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.

35. Chapter 35

Tortola Island, the Caribbean Sea, earth, Mar 2158

Tortola Island, the Caribbean Sea, earth, Mar 2158

Jeffrey Sutton kicked at the sand along the white beach. The weather here in the Caribbean reminded him of his days at Florida State University. That seemed so long ago although it had been about four years since his graduation. He reflected on a time when he had rose through the ranks of the Stellar Navy, saw it morph into a new entity called Star Fleet and fallen in love with an alien only to lose her. Now he was a scarred war veteran with a set of artificial lungs. He was also on the run from the authorities because of his assistance of the radical Kendra Stiles.

Sutton had to chuckle at the terms that the Sons' of Terra propaganda department chose. His attorney father would have labeled them simple minded hyperbole. Kendra Stiles had a sharp wit; he had discovered that early on. But Sutton simply could not assign the term, radical, to the kindly woman who had helped him work through his grief over Talas.

He took a deep breath of the warm salty air. His lungs and flesh were becoming attuned to each other. He no longer gasped like an old man. He would have like to head into the town and peruse the tourists' traps but he was a wanted man. This was the limit of his daily travel: A short walk down the beach property that was owned by a rather odd and Jeff thought slightly shady character.

Jeff walked from the beach to the edge of a large open hut. He chuckled at the sight of the Mark VI jump jet nestled under the fiberboard roof. The only other place that Sutton had ever seen one of the aircraft was on a tour of an old US Air Force base turned museum. He and Stiles had come here in this venerable old craft. The wild wave top flight was still very vivid in Sutton's mind as well as their somewhat eccentric rescuer.

Arnie Griffin charged out of the chill morning surf with the same exuberance that Sutton's eight year old nephew showed when he played in the water. The man gathered up a towel and ran it through his curly mop of brown hair. Jeff walked over to join him. He would have enjoyed a swim but the docs had said no to that. The fusion between flesh and blood was not prepared for that experience.

"You'll be back into it before you know it," Griffin told him. The man was wrapped in a towel. He nodded to Sutton. "Headed back up?" he asked, meaning the main building of Griffin's palm tree enshrined and vine covered estate.

"Might as well," Sutton answered.

"Prosthetics are frustrating," Griffin said as if reading Sutton's mind. The man rapped sharply on his very human looking legs. "I know."

"I guess I'm feeling sorry for myself," Sutton said.

"It happens," Griffin answered. "You're lucky though: You had someone pull you out of it. After it happened to me I nearly went off the deep end. A good friend pulled me back."

They made their way back to the estate. "Why didn't you ever explore new technology or anything?" he asked nodding at Griffin's legs.

"I get used to things, then I hate to part with them. When something works why throw it away?" Griffin shrugged his towel covered shoulders. "Besides; these make good icebreakers." He thumped his legs again. "Did I ever tell you about the time I stuck a fork in my right leg? I was trying to get a free lunch because this restaurant was probably the worst eatery in Moscow. I told the owner that I had stabbed myself trying to fork a roach."

"That got you a date?" Sutton was incredulous.

"Hell no," Griffin answered. "I was with a girl then and she was naturally sickened and disgusted." Griffin chuckled. "But another girl, cute Russian, sorta chunky but in all the right places; she felt sorry for me and wanted to hear all about my military days and the accident."

Sutton shook his head and laughed. Women were a sore point for him. He thought that he would never want to be with another although Kendra had assured him that he would be whole again. Between the older woman's assurances and Griffin's enthusiasm for life he thought that she was right. His heart still ached. Sutton sniffed at the air as they drew closer to Griffin's home. The smell of bacon caused him to salivate.

The two men found Kendra Stiles setting down a plate full of fluffy yellow eggs and crispy bacon. Griffin's house had a large marble tiled patio leading directly out of the kitchen. Sutton wondered again how a so called junkman came to own a mansion in the tropics. Griffin sat down, dished out some eggs and picked some bacon from the platter and proceeded to eat. Sutton followed suit but did not take the same monster size portion that Griffin had.

He winced in pain as Stiles rapped his knuckles with a wooden spatula. "Ouch! What do you do that for?" he asked in outrage.

"You don't eat enough," she answered.

"That's right," Griffin agreed through a mouthful of egg. "He really is too thin."

Sutton was pleased to see Arnie receive the spoon treatment on his hand. He chuckled.

"And you eat too much!" Kendra exclaimed. "Really; a man your age should know better."

Griffin looked like he was about to argue. "I think you better give it up Arnie," Sutton told him.

Jeff watched as he nursed his hand while reluctantly returning a large portion of his uneaten food to the serving platter. Griffin gave them a sullen look and mumbled something about this being his last rescue. The surliness lasted all of three seconds before the man's characteristic easygoing grin reappeared.

"It's all good," Griffin proclaimed. "Anyway it's been awhile since this place has had a woman's touch, Miss Stiles. Thanks for that." She nodded and smiled.

The three of them talked while they ate. Jeff appreciated the warm breeze blowing in from the sea. But as much as he liked it here he knew that it was time to leave. So did Stiles. He knew that beneath the pleasant motherly attitude that she was seething over Hawkins' allegations and strong arm tactics. He also suspected that she disliked the man. Sutton found this amazing because he thought that anyone who could earn the contempt of Kendra Stiles must be someone who was vile indeed.

"Getting into the United States these days isn't easy," Griffin commented. "President Harris is a virtual prisoner in the White House ever since he filed a protest over the election. Hawkins knows you have to go back there to claim your seat."

"He also hasn't acknowledged the election results," Sutton interjected. "Even if we get to Georgia there is no guarantee that he won't just have you arrested ma'am."

"So you'll take over as president?" Griffin asked Stiles. "Provided we get to America," he added.

"No; it'll go back to Raj Modi after the no confidence vote is taken," Stiles said. "Can we get home Arnie?"

Griffin chewed the remaining piece of bacon on his plate while casting an envious eye toward Jeff's meal. "It ain't gonna be easy," he answered at last. Sutton followed his gaze down the beach toward his private jet. "I was thinking of ways to sneak you fellows in but it hit me: Why not go in under a commercial flag?"

"What do you mean?" he asked Griffin.

"Fishing catamarans and skimmers," Kendra Stiles supplied.

Griffin nodded. "Excursions and such too; we could come in with an identifier for one of those. Those sort of things go on all the time around these islands."

"How do we turn your jump jet into something like that?" Jeff asked.

"I can pull back to a speed and put us into ground effect," Griffin explained. "Remember your history: The Mark VI was made to drop troops off on a distant shore among other things."

"That part I know," Sutton countered. "But surely SOT is looking for us to try to come into the United States. I'm sure they are careful to keep a list of who they issue transponder codes to."

"Well," Griffin smiled as he drew the word out. "I just happen to have a friend in the excursion business." Sutton groaned. "Hey; junkmen get around." Griffin gestured around him. "You're here."

"I know it's risky but things aren't going to change with us sittin' around here drinkin' coffee." Kendra stiles downed her cup after she finished speaking.

"It'll take us a few hours to make the crossing," Griffin declared. "I figured you were getting antsy ma'am; so I checked the weather. That is okay. I have to go into town and talk my friend into an arrangement."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Sure," Griffin answered agreeably. "I introduced him to his second wife." He paused as his face took on a guilty look. "Of course it was while he was still married to his first—but hey; we've always had a tight relationship when it came to business."

Sutton watched Stiles roll her eyes and smile. He had a feeling that she was enjoying all of this in some perverse sort of way. Griffin finished his breakfast and excused himself to go into town to make final arrangements for the trip. Stiles poured another cup of coffee then offered Jeff the same. He held his cup out.

"What happens when we land?" she asked.

"Hawkins is trying to make everything an emergency or security issue," he explained. "I have a few friends too. It should be possible for us to break in on one of the entertainment networks."

She seemed satisfied with that. Jeff was not so sure although he did not convey that. Political opponents were frequently dealt with harshly by fascists. Sutton hadn't examined Hawkins' record at length but the president pro tempore's closed mindedness led Jeff to one conclusion concerning their defacto president's political leanings. Jeff thought that he could let Stiles' district know that she was back to claim her office. Rather they lived to do so was another issue.

UES Daedelus, nearing 40 Eridani, Mar 2157

"You've heard the transmission," Captain Michael "Oliver" Cromwell told his chief medical officer. "What do you think?"

Commander Gertrude Schultheiss folded her arms over her ample breasts as she considered the proposition. She shook her head. "I am glad that I'm not you, Herr Kapitan."

He knew that she tended to defer to his rank in her native German when the issue at hand was a difficult one. Daedelus was still almost a month away from earth but they had entered subspace radio range of allied space. Cromwell cursed the fact that the Romulans had destroyed the repeater network. Yet even without it they were able to receive some signals that had not folded over the long distances. Apparently diplomatic relations had been reestablished with the Vulcans. Cromwell wondered if they had discovered who the Romulans were.

"If this were strictly a military vessel the problem would be simple. I report our findings to the president and the rest of the crew remains silent under orders. I can speak for the Stellar Navy crew but not for our civilians."

"They all signed oaths to keep their observations under wraps, Olly," Schultheiss retorted.

"Which means what exactly, Trudy? I even agree with our esteemed Professor Bashir about secrecy."

Schultheiss was seated across from him at the briefing table. The triscreen viewer sat between them. Trudy was freer thinking than was Cromwell, but she understood his need to maintain professional decorum. Little good it did, he groused: He was sure that everyone on Daedelus was privy to their romance. He looked at her from across the table. Would he have went out in space had he met a woman like her when he was younger? Would he have met a woman like her any other place than here though?

"The government will decide in any case Olly," she said at last.

"That's where I agree with Bashir: He's right when he says that secrecy is the beginning of tyranny."

"He's a bit melodramatic," she answered. "He read that in a book and likes to go around quoting it." She sighed. "I suppose this briefing is of the persuasive type?"

He nodded. "Any common ground the president has found with the Pointies would evaporate the moment that humans and our alien allies find out that we have been at war with the Vulcans' long lost brothers."

"Perhaps," Schultheiss answered. The doors to the briefing slid open admitting Omar Bashir, Mariel Picard, Lieutenant Commander Taln and Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy. "You will have to work on convincing them Olly."

"You know my position captain," Bashir declared, not waiting for a formal commencement to the proceedings.

"I've called you all here because I've decided to alter course for Vulcan." He saw the surgeon's look. He had not informed her of his decision until this very moment.

"That is convenient," Bashir said in a surly tone. "Of course there won't be any terran news agencies there."

"Nor can I inform Andorian authorities of what we discovered," Taln interjected.

"President Thorpe is on Vulcan now professor," Cromwell said while looking hard at Bashir. "You may voice your concern directly to him when we arrive." He turned to his blue-skinned engineer. "You may be pleased to learn that there was some sort of border dispute between your people and the Vulcans while we've been away. It seems to have not only been resolved but Shahar Shran has asked permission to enter Vulcan space at the head of something called "The Great Blue Fleet."

Taln was clearly astonished. Cromwell thought that he had not seen the Andorian's antennae any straighter than now. "The Great Blue Fleet has not been assembled since the early time of our space exploration. It is symbolic of our unity. It also means that the Shahar has put everything behind this diplomatic effort. I cannot imagine what happened that would change Shran's opinion of the Vulcans."

"Obviously many things have changed," Cromwell supplied. He invited them all to take seats as he continued: "If we have reached an agreement with the Vulcans our information may be potentially damning."

"You do not believe in the maturity of people captain," Bashir angrily interjected.

"I believe that Captain Cromwell thinks highly of people, professor," Marcel Dieulafoy said. "But our history shows many times that mobs and emotionalism rule rather than individual reason."

"Exactly," Cromwell said. "Look Professor Bashir; we aren't some second rate military. We've stood behind freedom and the rule of law ever since the end of the Third World War. I agree with you: This information should be disseminated—at some point."

"Just not now," Bashir finished Cromwell's statement. The psychiatrist shook his head mournfully. "When will the people be grown up enough then? Who determines when that is so?"

"Will you take responsibility for the death and destruction that will occur should we go to war with the Vulcans as well as the Romulans?" Cromwell was surprised to hear Mariel Picard voice that strong an opinion. She looked older than her years as she looked around the table. "That is what we are saying here." She turned to Taln. "You were anxious to inform Shran, why? Because of the bloody history between your people and the Vulcans?" she asked. She continued before Taln could reply: "Make sure the Pointies—or how you say; soulless ones receive their comeuppance?"

"The Vulcans weren't even aware of this Reunification professor, Taln," Schultheiss interjected. "Professor, you yourself told me that you had discovered that part of the Romulan plans for Reunification involved limited military action on the surface of Vulcan and something that sounded mysteriously like concentration camps for those who didn't accept this Reunification. Are you going to make innocent Vulcans pay for something they had no hand in?"

"I wish I had a bloody cigar!" the professor exclaimed. "I am not making anybody do anything—,"

"Excuse me sir," Cromwell interrupted. "Words and deeds have consequences. I told you that I agree with you but the ancient adage of shouting fire in a crowded theatre applies, I think."

Bashir groaned and rocked back in his seat. A blue hand extended a metallic tube to the professor. Cromwell watched a flash of joy cross Bashir's face. "I will abide by the will of the Shahar this matter," the Andorian proclaimed.

"Where did you get it?" Bashir asked.

"You enticed me into smoking these fouls things," Taln replied. "When I realized that we would exhaust our supply, I vacuum sealed some of these and stored them near the outer skin of the ship."

"May I?" the professor asked as he waved the cigar around. Cromwell swore that a gleam of tears was in the man's eyes. The all nodded their assent.

"Just give President Thorpe's federation some time professor, please," Cromwell asked.

Cromwell watched as Bashir cut an end off the cigar, put it in his mouth and lit the other end. He sighed in joy as he took in a puff of the gray smoke. "I shall voice my concerns to the president sir." Bashir looked at Taln. "If he requires silence of me, then I too shall abide by the decision of my leader in this matter."

"That is good to hear," Cromwell said.

"Coffee?" the doctor asked as she went to the resequencer slot and inserted a data wafer in the terminal slot.

"The last time I tried the coffee I nearly vomited," Picard declared.

Cromwell had to agree: The protein resequencer was a new innovation but not a good one. He hoped the engineers would work out the bugs in the future versions of the device. It seemed to be having a particularly hard time resequencing the Ro'ha plant proteins. Coffee tasted like he imagined his aunt's weed killer would. He was surprised when Trudy produced a tray holding several cups of aromatic smelling brew.

