargo hatch on Yvon settled to the floor. Foch gave it a bit of a flourish.

Gr'mall didn't give it much of a glance, keeping his attention on his tricorder. "No explosive compounds, no advanced isolinear chips, no high-density transtators," the factor observed. "Tubes? Osmium tubes?"

"Partially osmium – picked for its high-temperature and durability," Foch said smoothly. "You're not seeing the whole unit – getting this quality of alloy throughout takes specialty equipment, but targeting equipment? Cooling pumps? Gunbarrels? Easy enough."

"This is a weapon?" Gr'mall said, looking at it. "Some kind of bomb?"

"Oh, no – far, far better," Foch said – Skarvin had given him the specs. "A planetary defense disruptor primary inductor coils! Sure, they're bigger than the starship model, but when you have a planet, you don't have to build so compact – or have it run so hot you have to use dangerously caustic coolants. It's reliable, easy to maintain, hits out to a light second, and – and your ecosystem will appreciate this – it can be water cooled. The coil design is complicated enough it can set up a light disruptor effect for point defense or a larger charge for anti-ship work."

"Is their origin available? The Supremacy is not inclined to have the charge of weapon smuggling lodged to it by other powers," Gr'mall asked.

"No, the colony was put up for general salvage rights," Foch assured. "No one was around to contest it anymore, but going by the official battle record and the debris in orbit, they took at least two Raiders on their own before they were overwhelmed by ground troops. Just because it's easier to build doesn't mean it's useless, no matter what the Q'onos shipyards try to sell you."

Gr'mall pulled his tricorder in close, examining them more closely. "And they are undamaged, then, or require some sort of refit?" he said, with a trace of eagerness.

"You'll need to work with your military to install them, of course, but it's a similar system to most Dominion War-era rifles," Foch said, assuming. "Just…" and he dropped his voice. "Much." And he leaned in, brushing the ends of his neat mustache carelessly. "Much…."

"Yes?" Gr'mall asked, insistent.

"Bigger," Foch said, quietly and assured. Gr'mall gave a low, burbling whistle.

"We'll get this moved to safe storage," Gr'mall assured. He tapped a communicator and started instructions for anti-grav tractors, the voice on the other side low and clicking. Muscle of some kind, Foch presumed.

That finished, Gr'mall turned, a terrifyingly broad smile on his face. "For the honored guests and vendors to the Supremacy, as the principal host of this auction, we have provided refreshments and entertainment on C deck. Bids will be held in custody of Daimon Leng, per previous instructions, and be payable in a variety of currencies. The auction itself will, by necessity of size, be remote, but all information will be available for perusal. We ask that all transactions be included in the auction."

"Thank you, Representative Gr'mall," Foch said politely. "We will keep your points in mind."


C Deck was literally every dive bar in a border outpost Foch had seen, in the 23rd or the 25th century. Even the best Klingon approaches to lack of creature comforts didn't have much effect on a port bar. Apparently, rapid inebriation among spacers was one of those ergonomic problems with a universal solution.

Though since it was a Klingon bar, the lighting was darker and the décor certainly greener than normal on Foch's side of the line. He paused briefly to peer at the dealers working a pair of tongo tables. Definitely greener decor.

The Orion dealers were imports, it seemed, for the occasion. If the Syndicate was running gambling out of the base, they'd have brought some of their own walking slabs, but Foch didn't see any of the big Orion males around. Actually, even most of the eye candy, of both sexes, were Klingon, but they were a slim majority in the crowd. It was a galactic mishmash. Ferengi, of course, mainly in a cluster under a set of holograms showing various death-dealers. Atodes were in evidence, talking with as many as groups as possible. Nausicaans were around, of course, guns attracting them like bees to honey.

But those were all to be expected. One group, though not the largest made up for it in surprise and density. "Looks like it was a bugship, eh 'Tervi'" Skarvin said under his breath. Tarsi merely whistled in response. Crowding the bar was the most Xindi-Insectoid Foch had seen outside of a history book. Even given their spindly bodies, they were packed in tight. They were certainly keeping the one-armed bartender busy pulling a spectrum of liquors off the top shelf.

Foch, and his crew, had to stop and stare at the spectacle. Even with time travel, this was history come to life.

Most of them. T'met had the presence of mind to give a warning. "Captain Fracht, we are attracting attention from the Ferengi contingent. One is coming over, and two Nausicaans just stopped playing tongo." Foch nodded, briefly, glancing. A portly Ferengi was coming over, and his broad frame was well ornamented.

"Wow, a whole set of Coalition members, down to an extra humon," said the Ferengi, with some cheerfulness. Well, Leng knew his Romulans if he picked T'met out with a glance. "I'm sure an expert salvager is familiar with the Rules of Acquisition – but let's give Rule 35 the weight over Rule 34 today, eh? Weapons are here to be sold, not used."

Foch turned, faked being startled, and held a hand up to be shook, which was taken, but with a firm grasp at the wrist to be rocked. The shorter Ferengi had some experience with Klingon handshakes. "Daimon Leng – Captain Fracht. We're here to make money, Daimon, I assure you, not dredge up ancient history," Foch said.

"Excellent, humon," Leng said brightly. "Please, avail yourself of refreshments – the Supremacy is covering fifty percent of the tab as part of this remarkable business opportunity."

"Do they know that?" Tarsi asked.

Leng smiled, showing a lot of peg teeth. Definitely an expert on the Klingon side of things. "Of course, Leng Enterprises is fully bonded, and makes it a point to encourage repeat business; clarity is key. We advised them it would help facilitate their auction, especially as it is being held off their world on a more accessible friendly power, with less, ah, fallout at home should there be any incidents."

"And it allows you to handle transportation of items that may be too delicate given the Atodes experience," Foch said politely. Leng nodded happily, the smile of a Ferengi who was getting his percentage at each stage in a transaction.

718 said, "It is well your experience is available – I can see the listings and I assume the Xindi are the supplies of lot 48; fifteen tons of keomcite."

"Very astute shopper! But, yes, I had my people check. It is low-grade, low-grade," Leng assured. "Very popular in doping emitters these days, I understand, without being so historically destructive. Several other interesting minor artifacts and Xindi technical bits as well. They were willing to put up a hatchery, but the Atodes' homeworld is apparently too cold for them to thrive."

