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

                "We clear, Commander?" I asked Paul as he piloted the shuttle out of the Anna May's cargo bay.

            "We're clear, Captain," Paul reported, then turned to Plin. "Raseen, get those maneuvering jets working."

            Plimn's finger's danced across her console, "Maneuvering jets... enabled," she concluded finally.  She turned her head to the side as if checking to make sure the battle between the Odyssey and the scavenger was still raging.

            I sat back and decided to follow her gaze.  I turned and watched through a view port as the somewhat dish-shaped battle scarred Anna May got farther and farther away until it disappeared behind a plasma geyser.

            "Captain," Paul waved a hand in my general direction. "Take a look."

            I moved to watch the view screen.  Raseen had magnified the incoming starship.  There were a few moments before Dan's ship and the alien vessel would be in firing range of each other, so I took the chance to study the new Federation starship.

            It about half the size of a Galaxy class, but was apparently far more maneuverable and boasted greater weaponry.  The saucer section was connected to engineering by a wide neck, and it's thick nacelles ended in curious triangular protrusions.  I made a mental note to ask Dan about them later.  

            It's hull was a slightly darker gray than most ships common to the fleet, and its signage was more military in style.  The standard phaser rings were on the top and on the underside of the saucer, but there was also a dark orange, crescent moon-shaped emitter array covering the forward section of the disk.  It was lined with dull veins of red where the windows of ten forward should have been.  Soon I was unable to distinguish such fine points because it veered into an attack pattern.

            The ship's magnificent phaser emitter surged, then fired.  It's wide beam rippled into the Tregonians' shields.  There was a shower of rainbow colors as the wave collided with its intended target.

            A few more blows were exchanged, and then the fighters entered the skirmish.  They slowly and systematically raked the surface of the enemy vessel, their sleek shapes swarming this way and that.  Dan's starship pulled back, and the fighters went in for the kill.  They operated as a pack of wolves hunting down a giant Wildebeest; as one vessel.

            I turned to Paul, "Pretty fast workers," I commented dryly.

            "Yes, sir," Paul agreed.

            Raseen spoke up, "I've contacted every pilot from the Anna May,," she announced. "Everyone made it out safely.  The entire crew is accounted for, Captain."

            I shifted my gaze from the screen and back towards the viewport on my right.  The Anna May was nowhere to be seen, hidden behind countless layers of liquid plasma.

            "We'll rendezvous with the Odyssey just outside the Badlands as soon as they successfully dispatch of the Tregonian Scavenger," Plin stated.

            I turned to look at the Odyssey and its foe one last time.  But then they too disappeared behind a plasma geyser, and our tiny fleet of shuttles exited the Gamma Quadrant Badlands, and re-entered cold, dark space.

            "Now," I said to Dan Doyle, Raseen Plin--anyone who would listen, "would someone mind telling me what this is all about?"

            It was later--at least a half-hour since the Tregonian ship had been vanquished--I had been re-united with Jamie, and had reported Parker and Neal's passing to her so she could make up the necessary certificates of death to submit to Starfleet Medical.  It was a shame that such talented personnel must occasionally be lost in the line of duty--but what they did was for Starfleet--and Starfleet makes note of any sacrifice, no matter how small.  Little did I know that they were only the first in what would be a long line of casualties.

            Paul, Raseen, and myself were sitting with Dan in his observation lounge on the Odyssey NX-1905.

            "Well, I suppose," Dan started at Plimn's urging, "that it all began a little over three months ago when we picked up the first Tregonian W-transmission.  Now, a W-transmission," he held up his hand to stop my questions, "is basically the Treg's main means of long-range transportation.  It's quick, easy, and... affordable--that is it would be if you had their technology and the materials to work with.

            "Anyway, that wormhole you and Mr. Plack were investigating just a short hour ago was one end of the Tregonians W-T.  This end--the one that we see--is always very unstable; plus it moves around a lot, on the Tregonian commander's order--and it has been busy lately, deploying spies supposedly to 'study our culture.' 

            "Whereas their end is perfectly maintained, and stays stationary," Dan paused. "Do you get what I'm saying?" He inquired of Paul and I.

            When we nodded, he continued, "Lately, Starfleet Command thinks that they've picked up an offensive net being formed by all the spies on this side of the W-transmission.  And from today's events, it looks like they were right," Dan concluded darkly.