"That smells like French Roast," Picard said as she cautiously took a cup and sniffed it.

Cromwell thought that it tasted like heaven. "Did you reprogram them Trudy?"

"No Lieutenant Quinn discovered this," she replied. "It is his mother's pea soup."

"What?" he asked as he eyed the beverage warily.

"Pea soup, captain," she replied. "The ugh…peas have been filtered out of course, leaving something that makes for passable coffee."

"Here's to pea soup," he declared extending the cup. The others raised their cups. "And to the federation," he added, eliciting a scowl from Bashir. They all toasted and drank.

He spent the rest of the briefing informing them of Daedelus' expected arrival time. They left leaving only him and Schultheiss. The two sipped at their coffee. He looked at her, realizing that she had an unpleasant question or bit of information for him. Cromwell soon discovered that he was right.

"What happens if the president takes our information and…," she trailed off.

A war with the Romulans and Vulcans both he thought. "We shall be at war for a very long time my dear." Michael reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "We must hope for the best."

The Klingon Imperial World of V'hAch'c, the earth year, Mar 2157

The Klingon physicians had told Augustus Kirk that Chang's left eye was gone. The liquid nitrogen had forever burned away his proud mane of hair. Rand had insisted that he could save the Klingon's eye but their physicians had dismissed the human doctor's attempts as what they termed puffery. Kirk stood beside Chang's; it was a metal rack as opposed to a bed. He watched with relief as Chang stirred. The Klingon opened his good eye.

"Good to see you awake Chang," Kirk said loudly. He spoke rapidly preventing Chang from speaking. "You fought valiantly against that assault team. The chancellor has been made aware of your bravery."

Kirk took a deep breath and waited. He hoped that Chang would not commit suicide. This was the Klingon's opportunity. If he wanted to live he had only to seize it. He watched as Chang took stock of his wounds. The Klingon remained silent.

"Why?" he asked Kirk at last.

Augustus looked around the room. "We are your natural allies Chang; not the alternative."

A long uncomfortable silence passed. "I would have killed you Kirk. I would do so again."

Kirk sighed. "I'd still save you Chang." He wished for no more harsh words between the two of them. "Good luck Chang." Kirk turned away quickly.

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings," Chang recited. "Good luck to you Augustus Kirk."

Kirk exited the room and headed down the hallway. Adrik Soong fell into step beside him. "Look Kirk--,"

"Now is not the time Soong!" he spat.

Soong seized him by the arm. "That Klingon in there is not going to fix things with your son Kirk!" Kirk stopped and started to shake him off. He was about to say something when Soong rushed into speech. "I told you I have children Kirk. Probably younger than yours but they are grown. I know you think I'm a horse's ass but I have had the wherewithal to talk to my kids. You won't be accomplishing anything even if Chang would come around."

"I was in that lab Kirk. I saw what happened." He watched as Soong looked up and down the dark passage. "Chang is bad news. I have a funny feeling that we haven't seen the last of him. But even if you swung him over to your point of view what did you expect Kirk? Did you think that he would morph into your son and suddenly everything would be okay?"

Augustus gave it some thought. What had he expected? The differences between him and Sam had festered for quite a few years. Kirk knew at the core of it that they were both stiff necked fools. Augustus was an old fool while Sam was a younger version of one.

"You're right Kirk," Soong continued. "I'm a horse's ass and an arrogant fool in my own right. But don't you become one as well. Forget trying to win Chang over and think about talking to your son when we get back. He's a man with his own life. Maybe that is how you should approach him."

"Aw hell," Soong said in disgust. "I'm sorry I wasted your time Kirk. What I came here--,"

"Augustus," he interrupted. "You can call me Augustus."

"Not Augy?" Soong asked.

"Don't push your luck," Kirk retorted with a grin on his lips. Perhaps Soong was right. He would contact Sam when they got back to earth.

"Anyway," Soong paused, "Augustus; Morgan sent me to get you. Darth Vader wants to see us in his chambers."

That was the name that Soong had assigned to the Klingon chancellor. Kirk wondered what Ma'aQ wanted. He had set himself up at Kaluch's estate while his warriors were being inoculated. Kirk walked with Soong up the curving passage and out into the bright sunshine. The main estate was a large stone fortification that lay a few hundred meters from what passed for a Klingon hospital. The two humans walked in silence.

A few minutes later Ma'aQ's guards, after the customary snarling, admitted Kirk and Soong to the main complex. Kirk found Morgan with Soval and two red shirted security people in the main hall. She stood before Ma'aQ who sat upon a raised dais while Kaluch, gnarled and old sat on the chancellor's left.

"We have cured the retrovirus and given you our sensor technology," Soval said in unaccented Klingon. Kirk could tell that the Vulcan was acting as translator.

"You took sides in an internal Klingon dispute!" Ma'aQ roared back.

"You presented a scenario that led to a choice between you and the Romulans," Kaluch interjected. "We must remain Klingons. We choose neither. Both of your empires will be reduced after this war. We will use that time to prevail."

Kirk translated for Morgan. It was at the instant more than any other that he realized that Morgan was more the soldier than diplomat. She planted her feet apart and put her hands on her hips in a gesture of defiance. Morgan looked at Kirk at asked him to translate word for word what she was going to say.

"We offer our friendship and it's rebuked. Man, Andorians and Tellarites have never attacked anyone out of malice. That's fine if you want to go off on your own. We've traded some technology and cured your virus. We want our people back—no more games."

"You are in no position to demand anything Captain Morgan," Ma'aQ replied. "An examination of your ship would be very revealing."

"I have a certain time when I have to call Serendipity," Morgan said after Kirk rendered the chancellor's words into English. "If I don't then my first officer will deploy a twenty-five megaton nuclear warhead right on your wrinkled up head, chancellor."

"You…would do no such thing," Ma'aQ said as he rose ominously.

"As a countryman from my nation on earth once said: Make my day," she replied sternly.

Kirk translated and gulped then surveyed the hall. A mix of the humanoid Klingons and those unaffected by the retrovirus surrounded and far outnumbered Serendipity's shore party. There would be no way they could fight there way out of here. It seemed pointless in any case: Kirk suspected that Lasuda was even now loading a missile in the tube.

Ma'aQ roared with laughter. "You have Klingon blood in you captain," he said after his laughter died away; "very formidable indeed."

"See what I mean about Darth Vader," Soong whispered after he translated the chancellor's words. "Next he'll probably ask her to come over to the dark side."

Both Kirk and Soong jumped as the chancellor clapped his hands. The sound echoed in the large chamber. Large double doors parted. Several Klingons entered with some children in tow. No, Kirk thought; those were not children. His stomach rolled uncomfortably.

Augustus had seen video depicting the relief of the camps in Oklahoma. The survivors had looked like these people: Walking emaciated sticks; their powder blue Stellar Navy jumpsuits hung in tatters on their unnaturally slender frames. One man led the group of six men and two women. His full head of gray hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail. Morgan greeted the man.

"Captain Marissa Morgan of the Star Fleet ship Serendipity," she announced. The man stared back her. Kirk could se that he could not comprehend her words.

A thought occurred to Augustus. "We are here to take you back to earth," he told the man, using Klingon rather than English.

"Earth?" another of the survivors asked.

Kirk extended his hand and introduced himself. The man looked hard at him. "Kirk, you are from Iowa?" he asked in rough, halting English. There was a hint of an English accent. Kirk nodded. "My father is a farmer." He looked at Augustus, Kirk could see the uncertainty. Finally the man extended his thin arm. "Wiley Dunleavy, Commander Wiley Dunleavy," he told Kirk in a weak voice.

"You have your people Captain Morgan," Ma'aQ declared. "Now be gone from our space. Your people are no longer welcome here. The empire will be closing its borders; leave now. Beware our wrath and our reach captain."

"We'll be out there chancellor," Morgan answered.

Kirk filtered out with the survivors and the rest of their group. They proceeded out of the hall to the landing pad outside. Soval caught up to him.

"Your captain nearly started a war with the Klingons here. That would not be logical given the precariousness of your situation. You humans are indeed reckless."

"Oh, I don't know Smiley," Kirk answered. "I think our captain read their personalities and played them like cheap violins."

Kirk thought that Soval would misunderstand. "Yes," he said much to Augustus' surprise. "Yes she did."

The sunlit exit shown before Morgan's party, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. They stopped as the warrior Kurn stood before them. The Klingon looked at Kirk. "Tell Morgan that she is a great warrior. I hope to meet her in battle again."

Augustus translated the statement. Morgan seemed lost in thought for a moment. "I would rather it didn't come to war between our peoples," she replied at last.

"War and conquest is a way of life for us. The struggle is everything. Without it we are nothing. But I did not mean as adversaries. Perhaps next time we shall stand together."

"Tell him I look forward to that day," Morgan instructed him. Kirk did as she bade. The Klingon extended his hand to her. Kurn must have done his research into human customs. Morgan returned the handshake. The Klingon bid them all a glorious death, something Kirk was not really interested in but he understood that was the warrior equivalent to have a nice day.

They boarded the Sinjan class shuttle and waited while their emaciated charges took their seats. It stung Kirk to see the man and women struggling with the simple harnesses. He started to help a woman when Morgan put her hand on his chest and shook her head. It was then that Kirk understood that these people needed to start down the road to recovery. Helping them, even out of pity, would not help them. The shuttle's outer airlock closed on the Klingon world.

ShirKahr City, the planet Vulcan, the earth year Mar 2157

Christophur Thorpe stood upon the balcony and surveyed the ancient city. The sun was sinking below the blood red horizon. The heat rose up to this, the thirtieth floor. Thorpe much preferred the cool, blue ice fields of Andoria to this desert inferno. Still it held its own kind of fascination. Thorpe tried to envision the city and plain below him teaming with jungle growth; as it was thousands of years ago.

"Syrran will arrive soon," the young Vulcan woman proclaimed from behind him. Her English was unaccented.

Thorpe turned to face T'Pau. "I wanted to meet the person who had brought about so much change to your society, prefect." He also wanted to know about the last minutes of Lieutenant Commander Tarang Gupta. He had briefly reviewed the officer's service jacket after Soval had requested him; that was almost two years ago; another young person whose life was swept away by this war.

"Change was logical," T'Pau replied. "It would have occurred rather Syrran was there or not."

"Perhaps," Thorpe answered. "A man on my world named Archimedes once said that given a long enough lever he could move the earth. One man can be the catalyst for change."

"Or one Vulcan," T'Pau agreed. "Yet Syrran refused the prefecture. He has eschewed political power."

"He has accomplished his goal it seems," Thorpe said. He was curious about something. "Tell me T'Pau; why did you accept this position?"

"The ministry was dissolved when it no longer functioned," she explained. "It is not logical to maintain a government that no longer serves it purpose. The system of allowing the elected representatives to appoint a prefect is an ancient one. It was one of our first attempts at organized government after our internal dispute."

"That doesn't explain why you accepted the appointment."

"Syrran did not and I was seen as someone who was palatable to the old ministry and our people."

"Including the High Command?"

For once Thorpe saw a chink in the Vulcan armor of logic. T'Pau paused in thought. "Our military must be relegated to its most basic functions. I know that while many in the High Command were in disagreement with Minister V'Las actions they have still reasoned that the military must be maintained as it is. There will be problems in relation to that belief."

"I must admit that my family lineage carries some distinction. It may be useful when it comes to dealing with the military."

"I see nothing wrong with a strong military, prefect," Thorpe said. "But I understand that as avowed pacifists you may have reservations about your military." He had almost said strong feelings but had remembered to whom he was speaking.

"Your federation, if it is as you envision, will offer us protection. We shall return to our role as teachers and scholars. We shall guide you in first contact so that this union of interstellar societies can be realized."

"But you won't join the federation?" he asked in a bitter voice. He shoved his feelings aside and continued: "From what you've told me the High Command may not agree with you."

"You see with a keen eye President Thorpe. But I believe that we each have a problem with a common solution--"

A heavy male voice spoke words of greeting in Vulcan. That was about all Thorpe knew of their language. He turned to see a tall Vulcan in a nondescript travel cloak. Thorpe guessed from the Vulcan's long mane of salt and pepper hair that he was over two hundred in human years. He eyed Thorpe as if taking his measure. Thorpe returned the gaze.

"Tell Syrran that I am pleased to meet him," Thorpe said in an amicable tone.

There was an exchange in their native tongue. "Syrran is curious why you are pleased since you have never met him or know anything about him."

"Let's be candid here," Thorpe said. "But first; do you mind if we go inside? I could use a drink." T'Pau merely turned and entered the former ministry chamber, Thorpe followed with Syrran in tow. "Without Syrran's influence quite likely the situation now would be different. I won't pretend that I'm not relieved to have a neutral Vulcan in this war. I would have much preferred a Vulcan ally, but neutrality is acceptable."

"Our philosophy of peace is antithetical to becoming directly involved in a war," T'Pau said. Thorpe poured some cool water out of a plain metal pitcher into a glass. He was appreciative of the fact that his alien host had thought to chill his drinking water. He was also aware that she had just expressed her sentiments and not those of Syrran.

"I appreciate your pacifism. That is a noble pursuit; would that all others pursued affairs in the same manner. The Romulans do not. The agents that Minister Soval requested that I place here report that the Romulans were in the process of conducting some sort of insurgency here."

Was that the lynchpin? Admiral Forrest was still some days away. Commodores Zimmermann and Stiles were both capable officers. Both harbored the theory that the Romulans had planned to neutralize the Vulcans, possibly in an attempt to seize their advanced technology. Thorpe supposed that could be true: His own security people had reported Romulan infiltration on earth. How could anyone counter what they did not know?

First hand accounts from Commander Bill Walters had indicated that the Romulans were bipeds. Walters had reported seeing armored figures deployed on the surface of Deneva. But the experts had told Thorpe that account was meaningless: They had suggested among other things that the Romulans might be operating a type of battle android. Thorpe had heard equally exotic ideas concerning their enemy, but one idea resonated: The Romulans were concealing their nature because they had a weakness. Thorpe wished that he knew what that was.

"You're officers seemed to have dealt with that problem Mister President; if it even existed." Thorpe wanted to burn through her Vulcan veneer to see what lay beneath. There was the report of Lieutenant Frank McCoy. Christophur knew damn well that the enemy had been here.

"We have had enough," T'Pau paused; "difficulties as it is Mister President. But they are of our own making and nothing else."

"So a Vulcan assassinated First Minister V'Las?" He asked. Skepticism dripped from Thorpe's voice.