"Shame, an auction this size; the Atodes may need the troops for the guns," Foch said.

"Trainers too," Leng said absently, "But knowledge is always more expensive than things, and the Atodes are looking for bulk goods, mainly."

"And guns are easier to resale later than knowledge?" T'met asked. "Or medical supplies which can decay."

Leng sighed. "A full strategic command encrypted communications suite would see a lot more usefulness against a cloaked raid of course. But the Empire knows this as well. Guns? Those are easy, but a decent command/control – that would make conquest a slog. Not much glory in getting lured into free-fire zones and pre-sighted artillery."

Foch said, trying to be disappointed, "So I assume expert trainers are…."

"Way out of the Supremacy's price range, sadly," Leng said with a sad shrug. "They've been decent customers. Losing their pearl beds for more gagh-breeding pits will be a pity on an overloaded market." From Leng's glance, T'met and Tarsi, by Foch's shoulder, were giving some sort of look. He shrugged. "I try not to account for human capital when I have no hand in the market," Leng said softly, and a bit sadly. Contrary to the Federation's popular view, Ferengi had consciences – at least ones with well-established businesses.

"Thank you, Daimon, we'll keep in mind the Empire's generosity as a host has certain caveats," Foch promised. "We'll try to not to sign any employment contracts that may give them some teeth." Leng smiled with some of his own, and with a Ferengi bow, went to other guests arriving via turbolifts from the other bays.

"Spread out, get some info," Foch said. "See what everything's selling – what may be worth buying, especially anything easily transportable or unique." The others nodded, and started to move out.


Half an hour later, Foch and his team hadn't spotted anything suspicious. Even the drinks weren't being watered. It seemed a perfectly grey-market auction. The Klingons were getting rid of materiel they couldn't use quite yet, and an exact idea of what defenses they would face over Atodes. And if they didn't have it, Leng would sell it to them. As far as Foch had gathered, he was collecting at least a finder's fee at every stage in the process.

That was perfectly normal Ferengi behavior, though the merchant kings Foch had met on the stations in the slower-warp era with that sort of skill at having their fingers in every pie didn't have the network to attract this many suppliers for the auction. Either Leng was really on his way up, and this was his coming out party, or he had a backer way up the power structure of either the Republic or the Empire.

But that was immaterial to the mission, but the best Foch had to chew on at the moment. Unless a dramatic appearance of some Klingon warlord to gobble up the Atodes now was in the forecast, Foch couldn't see anything obvious someone trying to change history would do here, but it was the best he had to go on.

At least his crew was picking up some useful items for regular Starfleet and Federation Intelligence. Time seemed to be sadly normal, but as Leng had noted, knowledge was valuable, could come in small packages, and often be more effective than a shuttle full of guns. In this age of transwarp and cloaking devices, it was after a time of miracles. In the age when a Klingon bar had a passable brandy, surely something could be done.

At the moment, he was near the tongo tables, listening to the insectoids. A group of well-decorated Klingons (and a Gorn – Foch still couldn't believe they had given up) had appropriated the bar area a few minutes ago, and the Xindi had moved over to watch the auctions and brag about how much better pilots they were than each other. It seemed, given the lifespan, a fighter pilot on their ship was moving to flight ops and there was some good natured posturing going on.

"My sire improved the starburst maneuver within forty-two seconds against the freighter Fortune Maru, I have triumphed by .5 over that-"

"My path as next squadron leader is justified, as I completed the Arcturus Rally course under the eyes of our commander using two percent less thruster fuel than anyone else on the Mchwa-"

And so on. Smiling and nodding along was a good excuse to keep a PADD out and take notes of everything else going on. They spoke so quickly and relied on motion cues the Universal Translator's audio-overlay couldn't handle. One had to 'read' a conversation with the Insectoids. These Insectoids had been around the block, and understood anyone talking with them was, by nature, distracted by their limited communication apparatus.

Even good brandy hadn't distracted Foch from an interesting bit of timing. Since the Xindi got pushed from the bar, absolutely no new blocks had been entered into the auction, and the rate of bid entries had started to increase. Perhaps some warlord had arrived, but Foch couldn't see what was going on.

There were a few baubles, but most items that weren't being stored in the cargo bays were simple hand weapon examples, power packs carefully removed. The tide of history was going to the removal of another aligned world into a subject of the Klingon Empire, and Foch couldn't see how it could be stemmed here.

The last lot that had been entered had been a dozen plasma torpedoes, suitable for satellites in the current era. But those would have taken processing; Foch wasn't sure they were the actual last lot even if there hadn't been some manipulation. Before he'd taken up life in the future, as a junior ensign, Foch had been part of a task force against a Romulan investiture; the deadly orbs strung out in a chain from low orbit had kept five Starfleet ships at bay until the Exeter had managed to spoof their targeting into each other.

"Republic Intelligence is laying a cover trail; they brought some goods that will excuse a bidding frenzy, and make sure they're scattered across the sector" Foch heard in his ear, a rich female voice that promised perfect confidence and hinted at possibilities that made his knees quiver. He looked around, but he wasn't close enough to the tongo table for one of the Orions to have spoken, even if the sentence made sense.

"If I didn't worry about this 'Temporal Defense' cabal I wouldn't be here, would I?" came the voice again. Foch stood up, walking over towards T'met who was standing under one of the auction screens, making the occasional bid for show and struggling to look haughty and Romulan. At least, those were her orders. Right now she was looking about as worried as a Vulcan could.

Foch slid in close and stabbed a bit at whatever was on screen. "You can't ponder these too long," he advised.

"Patience my friend" counselled the voice.

T'met blinked. "Captain, I appear to be suffering from auditory hallucinations," the Vulcan said quietly.

"I seem to be suffering the same," Foch said. There was a brief commotion near the entrance. Several Romulans in mixed apparel had shown up, as predicted. "They seem to be accurate ones, though."

"Yes," T'met said, and closed her eyes. "I believe I have encountered the voice before, but there is some distortion, though I cannot say where from. It does not seem to have a telepathic component." The two winced as there seemed a brief squeal, like a data burst.

