"I... I am not!" Rom stammered, his green Ferangi head-sheet quivering.

Note-  I should mention that this is not my handiwork, it is a contribution from a friend.  Hope you enjoy it as much as I did. 

Prologue

            Five years ago...

            The starship Defiant knifed across the battlefield, under and over Dominion warships.  It was a time of war for the Federation, and this battle was most likely their final stand against the Dominion and its Founders.  The Defiant's one remaining wing, the Ajax, snagged its nacelle on the command module of a Dominion battle cruiser, and went tumbling end over end.  Finally it collided with a Klingon Bird of Prey, and both vessels burst into flames.

            Captain Benjamin Sisko winced at the explosion, "Dax, take us full ahead, heading: 056.9."

            Once again the Defiant rolled and accelerated, this time roaring past the last line of Dominion ships.

            "We've broken free, Captain!" Lieutenant Commander Dax exclaimed.

            But Sisko maintained his grim countenance, "How many others made it through?"

            Dax's voice dropped to a whisper, "None, Captain."

            "Then we'll have to take on the Dominion ourselves," Sisko said with intensity. "Dax: Plot a course for Deep Space 9... maximum warp."

            "Aye, Captain."

           

            "The Defiant has broken through our lines, sir," Gul Demar announced. "It's coming this way."

            "Well then," Weyoun, the Vorta ambassador instructed immediately, "order immediate pursuit," he looked to the Founder, and she nodded.

            "No," Gul Dukat, the head of the Cardassian goverenment, and the joint leader of the Dominion held up his hand. "I want to destroy Sisko personally.  Let him come.  The Defiant is no match for this station," the Cardassian smiled wolfishly. "Do not worry, ambassador.  Terrak Nor is a virtual fortress," Dukat grinned. "I should know--I captured the slaves who built it." 

            "We're coming up on Deep Space Nine, sir," Dax stated as the disk-shaped Defiant returned to sub-light speeds.

            "The old place never looked so good," Miles O'Brien commented off-handishly.

            "I think we can forget about a stop-over," Sisko said plainly. "Dax, take us into the wormhole."

            "Sir?" All eyes were suddenly on Sisko.

            "Sir," Doctor Bashier spoke up. "You know there are at least one-thousand Dominion reinforcements in there.  We're only one ship."

            "Dukat!" Demar announced. "The Defiant is in range."

            "Excellent," Dukat rubbed his hands together.  His sworn enemy would soon be no more then a floating cloud of space dust.

            "Well," Weyoun prompted, "what are you waiting for?  Kill them."

            "All in good time, my dear ambassador," Dukat held up a finger. "Demar... fire," Dukat's eyes glittered.

            Demar's ridged finger came down heavily on the quantum torpedo firing pad.  But... nothing happened.

            "I said fire, Demar," Dukat repeated in an irqued tone.

            "I can't, sir," Demar checked his console. "The weapons systems are down!"

            "What?" Both Weyoun and Dukat pounced on Demar.

            "I can't explain it," Demar held up his hands. "There must be a malfunction somewhere in the weapons manifold."

            "No," Dukat hissed. "It isn't a malfunction.  It must have been the Major," Dukat said, spitting Major Kira's name from his mouth.  He sighed. "No matter.  What can one ship do against one-thousand of our own?"

            "Hmm," Weyoun murmured. "One could wonder."

            "We're entering the wormhole," Dax said as the blue mouth of the Celestial Temple enveloped them.

            "There's the Dominion fleet," O'Brien mumbled.

            Nog the Ferangi turned in his seat, "I still don't see what difference one ship is going to make..."

            "Raise shields," Sisko ordered. "Load all torpedo bays and prepare to fire on my mark."

            And suddenly, Sisko was with the prophets.

            But in the same instant he was also back on his ship.

            He rubbed his head.  What had the prophets spoke to him about?  Something about not letting the game end.  Something about not letting him commit suicide like this.  He shrugged it off.  He was in charge of his own life.  He made decisions for himself.

            "Sir?" Bashier came up behind him. "Are you all right?"

            "Yes, Doctor, I'm fine.  Prepare to fire torpedoes, Mr. O'Brien."

            "Captain, if I may extend one last protest--" Garrak began.

            "Protest noted, Mr. Garrak," Sisko cut him off. "Mr. O'Brien..." Sisko stopped.  All of the enemy ships on the main viewer were slowly fading away.

            "They've engaged their cloaking devices!" O'Brien exclaimed.

            "No, Chief, I don't think so," Dax said slowly. "I'm reading no trace of them.  No ion trail--nothing."

            "Well they couldn't have just vanished," Bashier protested.

            Sisko stood from his command chair, "I don't know where they went," he rubbed his bald head again. "But I think it's a safe bet they won't be coming back..."

_____________________

            "I... I am not!" Rom stammered, his green Ferangi head-sheet quivering.