"The death of the first minister is a matter under investigation. There is no reason to assign blame to these Romulans in an attempt--,"

She was interrupted by Syrran who, though he was speaking in the typical calm melodious voice that most Vulcans used, seemed quite adamant about what he wanted to say. T'Pau replied in a serene calm tone. Thorpe expected nothing less. He asked her what Syrran was saying.

"Syrran was…expressing…a theory concerning the Romulans." There it was: A pause from a member of a race that seldom made mistakes. "It is nothing President Thorpe." That was a lie. It was all Thorpe could do to keep his face from showing his shock. One thing he knew: A Vulcan would not speak just to say nothing.

"I believe that we should continue tomorrow," T'Pau said. Syrran was continuing to speak. Thorpe wished he had tried to learn Vulcan.

The chamber door opened admitting a Star Fleet petty officer in the company of a High Command officer. The chief snapped to attention and gravely saluted Thorpe. Thorpe returned the salute.

"Mister President," the enlisted man came right to the point. "Captain Archer wanted me to tell you that Charger received a message: The reflection of Mount Fay."

Thorpe blinked. It was obvious that the chief did not understand the message that he had delivered. It had taken Thorpe several seconds to comprehend it. He had effectively written off as dead those who would have sent that particular phrase. He realized that Syrran was still speaking and the enlisted man was uncomfortable.

He turned to the Vulcans. "I believe that an adjournment is in order." Syrran seemed to be growing positively, well, Thorpe thought emotional.

Thorpe hastily exchanged farewells with the Vulcans. Syrran gestured at himself and said: "Vulcan, Romulan." Thorpe wondered if the Vulcan was healthy. He was not aware of any mental disorder connected to older Vulcans.

Thorpe watched as T'Pau entered a downright heated argument with Syrran; at least for Vulcans. Thorpe departed with the chief. Daedelus was back. He hoped that Cromwell would have some answers for him.

Washington DC, the old United States, Mar 2157

Admiral Erica Soames picked her way carefully along the icy sidewalk. The eastern coast of the United States was experiencing a particularly cold and snowy winter. She was glad when she got through the doors of the venerable National Air and Space Museum. She looked up to see the Phoenix hanging suspended over the main floor. She could not bring herself to become jaded when she thought of how a crew of three had ridden atop a missile and then faster than the speed of light.

"Amazing isn't it?" the familiar voice asked her. Why did Malcolm Reed have to be one of her countrymen? She scowled at him and nodded. Reed smiled. "Also quite phallic if you think about it my--,"

"Don't call me my dear," she hissed. A harried couple walking past with their children looked at her and Reed. She continued in a more sedate tone: "What you did was stupid! You better be bloody thankful that our leader in San Francisco isn't that bright."

"Stiles' election went through," Reed countered.

"And now she is dead!" Soames exclaimed. She strolled nonchalantly toward the scaled down model of the United States' National Aerospace Plane. Scylla had been nothing more than the final modification of this type of ship.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Her aircraft was shot down trying to penetrate US territory." Erica sighed. It hadn't been on the vidcasts that long so his lack of knowledge was understandable.

"That makes it imperative that we remove Hawkins then," he said.

"Your," she almost said the word assassination then realized where she was. Some children ran past her. They seemed more interested in the prepackaged Stellar Navy rations, sold as treats that their parents had bought them. "Your venture has done more harm than good."

"No problem is insurmountable my dear," he said. She scowled and he smiled. "We must come up with a new idea."

"No!" She led him away from the NASP to the old European Hegemony's Space Agency's answer to the American's last orbiter. "We have to stop this madness."

They were alone under the stubby wing of the EHSA's Hypersonic Scramjet. Soames smiled at the Royal Air Force regalia emblazoned on the wing's underside. Would that mean anything to people living a hundred years from now?

"There is still a Romulan agent here," Reed countered. "We need to kill it."

"It?" she asked.

"Talk to your little pregnant friend, Erica," Reed answered. "This was not your normal Romulan." Reed was leaning against a handrail looking into the crowd below them.

"Are you saying you have some kind of mental ability?" she asked. He continued staring down into the crowd. "Can you hear me?" she asked after several long seconds had passed.

"He's here," he said. She followed his gaze but all she saw was the crowd. He described an older man, tall and balding wearing a trench coat. "He has been following me for quite sometime. I thought I lost him in the shuffle after I got off the Metro." She thought that she saw the man Reed was referring to. "Persistent bugger, I'll say that for him."

"Arnie told me about him." She peered down at the UA agent. Reed started melting back into the shadows. Erica followed him.

"His name is Watson," Reed informed her.

"Did some computer snooping?" she asked.

He nodded. Soames decided that it was time to leave. She had toured here after she had taken the assignment to intelligence. She figured that they could work their way around and come out behind the agent. Soames drifted away from Reed while remaining in earshot of him.

"The trouble is that there is no active investigation file," he remarked. An older couple stared at Reed, thinking that he was talking to himself. Erica had paused to examine a cutaway of a warp drive engine. The couple walked away. "That means that whoever ordered the investigation is doing so without official sanction."

Soames wasn't operating with official sanction or legal authority behind her. How far was this thing going? It seemed to be spinning out of control. They had dealt the Birds a severe blow here on earth but had not finished them off. Erica had had reservations about interfering with the political process. Reed's botched assassination attempt and the subsequent crackdown seemed to have vindicated her position. Stiles, their only real hope was dead.

The election would have finished Hawkins. That was until Reed had tried to kill the president pro tempore. The heavy handed use of security forces, often hired Sons' of Terra thugs, had seemed justified to a populace that could only view assassinations through the lens of history. Acts like those simply didn't happen in the twenty-second century.

"So we have one renegade hunting another?" she mumbled at last.

The couple had worked through several displays until they arrived at some lifts. They took separate tubes to the ground level. They had observed Watson on the second level. Soames rode the short trip down with a rowdy family. The children, a precocious boy and girl collided with her several times. She merely smiled. She was glad when the doors parted. She met Reed beneath the upper level deck. She guessed that they had precious few minutes.

"I can't go to the capital," Reed said in a soft voice. "My feeling is that she—it, is trying to decapitate our leadership. I've been considering what would happen if the Pan-Indo Alliance compound were to be hit."

"The Western Democracy bloc would do the same thing," she said. "Why did you pick out the Pan-Indies?"

"The parliaments of their member states can appoint councilors should anything happen to one. Both Kashmir and New Zealand have in their majority parties people who are nothing but fronts for SOT."

"The Western Dems aren't riddled with Sons' supporters." Soames realized where Reed was going: Killing those councilors would tip the council in favor of the Sons' and their agenda.

"We can't allow that," Soames said flatly.

"You and Nayyar did well removing the cell that we know about." Reed scanned the building as they talked. "My guess is that this Reman is…call her a special weapon. I don't expect she'll do anything on her own. But she could use her ability to force someone who is weak minded to act for her."

"Weak minded?" she retorted. "That would make the list of possible assassins every member of the Sons'." A thought occurred to Erica: "How do you know what this Reman can do Reed?"

"Dear Kanya has said as much," he replied quickly. "The point is that Nayyar needs to pack her cute bum up and go out to the capital. I can't do anything with my shadow."

"Don't kill him Reed!" she spat out. Soames looked around to see if anyone had heard her outburst.

His trademark, shark-like grin was pasted on his lips. "I would rather find out who is at the end of our dear Agent Watson's leash. If we are to continue this endeavor we need autonomy."

She realized that he wasn't speaking of the immediate future when he had spoken of continuation. "I told you Reed: Once this is all over, this stops."

"The Romulans were well on their way to conducting mass attacks on this planet my dear. Last year such an attack would likely have rekindled the old hatreds left over from the last war. Those fools Sheibani and Glenn would have liked nothing better than setting upon one another as a means to consolidate their power. Think of yourself as a good shepherd, Erica. This federation will consist of a variety of races and cultures. It's absurd to believe that it'll last a decade without some guidance."

She wanted to argue the issue but Reed nodded at the lift, told her to send Nayyar to San Francisco then turned and left. The doors parted to reveal Agent Watson. Soames casually turned to admire the old Bell X1 hanging above her. The agent hurried past her. Erica sensed that he had no interest in her.

Was Reed right? Soames hated herself for even considering the possibility. How many security organizations had started with good intentions only to turn into the enforcement arm of a tyrannical government? Man had done well since the last war. Erica knew that the same could be said for the Tellarites. They too had fought a brief atomic war among themselves. Were the same old pitfalls gone after the carnage of the last century; could earth and the federation make it without Reed's sort of guidance? Erica decided not to think about it right now. She would work on the immediate problem. She pulled out her handheld and called Nayyar.

Joshua Grant hastily broke the circuit of his comm call. He repeatedly slammed his fists down upon the desktop. He took up a desk lamp and threw it against the wall where it broke into several pieces. Grant got up and kicked at his chair. The wheeled office chair hit the back wall of his small presidium office and rebounded to strike him in the shins. He was panting and his heart was beating thunderously as he started to gain some control over himself.

Thomas Grant always had always had that effect on his son Josh. When Josh had shied away from technology courses at college his father had been there to tell him that he had only pursued the arts because of his inadequacies in dealing with math and sciences. When Grant's acting career had blossomed Thomas Grant had used the opportunity to remind him that he was not only a second rate performer, but a second rate fool as well. That had not sat well as his rising star was rapidly flaming out.

Their latest argument had come from his association with the Sons' of Terra. Grant had been attracted to the movement by the larger than life firebrands that headed up the Sons'. He came to understand man's heinous role in this war. It had become obvious that the Vulcans were right about one thing: Humans weren't ready for the stars. The Sons' had explained how average men and women needed to be cared for by the more compassionate, knowledgeable among them. That suited Grant who had always favored playing morally superior, warm hearted people. He saw himself that way although he often asked himself what he had accomplished during his twenty eight years.

The knock at the door stirred him from his torturous revelries. Joshua took a deep breath and pushed the button beneath his desk causing his office doors to slide open. He was surprised and then excited to see Dominique Catères. Grant was a man used to having women at his whim. That made Mark Hawkins' confidant all the more enticing to Josh: Her interests seemed to concentrate around the rather toad like Hawkins.

"Can I help you?" he asked. He placed his best leading man grin on his face. She did not smile back. Instead she stared at him. Grant got a terribly uncomfortable feeling; like a bug beneath a magnifying glass.

Her scrutiny was replaced with a smile. He relaxed. "I hope that you can." Rather than taking a seat she sauntered over to set herself upon his desk. "Things are, how do you say it; at a turning point."

"Stiles is dead; that is one good thing." As much as he hated saying the words he understood that these extremists sometimes had to be dealt with harshly.

"The navy is still acting against the president's orders."

"That is too bad about the Romulan peace envoy!" Grant just knew that the Romulan ships that the Star Fleet had ambushed were here because they understood Hawkins' peace overtures. Who could have foreseen this Oulette playing a shell game with those ships; or that filthy enlisted man holding the Romulans while Oulette moved in to kill the last of the heroic aliens off?

"Mark is moving to have several of those people arrested." Dominique motioned for him to move closer. "Our position in the council is perilous. We need to do something about that." He stood close to her. Grant could smell her perfume.

"I'm not sure what that would be," Grant answered. He was as frustrated as she must be.

"I have a task in mind for you." Dominique told him what that was. "What do you think?"

He thought that she was insane. Grant sputtered on about the wisdom of the plan while reeling inside. He enjoyed playing heroic characters, not being one. Josh had once played Alfred Lindermann, the German farmer that had perfected the decontamination process during the Post Atomic Horrors. Grant had conferred with several actual farmers to school himself for the part. While Lindermann's pursuit had been a noble one he found dealing with actual farmers distasteful: One of them had had dirt under her nails and that had bothered him.

"I…can't get explosives…I'm--,"

She touched the side of his head gently. "I shall tell you where you may obtain the items ready made." She stroked his face. "Brave Joshua," she added and he did feel that. He would be a real hero. Grant thought that he need never feel guilty again about the fortune that acting had brought him. "You will be vindicated before your father."

He saw the ceremony; what it would be like. His action would be applauded. Grant would be remembered as a hero; not like the false heroes of this day. His father would rue the criticism that he had heaped upon him throughout his life. Her plan was not insane. In fact it was quite rational. Grant smiled at her. There was another knock. As if in a dream he moved back behind his desk and admitted President Pro Tempore Mark Hawkins.

"Am I interruptin' anything?" Hawkins asked. His eyes went from one to the other.

Catères remained silent. "Dominique has been telling me about the Pan-Indian situation."

"Oh, that," Hawkins replied disgustedly. "It's too damn bad that Carmody or Howard would not just up and die! Let's see how them uniformed bastards feel when I order their purse strings cut and the council backs me!" Grant watched as Mark seemed to regain his composure. He wanted to tell him of his great mission but dare not.

"Well, I'd rather meet with those warmongers anytime over these goddamned pig snouts!" Grant remembered that Mark was scheduled to meet the Tellarite ambassador and Grern's entourage. "I'll be glad to see the day when we can kick their ugly, furry asses off of this planet."

"Soon Mark," Catères said soothingly. She vacated Grant's desk to take Hawkins' arm.

"You comin' Josh?" the president pro tempore asked.

"Joshua is going to take care of an errand for me Mark," Catères jumped in before Grant could say anything. Josh smiled and nodded. He noticed Hawkins looking strangely at him. Grant was in a state of bliss. Dominique took the president's face in her hands.

"Well," Hawkins said slowly. "You take care, Josh." He smiled. "You ain't missing nothing but a bunch of dirty aliens anyway. I'd rather be goin' with you."

No; Josh thought, it was best that Hawkins did not go with him. He bid ado to Hawkins and hastily took up a jacket. He remembered Dominique's instructions as if they were imprinted on his mind.

Star Fleet cruiser Charger, in orbit of Vulcan, Mar 2158

"Remarkable progress," Shahar Shran said as he exited Charger's engineering spaces. The Shahar turned to Captain Jonathan Archer. "I know that you are looking forward to leading the United Earth Space Probe Agency, captain. I can think of no one better."

"The captain would like nothing better than to command a ship after this war Shran." Christophur Thorpe watched as Archer started a polite protest. He held up a hand. "I hope you'll get your chance captain. But the goal, after the war, is to combine the Stellar Navy, Imperial Guard and Tellar Defense Force into one entity. The agency will integrate our navy into Star Fleet."

"As the Imperial Discovery Bureau will do for the Imperial Guard," Thorpe shot a smile toward Shran. The leaders of each of the federation's prospective members were using this architecture to create the impression of each planet having autonomy over its forces. In actuality the Star Fleet would direct operations.