"Like from a communicator? Something subcutaneous?" Foch asked. Foch felt along his arms, but there were no tears as if he had a dart or the like injected. He tapped along his jaw line and paused. "Or what if we're picking up someone else's broadcast?" He traced, surreptitiously as he could manage, along the line of crystals built into his jacket.

"I would talk to Seven of Eight, sir," T'met said. "Logic would indicate, that a receiver could pick up messages from other transmitters."

"All right, go chat with the Romulans and see if they are up to something, just on principle. I'll check with the others," Foch directed. "See if you can find a source; there weren't many orbital defense satellites left lying around and inactive after the Iconian War." T'met nodded, briefly.

"Oh, I'm sure Temporal Defense is here," the voice said casually. Foch sighed, briefly, covered by the noise of the party.


718 was on the other side of the bar – from his position, he could see everything. And given his memory capacity, they could reconstruct from lip reading and ambient sound almost everything going on in the room. Foch was lucky to have him – for away missions, invaluable, as a science officer, incredible. As a conversationalist: minimal.

"I was able to hear several elements of what you did, Captain," 718 confirmed. "However without an exact recording of what you and T'met heard, I do not believe a simple recounting would be sufficient to triangulate. We must be very close to the origin point of the transmission to detect it."

"Really?" Foch asked dubiously. 718 had survived the death of his ship in an alternate reality the same way the Conestoga's survivors had; the wildest of flukes courtesy of a temporal agent. He was also a being out of time, and while he was a brilliant analyst of data, his judgements on what data technology could gather had to be taken with a grain of salt still.

"Yes," 718 said firmly. "The likelihood of a beam intersecting our moment in spacetime without it having to propagate out of the timestream to normal space is infinitesimal. One end of the conversation must be taking place nearby; we are probably hearing the transmission signal as we are only getting one half. I would give ninety-three percent chance it is on the station"

"All right, I assume with all these sticky fingers and ne'er do wells around, you haven't managed to access their security system, with everything on alert?" Foch said. 718 nodded. "Okay, how's your wireless into their environmental and fire suppression alerts?" Foch presented a PADD, anticipatory.

"Excellent, captain," 718 said quietly. "Status repeaters indicate eighty percent of inhabitable space is in common use, sixty percent in current use. A test sweep on infrared on the fire suppression, cross-referenced gave a set of heat sources in the common range for sentient life. I do not believe I have eliminated all targs; their mass is sufficiently high for false positives on such a passive scan."

Foch nodded, and was surprised when 718 volunteered. "Besides the obvious security precautions for the large number of visitors – there appears to be a false connection stream set by an induction-based intrusion package in one or both of the tongo platforms." Foch turned to look – the gambling wheels were definitely keeping spinning as the room had filled up. Tarsi and Skarvin were in the crowd there.

"Leng really does have all the angles covered," Foch murmured with some appreciation. He studied the inhabited spaces briefly, flipping through the levels on the simple 2d display. "There," he said. At 718's questioning look, Foch explained, "The same level as shuttlebays and transporter rooms, yes, and a level below the command center. Easy access, but can be secured if necessary – good for a visiting functionary, when tomorrow's enemy is today's friend, here in the Empire."

"That is four levels above us," 718 observed, "There are security stations on two of them and this room is monitored." Foch looked at his officer disapprovingly. "It was merely an observation of the difficulties, not a judgement of our capabilities."

"This many people, security is waiting for the obvious," Foch said, "Did Tarsi ever tell you what we pulled on Gamma Vega?" 718 nodded. "Then you know what to expect," Foch said, as he left to talk to Tarsi and Skarvin.


True enough, the two were in the middle of the gambling section. From the azure flush to Tarsi's face, she was definitely going for the adrenaline high, and was cheerfully slinging latinum back and forth across the table. Skarvin looked much more terse and drawn, but the chip pile, by Foch's estimation, in front of him would have a Rigelian trader ready to offer up his whole family. Their old poker one-two routine seemed to work well for tongo. He did have to wonder where they'd had time to pick up the game.

Foch slid in behind them. "Freshen your drinks?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm going to be back on a hot streak any second, Captain," Tarsi assured him, watching the wheel spin.

"Permission to sell our Andorian, Captain?" Skarvin said dourly. "Get my retirement fund back, or at least an impulse engine." He turned and winked slowly.

"Aw Captain," Tarsi said with a fake whine.

"No, the slave market in the Empire's really dried up," Foch said with some regret. "Besides, she's got our uses? Remember Gamma Vega?"

"Only when it's cold," Skarvin said, and his eyes glanced towards the wall. Following, Foch saw an access panel set flush, nearly invisible. With the extra light from the tongo tables, it was more in shadow than a paranoid Klingon would perhaps like.

Tarsi stood up as the tongo board came to a stop, and pouted as apparently it was a poor combination. She grabbed a drink as she stood and casually slung chips at one of the Gorn also at the table. Trying to set her drink down, she slipped, pulling on the sleeve of a Klingon technician at the table – the sleeve snagged on something underneath and tore, revealing some combination of metal and plastics.

"A scrambler?" Skarvin said, angry but without surprise. "You lowborn filth?" He picked his glass up and threw it at the technician, as Foch slid quietly away from the two. He paused briefly at the panel, and looked back. As expected, his officers were giving better than they got, and it looked like things were headed downhill quickly as T'met entered and began disabling opponents with Vulcan efficiency. That apparently struck the station crew as unfair and they entered in full.

It was an access shaft, discrete but intended for personnel to reach conduits, not so security could get an end-run, and it took only a little coaxing to find the releases. He scooted into the access path and closed the panel behind him. The thought of conduits made him pause, and he looked around. Engineering wasn't his forte, but he could work a valve. An EPS was an EPS tap, and he'd seen the power cables on the tongo tables.

He found the power regulator and turned it up as far as the lines would bear. A little extra distraction never hurt, and a power surge through those tongo tables would, from what 718 said, alert whatever security wasn't already headed to the meeting hall. A blast of signal noise right into the station's main computer should stir anyone who was still at their monitor stations when an opportunity to knock heads presented itself.