            I looked at my old chief engineer--Dan was only approximately the same age as I was--forty-three--but at present, he seemed much older.  There were visible bags under the eyes in his long face, and his fine straw-colored hair was in a disheveled mess--even his normally perfect uniform looked rumpled.

            "But why didn't we know about it?" I asked, still puzzled by the whole secrecy thing.

            "It was unnecessary," Raseen offered simply. "We didn't want to panic anyone just in case our findings turned out baseless."

            "What I want to know, is where this ship and all those new fighters came from," Paul spoke up. "When did the Federation have time to build them?  They have to work 24-7 on reconstructing the rest of the fleet."

            At this, Dan brightened a little bit, as he always did when he talked of starships and they're design, "At first when Admiral Watson submitted the plans for them, they were put to the bottom of the heap--but when Command got word that this new species--the Tregonians--were sneaking around, we got bumped to the top.  I myself supervised the construction of the Odyssey--it's quite a little ship, really."

            "Well, this starship I can understand," I allowed. "But how did you keep the manufacturing of the fighters a secret?"

            Dan grinned, and touched a button on the table, "Ensign Yero, would you send pilot 001 of the fighter Maverick to the observation lounge, please?"

            "Right away, sir," came the reply.

            "I think he'll be more adept at answering that question," Dan said secretively.

            A few moments later, the door chimed, "Come," Dan called.
            Edward Reagan's lanky form stood in the doorway.

           

            "Risa?" Paul asked after Ed had sat down explained about Starfleet's secret construction site on the recreational planet. "You mean all this time you've been hiding out on Risa?" Edward nodded. "How'd you manage that?"

            "Well, mostly," Ed began, and I focused my attention on his gravely voice, "we stayed deep underground in an old factory left over from the days when Risa used to be a mining planet.  And when we did need something from the surface, we only sneaked out under the cover of darkness--it worked like a charm," he grinned.

            "We also had the experience of Lieutenant Commander La Forge and Commander Worf to guide us," Ed went on. "Seeing those two in action--Geordi helping Dan with the design of the Odyssey, and Worf working with me on the fighters--was a thrill all in itself."

            "Yeah," Paul said, sensing Ed was finished. "Those fighters are something else; the Federation has never had anything like them on their side before."

            "The Federation has never even allowed stuff like that on their side before," Ed corrected. "These puppies are mean--down-right savage--and specially manufactured to fight the Tregonians."

            "Which means that after this 'war' Starfleet is expecting is over and done with, all knowledge of the fighters and their design will probably have to be scrapped and forgotten," Dan put in.  "But that doesn't mean that we can't enjoy them now," he added, his mouth turning upward in a small smile.

            "In fact," Raseen started. "I think I'm authorized to maybe... let you check them out for yourselves?" At this she turned her gaze towards Ed. "Am I right in this assumption, Lieutenant?"

            "Absolutely," Ed nodded his head in a very business-like manner. "Right this way to fighter-bay three." He gestured in the direction of the door.

            Slowly, Paul and I both rose from our seats and followed our old friend.

            "This over here is the typical Ecraseur class fighter," Edward gestured to a obviously short-range vehicle christened the U.S.S. Gambit. "Note the sleek design, the transparasteel canopy, and the type four phaser emitters.  Now," he continued. "That stuff's all pretty normal.  Next I'll show you why you have to be over eighteen to drive one of these babies."

            Ed moved around to the cock-pit of the knife-like fighter, and pressed the release button.  The clear canopy lifted with an almost inaudible hiss of escaping air.  Ed leaned into the hole it left behind so he could point out different systems to Paul and myself.  Raseen and Dan stood off to the side and took in Ed's narration as well.

            "Here," he said, pointing to a mass of cables and little blinking lights behind the padded pilot's chair, "is the shield generator--an experimental model from the D'eran series.  And here," he pointed to a button on the fighter's control panel, "is the release that fires the fighter's payload of micro-torpedoes--Bensanm series," now Ed straightened up and closed the Gambit's canopy. "And finally, the body of this machine is made completely of a new kind of tritanium mesh--strongest stuff around," Mr. Reagan dusted his hands off, then grinned. "These are the Federation's new 'bad boys.'  And best of all," he reached into the tiny pouch at his hip, "they're easily compatible," finally, he pulled out a small hexagonal disk, "with today's top-of-the line photon disk system," he grinned again. "What's the gift of flight without the gift of music?"

