PUBLISHED ON Nov 25, 2021

Chapter 6: Next Steps

Konnie, Mount Whitecap military base, commander center
March 3, 2528, Koprulu Terran Calendar
1635 local time

The sounds of fighting raged through the base and its little shelter within the mountain's terrain. Whatever was happening in orbit, the Cardassians had committed to a full assault of the Marshal's base, and they weren't making things easy. They were still at the outer defenses, but that was a minor miracle just due to how many bodies the Cardassians were throwing at them. Wilks had long since stopped bothering to look at the computer's estimate for how many troops the Cardassians had outside his base. The number of pings he was seeing on his console brought back shades of holding out against the zerg.

'We've already killed over a thousand and they're still coming…' he shook his head sadly. Terran or protoss morale was usually legendary in how difficult it was to break outside of extreme circumstances, but he'd seen it happen plenty of times. More than that though he'd seen commanders, often the good ones, realize when an assault failed and order a retreat to reorganize and plan a new approach. The Cardassians hadn't done that. He'd also seen plenty of commanders like this, the ones that cared only about results, and not the cost of the meat grinder. 'These spoonheads are about as callous as old Arcturus.'

Two of the up gunned SCVs were down, three of the bunkers were burning, even if two still had personnel firing from them, and he was moving up another fifty marines to act as a rear guard. He could see where the fighting at the outer defenses was going. Between the mortars, launchers and sheer press of bodies the bunkers and men and women in the trenches were being overwhelmed. He'd sent a recall order to the tanks and a small detachment of marines to escort them, but he figured they had a low chance of arriving in time to change the fortunes of the first line.

As he examined how the battle was evolving though, he noticed something. It started small, and then it grew, like a propagating wave. It was disorganization, confusion, sweeping through the Cardassian ranks. He checked the inbound reports. The Cardassian assault was no longer a unified effort. In some areas they were retreating, in others they were pressing the assault. 'Why?' he glared at the console. Was it a feint? Was their morale finally breaking?

The console pinged; it was an incoming transmission from Picard's ship, all frequencies, and all channels. "This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise to all Cardassian forces left on the planet. By now I have no doubt that you have received the order to retreat from Gul Nantil. Your commander has already fled; there are military vessels from local powers now in orbit and preparing to land ground troops. You have my word as a Federation captain that if you surrender now that you will be treated humanely and with dignity."

Wilks blinked, blinked again, and smiled. He couldn't believe it. He went to the window of the command center and watched, he could see the signs of atmospheric entry against the hulls of craft. He knew those silhouettes, they were Vikings. He saw them streak downwards, their hulls still glowing. He'd seen the move many times, the pilots were about to shift their craft into walker mode. He watched with an almost mad glee as the craft suddenly arrested in mid-air and fell, landing hard among the Cardassian ranks, furthering the panic and confusion. He tapped into the local communications network, his glee evident.

"Oh, by the way," he chortled, "those are the Mark 2 Vikings. They're the models that can use both their gatlings and antimatter torpedoes in either mode. I'd advise you to think on the good captain's offer mighty carefully."

Konnie, Mount Whitecap military base, commander center
Stardate 44099.1
1640 local time

Transporting down to a disaster area was nothing new to Crusher. She'd done it countless times. What she hadn't been expecting was the shocked and scared reactions from those around her and her team, let alone the fact that some people went for their weapons. "Jaysus! It's like the Protoss 'portin in! A little warning would have been nice!" Was one man's response to their arrival, earning him one of her signature stares of disapproval.

"You'll have to forgive me for choosing punctuality over formality. Now, you've got wounded, including one of our people. Where's your hospital?" The man stared back for a moment before huffing in defeat and gesturing for her and her team to follow. She tried to ignore the stares, or how many trigger fingers were still uncomfortably in the ready position.

The hospital itself though was another matter. There was a disturbing familiarity to it, the controlled chaos of caregivers in a disaster situation. The air was filled with the acrid scent of strong disinfectant and antiseptic substances, along with the moans of the injured, as well as the dying. It was a sight she'd read about back at the Academy, and she'd certainly become accustomed to working with the victims of a disaster, but this was something else entirely. She flagged down a passing doctor, just to get a quick overview of where her people were needed. The last thing she wanted was for her team to be underfoot.

With that done, she rushed to find Ensign Kershaw, he was her first priority as the ship's head of medical, especially because she actually had some idea as to his status, limited as it was. She kept her head on a swivel, all the while forcing down the urge to gawk, to stop and stare at the men and women groaning in pain from disruptor burns of varying severity, at those missing limbs or seemed to be more bandage than person. One bed she passed, presided over by a very animated pair of physicians, seemed to hold what may have been a person. She couldn't tell from how cut to ribbons they were.

Eventually, she found Kershaw, the young man hooked up to a variety of life support equipment she couldn't readily identify, even if some if seemed primitive, at least by Starfleet standards. She wouldn't fault it for that, especially as she read the diagnosis as presented by her tricorder. It was a miracle the young man was still alive. Whatever these "nanomeds" the colonists apparently made use of were, according to Riker at least, they were probably the one reason he was stable, and even that was deteriorating.

"Crusher to Enterprise, I've found Ensign Kershaw, Captain. I recommend he be among the very first evacuated. Whatever the colonial doctors have done, they've kept him alive, but if I want to save his life, we need to get him to a starbase with a proper medical facility soon. He's lucky to be alive, Jean-Luc. One of the beams grazed his heart. At my best estimate, I'd be able to keep him alive for a week and a half on the Enterprise."