The distraction had worked, or the fight had taken on a life of its own. From the fire alarm he heard echoing when he'd dropped to the second level, Foch guessed the latter. He'd had to cut a few alarms on the way down; which would have alerted if anyone still cared, and he was pretty sure he'd tripped at least one monitor when slipping a deck. There were limits one could do against modern technology when you couldn't bring powered equipment.

He'd made it, however. If his Klingon was still good, he was on the right deck and above the compartment in question. He did have a knife ready and was working with an unpowered multi-tool on a dogged-down access panel. No one had accosted him or shot at him yet, so it seemed things were working, though he regretted not having the opportunity to pick up a gun.

There were too forms of non-detection; one where you were as quiet as possible, and anything could give you away – or create so much chaos that they couldn't identify you. Something was going on, but it would be impossible to focus on one thing.

His communicator net crackled in his ear again. "This should be simple for you – activity's picked up here, as anticipated. As I've said before, no need to have everything mapped, simply put enough factors together and let nature take it. What do they teach uptime?" said the same voice as before. Foch did have to acknowledge chaos went both ways.

Regardless of how it was being hid, this was clearly some form of time travel. He was dead once before, and his crew also had the command codes that would send alerts up and down the whole Alliance, regardless of the loyalty of the station's commander.

"Yes – but let us be straight, is White Widow a go?" asked the voice again.

That does not sound good, Foch thought to himself. And resigning himself, he stopped trying to be subtle on the last lock and wrenched upward on the thin paneling. The metal screeched and bent, but moved sufficiently. There was a startled noise. Underneath was the thinner metal lining of the actual habitat module; inserted within the station's framework. This he simply kicked and then rolled out of the way; his paranoia rewarded with the flashing sizzle of the dire red of an antiproton bolt, sawing through the air.

Well, that proved whoever was down there had connections. Lacking anything stronger, Foch tossed the multitool down to the floor with a clatter. He waited a beat and followed through, landing into a crouch on the floor below. Expecting the grenade Foch wished he had, the inhabitant had ducked behind a heavy metal slab of a bed.

The room was lit a dusky red, and the air heavy. It was the usual utilitarian of KDF quarters, except for an odd crystal and glass stand, something like a vase opened at both ends. A wispy hologram hung in the air above it; there was possibly a figure in it, but Foch could make out no features. He had no time anyway – as what was clear on the display were the silhouettes of what looked like the proper timeships of the 29th century.

He leapt onto the bed, a front kick meeting the rising metal cube of a gun as the woman there rose out of her own crouch. Definitely high-ranking by the insignia on the baldric, but Foch had no time to run a biometric scan, and if there was some attack on the timeline's future peacekeepers, he could not be gentle or wait. He drew the knife at his belt.

Klingons' anatomy was one of the reasons for their overbuilt melee weaponry, but if one was careful, there were still a few places one could hit and temporarily cripple. Foch found his mark and plunged the knife. Simple weapon though it was, the blade edge had been honed enough that the heavy leathers weren't much opposition.

Somehow, the woman reached up, lashing with a palm strike to his chest that sent him stumbling backwards. He coughed, his vision suddenly, swimming, but he could see the flash of green when the woman arose – Orion, not Klingon. And he'd gotten into pheromone range. Foch coughed, falling backwards, stumbling off the edge of the bed.

"Going for the secondary nerve cluster?" the melodious voice said. "For an assassin you are well-skilled, but I think you were looking for someone else." There was a grunt, and Foch could see the flash of silver, smeared with green – she had withdrawn the knife.

Gasping, Foch struggled back to his knees, bringing his guard back up, and slapped the panic button on the passive net he was wearing. If it worked as intended, Roland would be approaching in several minutes. "I don't know who I was looking for, but I think I'm at the right time."

The hologram spoke, "Incorrect – I can see his signature; this is one of Daniel's tools, General."

"Daniel's really?" the Orion said. She was applying pressure to her side. "Actually, I know this one – he's a pawn, not a tool – isn't that right Captain Foch?" Her voice was full of surprise, though Foch had no idea, with his head swimming, how much to believe of an Orion Matron's voice.

With a feeling of tremendous pressure being lifted, Foch's vision started to clear. The Orion's pheromone control was excellent, and to his own surprise, he saw, drawn into something of a pout of surprise, the face of a Dahar Master he had worked with before. D'ellian of M'ara was a hero, and –

"You're no traitor or fool, to risk time," Foch finished out loud, struggling to stand. The Orion had fought with him and Captain Revka in an alternate universe, a raid to save a strange, bright, version of his own time from the Sphere Builders, and gather valuable information on their operations. As a Klingon not of Klingon, she had been recommended by their counterparts in Klingon Temporal Intelligence for effort in fighting the Sphere Builder's proxies, a faction of that universe's Empire.

"Neither are you," D'ellian replied, "Which makes me wonder why you are here, unless Daniels is breathing down your neck. He never struck me as one to allow someone else to substitute their judgement."

"I hoped our transmission secure, General," the figure said. "But Daniel's position and resources are nebulous, even forward from our point in the timeline."

"Your transmission was detected," Foch said. "But we didn't know what it was. I never expected… this of you, General. An invasion?" He finally stood up, and dusted on his tunic.

The figure in the holoemitter laughed at that. Now that Foch could see clearly, it wasn't the holoemitter, the figure's features were obscure. As best Foch could eliminate 'Tholian' from possible species.

"Oh, Captain – our contact is sending back something far more powerful than a fleet," D'ellian said. "These are our ships – the Alliance. Not everyone, even within the Temporal Defense organizations, are willing to risk the assurances and meddling of a potential future." She turned to the figure. "You understand, of course."

Foch shuddered at that. He'd seen fleets of Tholians massacred, garden worlds devastated, brave fellow officers sent to their deaths, with simply an assurance that this was 'already' part of history. A history determined by its future. "This is technical assistance? Designs for ships to alter the past?"

D'ellian looked at him, and Foch had a brief feeling of a mouse being toyed with by a cat. Then her vision cleared. "I could say 'yes', but I will be accurate – these are ships designed by coordinated teams across the Alliance, not just toys we are not expected to understand from the future, merely appreciate. And not just for Starfleet either – advance to production the laboratory theories we see on those ships, and with the spaceframes we know work from before the Na'kuhl mess started."