            Paul sniggered.

            "But Lieutenant," I protested, "all of the things you say make these ships great have either been discontinued or are illegal--Bensanm and D'eran have been in jail for the past three, four years because un-safe, unreliable theories have killed too many people."

            Edward's red eyebrows shot up and away from his large brown eyes, "Exactly my point," then he smiled again. "Let me tell you: if there is a war like Command thinks there will be, Starfleet will need all the help it can get--our fleet is still only up to sixty percent efficiency," at this Ed's expression turned grim, a mirror image of Dan's countenance earlier that day in the lounge. "The Borg war last year really hurt us--frankly, I don't know if the Federation could withstand another conflict so soon without breaking a few rules; taking a few risks."

            "This is beginning to sound more serious then I thought," I murmured. "And if what we saw not two hours ago was any display of the Tregonian's power, then by no means can this be taken lightly," I turned to Raseen and Dan. "You must have connections with Head Admiral Watson--what does he want me to do?"

            "Funny you should ask," Raseen said.

            "I don't find this situation very amusing, Commander," I replied stiffly.

            "Well then," Dan spoke up. "Allow me to formally welcome you to the Odyssey--your new command..."

             Starfleet Admirals are born tacticians, natural leaders--and they also have the uncanny ability to make you feel smaller and weaker then the smallest Belzoidian flea in their presence.

            Head Admiral Watson was no exception.

            It had been three days since that fateful investigative mission to the Badlands, and I was just now picking up my full assignment from Command.

            "With all due respect, sir," I began again. "I don't see what 'waiting around for a few days' will accomplish.  Starfleet is almost positive there will be a war in view of the Tregonian's recent actions.  I don't see why we don't at least start sending out regular patrols."

            "We want to wait until the Tregs make their first move," Watson stood from his chair behind his massive desk. "--And if they don't do so within the next week, I will."

            I scrunched down in my own chair.  I still didn't see his reasoning, but thought better of saying so.

            The next few moments were passed by means of uncomfortable silence.  Then the Admiral came to life again.

            "Now--let's get on with the meeting, shall we?" He pulled out a PADD and keyed up the information he needed on it's tiny screen. "The next thing I would like to discuss with you is your senior crew roster," Watson walked slowly over to a large blank screen on the wall of his office and activated it. "Computer," he spoke to the familiar voice activated central computer that connected all of Command and most of Starfleet as well, "interface with this PADD device and show--on screen one--the crew roster for the Odyssey 1905."

            "Crew roster, Odyssey 1905," the computer repeated in it's prissy female voice. "Updated version?"

            "Yes," Watson consulted his PADD. "The updated one."

            "Working," the computer said, then viewer one lit up with a portrait of me on one half of it and some small apparently biographical print on the other half.  It was an old picture, taken probably about a year ago when I still had my hair short. "Commanding officer: Captain Peter Schwartz," now my face disappeared and was replaced by Paul's no- neck personage. "Executive officer: Commander Paul Plack.  Second officer: Commander Raseen Plin," now the screen showed Raseen; and so on. "Tactical officer: Lieutenant Commander Edward Reagan.  Chief engineering officer: Lieutenant Commander Daniel Doyle.  Chief medical officer: Jamie Schwartz.  Ship's counselor: Julie Chase," after this last name, the computer paused. "Do you wish to view the secondary staff?"

            "No, computer," Watson held up his hand. "That will be all," then the Admiral looked at me. "I trust you are familiar with all of the senior staff?"

            "Hm," I allowed. "All except for that last name--Julie Chase, I believe it was?" Watson nodded. "Yes.  I don't believe I've ever worked with her."

            "That's probably because you've never been in need of a psychiatrist before," Watson returned to his desk. "Trust me--she's a good officer, and an excellent counselor.  She's also a full Betazoid; mentored by Deanna Troi of the Enterprise, you know."

            "Ah," I said in recognition. "But tell me, Admiral... why would we need a ship's counselor?  We're going to war."

            "You'd be surprised at how many severe psychological cases develop during a period of war.  And I don't think you want to lose any of your future crew members to paranoia or suicidal tendencies brought on by extreme stress."

            "I see what you mean," I replied, taking in all the Admiral was saying. "Is there anything else?"

            "Just one more thing," Watson held up his hand. "Due to a recent rescheduling, and some last minute string pulling, we've managed to hook you a partner for front-line patrol in the Badlands."

