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."