"Bridge, captain," a voice boomed out of the passageway speakers. Archer found an intercom box and answered the call.

"That company you told us about is on final approach sir," Commander William Walters informed him.

Archer shot Christophur a knowing look. "Tell them to dock with us commander."

"Daedelus is back," Thorpe announced. "Now we'll see if our secrecy and hopes have paid off."

"Even if Michael wasn't successful in discovering anything about the Birdies the Daedelus class will be the primary explorer ship for Star Fleet." Archer had finished preparations for the docking. Thorpe was rather surprised at his astute observation. He asked the captain why he thought that:

"I'm an engineer and military officer, but that doesn't mean that I can't read a balance sheet." Archer looked up and down the passageway of the two hundred and twenty-seven meter long Conqueror class ship. "Not even the three planetary nations of the alliance can afford to keep ships like this in space."

"Not for long anyway," Shran remarked. "The Caldonè is already chaffing at having to divert so much tax money to the war. But the interesting situation is the Vulcans. What have they told you Christophur?"

"They are willing to cooperate, but only so far," Thorpe started. He was still trying to take stock of the unemotional Vulcans.

"But they won't join the federation?" Shran asked.

"This T'Pau tells me that it would not be prudent for them to become part of a new empire."

"An empire?" the Andorian asked. He gave Thorpe a most human grin. "You would make an unlikely emperor Christophur."

"Oh, I don't know." Thorpe smiled. "I imagine I'd look regal in the purple robe that you are wearing Shahar Shran." He turned to Archer. "The captain here could be given shoulder boards and braid."

"Sounds snazzy, sir; I'd command with an iron fist of course!" Archer joked. He led them to one of Charger's docking ports. An ensign stood near an airlock. Thorpe took awhile to remember the piece of brass that the junior officer had in his hands. He remembered when the ensign brought the boatswain's whistle up to his lips.

Captain Michael Cromwell beheld the image of Stellar Navy ships in formation with Andorian and Vulcan ships. A few Tellarite vessels completed the mix. Cromwell realized that this was Thorpe's vision, his federation. It was a grand sight; one that Cromwell's explosive information could well put an end to. But, he had a duty to perform. Who could know the future?

"Contact," Ensign Kay Stansfield announced. "Thrusters to zero, relative motion to Charger, zero sir."

"Airlocks sealed," Lieutenant Taln added. "Positive pressure established, extending umbilicals," the Andorian finished.

"Good show number one," Captain Michael Cromwell told his first officer. "We'll piggyback on that behemoth's power and air for awhile."

Commander Lisa Somers smiled. "I just hope they have steak over there captain."

"Anything but that slop that the resequencers have been putting out!" the operations' officer Houck added. "My linga fish was more like a pudding."

"Remember there is still a war on," Cromwell advised them all. How he wished they were returning from a long exploratory mission. "We'll see what is about then I'll see about authorizing shore leave." He looked at Somers. "You drew the short straw number one. I'm afraid your steak will have to wait."

"Advise the shore party to meet us in docking port three commander," Cromwell ordered. He departed the bridge and took the connecting ladders to the lower decks. He was soon in the turbo tube headed for the engineering hull.

Michael smoothed his uniform over. He had changed since his experience with the Ro'ha: His prosthetic arm seemed a natural part of him now; before he would have been mortified that someone would notice it though it appeared real in all surface aspects. The lift came to a stop. Cromwell exited and hiked the short way to the port. Trudy Schultheiss was there with Omar Bashir, Marcel Dieulafoy and Mariel Picard. Cromwell had chosen these as his slate of experts to brief the president. They were also, with the exception of Taln, the only ones to know of the connection between the Romulans and Vulcans.

"Please keep your comments to yourself until we are in the proper environment with the president," Cromwell told them.

The airlock doors parted. Cromwell climbed down into the larger ship. A nautical whistle sounded. "Where's the bloody water?" he asked a tall uniformed officer. He knew decorum should be observed for the president but he had formed a bond with Jonathan Archer as Daedelus was being built. The two shook hands.

"I see you brought my ship back in one piece," Archer chided him.

"Blind luck old boy," Cromwell retorted. "Anyway looks like you haven't done too badly yourself." Michael looked around Charger's passageway. "Did you bribe that gentleman over there for this job?" Cromwell nodded to the president.

"It is good to see you captain," Thorpe stepped up and took a turn shaking his hand.

"It's good to be back sir." Cromwell came to attention and rendered Thorpe a formal salute. The president returned it. Cromwell started to introduce the members of his party when Thorpe stepped in and greeted them each by name. It was plain to Michael that the man was relieved to see them back alive. Thorpe looked old and careworn.

In spite of the obvious weight that the war was putting onto Thorpe his eyes were bright. He turned those eyes on Cromwell. "We won't speak out here but…"

"I can tell you that we made significant progress on our journey," Cromwell explained. He looked around the passageway. Were his friend Jon and the Shahar of Andoria privy to what he had to say? "It appears that part of the secret lies beneath our feet Mister President."

Thorpe looked sharply at him. They all did. The import of what he had said sunk in. Shran's antenna stood up straight. He had meant to observe security while piquing their interest. He realized that he had done that and more.

San Francisco Peninsula, California, the old United States, earth, Mar 2158

Bindu Raj Modi composed herself as the sun rose out of the eastern sky. It lit up Half Moon Bay with its warming, cheery rays. She had been all over in her eighty three years; all over this world and even to Andor. Through it all she had never seen a place that matched the grandeur of her native India. She wanted to go home. Modi pulled her shawl up around her shoulders and started her morning walk.

She was making her way around the corner of the compound when she was approached by two men. Muggings were rare these days since earth had thoroughly dealt with its criminal problems. Still there was some apprehension when one was approached where normally no one else walked. Modi decided to continue with her stroll. She did not look around to see if she was alone, she knew that she was.

The distance between her and the men closed to less than three meters. It was probably two new neighbors out for a morning stroll Modi thought. The larger of the two was a beefy man with a thick crop of curly brown hair. The second was a tall, grave looking young man who was somewhat pale. She noticed that they were purposely observing her. Modi had heard stories about a few roving bands of Sons' of Terra supporters. She tensed up.

"Did you want to be president again ma'am?" the younger man stopped and asked her. She stood dumbfounded for a few seconds. Were these men SOT toughs? If so, they had a funny way of showing it. They made no aggressive moves toward her.

"Who are you?" she asked. She used the same piercing voice that she used on the council floor.

"I'm Councilor Kendra Stiles campaign manager," the younger man declared.

"Stiles is dead!" Modi exclaimed. She felt a sense of joy though. Was there something to this man's story? And his partner; what of him? Beneath a red windbreaker the man was dressed in sandals, checkered shorts, and a brightly colored shirt adorned with images of seagulls and palm trees. He looked to Bindu like he was on vacation. He also was carrying a sidearm of some sort. "I saw her plane destroyed!"

"Yeah about that," the older man started; "I was hoping you could reimburse me for the loss of my Mark VI. Or at least since you are government people you could pull one out of the scrap heap for me? I have a way with junk."

"And who are you young man; her masseuse?"

"Umm…I'm sort of like a friend of the family," he answered. He stuck out his hand to her. "Arnie Griffin ma'am: I'm like the funny cousin that you never invite to family functions."

"I see," she said. She thought that these were not men from SOT. More likely the duo had escaped from a mental treatment center. She saw a smaller figure emerging from the stand of trees across the highway. The mysterious newcomer was wearing a hooded jacket. Modi gasped as she made out a familiar face beneath the shadow of the hood.

"How has this happened?" she asked.

"These gentlemen helped get me back into the US," Kendra Stiles explained.

"Autopilot works," Griffin chimed in. "We were never in that plane. Good thing I have friends in the tour boat business."

"I think your friend did more than conductin' tours Arnie," Stiles told the man.

"He's a legit businessman ma'am," Griffin insisted. His face assumed a mock look of innocence.

Modi smiled. It occurred to her that the method of Stiles' arrival was immaterial. The fact that she was here to take her seat was all that mattered. Once Stiles was sworn in Hawkins would have to leave office. A groundcar slowly crept up from the opposite direction. Bindu ignored it.

Griffin did not ignore the vehicle. He tapped the younger man on the shoulder. "That's Barry Morehouse," he said. Modi was confused.

"Yeah it looks like that actor," the man answered. Bindu remembered. Barry Morehouse had been an American presidential assassin that had lived in the early twenty-first century. A holovid play had been made attempting to portray the assassin as some sort of folk hero. Modi vaguely remembered it.

"Hawkins has an actor in his employ!" she exclaimed. She had a second of recall where she remembered the rude young man who had watched as she was escorted from the president's office. The man exiting the groundcar was that same person.

"What is he doing down here?" the younger man asked. He looked at her. "Sorry ma'am. My name is lieu—Jeffrey Sutton."

She remembered the name: The young man who had stood by to oversee the evacuation of the cruiser Fearless. Modi remembered that Sutton had been crippled in some way. Sutton was mentioning how strangely the actor moved.

The man didn't seem to have noticed them; sequestered as they were off the road among a stand of trees. Modi thought that perhaps Hawkins had sent him here with a hand carried message. Grant; that was his name she remembered. Bindu did not really follow the arts except where it involved her grandchildren. One of those had played a vid with this man in it.

"He seems to like what ever is in his coat," Stiles remarked.

"Yeah he does," Griffin said. The man had first struck Bindu as being somewhat whimsical. Now she heard a note of icy caution emanating from him.

"He does work for the president pro tempore," she added. Bindu wondered if they all weren't being a bit paranoid. "It is possible that he is here on council business."

"Does that happen a lot, ma'am?" Griffin asked. She could hear the skepticism in his voice. She confessed that it did not. Relations between the presidium and the council were cool at best; icy for the most part. She looked again at Grant who seemed to have noticed them for the first time. The young man got back into the groundcar, started it up and wheeled sharply toward the small group.

She felt Sutton's hand shoving her down. There were noises like pops from the car and several flashes. A small pine behind her exploded with a crack. The top of the tree fell to the ground in flames narrowly missing her. Her knees ached and her breath was knocked from her body from Sutton's push. She looked up to see Griffin taking a sidearm out from beneath his jacket. The car swerved to make another pass.

A tiny woman dressed in military style pants and a tunic adorned with a woodland camouflage pattern emerged from the bushes on the other side of the road. She charged across the permacrete highway in a matter of mere seconds. Bindu wondered how anyone could move that fast. Griffin seemed rooted to the spot although she saw a flash of recognition on his face.

"Don't shoot you fool!" she yelled. Her hand seemed to come from no where sending Griffin's pistol flying. Modi thought that she could have grown up in her native Pondicherry, although her accent was strangely neutral. She also noticed that the young lady was curved in a very telling way.

The groundcar bore down on them. Bindu gasped when the young girl picked her up as one of her grand nieces might pick up one of their dolls. "Grant is reading as a mass of heavy metal." She said as they raced behind some bushes.

Griffin ran behind them, diving just as more trees exploded. "Heavy metal?" he asked.

"A bomb," Sutton gasped breathlessly. Modi was old and battered but the young Sutton looked near to death.

"He seen Miss Modi here and decided to kill her in a way that he was sure she is dead," Sutton gasped out, "or else he probably would have planted that thing and been on his way."

"You've been out in space Jeff: The Sons' have resorted to wiring some of their people," Griffin spat out.

The woman rolled toward her. "Give me your cloak!" she demanded. No, Bindu thought, an Indian girl would not treat their elders thus. She became alarmed when the girl started peeling her shawl away from her. Modi could not get over her strength. The car was racing toward them as the young girl threw on Modi's shawl. Council guards were running toward the carnage.

"What the hell are you doing?" Griffin asked.

"No time!" the girl exclaimed. She stepped out from the brush into plain sight.

Modi heard a squeal of synthetic rubber against permacrete. The young girl was doing an effective job of walking like she would. Modi took a second to become offended: She did not walk like an old lady, she thought angrily. Fear and sympathy replaced the anger as the car made a line toward her nameless young savior. The girl picked up speed and swung over the fence that acted as a guard between the highway and the dead drop cliff over Half Moon Bay. Bindu's mouth dropped open in amazement as the groundcar burst into speed—so did the girl. She ran headlong toward the edge of the cliff stopping for a split second before lithely leaping off the cliff.

Joshua Grant had no time to correct his mistake. Bindu watched as the car's wheels dug into the earth in protest. The vehicle careened through the dirt, striking the guard rail and flipping over sending the car and Joshua Grant to the rocks below. The girl leapt back up and rolled away from the cliff. She shouted a warning. Bindu closed her eyes just in time as a blinding flash went off.

Modi's eyes strained against the glare despite the fact that her lids were closed tightly. She heard a roar that changed into a mighty blast. The explosion ripped the air from Bindu's lungs. She gasped and opened her eyes. Modi beheld a pall of dust and steam rising out of the bay. The council guards were running toward them.

"The president pro tem replaced our guards with Sons' of Terra members," she warned her new friends. She looked over at the young lady; now kneeling on the ground throwing up. Bindu pulled herself up shakily with some help from Griffin. Sutton seemed to need as much help as she had. Bindu started toward the sick girl.

"You there!" one guard bellowed. She knew that they knew who she was. "Stop!" he shouted.

Griffin collapsed in a heap and let out a loud moan. Bindu gasped when she saw a large knife sticking out of his left leg. He moaned as the guards came upon them. "My leg!" he yelled. The two security guards gaped at the protruding knife.

"Here, let me help buddy," one of them said in a sympathetic tone. The guard stepped in closer. Bindu watched in amazement as the leg with the knife imbedded in it kicked out. Griffin's foot connected solidly with the man's groin. Raj Modi, who had raised two sons, winced at the sight of the impact.

The girl, apparently over her sickness seemed to come out of no where to disarm the remaining Sons' of Terra enforcer. Griffin pulled the knife out of what Modi now understood was an artificial leg. The guard went to his knees as Sutton relieved him of his laser.

"That is for shooting down my plane!" Griffin snarled as he rolled then got to his feet.

"Who are you people?" she asked.

"Just some concerned citizens, ma'am," Griffin answered with a grin on his lips. She watched as he turned to the girl. "Put in a good word for me with…," he looked at Modi. Obviously, the person who Griffin wanted the girl to speak on his behalf for was to remain unknown.

"I shall do so," the girl said. "I do not understand what happened back there."

"You mean the sickness?" Modi asked her. The girl nodded. "I believe that is normal during some pregnancies. You should reconsider heroics until after your child is born."