"Fair point," Foch said, who drove a ship that fit that description; the Roland was filled with black boxes, and strange, but useful devices. They were kept so busy, there was no chance to really examine them, or even drill them to their full potential.

"The various governments may join under a true political solidarity without emphasis from the future," the figure said. "This is one area I agree with Captain Walker's timeline of events. Daniels, despite his claims of defending the timeline, is more than willing to weight the Federation militarily and scientifically above what it could claim through natural progression. These ships are, natural progression. I feel a more… balanced polity is worth evolving"

Foch moved to a neutral stance. "This sounds reasonable," he said. "Though I am in dangerously close proximity to an Orion female. But if so true, what is the power from the future?"

"Yes or no," General D'ellian said. "An evaluation by one of the many other shifting factions of the future, to simply confirm we can integrate the machinery onto their hulls. We are the ones transmitting technical data. They are analyzing if it is possible."

The figure vanished briefly, then appeared again – static apparently starting to fill the hologram. "General, something is interfering with the contact, so I will believe. Our analysis shows the design is possible in your would need a facility the size of a world to handle the construction given the limitations of your fabricator technology with the components needed. I do not think the military shipyards of our time could produce such a design easily." The screen started to fuzz, "Your governments were not clear on all the plans, but… I believe this is the last 'time' we will speak, you having granted my fondest wish." The hologram dissolved to static, though it seemed it was not going to standby.

"Ah, my strange friend," the Orion said softly. "The Empire, the Republic, even the Federation have a shipyard the size of a planet; several planets even. I am surprised it is not a factor in your time."

"The Sphere," Foch said, not a question. "That is a unified entity of several departments, not something you could do in secret."

"Yes, an Alliance-controlled facility, open to our governments and potentially others – bringing parity to these strange time manipulations. Yes, we use the Wells as a base, but these have been drifting into the Nebula for years, it seems," D'ellian replied. She thought a moment, concerned, "Why the Sphere wouldn't be in action in the future."

The hologram flickered, then steady, a figure reappearing, but this was a figure with definition. Aaron Newness, Foch's human Weapons Officer, in Tarsi's department. And he spoke, Foch could hear it overlaid in the ear, courtesy of the chroniton web. "Captain, wasn't expecting to see you – we got your distress message, and I think we broke into the beam." D'ellian nodded here, the nod of a professional to another. "Um, are you okay sir?" the lieutenant asked, taking in the Orion.

"This is business," Foch said. "Is Roland ready? I think the signal has been defined, but seems to have been an interdepartmental issue. A tragic widow in the wrong time but right place."

Aaron looked blank at that. "Yes sir," he said, "We got a call before we reached yours – we weren't sure how to handle it; let me patch it through since we have two-way communication. We're getting some weird stuff out of the temporal circuitry, I think we need 718 here, sir."

Foch nodded and his ship's fourth officer vanished, being replaced by a greying Human familiar to Foch in a maroon uniform; one of the time periods he had skipped over in Starfleet. "Roland, Hello again, this is Admiral Chekov. Timeline integration check is three-seven-alpha-four-six. The situation with the Temporal Liberation Front has turned catastrophic since we last met, and the Envoy – Noye – has achieved significant victories. The Terran Empire of your current time is supplying troops."

Chekov took a deep breath, and continued. "Daniels has fallen, your investigatory mission is cancelled. Follow attached coordinates to the Array at New Khitomer. We have very little time to organize, perhaps half an hour. If there is anyone nearby trustworthy, we can authorize the removal of one additional ship. The Procyon V nexus is in grave danger of collapse."

The view switched back to the lieutenant. "We put in the coordinates but we're seeing an odd power drain in the temporal core" Newness said, worried. "We need you back."

"Will comply, Roland," Foch said. The signal winked out. "My crew heard that as well, I hope," Foch said. "Send the data for those ships; it cannot hurt at this point." Foch held the gun D'ellian dropped on her clearly. "But only the yes or no, please."

"Ah, not so easily breaking down," D'ellian said with approval. "I will not demean you by assuring you this is correct or the right thing in the end. Or even if it will change things in the battle."

"It is proactive. I have seen several worlds that have fallen into indolence, and I do not wish that on any civilization. If that is what the future expects, it may need to change. Time will tell," Foch said. "For Procyon V, it cannot hurt. Last I met Admiral Chekov was at the Enterprise, and he sounded much more confident about it. I am Starfleet; I must have faith in the Federation I am in, not the assurances of the future." Foch blinked, "Actually, why can't we hear the fire alarm?"

"The wha? Oh – security seal on the quarters, when serving as an illicit contact for shadowy future entities, it seemed a wise precaution," D'ellian said. "It is done, no takebacks," she said, serious. "This may hurt you with your sponsors."

"I am still Starfleet," Foch said, and he felt a weight from his shoulders at that, and he held the blocky gun out for D'ellian to take back. "Whatever happens, I work to defend the Federation with my judgement. But, my lady General, we have little time. Would you do the honor of accompanying me?"

"Procyon V?" D'ellian said. "I have a Xindi ship right now; their people know of it, and told me. I would be ripped limb from limb if there was a chance they would miss it." She spoke and there was no exaggeration in her voice.

She tapped a button, and suddenly there was a sound of alarms in the quarters. The security seal was off. "General to Mchwa, prepare for immediate transport of crew and passengers – get us cleared for departure."

"Ah, General," came a series of clicks. With a roll of her eyes, D'ellian transferred the translation to a screen. "We are getting all sorts of strange reports – there seems to be a fire, some sort of power surge wiped half the sector station's navigation database, and there seems to be a small band of Federation pirates that are manning a barricade at the alcohol dispensary, holding off the security staff. The station insists they do not need help but we stand ready."

Foch shrugged. "You have met my crew, they are very capable," he reminded her when she briefly tabbed the communicator off. Her composure twitched but did not sort.

"Yes, if you end up getting court-martialed for this, the House of M'ara could use talent," D'ellian said, then tabbed on the communicator. "Get me K'Gan," she directed.