            "Who, sir?" my cloned eyes did a little flip in their sockets in their version of a blink.  I could still blink naturally of course, but it was no longer necessary.

            "Who else but the best in the fleet?  You'll be working with the U.S.S. Enterprise E and her crew."

            I nodded slowly--the Enterprise E: the sixth incarnation since the original legendary Constitution class vessel Commanded by James T. Kirk.  I could have said a great many things--I could have at least said thank you.  But all that came out was, "Yes, sir.  Is that all, sir?" 

            "Yes, Captain, dismissed," Watson waved his hand vaguely in my direction.

            At his bidding, I walked slowly out of the Admiral's office, and into the corridors of Starfleet Command; San Francisco, contemplating the events of our meeting.

            Captain's Log     Stardate: 56708.9:  Two days ago, the Tregonians attacked and destroyed Federation outposts Tangaren and Zailian.  So--by order of Starfleet Command--we of the Odyssey have rendezvoused with the Enterprise, and are currently patrolling the Tregonian's W-T for any attempt on their part to send further troop enforcement.  So far the line has been quiet--but constant drills are being run to keep both crews on their toes.

            Still, neither the former nor the latter have had much real battle experience, save for the two Borg Wars and a few scattered skirmishes.

            The Federation is not only worried about it's crewer's lack of experience, but also about it's lack of starships.  Frankly, I'm told, the Borg War last year has seriously depleted our fleet--but with new additions such as the fighters and the Odyssey, the Federation believes we'll at least have a fighting chance.

            I passed through my ready room doors smoothly, and stepped onto the thin teal carpet of the bridge.  I looked slowly around, giving my new command a good once over.      It was indeed a much more involved bridge then even the Stiletto had had.  Conn and ops were not in their traditional places in front of the command area but in opposing niches behind the set of three chairs that would be filled by myself, the Commander, and the Counseler.  An ensign named Farel Hail was manning ops, and a lieutenant named Michael Green was manning the conn.  The pilot station--worked by Ms. Plin--was down in the "pit" at the extreme front of the bridge, the viewscreen towering above it.  Science one and two were strategically placed at either side of the cylindrical bridge module.  Tactical--instead of being a single horse shoe-shaped console--had been split down the middle, Ed manipulating the right side behind Paul's chair.

            I started to move towards my chair in the dim red lighting emanating from several glossy panels along the walls.  No, this didn't signify that anything was wrong with the ship's illumination processes; it was just a reminder that the ship was fully alert and battle ready.

            "Anything to report, Commander?" I inquired as I sat down next to my first officer.

            Paul shook his head, "Nothing out of the ordinary, Captain--the Enterprise reports the same conditions."

            "Any word from Command?" I put forth another question.

            "None, sir... but Deep Space 9 reports that Earth is almost 53% through it's garrison sequence, and they estimate another five days will be needed to complete it.  DS9 also sends salutations from the Klingon and Vulcan fleets who have joined our own outside the Bajoran Worm hole to lie in wait for the first wave of Tregonians."

            "Well," I grunted, "if the Tregs want the Milky Way, they'll have to go through us first."

            Hm.  I stopped then to think about what I had just said.  That was they're goal, wasn't it?  It brought things into perspective.  This wasn't just the Alpha Quadrant we were fighting for--it was our entire galaxy.  The four quadrants.  But it was the Federation who had first angered the Tregonians.  Doubtless that fact would make Command their first target.

            And Command meant Earth--and Earth meant Tianna.  I felt a hollow gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Images flashed before my eyes; horrible images of what would happen to my little daughter--not to mention the population of Earth itself--if the Tregonians managed to reached it before the garrison was completed.

            But then a bigger question rose from the ashes of the first.  The Federation was one of the most influential societies in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.  If it fell prey to the evil Tregonians, that would pretty much hand them political control of half the galaxy.

            I shivered, "They won't get through us.  They can't."

            "Don't worry, Captain," Ed answered my unintended question from his place at tactical.  I turned to face him, and saw that he was no longer wearing a normal uniform, but a baggy black jumpsuit with streaks of gold running up the sides and over the shoulders.  An unfamiliar variation of the Starfleet delta was pinned to his narrow chest.  I frowned, and almost asked him why he was out of uniform, but then I remembered that he was a pilot and this must be the new pilot fatigue Command had issued.