"I did not think of that," the girl answered. She removed Modi's shawl and started to hand it back to her.

She raised her hand. "Keep it child. My husband bought it for me when we were stationed in Antarctica. I wore it while nursing my oldest. You might find the same use for it." Modi looked at Stiles. "It is time to end this charade. Are you ready to be sworn in?"

Stiles nodded; "Just as ready as you are to take back the presidium ma'am."

"It's been a pleasure Missus Stiles," Arnie Griffin said. "But if you don't mind this is enough excitement for a poor old junk man."

"I shall be leaving as well," the young girl said. With Bindu's shawl wrapped around her shoulder she did look like someone who could outrun a groundcar or survive a leap off of a cliff. She looked like a young woman facing a bright future.

"I'll miss your barbecued chicken Arnie," Stiles said. Stiles went to the big man and hugged him. "Thanks for everything." Small tears ran down her cheeks.

"Hey!" he protested. "I'm only going back to my island; not like I'm dying." He hugged her back.

Bindu watched the exchange between the friends. She also noted how the young girl had casually turned and walked away. Modi's eyes followed her until she vanished in the bushes across the highway. She realized that she should not ask too many questions. Griffin started to walk away after some assurances to Stiles that he would eat right and exercise more.

"Mister Griffin!" she called to him before he could leave.

"Ma'am?" he answered.

"Contact me when I'm back in office," she said. "I'll make sure that you get a new plane."

San Francisco, California, the old United States, Mar 2158

"That was Josh's car; that was Josh's car!" Mark Hawkins repeated frantically.

He was near hysteria. Worse yet Hawkins realized that fact. Catères was usually there to help him but she seemed preoccupied. The horrible images being disseminated on the net clearly showed Grant's car. Surveillance video from the Pan-Indian compound had been precise and damning. Journalists, not their hand picked propagandists but real journalists were already asking about Grant and his connection to Hawkins and the Sons' of Terra.

He watched with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as Kendra Stiles took the oath of office. His seat on the council was gone. Hawkins was in political limbo. Bindu Raj Modi spared no time in speaking after Stiles' ceremony was complete. She spoke using the nonsense terms such as freedom and the rule of law. She concluded by looking directly in the recorder's lens and demanding that Hawkins vacate the presidium.

"What do we do? What do we--,"

The open palm of Catères' hand connected solidly with his face. That side of his face stung and then numb. They were alone in the subterranean office. She told him to shutup and sit down. Mark did as he was told. His fear gradually changed from fear of the future to fear of her. She moved over beside him. Hawkins thought that she was going to comfort him in that way that only she could. Instead she struck him again knocking him out of the chair and to the floor. He tasted the tang of blood in his mouth.

"What are you doin'?" he asked emphatically.

"I should have dealt with the drak'ha before I went any further," she said. Hawkins realized that she was speaking to herself. He started to get up when she delivered a sharp kick to his rib cage. Mark gasped and went reeling. He had heard a snap. He looked up at her and tried to scamper away. His limbs seemed to turn to rubber.

"The cause is lost here Mark," she said without emotion. "Still, something can be salvaged from all of this. The cause needs a mystery and a martyr to breath new life into it."

"What the hell are you talkin' about you crazy bitch?" he spat out as he tried backing away. His arms barely worked but he was able to use one to lift himself up. It was as if its control had been restored. She kicked out at the arm. He screamed as it broke.

Mercifully, she turned away from him. "We can return to the office of the president on the private lift." She turned back and smiled at him, but it was a smile unlike any he had seen before. Mark felt wetness spread out from his crotch. He whimpered. "That way we shall be unobserved." She held an ancient pistol that had once belonged to President Chen; the first United Earth president.

"What are you going to do to me?" he cried out. For he now realized that he had been a tool for her all along.

"Popular support is overwhelming the Sons' of Terra. They need a rallying cry." Dominique stepped over him. He had briefly thought to roll and try to trip her but he had once again become paralyzed. She turned on her heel and the kicked the other side of his face. Catères had knocked loose one of his teeth. The woman reached down and forced him to close his mouth and swallow the bloody tooth. Despite the beating that he was receiving the only thought in his head was: She wasn't even out of breath.

"You humans create fear and paranoia where none exists," Catères explained. "You, dear Mark, shall take this pistol that I will give to you. You shall go to the upper office. When Modi and her people come for you, you will shoot through the door at them. Do not waste ammunition. Fire one shot at a time until the presidium guards return fire, whereupon you will put the barrel in your mouth and fire one last time."

"Are you--," his head snapped to one side as she kicked him again.

"Your supporters will believe that after being relieved you rightfully tried to hold onto the office. Modi staged a military coup where you were beaten and then murdered by Thorpe's military. This may incite some of the Sons' to react. During that time I will take care of the drak'ha."

"I'm not going to kill--,"

Mark felt a pain like he had once had from a migraine headache. But it only started there: His agony ratcheted upwards. His screams turned to something more like inhuman screeches. Mingled in with the agony were images from Hawkins' worst fears and imaginings. One of his mother's old boyfriends came at him. Mark had been terrified of the man who had hurt him in a most heinous fashion. The man faded away. Roaches were crawling over him, slowly eating his skin away; tearing at his flesh. Hawkins' mind snapped.

Star Fleet light cruiser Daedelus, in orbit of Vulcan, Mar 2158

Tas Shavma made for interesting company Admiral Maxwell Forrest thought. The Tellarite had tried telling Forrest dirty jokes. But with a limited knowledge of human anatomy the humor was made all the more absurd. Forrest laughed all the harder because of the errors. The Shavma had made for good company in the shuttle ride over from Trafalgar. They had decided to meet there and then shuttle over to Charger. Things had changed.

When Max had left for Corallis the Vulcan situation had been unresolved. Privately Forrest had thought that war with their former allies was inevitable. But subspace chatter seemed to indicate that that particular problem had been solved. Not only were the Vulcans opening their borders; they had a new government. That bit of information had come to Forrest a week earlier; just in time for them to divert to Vulcan space. President Thorpe's message had said that they were still in negotiations when Forrest had shown up.

"So you see Forrest," Tas Shavma explained. "The flashlight was still lodged in the man's appendix."

Max chuckled more at the joke's failings than at the actual punch line. The bemused crewman that had been assigned as their escort merely looked on. Forrest had studied the specs for this ship. It was a pleasure to see it embodied in metal and plastic. He had marveled at the space that had been allocated for labs. That was how they should be solving problems he thought; with analysis and reason, not with missiles and lasers. He silently cursed the Romulans.

"This is the conference room sir," the crewman stopped and gestured.

Forrest thanked him and started in the room. He was surprised that the door didn't slide open automatically. He found the intercom near the door and asked for admittance. The doors slid open. Max gestured for the Tellarite to go in first. He followed. Forrest had seen warmer receptions given for funerals. The group of humans and aliens sat around the room's single table. Max recognized most of them; some not.

Jonathan Archer sat beside another Star Fleet captain. Forrest guessed from his breast patch that the tall, thinly built man was the master of this vessel. Beside that man sat a tall striking woman with the star, cross and crescent moon of the Stellar Navy Medical Corps emblazoned on her jersey over her left breast. An older, shorter, compact man sat near her. He was dressed in a suit and sported a slight salt and pepper beard. The civilian held an unlit cigar in his hand. Across from the older man sat an attractive young woman with a mop of curly brown hair. Next to her sat a Stellar Navy lieutenant. Forrest did not need the new blue colored jersey to tell him that this officer was in the sciences. His very mannerisms and rolled over sleeves told Maxwell everything that he needed to know.

The dark haired young lieutenant was in exceptional company as the Shahar of Andor stood, rather than sat next to him. Beside the Shahar sat President Christophur Thorpe. The president turned slowly in his chair to face him and the Tellarite. Despite the war Forrest had always received a warm greeting from the president, but not today. Thorpe sat with his arms folded over his chest. A look of intense concentration dominated the president's face.

"Mister President, it is good--,"

"Sit down Admiral Forrest, Tas Shavma," Thorpe said curtly.

Forrest was about to ask what was gone on when he received a warning look from Captain Archer. Even the normally boisterous Tellarite officer was mollified by the situation. Forrest smoothed down the front of his jersey and took a seat. The silence was all encompassing. There was so little sound that Max worried that the sound of his breathing was carrying. He heard the background whir of the environmental system. Forrest started to sweat despite that system's efficient supply of cool air.

The conference room doors parted. The same Star Fleet crewman that had showed them to the room was escorting another party. "Sir, the Vulcan delegation," the man declared. He stood aside as a tall older Vulcan male in the company of a small, young Vulcan female entered. Forrest realized that the woman was T'Pau, the Vulcans' prefect. He wondered that someone so young could be put into a position of so much power. Then he remembered that Vulcans' comparatively long life often belied their true age. Max realized that he might well be looking at someone a few decades older than he.

Max started to get up when he noticed that the president did not. That was something he simply could not believe: This blatant breach of protocol from the otherwise polite Thorpe. There was an uncomfortable silence as the crewman departed. Forrest remained seated. Thorpe unfolded his arms. The president absently twirled a stylus in his right hand. He glared at the Vulcans; Max didn't have to be a telepath to read the contempt.

"Tell me everything you know about Reunification," Thorpe asked the Vulcans without ceremony.

There it was! Forrest had always been told that the logical aliens had emotions: They just restrained them. But he saw the flash of surprise and then a hint of embarrassment from the female. The male stood mute. Max guessed that he did not speak English. The male reacted a few seconds later. He must have gleaned from the woman's slip-up what had been said. He started speaking. The female held up her hand and interrupted him.

"My apologies President Thorpe," T'Pau said at last. "I wish to first say that it was my decision to conceal the knowledge of your enemy's origins from you. Syrran counseled me that your people," she looked at Shran and then at Tas. "All of you should be told. I had concluded otherwise; in this I was wrong." Max guessed that her companion was this Syrran.

"We did not know," T'Pau answered. Syrran had grown positively emphatic for a Vulcan, Max thought. She turned to him and replied in their common tongue. The Vulcan turned back to them. Thorpe had still not offered them a seat. Max realized just how dangerous this situation had become although he was still puzzled by the Vulcans role in the war.

"What are we talking about sir?" he said. Tas Shavma was equally confused.

Seeming to dismiss the Vulcans Thorpe answered: "This is Captain Cromwell of the starship Daedelus." The president indicated the captain seated next to Archer. "My apologies Tas Shavma, Admiral Forrest, these are unusual circumstances. Captain Cromwell, if you'll give them a short version of the briefing that you gave us."

The officer that Thorpe was speaking to stood up. "Captain Michael Cromwell," the man proclaimed in a rich English accent. He introduced the rest of his people. Forrest listened as the man related the tale of Daedelus' journey to the far edges of the Romulan Empire; their encounter with telepathic aliens who gave them the coordinates for a damaged Romulan Sabinus. Max listened with growing interest and outrage as Cromwell detailed the relationship between the Romulans and Vulcans; of their intent to reunite with their Vulcan relatives. He eyed the Vulcans in the room. They showed no emotion.

"This is the same race?" Tas Shavma asked.

Cromwell deferred to his surgeon. "I've had many months to examine the findings: The races are almost identical. There are some indications of genetic drift and some elements of something else in the DNA I examined. I believe that the Romulans are intermingled with another species; possibly Reman."

"What is a Reman?" Forrest asked. The German explained that the forensic evidence gave no answers for that. She called upon the officer that had been identified as an archeologist.

"I have no physical description except that they are a nocturnal species, admiral," Lieutenant Marcel Dieulafoy explained. "The early Vulcans—or Rihannsu as they called themselves," Forrest saw T'Pau bow her head at the mention of the word Rihannsu. "They were expelled from ancient Vulcan. They were decimated after their journey of many decades by our standards. I believe from my research that even given their degraded state the early Romulans invaded their sister planet and conquered the Remans shortly after arriving on Romulus. I conjecture that they interbred with Remans to expand a small gene pool."

"It's entirely theoretical," Schultheiss interjected. "But given the numbers that we extrapolated from historical records it seems that without fresh DNA the early Romulans would have gone extinct in perhaps less than one hundred generations."

"Too bad they didn't," the Tellarite declared. He looked sharply at T'Pau and Syrran. "Did they know?"

"We are Vulcans, we do not lie," T'Pau retorted.

"No; you merely hide the truth," Thorpe spat out. Max was taken aback by the man's open hostility. "You openly lectured us on so called savage behavior. Twenty-five million dead later are you going to continue?" Forrest watched as the man sprang to his feet. Thorpe was clearly enraged.

"Sir; if I may?" Cromwell said, breaking the tension. Thorpe allowed the captain to speak but it was reluctantly granted Max thought. "I do not believe the Vulcans were aware of what was to occur."

"The Rihannsu had been repudiated," Professor Omar Bashir spoke for the first time since Forrest's arrival. "They had made a difficult and epic journey. Their early days on Romulus were harsh. I suspect that Reunification became the tenant of something close to a religion for them; a hope for something better and a sort of redemption for their expulsion from Vulcan." He nodded toward the Vulcans. "Whereas I believe that the Vulcans tried to bury their savage past the Rihannsu did not. They never forgot what happened."

"We are not blameless," T'Pau said at last. She had been steadily translating the words of the various speakers for Syrran. She now translated his words to them. "Our ancestors did indeed search for the Rihannsu. As warp technology improved we searched all possible destinations that their starships could have made. We should have questioned the fact that we found nothing; not even ships full of corpses or debris. As time passed we forgot. My ancestors were busy trying to survive. Vulcan had been through a major nuclear exchange. It took generations to render a once green world to that which you see below."

"I'm not interested in your excuses," Thorpe said. He hardly waited for T'Pau's translation. "You could have told us. Karzai, Soval, Solkar; none of them even hinted at this."

T'Pau translated after a few seconds. "None of them knew. Those of us who did had only speculations and musings. I started suspecting something after V'Las exhibited what I knew was questionable behavior for one of my people. It was only after the coming of Gupta that my speculations were confirmed."

"This was the agent that we had ashore, sir?" Forrest asked. He had been briefed that a naval intelligence officer was operating on Vulcan at Soval's request. Max had never known the officer's name until now.

"Yes admiral," Thorpe answered grimly, "another person dead over this travesty."

"We deeply regret the death of Gupta," T'Pau translated Syrran's words. "He had a most Vulcan like quality. It is because of him that I wanted you all to know. I too had once concluded as T'Pau had that the secret was best kept; that your people would turn on us if you found out. My association with Tarang led me to reason otherwise. You humans are strange to us but have been most honorable. The same can be said of the Andorians and Tellarites. We are wiser because of you."