"General," came a heavy Klingon voice. "We were obtaining much honor against a band of Federation pirates who wished to seize our bar, but a data pulse damaged the station. We retreated to study it when the security alert went off per your orders but the commander is blocking our efforts – Leng is safely off station."

"Ready a full report to transmit to Intelligence – return to the Mchwa and standby in the armory," D'ellian said. She switched the channel back over. "Bridge? Ready for transport of myself and several others – I will send the detail momentarily."

An affirmation came and she turned. "I think your group's brave defense is at an end – give me their bio information and we can arrange a transport."

"Yes, I will go and settle things there if you can get me clearance," Foch said. "Shame to lose the Yvon."

"The what?" D'ellian asked.

"Oh, a class F shuttle. I suppose its value is sentimental-" Foch said, as he started typing in information in D'ellian's console. Not the coordinates for Roland yet – not until his crew was safely together.

"The Mchwa is a light carrier. I'm sure the commander would be happy to decompress some bays at this point; we will pick it up as we swing by," D'ellian said.


D'ellian was as good as her word, the claw-like Xindi ship snagged a tractor beam out and picked the Yvon out from amid a shower of debris and disruptor coils that had been unpacked. It was in the escort carrier's shuttle bay before Foch and his crew beamed aboard, leaving several Romulans smelling more of alcohol than they would prefer, and thoroughly humiliated Klingons. If the stakes hadn't suddenly risen to a galaxy, Foch would consider it a good shore leave and a great mission.

Certainly from an Intelligence standpoint, it had been useful. Enough casual talk, when combined, could sink fleets. And perhaps with a little more knowledge and a face on it, the Federation could get someone out to help the Atodes maintain their role as a Klingon puppet state, instead of an Imperial tribute planet.

Though Foch suspected Intelligence would be more interested in this next phase of the mission. The ship was Xindi-Insectoid, through and through, but at the center of its bridge stood an Orion. The General was talking to a broad Gorn, also in KDF leathers – with several Imperial Klingons around the bridge's secondary stations.

Seen in a more KDF context, Foch recognized the non-bugs on the bridge both from the bar and their mission to the alternate universe (he said so easily): the General's long-term crew and staff. Foch had his own crew at the back of the bridge, standing somewhat uneasy and unsure where to go.

That had been a KDF battlecruiser. Foch wondered how the Orion had ended up with a band of Insectoid privateers. Though how an Orion had reached a point where the Empire trusted her above all others with secret technical plans was probably an even better story.

The bridge itself was not KDF. The steam vents and duct work to supply the lowland Insectoid's favorite atmospheric mix hissed away. The controls resembled icosahedrons, lights against dark matter. It was vaguely honeycombish to Foch's human mind, but the Ferengi, he had learned, used similar control surfaces. The bridge was otherwise common; indirect lighting – a raised back command section leading down to a broad viewscreen; secondary panels and readouts along the walls.

There was one thing missing: chairs. The Xindi-Insectoid leg structure explained that, at least. Foch had yet to hear a satisfactory explanation why the future had given them up on multi-species craft. He glanced at the tactical display while waiting, and suppressed a low whistle. If handled by anything with a pulse, this one ship could shred an entire standard convoy escort. If its fighters were similarly hot-rodded, Foch doubted it would take more than shield damage.

D'ellian finished speaking and gave a tight smile. "Yes, the readings are accurate – though we had to use some rather active coolant mixtures to pack everything in. I find preparedness is nine-tenths of victory," she said, apparently reading his thoughts. "Even if I didn't have other reasons, helping in this battle is a fine payment for reminding me that chance is the other tenth," she said, somewhat rueful. Foch suspected he'd come the closest to getting the drop on her in years.

"It was a team effort," Foch said. "Do we have clearance from the station?" D'ellian waved dismissively at that. Foch pulled out an isolinear chip from a pocket and slid it over. "Navigation coordinates and the timing algorithm for the frequency we need to get into contact. Should be about five light years spinward."

D'ellian handed the chip to the Gorn, who had practically materialized at her side, but did not wait for him to read it on a separated system. "Helm, get us pointed in the right direction, standby alert," she ordered. "Move us out of the station control zone and ready for warp."

A Xindi strode to the forward control column and began to manipulate it. "Bringing us to bearing," it clicked, as the low expectant hum of a ship bringing itself to power built up. "Engine room bringing systems out of parking orbit; ninety percent power immediately available."

"Good," D'ellian said. "Thraak, do we have coordinates?"

The Gorn was punching in digits on another console section as he read them off from the chip. "Yes, Dahar Master," he hissed. "Sending to helm. Contact algorithm ready."

D'ellian nodded, and Foch stepped forward slightly. "Captain Foch to Roland, please respond. Ready ship for temporal transit. We are bringing a passenger," he said.

The screen came back instantly. Newness still looked worried. "Captain Foch, we are holding position – ship is at alert status. Sir, we're still experiencing strange power losses from the temporal core, and we've never tried a multi-transit without Daniels. Warp power appears normal, we seem to be losing efficiency."

"The training wheels come off eventually," Foch said. "And you're a fine shiphandler. If you're losing power, I'd rather not wait to arrange a beam-over." He felt the lurch of the ship entering warp, and continued. "The Dahar Master will be assisting us, you should see us on your screens shortly."

718 had gone over to Thraak at the side panel. Two of the Xindi had joined in a low conversation as the ship rippled through subspace on their quick jaunt. Several different views flashed by on the console, and a certain amount of arm-waving was going on. Thraak came over, followed by Foch's officer, and gave a fist on chest salute. On D'ellian's incremental nod, he reported.

"Dahar Master, the Starfleet officer and I have consulted with this vessel's sensor staff," Thraak said. "We detect no signs of any progression in subspace that would indicate a deepening problem. Local space appears stable to twelve hours ago."

"This ship's long-range sensor capacity is significant," 718 acknowledged.

"Could the problem, then, be occurring on the other end," Foch said, mouth dry. "Some sort of battle damage or attack?"

"Possible," Thraak said. "Impossible to determine without a better understanding of temporal vortices. A science, from our perspective, still in its infancy."