            "You are!" Makra shot back. "You are a sniveling Ferangi coward!" his muscles rippled beneath his stiff uniform.

            Paul Plack almost made a move to quiet the big Klingon, but sat back in his command chair with a heavy sigh.  Makra and Rom had been going at it for the entire mission.

            Paul sighed again; his hands tightened on the armrests of his chair.  Ferangi and Klingon were never meant to work with each other--the first with their lust for latinum; the shady deal, and the latter with their obsession with honor.

            In his mind, Paul felt the weight of command descending on his shoulders--the ball was indeed in his court.  But then again, crew relations were not his concern.  That was the job of an old veteran of the field, Paul's good friend, Commodore Albert Daystrom.

            Makra and Rom had been Albert's personal project since before they had left Deep Space Nine.  He was determined to bring Klingon/Ferangi relations together--in his own way,

            "Hey," he said as he took notice of the growing dispute between the two petty officers, "Calm down, gentlemen, or one of you is taking a trip through the airlock in you underwear."

            This statement brought almost a direct halt to the conflict.  Albert Daystrom's threats were not to be taken lightly.

            "Yes, sir," Makra rumbled, the bony ridges on his forehead shifting in the Klingon equivalent of a sigh.

            "Y, yes, sir," Rom replied, mournfully overlapping Makra, "it will never happen again, sir..."

            "I should hope not," Alby arched his eyebrows knowing full well that he had gotten the same response the last time he had broken the two up. "Never again," he echoed Rom's words with a touch of mockery. "Or," he began seriously, "you both get put on sanitation duty for the next week."

            This almost made them stiffen more then the airlock threat.  They returned to their posts without another word.

            Paul shook his head slightly at the whole exchange.  He missed the feel of the Endeavor where he had served as tactical officer.  It's crew had been tried, trained, and professional. 

            Such as it was during his brief service on the warship NX Stiletto.  Once again, professionalism as far as the eye could see.  From his old friend and commanding officer, Captain Peter Schwartz, to the most lowly yeoman in engineering.  All of them hand-picked experts.  But that had been over a year ago.

            Now he was stuck on an old Everest class runabout mapping the Gamma Quadrant Badlands with a bunch of green rookies.

            Paul's brow creased as he--for the millionth time that day--was bombarded by the true feelings of frustration he had been trying to suppress.

            Just as he was about to slip totally into himself, a female voice from the conn brought him back to the land of the living, "Commander," Paige Zuouski announced, "we're getting some very unusual sensor readings off the port bow--strange even for the Badlands."

            Paul was instantly alert, "On screen, Ensign," finally--perhaps some excitement.

            The gray pixely wall at the head of the bridge dissolved into an image of the fiery tumult that was the Gamma Quadrant Badlands.

            "Where, Ms. Zuouski?" Paul squinted his blue eyes against the red glow of plasma that bathed the entire room. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

            "Up in the left-hand corner, Commander," Paige fiddled with the buttons on her console. "I'm getting some interference, " she went on, "but I think I can get you magnification--just give me a second."

            "A second could cost you your life, Ensign," Commodore Daystrom said from his chair next to Paul's.  Paul was once again glad that Daystrom had agreed to take over crew relations--and could keep everyone on their toes.

            "Magnification," Zuouski said a few moments later.

            "It looks like a mar'kogh!" Makra stood from his seat at operations.

            "Pardon me, Lieutenant?" Paul said pointedly--but then some of his harshness vanished as he himself took notice of the phenomenon.

            It was a stark, cold blue against the flowing colors of the flowery Badlands; it pulsed with a hidden energy.  It was minuscule--only a mere three meter's across--but it was attention grabbing none the less.

            "Mr. Lefflier?" Paul prompted.

            "According to the outboard sensors, it seems to be made up of mostly catrazylon," the young Gary Lefflier reported. "Plus a heavy concentration of tachyon and sub-space particles," he continued. "It's not like anything I've ever seen."

            "Hmm... what do you make of it,Commodore?" Paul asked Daystrom.

            "I don't know," Albert rubbed his chin. "But I want to find out.  Helm," he turned to Zuouski, "take us closer to the 'anomaly', heading 054 degrees.  I'd like to--"

            Daystrom was suddenly cut off by a hail from Makra at ops, "Sir," his deep bass fairly shook the bridge of the small ship, "we have an incoming message from Captain Sisko of Deep Space Nine--shall I patch it through?"

            "Yes, Lieutenant, put in on screen," Paul said, the spirit of discovery coursing through his veins.

            "The anomaly will have to wait," Commodore Daystrom chimed in as Captain Benjamin Sisko's goateed personage appeared on the viewer. "Captain," Albert began again, "what can we do for you?"

            "Commodore, Commander," Ben Sisko grinned, his teeth a shocking white against the rest of his dark face. "How goes the expedition?"

            "Fairly well, Captain, thank you," Paul replied. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

            "I'm afraid a slight problem has arisen that will unfortunately bring your mission to a close," Ben replied easily.