"Despite your words why should we not turn on you, Vulcan?" Tas Shavma asked. "Your silence caused this war. Millions were killed on Zandor and earth. The Iceheads are still counting the losses from the attack on their system. Why should we not eliminate the reason for the Romulans' attack?"

"Because not all Vulcans are guilty shavma," Forrest was surprised to hear this utterance from an unexpected quarter: Shahar Shran. "If I accepted that then I must base my actions on the bravery of Captain Vanik: His sacrifice saved millions on Andor. Still, was this secret to become known, many of my people would demand retribution against your people, T'Pau."

Shran left his place to stand directly before the Vulcans. "I once tormented one of your people for information. I wished you to know that so that you know all about me. The time for secrets is past." Max watched as the Andorian turned to Thorpe. "My people officially came to this war to honor our treaty. But I say we came at the behest of that human," Shran pointed at Thorpe. "It was Christophur that convinced Rastan of the need for unity among our peoples."

"The same can be said for us," Tas Shavma declared. "We Tellarites care little for words on paper. We believe in our families and friends; those are the things that say who we are. We came to help our friends."

"I would keep the secret Christophur," Shran told the president, "at your word. This federation was always in doubt. Even now it exists only on paper. It has always been your dream Christophur. But even I must admit that Vulcan membership could solidify it; a Vulcan uncompromised by the release of this knowledge."

"Mister President," T'Pau continued translating. "If the relationship between Vulcans and Romulans becomes known now, then it would fracture my society. Not to mention the destruction that would be visited upon us by other races. Forgive T'Pau. Surak's new teaching tells us that we must embrace the unknown if we are to continue to grow. Gupta convinced me of that which I had read but really did not believe."

"I am asking you to keep secret what you've discovered," T'Pau continued to translate Syrran's words. "In return I shall act to convince my people of the necessity to join the federation. We shall open the Vulcan Science Academy fully. We shall, reluctantly provide," T'Pau stopped and burst into speech with Syrran. After an exchange which Forrest thought was downright heated for Vulcans she continued. "We shall provide you military aid. But that shall be the last battle that the Vulcan High Command will engage in. That organization must cease to exist. On that I shall brook no compromise. Better that we be destroyed by your races then revert to the Rihannsu ways."

"You'd break with decades of policy to the contrary to do these things?" Thorpe asked. He had calmed down Forrest thought.

"We must change," T'Pau translated. "This war has forced that change sooner than it would have come."

"The secret might get out anyway," Tas Shavma declared.

"I am not in the military," Mariel Picard spoke up. "But I was charged with the translation of much of their documents. I believe that their society benefits from the secret being kept."

"So if we agree to do as you say," he began. Max saw the danger of where this was heading. "If we keep your secret then we have two choices Mister President: The first is that we prepare our societies for the news; because sooner or later, if we win, we shall land on Romulus."

"The second choice is that we don't go to Romulus," Thorpe supplied. The president looked mournfully at him. "Tell me Maxwell; how do we achieve victory and do that?"

"Some sort of compromise that is acceptable to the Romulans," he offered. "We would have to continue watching them; some sort of containment zone would have to be set up."

How would they do that Forrest wondered? It seemed likely that the Romulans' identity would be revealed before war's end. It had not so far but how long would that last? And how could they win the war yet allow the Romulans to remain holed up in their empire?

Max's mind started turning over ideas. The Vulcans would have to tell all that they knew of their ancestors and all that they knew or guessed about modern Romulans. They had the data from Cromwell's expedition. Perhaps finally with knowledge of their enemy they could do as the president wanted.

"The Romulans might agree to that," Omar Bashir stated.

"They will fight to the last," Syrran said through T'Pau.

"I believe that you are wrong sir," Bashir retorted.

"You've switched sides," Cromwell told the man. Forrest realized that he was hearing yet another chapter of an old argument.

"Being here listening to Syrran has made me rethink my stand," Bashir explained. "We are all free to decide. Perhaps there is a difference between a free exchange of ideas and something that would lead to the untold deaths of millions. I can decide to remain silent," Bashir said emphasizing the article. He continued: "Romulan society has become increasingly dominated by an organization called the Tal Shiar. Their government; an Imperial Senate headed by a praetor is largely in the process of becoming a figurehead. Forcing their praetor to accept a compromise might go a long way in helping this Tal Shiar. They could also use the mystique of Reunification to control the populace. This could only be done if the status quo was maintained."

"I said that you are the focus Christophur," Shran interjected. "If you do this and the secret becomes known it will fall upon you the hardest."

The room fell dead silent again. Max looked at the president who seemed understandably lost in thought. He watched as Thorpe looked at the Vulcans and then at everyone else in the room. Forrest, who had led many men, shuddered as the president's gaze seemed to look into him when his turn came. This was a dreadful decision. Max was glad he did not have to make it.

"I believe in the federation," Thorpe said at last. "Our futures are bound up together. I wish that you Vulcans had come to this of your own volition Syrran." This last was expressed with what Max thought was a voice full of bitterness. Thorpe sighed. "I shall keep the secret not for your support Syrran, that must be freely given, but because of the chaos that the release of the information would cause."

Syrran approached Thorpe who had stood up. "You shall have the support and allegiance of the Vulcan people President Thorpe. Our races shall walk the path to the future together."

Max watched as Thorpe extended his hand, as Zephram Cochrane had done many decades before. Forrest stood up. Everyone else in the conference room followed suit. Tas Shavma joined the president as the latter took Syrran's hand in return.

"When they find out I'll be torn limb from limb," the Tellarite declared. "At least I'll get a rest from my nagging mate after that." He extended a paw.

Shahar Shran joined the human Vulcan and Tellarite. "To the future then," he said simply.

"To the United Federation of Planets," Thorpe declared. The leaders shook hands in agreement.

Sinjan Class shuttle on approach for the primary Vulcan shipyard, Mar 2158

"Are they taking us back to earth on a garbage scow skipper?" Commander Margaret Sadler asked Donald Townsend.

"I have no idea," Townsend answered. It seemed fitting for him. Donald was still deeply troubled by the loss of the Jade Queen. He thought of a thousand things that he could have done and again a thousand things that would not have worked.

"Any idea why we were diverted here pilot?" he asked the medium built lieutenant. The officer shared Townsend's dark skin and his accent had proclaimed that he was from North America.

"All I know is that the orders came directly from Admiral Forrest, sir," the pilot answered. Townsend could not fail to notice the wings emblazoned on the man's crest. Every Stellar Navy officer and enlisted file around Vulcan was interested in the ship called Daedelus. Where had it been? What class of ship was it?

He watched as Sadler licked her lips. Donald knew that his first officer was curious as well. "So," she began, "you guys came from where?"

The pilot laughed. "We've been to the Romulan Empire ma'am. Captain Cromwell whipped their asses then we stopped by to help a race ascend to another plane of existence: Just going where no man has gone before commander." Donald watched as he checked his heading then turned to chat with them. "Honestly though we discovered a disabled Romulan cruiser in a nebula. I wish I could tell you a bunch of juicy secrets but the Birdie crew had been incinerated by discharges from the nebula. The computer banks were a wipe. We would have had the ship but the Birdies interrupted us."

"All that and you didn't find out what they look like?" Sadler asked.

The young man shook his head in frustration. "Nothing except what you have all been told: Humanoid, about our size, probably bipeds. Only a few people went over to the ship. I heard that it was pretty much a burned out shell. Our Andorian engineer barely got it under power."

"Damn shame there wasn't more," Townsend commented. "At least we probably have better reactor signatures to feed our computers. That should make tracking and targeting easier."

"There is that sir," the pilot answered. He turned back to his board as he altered course for a great spherical bay of the yard. "We're almost there!"

Townsend got up to stare out of the pane of transparent aluminum. The pilot maneuvered the shuttle into the giant bay where a Vulcan ship was moored. Donald heard Margaret let out a low whistle. He guessed that she was as surprised as he over the number of space-suited technicians crawling over the craft's two hundred meter long surface. The blinding flash of laser welding torches was everywhere.

The ship was an older design for the Vulcans. Townsend judged it to about fifty meters at its widest point. The bow narrowed but not too much; rather it ended in a box like structure that housed the ship's sweep field emitter. Also telling were the two warp nacelles slung on the aft section of the ship. Donald recalled that the Pointies had experimented with single line nacelles many decades ago. His attention was drawn to the installation of a third nacelle. Even Townsend, with only a passing knowledge of Vulcan ships could tell that the new nacelle was there for looks only: There was no way that it could be functional.

Their pilot slowed the shuttle as a large circular bay door opened like an iris. The lieutenant brought the little Sinjan to a relative stop gently setting it down with maneuvering thrusters. Townsend was aghast to see Vulcans and humans without open space helmets. Surely the bay hadn't pressurized that quickly? The shuttle pilot caught their bemused expressions out of the corner of his eye as he ran a turnaround check.

"That was something they briefed me on," he informed them. "Did you notice that little flash when we entered the bay?" Both of them shook their heads. "Vulcan ships have a force field built as a backup into their lock systems. It lasts for about three to five seconds. It makes offloading shuttles a lot quicker."

"We could use those force fields," Townsend remarked.

"I remember a junior classman that I used to torture," the pilot answered. "Jason Crusher; these force fields exist. Chances are that Crusher will build one and it'll be better than the Vulcan version. This is your stop sir!"

"Thanks for the lift," Sadler told him. "Any chance that we can tour Daedelus?" she asked him.

"Sure thing ma'am," he answered. Townsend wondered that he did not use the naval protocol of sir. "Just ask for me and I'll give you the nickel tour." He stuck out his hand. "Just ask for Lieutenant Carl La Forge," he informed them. They shook hands and departed.

Townsend stepped out into a bay that was positively frigid. He exhaled steam and looked around when he heard the bark of a familiar voice. Lieutenant Commander Marshall Davies was in the process of lecturing a young engineer.

"Look Jonesy," he told the young woman. She had not been a part of Townsend's crew on the Queen Bitch. She looked like she had been out of her service academy for less than six months. That would have been consistent since she had to have arrived with the Stellar Navy component of Star Fleet. Davies continued even after catching sight of his captain and first officer: "This is orientation. Don't try opening anymore access panels. Just do what the nice man with pointed ears," he pointed at a Vulcan, "tells you to do, okay?"

"Yes sir," she answered. "I just thought that was where a power junction would be located."

"I'm sure that we'll all make mistakes Jonesy," he consoled her. That was what made Davies the engineer that he was Townsend thought: He sympathized with his staff. The ensign joined the Vulcan as Davies turned to greet him and Sadler. "What do you think sir? It was the Vulcan liner L'Streva. I'm told that it means one hundredth series; romantic huh?"

"How many from the Bitch are here Marsh?" he asked. "Did they pull you to work on this?"

"That'll be explained shortly," a new voice added. Townsend watched as Davies came to attention. He and Sadler turned and did likewise as the voice belonged to Admiral Maxwell Forrest. The admiral was in the company of a Vulcan High Command officer slightly shorter than the human.

"At ease," Forrest instructed them. "I'd like you to first meet Sub Commander Z'Tel," he said indicating the Vulcan. "He'll be your liaison officer Captain Townsend."

Z'Tel nodded his head slightly. "Liaison for what sir?" he asked the admiral.

"This is your ship now Townsend," Forrest turned and indicated that they should follow. La Forge's shuttle shot out into space behind them. "Seeing open space like that gives me the willies! I don't mind telling you that."

Donald shuttered somewhat himself as the hatch irised closed. They followed Forrest and the Vulcan out into the liner's passageways. Forrest talked as they went.

"We are putting a maximum effort into outfitting this ship as a new generation of raider. The Vulcan control interfaces are being pulled and replaced with off the shelf SN technology. We are also getting a full Vulcan sensor suite. We'll be putting the Cachalot missile into your missile room and the new Pitbull anti-missile missile into your defensive array."

It struck Townsend: "The third nacelle; we're going to look like a goddamned Jellyfish!"

"Exactly!" the admiral replied. "You'll need to look the part where you are going."

"Topaz," Sadler declared without ceremony, "putting our heads into the lion's mouth again sir."

"You must be telepathic commander," Forrest said.

"I was not aware that humans were telepathic," Z'Tel spoke for the first time.

Donald did a double take over the Vulcan's accent. "Excuse me sub commander?"

"I did not attend the Vulcan Linguistic Academy prior to coming to earth, captain," Z'Tel answered, obviously understanding why Donald had asked the question. "I learned English while studying in Brisbane." Despite little knowledge of Vulcan ships Donald could not mistake the bridge. Forrest had led them to L'Streva's command center.

"Your office captain," Forrest informed him.

"The prefecture has ordered the High Command to release this ship to you, captain," Z'Tel interjected. "My apologies for the destruction of the Jade Queen, sir," Z'Tel said. "Your vessel's condition rendered it an orbital hazard. Going to warp in an atmosphere is a…most interesting maneuver."

"Your boys didn't see that one coming?" Townsend asked with a grin on his lips.

"No sir," the Vulcan answered simply.

"You have a month to arm and outfit this ship," Forrest told them. "Since the Jade Queen's crew is helping that'll cut down on shakedown time. I need you to be over Topaz no later than June."

"I suppose that we won't have one of the Vulcan's warp seven drives, admiral?" Sadler asked while looking at the Vulcan.

"L'Streva was never warp seven capable commander," Z'Tel answered. "In fact the matter anti matter core is not as efficient as the ones currently in use by the Star Fleet. The maximum speed of this ship is warp 4.1 at most. It was ready to be scrapped."

"Ah," Townsend said; "that is the first good selling point I've heard so far." He lazily spun the command chair around. He pushed on the seat's headrest.

"Is anything wrong sir?" the Vulcan asked.

"The squeak," Donald insisted, "I'm missing my squeak." His old command chair had an annoying squeak when he would first set in it.

"What was it like?" Z'Tel asked him.

He felt absurd describing it in front of the admiral. Townsend wondered if the Vulcan had a human sense of humor and was playing a practical joke. Z'Tel called a Vulcan technician over had stooped down to make some adjustments to the chair.

"Topaz, sir?" he asked while the technician worked. "What I've heard is that we could lose the entire Star Fleet there."

"We can't have an industrialized enemy behind us and in front of us," Forrest explained. "The threat from Topaz has to be removed."

"Maybe we'll sneak in and get a glimpse of what they look like," Sadler interjected. "I guess Daedelus turned up with zilch there."