"I've studied some of Starfleet's previous instances of time travel," Foch said. "Given we know the coordinates, can we do something to 'reduce' the required effort, like a large gravity well or the dilation effect of high-warp travel? We have done some transitions at moderate warp speed, it did seem to cause some differences, yes?"

718 nodded in agreement. "An area where we are capable of such high speeds would be 'smoothed' of likely potential distortions, as well as the obvious distortion effect on space of warp travel."

"The full effect could affect our transit point, or increase the side effects with time travel," Thraak said. "I do not consider this a travel method completely under our control."

"It is something Starfleet is still studying," Foch acknowledged. "But we have used the temporal core's vortex ability safely several times. My main concern is keeping the vortex stable if it's at low power for both ships to transit."

"I do not believe synchronizing our warp fields to a single unit could hurt our chances," Thraak said. "Assuming the coils can take it; this is a delicate maneuver between ships of the same class."

"We are under time pressure, but not combat," D'ellian said. "When we drop out of warp, bring us into position behind the Roland."

"Skarvin," Foch ordered, "Head down to their engineering room, and give them our current specs as best you can."

"Sure, get a bilateral warp drive to map out to a three part radial, while trying to run my engine room over a viewscreen," Skarvin grumbled. Foch watched him go.

"He'll do his best,' Foch assured D'ellian.

"I'm sure," the Orion replied politely. The ship's timbre shifted as they dropped down to normal space, the impulse engines kicking back in. The two ships started to exchange a rapid and frantic telemetry now that communications could be utterly secure over tightbeam.

Joining two ships in the same warp bubble could be done at speed; but was more doable from a standing start. It was still the problem of making two different ships to act as the same ship… which was also broken in two pieces, relative to the warp field. Fortunately, the inefficiencies were less of a problem; ships were pretty overpowered compared to their engine capacity, so Foch's guess was they could make Warp 8.

The two ships came to a stop. There was a brief pause, and the helmsman gave a hesitant clicking of jaws that they were ready. After a minute, there was a sudden screeching over the comms. "Abort, abort!" Skarvin said frantically. The helmsman slammed down on the console, a touchpad over which its hand had hovered.

There was an answering screech from behind them – a thrumming –an emergency plasma vent. The power had to go somewhere from the nacelles. On the screen, Roland's right engine flared, then crackled; static discharge on a scale no sky had seen.

"Roland had a heterodyne we couldn't compensate from here in the starboard nacelle; the off-axis controller just burnt out, we have no maneuverability at warp. I don't know if they were asleep or blind," Skarvin reported, adding several rather inventive curses about his junior officers.

Foch didn't blame him. By the time those were obvious all the way in main engineering, they had been building a while at the engine. The crew there should have caught it or at least alerted, even if the distortion wasn't immediately dangerous. Trying to manage it from a whole different ship, all Skarvin could do is stop Mchwa plowing into Roland when it failed to go anywhere.

Foch had inherited his original crew, but the survivors who joined the Roland had been drafted from all different sources; not his picks, with the ship lying half-completed or in dock while on more subtle missions. Regardless, if they made it and time survived, he resolved to do better.

"Give me a status report," he ordered.

"Main energizers still active, we have full antimatter power," Skarvin said. "Temporal core giving some really weird signals that I'm sure 718 would love to spend a week deciphering. All I can see from here is our predicted power curve to those coordinates seems to be getting worse. It doesn't seem to think it can hold the vortex."

"Would it help if the Mchwa gave us a push?" Foch asked, sarcastic.

"We could, perhaps," D'ellian said. "We have very heavy tractor beam emitters. And quantum slipstream generators. They could provide some of the effect." 718 nodded.

Skarvin said, over the link, "I think we need to switch to the Imperial supply network."

"Yes, there is a cost factor," the Dahar Master acknowledged. The Gorn laughed at that, ruefully. "But success can depend on a sharp spearhead more than war of accountants."

"Roland? Get ready for a push," Foch said. "All available power to the temporal core and begin sequence. I do not think our chances will get any better than now. Prepare to be brought under tow. You're still guiding us, so keep navigation on."

"Aye sir," Newness said miserably.

"Quantum slipstream standby," D'ellian said. "Keep helm locked to them, warriors: ready for possible distortions or to compensate for gravimetric shear. We are trying for maximum distortion over speed." Very briefly, she spared a glance for Foch.

With a hum of capacitors, the feel of light and space on the bridge changed. The viewscreen showed the stars going out, the cloudy spiral of quantum 'froth' surrounding them in a tunnel of blue light, isolating them into a dimension where speeds available exceeded subspace. That was how 718 explained it, anyway, besides 'it helped ships go very fast'. What Foch did know is they were, effectively, in a relativistic reference frame while staying still.

"Temporal core output increasing," Newness said excitedly, briefly running off screen and back. "Vortex opening along temporal navigation axis!"

In front of them, the blue 'froth' parted as a searing point of white light appeared. Energy spiraled out as the strange streaked void of temporal transit appeared… but only barely.

"The vortex is too small for either ship to make transit!" Thraak said, alarmed.

"General, we just lost the carrier wave to the Empire's navigational buoy network," clicked one of the Insectoid crew in alarm.

"Captain, Foch, we can't push it beyond this and keep it stable. We're not getting sufficient chroniton decay to push it any further," Newness aid. "We can try shutting it down and reset the coordinates-" he offered, but was interrupted by both captains.

"NO!" they shouted as one. D'ellian gestured. Foch said, "Whatever temporal effects we're moving to encounter are having an effect – we should not leave the temporal wake. Keep that vortex open, Lieutenant!" Newness nodded.

"I am unclear what else we can provide; this is not sustainable," D'ellian admitted. She turned to look at a console. "The emitter load is increasing, this can only be sustained for a few minutes."

718 suggested, "The Roland could generate a static warp bubble? Give some more time?"

Foch waved it away. "No, enough with the technology we cannot fully use – this ship has power and we have a hole, but not large enough, yes?"

"Yes," 718 said, confused.