            Edward continued, oblivious to my examination, "Yes, sir.  With me at the Odyssey's tactical, and Worf over there working the Enterprise's weapons, I'd say those Tregs are as good as gone--not to mention the huge compliment of fighters we're both carrying.  And besides," he went on with a wave of his hand, "our job is only to hold them off until Earth can complete it's garrison sequence."

            "Of course," a new voice spoke up. "I believe we'll be able to do that and possibly more--I can sense the confidence on this ship; on the Enterprise."

            I looked over to my right where the sound had originated--and found myself staring into the liquid eyes of the new ship's counselor, Julie Chase.  She was an ageless sort of woman--she could be anywhere from twenty to forty; though I never inquired about one's years.  She had long dark hair to match her tall, thin frame, and wore a standard blue collared sciences uniform.

            "To be sure, Counselor, to be sure," I replied. "I'm just worried that we might be sitting on a huge psychological time bomb."

            The Counselor cocked her head a bit to the left, "How so?"

            "Well, take for example, a piece of Terkarion china.  Sure, it's fine to put on display; to look at--but submit it to the slightest amount of stress," I shifted my weight as I continued with the explanation, "and... crack... it shatters into a million pieces.  Personally, I feel that this crew has never really known stress such as we are about to face--and though they show no sign of weakness now, who knows how much more they can take."

            At this, Julie shook her head, "No," she said firmly. "I have studied each crewer's psychological profile myself many times over.  And from that--even without my Betazoid senses; just by calling on my psychology training--I can tell for sure that every individual on this ship is quite stable--and can endure a considerable amount of stress."

            Hm, I smiled to myself, beaten again.  This was the tenth little psychological argument I had lost over the last four days.  Many of the others were much more complicated, and I rated this one as rather tame.  But still, every time myself and the Counselor fell upon a discussion such as this, she was always able to blow my one year training at the Academy out of the proverbial water.

            I smiled again--a good sparring partner was what one really needed to keep one on his toes.

            "Sickbay to bridge," a very familiar voice brought me out of my musings.  Jamie.

            "Bridge here, Doctor," I replied generically, though I had been waiting for her call for over ten minutes now. "Do you have a final report for me?"

            "Yes, sir," Jamie replied slowly, as if she were having some sort of trouble forming her syllables; I could almost see her wide-set eyes clouding over, it was such a severe variation of her normal method of speech.  Then I heard her pause, and take a deep breath.

            "Is something wrong, Doctor?" Paul asked--obviously he had made note of it as well.

            "No," she assured us, her voice slowly returning to it's normal speed and clarity. "Nothing, sirs."

            I was about to press her further, but, I decided against it and produced another question instead, "Report, Dr. Schwartz?"

            "Right," Jamie began. "To start off with, I'd like to let you know that sick bays one and two have both been fully converted into emergency medical facilities, and that the EMH has been activated in both," there was a slight bzzt to signify that our new com system was still working out some of it's glitches. "Two medical teams of four each are manning the two bays."

            "Have you assigned team leaders to supervise in each bay?" I asked a standard question.

            "Um," I could hear Jamie keying the lock off a PADD to look up the information, "Yes.  Team Alpha will be lead by nurse... Chelsea Watson... and team Beta will be lead by nurse Corinne DeDaria."

            "Hmm.  The second name I'm familiar with," I allowed--Corinne was an old friend of mine and Jamie's.  We had been especially close to her parents--but after they had died in Gargion Massacre, we had become almost like a foster family to the girl.  She was a promising doctor, and had recently graduated the academy with honors. "But the first nurse--Watson--I've never heard of her.  Do we have her medical record aboard?"

            "I think so," Jamie paused again--but then. "Nope.  We only have a biographical.  Says here she's twenty-six, and the daughter of Head-Admiral Alan Watson, and Federation council member Donna Watson--need anything else?"

            "No," I held up my hand," that's enough.  If I want more, I'll request her medical record be sent here from Command."

            I heard Jamie putting her PADD down, "Is that all, sir?"

            "Yes, Doctor," I said. "Bridge out."

            There was a soft chime as the com channel was cut.

            "That's the last report," Paul pushed a few more panels on his console.

            "The ship is now officially battle-ready," I agreed. 

            "Yes," Julie began again. "And as far as I'm concerned, it went rather well...and with an inexperienced crew besides."  She raised an eyebrow in my direction.

            Inside, I laughed at her comment.  Maybe things weren't so hopeless after all.