Townsend had been somewhat preoccupied as Z'Tel told him that he could check his chair. But he had not failed to notice Forrest's hesitation. The admiral's mood seemed to have changed entirely.

"Yes, perhaps you shall," the admiral said at last. He seemed to return to the bridge of the Vulcan ship.

Z'Tel indicated that he should sit. Townsend did so. His squeak was back, not only a squeak but almost the same sound that his old command chair used to make. He nodded at the Vulcan. "Liaison officer, huh? I think we'll get along just fine."

He swiveled slowly in the chair taking in the confused scene of Vulcan and human engineers, frantically swapping panels and internal electronic control boxes. Townsend realized that there was a sort of rhythm to the whole thing when he took the time to look for it. A rectangular brass plate caught his eye. He looked at Sadler who looked away innocently. Donald got up to examine the plaque. The words Jade Queen were emblazoned upon it along with his old ship's date of commissioning.

He faced the aft wall to conceal the moisture that had welled up in his eyes. "How did you get it?" he asked.

"Chief Aarons was quick with a laser torch," Sadler informed him. "I went back to the bridge to make a final sweep and he had pulled it off by then.

"This can be the Jade Queen II," Forrest who had stepped up beside him said. They both turned after they heard a groan behind them.

"Something the matter commander?" the admiral asked Sadler.

"My father had a boat at South Padre Island, sir," she answered. "He always said: Margaret, never get on a boat that is the second or third of that name. If you do then you have to ask yourself what happened to the original. You might not like the answer."

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, the old United States, Mar 2157

The trouble with going bald was the need to still get haircuts. Fred Watson combed down what was left of his hair while considering shaving the entire mess off. Not really satisfied with the results he put his comb away and threw on his trench coat. He had decided upon waking that he would return home for a few days. Roslyn was a good woman who had put up with many absences from him. But he had been away for many days lately.

Watson took the lift down to the lobby. He carried his kit with him rather than leaving it for the service bot. He was still a cop and leaving his belongings by themselves didn't sit well with him. The lift took him to the lobby. He had checked out and paid using his handheld. Watson headed out the door where a bored aircab operator was standing beside her vehicle. It was cool. A strong wind was blowing the last of a low pressure system out. The sky was blue to the west where the driver aimed her cab; Watson sitting silently in the back.

He figured out why the driver had been available: Sons' of Terra regalia littered the back of the car. Fred liked to think that he was above politics but too many people had relatives and friends who were in the service. He saw a sticker proclaiming that the Romulans were their friends. Watson believed that people were entitled to their beliefs, but turning oneself into a social pariah struck him as being foolish. He started to take up a dog eared copy of one of his favorite Dixon Hill novels. He hoped the woman would see him reading and leave him be but fate dictated otherwise.

"A sitting president is murdered by the military and everyone acts like it's just another day!" she proclaimed angrily.

"Yes," he lied in a low voice. "They should have had a day of mourning; terrible thing." Watson hadn't cared for Hawkins, but he was apolitical. He hoped that those he voted for could count on both hands and not soil themselves in public. Anything else was a bonus as far as Fred was concerned.

"You're right about that!" she replied. "What they should be doing is arresting that Indie bitch and her darkie accomplice. Everyone knows that recall was staged."

"I've read a little about that," he answered. A few people had put the theory out that the recall of Hawkins had been rigged. Watson thought that the people advancing the theories probably lived in their parents' basement. He was surprised at her open bigotry. Fred guessed that the people who were clinging to the movement were getting desperate as its support waned and its membership dropped off.

He looked out to see that she had started descending for the shuttleport. Watson was glad: People were free to speak their minds but some ideas were disgusting. He stared out of her windscreen and almost missed what she had been saying.

"I'm sorry for that spacer's bad luck," she explained. "But he had it coming. The people in there need to wise up and just walk away from the navy."

"What do you mean?" he asked. She explained that a Star Fleet crewman on leave had been badly beaten after leaving the spaceport. The perpetrators had not been caught but his chauffeur left no doubt that some free lance thugs from SOT had taken matters into their own hands.

"It's too bad, but think of how many Romulan boys and girls won't go home." She turned to make the landing at the terminal pad.

No one even knew if the Romulans had two sexes. One thing that Fred knew for sure: A lot of people wouldn't be going home in Florida or their colonies. Fred took out his handheld and punched in the fare as the taxi settled to a stop. He did not leave the woman a tip. She scowled at him as he exited. Watson shot her an ingratiating smile.

"On to Romulus!" he proclaimed using a popular wartime slogan. He turned away before seeing her reaction.

Watson entered the terminal while casually scanning the crowd. Malcolm Reed knew that he was following him. Fred wanted to kick himself for doing that this early in the investigation. But he was frustrated: Watson had a hand full of loose ends and none of them connected. Reed was scheduled out of the city about the same time as was Fred. A little friendly questioning of the clerk at Reed's hotel had revealed that. Fred wouldn't be surprised if he saw the major here.

He had no plans to pursue Reed further; at least in the physical sense. The answer had to do with something else, or someplace else he thought. He stopped at a counter and bought a ticket. The woman, an older lady, smiled at Watson as she processed his information. Normally he would order a pass electronically but he felt the need to chat today.

The woman reminded Watson of his deceased grandmother. She was a pleasant lady who spoke about how she anxious for the return of spring so that she could plant her small garden. Watson told her how his wife was in the same frame of mind. He enjoyed Roslyn's small garden but was not botanically inclined. Fred often identified his wife's flowers by such names as the tall yellow thing or the smelly red thing. He told the woman that fact. She chuckled at his self deprecating humor.

"My husband is like that," she commented. "But at least he spades the ground and weeds for me." She punched in the last of his information. "One copy for the company manifest and another for the guard people," she said as she zipped the information to his handheld.

"What guard people?" he asked.

"You're going sub-orbital," she explained. "Don't worry: It isn't an invasion of privacy. One copy goes to the company in case something…happens to your flight. The other goes to the Sky Guard for the same reason." She looked pensive. "I think the Star Fleet is taking that over."

"A copy," he said; more to himself than to her. Watson had forgotten about the world agency that had been charged with acting as a sort of guard force for local disasters. No wonder though as there had been few major unpredicted natural disasters these days and almost no aviation related ones. The air freighter crash of a few months ago had been the only one that had occurred during Fred's lifetime.

"Is that just civilian manifests?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"No; the military uses them as well. It's another repository; just in case. As a matter of fact they have a list of every off planet flight going back into the twenty-first century."

"I didn't know that," he remarked. He nodded at her and bid her a good day and good spring.

He decided to stop at a little café as his flight wasn't due in for another hour. Watson felt an urge and wished that he had lain off the coffee at the hotel. He headed for the men's room. Fred looked around. He felt a chill run down his back. It was probably nothing he thought. Perhaps he was in the process of catching a cold. Man had cured most cancers and degenerative diseases but they hadn't made a dint in that annoying sickness.

He went in. Watson heard the door open behind him. His head hurt. Fred realized that he was lying on the cold floor. A woman was knelt down looking over him. He shook his head and started to set up. He smelled the scent of something burning. The woman pushed gently on his shoulders, holding him down. He took a second look at her: She had a full head of black ringlets. She was very attractive. Fred thought that her ancestry was probably from the Southern Americas or Spain.

"You are very lucky," she told him. "The drak'ha would have killed you."

"What are you talking about?" he struggled to set up. He felt the comfortable weight of his service pistol. The Browning needler was not strictly field issue but Fred liked something more than a stun wand. He sat up on his hands.

"We search for the same person," the woman explained, "or thing. You are interested in catching someone are you not?"

He looked past her to see the telltale scorch of a laser beam across the far wall. Part of it was still smoking. He started to remember: His head had hit the floor after he had collapsed. He tried to remember more. Watson saw a man's face looking into his. But it was a face like no other. It was Reed's but there was something else; something terrible had been there. He shook his head and stood up.

"You're going to have to answer some questions about what happened here," he told her. He felt strange after he said it. Watson felt compelled to just let the attractive woman go—he shook his head as if trying to wake up.

She stepped back. Watson thought that she looked surprised. "I see," she said. "I cannot answer your questions; not all of them. I shall tell you that I am interested in your quarry as much as you are."

"Who are you?" he asked pointedly.

"I am not from here," she replied. "But I must warn you that the person you seek is not who you think he is."

"This all sounds like so much nonsense," Watson said. He felt that desire to help this woman again. Somewhere out of the recesses of his mind he realized that feeling was coming from outside. It was coming from her. "Stop it!" he commanded. He pulled out his needler and pointed it at her.

"You are most strong willed," she said. Her eyes were without fear. "I am not human."

He felt somewhat strange again but the intrusiveness was not as prevalent this time. Her white skin grew sallow; a series of tiny blue veins seemed to be everywhere. Her eyes receded into their sockets and took on a cat like appearance. Her curly black hair retained its darkness but it became long and straggly. He thin bluish lips peeled back revealing a mouth full of teeth dominated by fangs.

"What the hell are you?" he asked breathlessly. The needler shook in his hands. A sudden thought occurred to him as she returned to human form: "A Romulan," he stated simply.

"I am not Romulan," she replied. "I was genetically altered before coming here. I am acquainted with what you hunt."

"That's twice you said referred to it," he said.

She looked around. "Someone is coming." She saw his look of puzzlement. "I am telepathic as you must already know. We seek the same thing: You know the name of the person. I know what it really is. I shall go with you so that we can speak further. Or you take me into custody and I shall escape and continue the hunt without you."

A younger man came into the restroom. He was taken aback by the sight of Watson holding the woman at gunpoint. Fred watched as she turned to the new arrival. The man's face relaxed. He went about his business as if he did not see Watson or the alien woman. Fred realized that he didn't see them anymore. He finished. He did not wash his hands. The young man brushed past Watson barely rubbing shoulders with the agent. The man stopped, looked around, brushed at his shoulder, shook his head in bewilderment and then left.

"I cannot push you. You are strong willed," she told him. "I can push others and escape. I am not Romulan and we have a common enemy. Come, are you not curious? Arrest me and jail me. I will escape and you will learn nothing."

"You said you couldn't," he hesitated, "push me. But you showed me what you…"

"I can show you things," she answered. "But I cannot force you to do things. Or I would have had his name and have been on my way. He undoubtedly was planning on pressing you for information when I intruded. He may have killed you after."

"I read the surface of your mind," she continued. "You pursue criminals in your profession. Do not murderers fall into that category?"

"That's a big assumption." This was insane Watson thought. He should just turn this thing into Star Fleet and let them see what they could make of it. He had seen Vulcans, Andies and Tellarites. Fred had even seen a holophoto of a Klingon. He had thought that had scared the daylights out of him until he had seen this alien. A question occurred to him: "Okay, he knocked me out, so you say. How come he can do that and you can't touch me?"

"Its talents are different. It can cast its cloak over an isolated being but not in a crowd."

"So how do we capture it?"

"Kill it; that will be difficult enough."

"I'm a cop, not some executioner."

"I shall go with you and explain further. I'll assist you in your investigation. You might find that having someone with my talents will give you an advantage."

"And you're doing this just out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I am doing it because my people were once beset by drak'ha. They were repulsed, but at a cost. I do not wish to see them spread out from earth to attack us again."

Watson thought about it for some time. "Major Malcolm Reed," he said at last.

"Thank you. It is time to board your shuttle," she said. "I could still get a seat and we can speak further. Or you can take me into custody and confront something monstrous on your own."

"Did you read my mind to figure out what time the shuttle left?" he asked sharply.

She pointed down at a pocket of his coat. "No, your ticket stub is sticking out of your pocket."

"Oh, so it is," he said, snatching the ticket out of his pocket. He looked sharply at her. Could he trust this alien? Reed was a man whose past seemed to blur from one sinister event to another with nothing pointing directly back at the major. Watson would not have questioned it but the man had been close to too many questionable events.

"Okay, no guarantees," he said. "Let's get going." He holstered his needler. Watson would keep her at arm's length until he determined if she was a friend or an enemy.

Taskforce 5, near Capella IV, Star Fleet carrier Coral Sea

"This is the part I hate sir," Commander Angeline Alvarez told her captain; "Waiting for the minnies to get back."

"We'll see if they are staging at Capella," Captain Mark Tompkins replied. "That is all we need now: To have the Birdies entrenched at Topaz and then a satellite base at Capella. We need to get them out of this region of space; not get tied down in endless skirmishes while they rearm at Romulus."

Tompkins surveyed his bridge. The crew was bored more than tired. He sometimes wondered at the wisdom of the Stellar Navy—no Star Fleet he reminded himself; their decision to put the thirty nine year old ex-operations' officer in charge of a carrier. Two years ago he had been a lieutenant holding a lieutenant commander's billet. The United Earth Stellar Navy was on the way to being phased out to be replaced with a mercantile fleet. Tompkins had received a lucrative offer from Lloyds: Ship out as a first officer on a freighter and by the second cruise he would be master of his own vessel.

That suited Ben just fine: He had always dreamed of exploration and being paid lucratively to do it had been an added bonus. Then the war had come along. Tompkins was offered a promotion to LC and was a full commander less than a year after that. This was his first cruise as captain of this vessel.

"Keokuk is reporting contacts," Chief Linda Jenkins reported. He asked the comm chief to confirm the Powhaton's report. Keokuk was screening the carrier along with her sister escort Mobile Bay.

"Early for the minnies," his first officer interjected. Tompkins liked Alvarez but wondered what would come of people like her after the war. His spirited first officer had been a fire control officer aboard the old Excelsior. Despite her age she had volunteered for and been selected to fly Minotaurs. Tompkins didn't know how many Romulans were aboard one of their cruisers. He did know that Alvarez had done her best to kill many of them.

"Keokuk pinged these guys first," Tompkins said. He absently scratched at his right ear as he considered possibilities. "Chief," he said to Jenkins; "tell Captain Mugabe to fan out further but not to far away. No more than an AU," he added.

Tompkins ordered the bridge viewer display changed from star images to the tactical plot. He followed the patrol orbits of his screen of Powhatons. Between Keokuk, Mobile Bay and his own ship they effectively were able to scan a large volume of the space around them. Ben wished that they had the new counter measure for the sensors but they had departed prior to that fix being implemented. The rolling radar net would have to do. Besides he thought; how could the Romulans trace them back here?

"Ensign Villepin, superimpose the links from our escorts over ours," he instructed the sensor officer. "I want a complete picture." The Frenchman did as he had been instructed.