Foch was already walking to the console he had noticed earlier. "Tarsi, give me the exact placement on the edges of the field," he said. The Mchwa was a cone, after all, extending 'around' the rather flat Roland. Which meant it had clearance to see the vortex, even if neither could go through. The Andorian nodded and smiling tightly, brushed past the Gorn to the science side panel.

"The weapons have never been tested in a quantum environment," the Xindi at the controls protested, refusing to move.

"The readouts still look good, yes?" Foch asked, and the Xindi turned briefly. Foch moved – even with the insectoid differences, a biped was a biped – and caught by surprise in a hip throw, there wasn't much one could do until they hit the deck. Cursing, the Xindi moved to fight as he leapt to his feet, but one of D'ellian's subordinates clasped the Insectoid on the shoulder.

"If this does not work, we will never know it," the Klingon said, chuckling. Violence always was the route for cheap laughs with Klingons. "But we die fighting."

"Quite," Foch muttered. The readouts were, indeed still go. "Bringing reserve coolant pumps online, setting minimum cycle time for rapid fire," he said.

"Emitters approaching polarization limit," Skarvin reported over the link. "I hope you're not about to do what I think, Captain, but do it fast so we're around to tell you how bad an idea it is."

D'ellian agreed, and grabbed the other side of the tactical console. "Quite," she echoed. "You're cleared to fire, captain."

Foch fired, pressing the surface with more force than was strictly necessary. Bolts screamed out from the ship's weapon tips, smashing the edges of the vortex. The tear glowed with energy, and Roland's surface deflectors flared with energy.

"Navigational axis is starting to drift around center point," Newness said, "But we're getting a boost – vortex extending to maximum!"

"Go, full impulse into the vortex!" D'ellian ordered.

Propelling Roland ahead of them, they vanished into the ether.


28th century, New Khitomer. Half an hour until Ragnorak

The two ships emerged, eldritch energies streaming off them from the vortex. The grand megastructure of New Khitomer was there, thankfully. Foch concentrated on being able to breathe again. That had been a rough transition, the last few minutes echoing around them over and over. Maybe the worst he had experienced?

"Are we all where we should be?" D'ellian said, and she sounded shaky. She was gripping the console still; knuckles gone gray under the strain. She took a cautionary breath, and started to steady herself.

Thraak was looking greener around the scales than normal. "Star pattern seems to indicate the right time – there are very few ships in the area, a few Federation and what looks like a Republic warbird."

"Roland, get us local control," Foch ordered.

"Aye," came back, voice only over the link, weakly from Newness.

"Captain Foch, you're on the early end of the navigation window, we've had very few arrivals, but anti-tachyon levels indicate more are coming," came back Chekov's voice. "Fortunately, we still have several hours to organize."

Foch looked at D'ellian, who failed not to look smug, "Admiral, your communication indicated we barely had time and gave a specific spacetime coordinate set?"

"Well, yes, but some allowance around the point for navigation is standard," Chekov said. Foch closed his eyes and valiantly held onto his temper. "As to your current point; something seems to have shifted things forward – temporal shields were stressed briefly but now look to hold at least five hours – a comfortable margin."

D'ellian, thanks to pheromones, apparently could literally radiate smugness. "I see," Foch said. "Well, we must prepare.

28th century, New Khitomer. Half an hour until Ragnorak Five hours until Ragnorak


Author's note:

Yes, the timeline changed in this one to affect the first chapter. This is why everyone hates time travel for disrupting drama. It's a mess. Foch much prefers problems he can punch, but I think Daniels' tendency to call the Agent of Yesterday Temporal Agents as muscle backfired a bit here. He has the potential to be a great captain, if he gets to focus on it.

We're about ready for characters to start in the actual mission, now that the pieces are being delivered to New Khitomer, so I guess it's a good question where causality comes into this.

Just to put everything on the same page where I'm going with this knot – what seems to be happening is that Procyon V, with the Sphere Builders at their most capable, was one of the best opportunities to destroy the Federation (and the Alliance, whose core worlds and territories aren't that far from Earth). It didn't work. The Sphere Builders got into the whole mess with the Xindi to try and strike at a different point, but weren't able to affect things very much but directly, and Daniels was able to nudge things so those didn't work.

Enter Noye in his form as the Envoy, taking advantage of the Annorax's temporal travel abilities to 'repeat' events – jumping around causality in a way that most time travel doesn't seem to allow. He targets Procyon V as the point to bring down everything. Even New Khitomer is uptime. If Procyon V falls, there will be no time travelling Federation in the future, removing all their influence on the timeline, allowing Noye to more carefully take his revenge against the 25th century Alliance without worries Captain Walker's Starfleet, which is very straightforwardly dedicated to countering temporal incursions, or Daniel's group, which seems to use them to their own ends.

Noye then recruits several minor groups, but ones with time travel, to help up the game at Procyon V, but it doesn't work, but their extra pressure weakens Daniel and his group. The final group entered, the Mirror Universe, are from a separate timeline, so can be a major player Daniels can't spot, and so they kill him.

The Starfleet 'plan' for Procyon V, upcoming from Daniels perspective, repeatedly from Noye's, is now being acted out by people who don't have all the pieces and hope they can make it work. Meanwhile, the Mirror Universe gives a huge wave of cannon fodder, and also a group that are full time spacers, compared to the 'irregulars' of the Na'kuhl, the Kremin remnants, the Sphere Builders originating from a different set of physics (nowadays) and the Vorgon thieves.

The Sphere Builders have used information from the future to reinforce their Spheres, so the Enterprise-J can't blow them the way the NX-01 did. The Tox Uthat serves to counterbalance that advantage, and Noye has worked to hem in the Enterprise-J. Now, all his cards are on the table. If the Enterprise-J fails, most of life in the Alpha and Beta quadrants will be lost, and the timeline will be left open for manipulation to the whims of anyone with a time machine.

Chekov has therefore dealt the last hole card Daniels had left; the Temporal Agents, removed and continued past the point history recorded as their deaths, a force 'unseen' by the other forces in the Temporal Cold War. But they're still unsteady and unused to playing at this level without guidance, but they're the last force available to either side.

A side that Foch has just unexpectedly allowed to be reinforced. A Knight-Errant, after all, with no direction but his honor, may be the truest knight of all.