            "Problem?" Daystrom asked, concern in his gold-flecked eyes. "What kind of problem?"

            "Hm," Sisko grunted, but maintained his ever-present smile. "To be blunt, Commodore, the problem is you."

            "Me?" Albert questioned, his concern covered by his confusion.

            "Well, as it turns out, you're urgently needed at Starfleet Command for some sort of Admiral's meeting--something about beginning trade negotiations with the Skeloslouns."

            "The Skelosions," Albert corrected automatically, then put a hand to his head. "I forgot all about that!"

            "Well, obviously they didn't forget about you," Sisko quipped, reaching for the baseball on his desk. "They told me to tell you that you're due on Earth in two days," he tossed his autographed ball and caught it.

            "Thank you, Captain," Alby said. "We'll start back towards the worm hole immediately.  Daystrom out."

            There was a small beep as Sisko acknowledged, and then signed off.

            "Well, gentlemen," Daystrom turned to address the bridge crew of the Rushmore, "looks like our mission has been cut a bit short."

            "And just when we discovered something possibly worth-while," Paul heard Paige murmur.

            "Yes," Daystrom had apparently overheard Paige's comment as well, "we can't just let sleeping dogs lie.  I propose we launch a class IV probe into the readings, and mark it on this vessel's star-charts for further study.  Commander?"

            Albert turned to Paul, "Of course, Commodore," Paul conceded readily. "Make it so."

            "Mr. Rom?" Daystrom turned to the science I operator.

            "Right away, Admiral," Rom replied in his nasal Ferangi voice. "Launching probe Gamma five... now," the ship rocked slightly as the probe was ejected, then stabilized.

            "Now, Ms. Zuouski, take us back towards home, full impulse," Paul ordered. "Or Mr. Daystrom here could get into a lot of trouble with his Starfleet pals...

*          *          *

            "Computer," I said abruptly, "shut off Rushmore command log 508164," and the picture of the Rushmore's cramped bridge froze; erased itself from my home desk monitor.

            I ran a hand through my sandy mane, and sat back in my chair.

            That log had been taped a full six days ago--I had just received it in my message base at the Academy where I taught quite regularly.  It had been attached to a small PADD that had simply read: Captain Peter Schwartz--"Does this spark your interest?  Will explain."--Commander Paul Plack.

            I straightened my command uniform with two sharp tugs.  It did indeed "spark my interest", as Paul had known it would.

            Now all I had to do was get in touch with him at a downtown restaurant--as a small PS at the bottom of the PADD had said--today at 0800 hours.

            I absentmindedly looked down at my desk chronometer--then jumped up in surprise--it was already 0751.

            I quickly typed out a note for Jamie--my wife--on another PADD, left it on my desk, and rushed from our Los Angeles dwelling, hoping to catch the 0800 impulse speeder.

            "... So anyway," Paul concluded, putting down his fork, "it's needless to say that I want to go back and follow up on our examination of the anomaly," he leaned forward. "It's something else, Pete.  When I reviewed the sensor logs, I found it was riddled with temporal particles--the stuff time is made of."

            I swallowed a mouthful of Volkalian egg, "So why do you need me?" I asked. "Just take another runabout and study it to your heart's content--I'm sure Sisko would be glad to accommodate you."

            "Well... to be blunt, I don't want just another runabout.  I feel this is really important.  Pete... I haven't told anyone else yet, but temporal particles weren't all I found when I replayed those logs.  I also found an enormous amount of neutrino particles."

            This time I was the one who leaned forward, "Neutrino particles?  What type?"

            "N-45," Paul stated with a flourish.

            "N-45," I murmured. "The same type that are known to keep the Bajoran wormhole stable--and they've also been mixed with T-particles.  That thing couldn't be anything less then a floating extension of trans-space."

            Paul nodded, not a bit smugly, "Yep.  A baby wormhole--and if it ever decides to grow up, it would have enough power to send you to another galaxy; maybe even beyond."

            I had heard enough.  Paul had done more then "spark my interest," he had blown it wide open.  My pupils dilated and turned as I switched my cloned implant eyes from electromagnetic to normal, crystal-clear sight, "What do you want me to do?" I asked, exited, but keeping a level head.

            "I want you to ask Command if they'd be willing to spare one of their sensor boats for me--I mean, us--to go and check it out."

            I wiped my chin on my napkin, "I don't know, Paul.  You know how touchy Starfleet is about handing out ships--since the second Borg War starships have been awfully hard to come by; even big weaponless tugs like sensor boats."

            But then I thought once more of the possible merit this discovery held--and made up my mind, "Listen," I returned my napkin to the table, "This semester at the Academy is almost over.  After I'm done there, meet me at my home in LA, and we'll go to Command together."

            "Thanks, Pete," Paul stood, and made ready to leave. "I won't forget this."