His first officer let out a low whistle as the image resolved onto the viewer. "That can't be a coincidence that they scan something that deep into our net sir."

"Net hell, number one," he replied. "That is more like a hole." Tompkins turned nervously to his communications' chief. "Jenkins, raise Mugabe and ask for an immediate update. I don't like this at all."

"Sir," Jenkins replied. "Keokuk is sending." He watched while she listened into her earpiece. "They've changed position as ordered; contacts lost."

Tompkins liked this less and less. The change in position also opened up another hole. It could be an anomalous return; then again it could be Romulan cruisers working their way in towards his group. He returned to his original argument: How could they track him back here? Star Fleet had developed the tactic of deploying carriers at random positions near an intended target. The Minotaurs would launch out, make the warp jumps necessary to get to their target, engage the enemy and then warp out. So far the strategy had worked.

"Radar returns!" Villepin announced: "Three point five AU's distant!"

The images appeared on the viewer. Their position was exactly where Tompkins thought that a Romulan cruiser force would try and sneak in at them from. The viewer showed three returns. They were closing in on Taskforce 5 at just over warp 3.1. They had some time. Ben called battle station and started calling in his screen. The Powhatons were outnumbered but simply put: Allied weaponry was superior. The Birdies were at a disadvantage here. The image on the viewer changed. Villepin issued another warning as Tompkins saw that the bogeys' speed had changed to warp 4.1.

"The Birdies don't have anything that fast!" Alvarez exclaimed.

"That we know of, number one," he replied calmly. "Tell me when laser crews report ready and prepare to go to warp. We can return here to commence recovery operations if need be."

"Two contacts have entered normal space just behind Mobile Bay, sir," Villepin added. "They are turning to engage."

It was a short engagement as the data trail representing the Powhaton vanished. Laser and missile crews were reporting in ready as the third contact warped past Keokuk to within nine thousand kilometers of Coral Sea. Tompkins was strapping into his seat when he felt the sickening feeling of the artificial gravity varying settings. Coral Sea had been hit.

"High speed inbounds!" Villepin exclaimed.

"Countermeasures and target that bogey!" he roared.

"Releasing mumbo jumbo captain!" his gunnery officer answered. "Crews reporting a hard time getting a solution on the Moolahs captain!" he added.

Several instrument panels erupted into flame. The artificial gravity lurched again throwing Tompkins against his straps. Damage reports started pouring in. Tompkins wondered what had hit them. The last missile had detonated over two thousand kilometers away. He looked over at the viewer which was now black.

"Helm get us out--,"

"Sir!" his helmsman interrupted. "Engineering reports the warp drive is damaged!"

"I've lost the link with Keokuk sir," Chief Jenkins reported.

The artificial gravity net stagnated for a brief second and then came back on. Tompkins heard a noise like one incredibly loud thump against a thick sheet of metal. The bridge lighting failed but was replaced by the intermittent light of exploding panels and lighting fixtures. Tompkins looked over at the engineering status board. He had a full second to realize that Coral Sea was lost. Ben breathed deeply and instantly regretted it a moment later. There was a loud pop. The bridge chilled as the air swept out into the vacuum of space. Tompkins felt an incredible fire in his lungs. He saw Alvarez's torso fly past him out into the blackness. He registered a blinding white light and then nothing.

Minotaur Squadron Eleven of the Star Fleet carrier Coral Sea, Mar 2158

"This is spooky uh," Ensign Tanzy "Legs" Greer said. "This is strange Bryce," she said to him.

Ensign Bryce "Spooky" Shumar grinned. He knew that was lost on Legs because he was helmeted and shielded from her field of view as she was from his. He held the grin for a full three seconds before dropping it: She was right.

At less than a half a light hour they should have been able to pick up one of the random rotating, coded subspace pulses from their mothership. Shumar checked his instruments. He considered sending out a coded pulse but protocol called for doing at a much closer range. Radar showed nothing fore or aft. He removed a cloth from the stowage area by his left foot. Shumar took it and dabbed at his face. Bryce would be glad to get back to Coral Sea and get into a hot shower. He hoped that the guidance beacon failure was just a glitch.

"Scan through the freqs Legs," he said at last.

"Minnie Two-Three," his squadron commander, Lieutenant Rajesh "Sudden Death" Shankar's voice sounded in Bryce's helmet.

"Three," Shumar replied simply.

Shumar suspected what was coming next. "I need an accounting of your AM packets and O-two scrubbers," Shankar said, confirming Bryce's prediction.

Shumar did as ordered. He added up enough backup scrubber units for fourteen days. His Minotaur had two anti matter packets left: Enough fuel for a half light year journey. He did his own accounting as well: He and Greer had enough food and water for about two weeks of travel. Bryce reported his status to Shankar.

"I'm getting a disaster beacon Spooky," Greer told him. He told Shankar of their findings as he switched over to the frequency that Greer was monitoring. The warbling tones were overlaid with a set of coordinates: The exact location of Coral Sea and her escorts. "There is a video transmission in the clear."

"Put it on," he told her across the fighter's cockpit.

His heads' up display changed: The image of a starfield appeared on his display. A ball of white hot fire blossomed and shrank. Shumar thought that he saw a missile streak by. The image lost focus for a few seconds. When it sharpened to clarity, Shumar found himself staring at a green colored, twin nacelle vessel. The ship was unfamiliar to Shumar but he had no doubt of its identity when a beam of white hot plasma spat out of the ship's bow. The vessel rolled slightly showing the bird of prey adorned on the vessel's primary hull. The image stopped abruptly to be replaced with static.

"We seen that two," Shankar announced.

"Nothing is showing on radar Spooky," Greer told him. She turned bodily suit and all so that he could see her face. "I could take a peek with sensors."

Shumar considered calling Shankar for advice. But Greer's idea was sound. He told her to proceed. He took a deep breath as the warm up time passed and Legs entered the final sequence to start the subspace sensors. He told her to look for only a few seconds. She replied in the affirmative as the HUD image changed again: This time a graphic of energy readings and mass returns showed on his display.

Shumar looked at radiation readings endemic of nuclear explosions. He saw other indications showing the probable discharge and resulting damage caused by plasma weapons. The mass of debris and particles very nearly equaled what Bryce would have guessed for the mass of two Powhatons and a Yorktown class carrier. That was after they had been filtered through the carnage inflicted by bombs and plasma beams. A pulse was elongating outward. Three solid returns were heading away. Greer shut the sensors down. Shumar called his lead and informed him of what he had seen.

It took almost a minute for the reply. "Reduce to warp 0.5 and continue to the rendezvous coordinates." Shumar knew that Sudden Death was considering his next move.

There would be no pickup. That had never been a consideration for these missions given how thin the new Star Fleet was spread. Shumar had to acknowledge too that there had never been a requirement for rescue operations before this. But the navy had a plan. One thing that Bryce David Shumar had discovered was that Star Fleet and its parent organizations the Stellar Navy, Imperial Guard and the Tellarite Defense Force all had one thing in common: They had plans for everything.

Shumar knew that Shankar would assess whose ship was in the best shape. The remaining Minotaurs would transfer their usable anti matter packets and air scrubbers to that plane. That one Minotaur would head toward friendly territory. The others would have the anti matter that was already in containment and whatever atmosphere and supplies they had. They would disperse and look for rescue or a place to set down. More likely that they would die out here in space Bryce thought.

Mount Selaya, the planet Vulcan, earth year Mar 2158,

V'Tel spoke to Micah Brack using the melodious Vulcan language. Lieutenant Frank McCoy watched as his friend nodded at the Vulcan, and then replied in the affirmative in that language. Frank understood from Micah that V'Tel was a sort of teacher of logic. McCoy thought of her as a priestess. She turned to McCoy and said something in her native tongue. McCoy looked at Brack.

"She asked who you are," he replied. "Your full name and lineage," Brack added.

McCoy suddenly felt like he was eleven again; standing before his class reciting the preamble to the World Bill of Rights. "Uh…Franklin David McCoy, son of David and Marta McCoy," he recited haltingly. Brack/Mistral added something in Vulcan. "What did you say?" he asked Brack.

"Nothing important," the industrialist replied.

"Okay, what did you say?" he repeated.

McCoy was causing Brack's attention to be divided between him and the Vulcan. "I said that you are here as my companion Frank." Brack looked back at the dour faced Vulcan.

"Aw, shucks," McCoy said. "It almost makes me want to hug and kiss you Micah." Said in jest, the sentiment did touch Frank who had come to understand that the immortal Brack had shunned friendships for the last few years—hell, centuries McCoy realized.

"We're just friends," Brack retorted. "Don't look for me to include you in my will!"

"You'll just outlive me anyway," he said. McCoy saw a look of pain cross Brack's face. He had struck a nerve. "Look Micah, I'm…."

"Forget it Frank," Brack snapped. "Just for that I will include you in my will!" The immortal grew serious. "You might collect on that Frank: V'Tel has explained that I could become lost during this ceremony."

"How could they lose…," Frank looked around. A great plain spread out beneath them. Giant statues depicting ancient Vulcans stood behind the raised block structure where the removal of the katra was to take place. The group consisting of Frank, Micah, V'Tel and four Vulcan males with their faces partially covered by strange masks stood at the bottom of a great set of stone stairs leading to the temple. He realized that anything could happen here. "I understand."

Brack recited a short alpha numeric sequence and then made Frank repeat it several times. "What is that?" he asked after Brack seemed satisfied that Frank had committed the numbers and letters to his memory.

"There is a computer console in my office," Brack instructed him. "Use the first part of the sequence to get in. The second part will unlock my private encrypted database."

"You really are leaving me in your will!" Frank exclaimed. "Okay, I won't need it. What would I do with all of those credits anyway?"

"There are other things Frank," Brack replied as he started up the steps with V'Tel and her escorts. "You might even find out who really killed Kennedy," Micah called over his shoulder.

"Kennedy who?" he asked in confusion.

Brack turned and shot him a smile. "Forget it. Goodbye Frank."

"I'll see you down here when you are done old man," Frank retorted. Micah Brack turned and ascended the stairs.

Frank paced for awhile before seating himself upon the raised wall of the mighty parapet that he was on. The harsh Vulcan sun descended into the desert floor. Off in the distance he spied a sprawling patch of green. He was given to understand that the Vulcans maintained preserves to promote reforestation efforts. He looked at the blasted desert and counted his blessings that earth had stopped its business of nuclear exchanges before it looked like Vulcan.

He looked at the great winding stone staircase that they had climbed to get here. McCoy thought that it lucky that he had not had a heart attack. He noticed someone toiling up the same stairs. Robed Vulcans appeared and descended down the steps lighting torches as they went. The climber threw back their hood revealing a head full of jet black hair. Frank realized that the hair belonged to a Vulcan female. As she made the final ascent he got a clear look at her: She was attractive, Frank guessed her to be in her late one hundreds.

He absently kicked a small stone and watched it fall. Could they ever trust these people Frank wondered? Romulan agents could be among the aliens and they would never know. The woman nearing his landing vaguely reminded Frank of Chondra: The Romulan agent he and Brack had stopped many months ago in Oklahoma. He looked away as she drew closer. He guessed that she was one of the Vulcans that had a function here in this place. He became aware that she had stopped before him.

"You are McCoy?" she asked. Her English was the same unaccented English that he had heard most Vulcans use.

"Frank McCoy, son of David and Marta," he answered as he stood up.

"I am called T'Les," she said. "I am T'Pol's mother."

McCoy blinked and bowed his head. "I'm sorry for your loss ma'am."

"Why?" she answered without emotion. "You did not cause her death." He looked at her while trying to hide his frustration. She held up a hand. "My apologies; our emotional detachment is confusing to offworlders. The loss of a child is disconcerting. It is for us who are older to precede our children. It should not be this way."

McCoy thought of his own situation. He had no children although his peculiar relationship with Kanya Nayyar might change that. "I don't know. I never had children ma'am," he said at last.

"They are most willful," she said. "Perhaps you are fortunate: Children do not always make wise decisions; it is worse after they become adults."

"My father said always told me that it was a miracle that I could feed and clothe myself," McCoy replied. He wondered if she was hinting at T'Pol's relationship with Tara.

"You were handicapped?" she asked without a change of expression.

"It is a figure of speech," he answered. "Tara was a good man." It was a change of tack but he felt that it needed said. He had almost said boy instead of man. Frank could not help but remember the nervous ensign whose glasses always seemed to slide down his nose. But that young man had given his life to save this world.

"I did not mean to insinuate otherwise Mister McCoy. A Vulcan mating with one of your people is unique but I believe that it would have happened at some point in the future. I approved of her choice of Gupta although I found him…strange. But your people are strange to us: You openly display your emotions and yet you seem to have contained your rages."

"We've been lucky," McCoy said. "Man I mean; lucky that we didn't make our world unlivable, lucky that we made it into space."

"Random chance?" she asked in reply. "Then we must share in your luck," she paused, obviously mulling over that word, "since Gupta never would have come here had you humans destroyed yourself. Do you lament his demise?"

It was the whole reason that he had been sent here. "He was my friend," McCoy said at last. "Maybe this is why we humans stopped killing each other: Too damn many good people, our friends die."

"Their deaths were not in vain," T'Les said. "I do not know what changes will befall our races, but I know that there will be changes."

She asked what he was doing here. McCoy explained as well as he could about Brack and his condition. T'Les seemed surprised that a human was carrying a Vulcan katra and even more surprised at where it had come from.

"This Mistral spent most of his life with humans," T'Les commented. "It would have been interesting to discover what he found so compelling about humanity. It is too bad that I missed a chance to speak with your friend Brack before the katra is transferred."

Frank was silent for a long time. "About that," he said when he finally spoke. "What are the chances that Brack…"

"I do not know," she said in answer to his unfinished question. "The procedure has not been performed in a long time. I have never seen it done in my lifetime."

McCoy said nothing. Micah Brack had lived before the time of Jesus Christ. It seemed inconceivable to Frank that he could die but what would happen if his mind was…lost as he had put it? Brack had been standoffish when they had first started working together. Later on the immortal had provided protection for Eileen Thomas though that act had been in vain. Somewhere in the process the men had become friends. Frank did not want to see his friend die.

"I would sit with you although I do not understand tiny talk," T'Les said.

Frank chuckled when he figured out what she had meant: "Small talk; yes thank you, I would appreciate some company." Frank looked out as he sat silently with the Vulcan. Maybe in some Vulcan way, bereft of emotion, this T'Les needed some company as did he. The Eridani sun sank beneath the blood red horizon.