Enterprise-D, Bridge
Stardate 44099.2
1645 Shipboard time

Following the cessations of immediate hostilities on and around the planet, Picard found himself in a meeting with the commodores, the viewscreen split two ways. It briefly struck him how oddly anachronistic their uniforms were, like a mix of styles from the World Wars and the Age of Sail on Earth. It certainly had a bit of pomp and circumstance about it, even if at the least Brownrigg seemed fairly lax. Regardless, the next steps were crucial to the foundation of any further diplomatic contact, especially with the Cardassians having escaped. Still, with the arrival of the Raiders and Umojans on the planet proper, the Cardassians were surrendering en masse, at least in most cases. There were a few last stands, as of the last reports.

"Commodore Brownrigg, I suppose the question becomes what happens now? Despite what has happened, I can assure you the Federation has no interest in conquest. We are explorers, we desire peaceful contact above all else. And I severely the doubt the Cardassians will try to make another move against your people so soon after this," although even as he said the words, some part of him doubted this. The Cardassians were nothing if not persistent. With Nantil at large, probably racing back to Cardassia Prime, there was only two ways it could end, assuming the high command didn't kill him. They'd either bite their tongues and enter negotiations, or they'd come back with an even larger force. Picard feared the latter was far more likely given recent history.

"Additionally," he continued, "we have to retrieve our people from the surface, several of whom are injured, one critically. Based on the reports I've been given, the ensign in question is stable, but requires immediate surgery if he is to survive." He had to hold in a grimace. Young Kershaw's situation was dire. It was a miracle, perhaps a testament to the skill of the colonial doctors and their methods that the young man was still alive. Few people survived long having a disruptor bolt graze their heart. Kershaw may even need a cardiac implant to survive. That struck far too close to home.

Reid nodded, her face was impassive, almost stone-like, but her eyes told a different story. "Captain, if his situation is that severe, I'd like to extend the offer to have him brought aboard our science vessel. It's my fleet's support and primary medical ship. It has a high grade medical suite, something more than capable of treating the worst of the injured if Cardassian disruptors are even half like those of the Protoss. It's the least we can do to repay you and your people for assisting the colonists."

"I'm in agreement with Commodore Reid," Brownrigg huffed, taking a sip from a flask. Picard arched an eyebrow in minor disapproval. A drink here and there was fine, but that was certainly unbecoming of a commodore. "Your man nearly died to help those people. The Umojans may be a bit stuck up," he chuckled as Reid shot him a mildly toxic glare, "but their medical facilities are some of the best there are. Probably better than even what I've got on the Shield. If your man is still breathing, they'll give him the best chance of recovery." Brownrigg took another drink.

"After that, once things are sorted, we'll lead you to Korhal. I'll send a message back home to inform Admiral Horner of the situation so that proper arrangements can be made. I'm sure he and Emperor Valerian will be pleased to meet you. I'll also have my people make a first contact package. That's not really standard issue, so it'll be pretty adhoc." Picard nodded his assent.

It was logical, even if part of him dreaded what that said about the area at large, despite what Grigsby had told them earlier. "So long as Doctor Crusher is present, that is more than acceptable. She'll have Ensign Kershaw's medical records, and knowing her she'll want to help directly given the extent of his injuries. However, I'm not sure how long a distance it is to your nation's capital world Commodore Brownrigg. The Enterprise is fast, Commodore, but even she has her limits." He noted how Brownrigg and Reid shared a look of mutual confusion for a brief moment. 'You really don't understand the significance of your transwarp drives, do you?' It was an incredible wonder, that such a thing to these people, which has eluded the best Federation minds, was a commonplace thing.

"Captain," Reid started, doing her best to keep her confusion in check, "at a rough estimate, it would take mine or Commodore Brownrigg's ships about a week and a half to reach Korhal from this point on the fringe. I don't know what that translates to for your ship, but if need be, in theory you could, to use a colloquialism, 'piggy-back' Brownrigg's jump. It's not something that happens very often, but it's been done to my understanding." He nodded at this; it wouldn't have been the first time he and his crew had done something risky like this. In truth, the fact it was a controlled process probably made this less risky than some of the things they'd done in his tenure as captain.

"I'll have my engineers talk with Commodore Brownrigg's people then. I don't want to have to delay any longer than is necessary. I'd rather not let the actions of a single overambitious Cardassian gul paint the entirety of the Alpha Quadrant as warmongers in the eyes of your peoples."

Umojan Science Vessel, medical bay
Stardate 44099.2
1700 Shipboard time

Materializing on the vessel alongside two of her people and the comatose Kershaw, Crusher hadn't been sure what to expect. Aside from the sudden outburst of an expletive or two, given that seemed to be the general reaction to a transport among these people. The actual medical bay was large, seemingly well segmented from what she saw of it at her entry point, with clear separation between different wards and areas. That this area alone had dozens of personnel working in it by her count reminded her more of a proper hospital than any medical facility on a starship. Although, given how big these people built their ships, it was probably one of the key benefits.

"Alright, that's enough gawking! Get back to work!" a woman shouted as she pushed through the group of on looking personnel, eliciting some frightened gasps as the group scattered. She seemed to be in her mid to late sixties by Crusher's estimate and judging by her demeanor, Crusher had to wonder if her default state of being was one of simmering fury given the reaction of those around her. "You Crusher?" The question was rhetorical, given she was looking over Kershaw. The woman's resting frown turned into a near scowl.

"Alright, fine, fine, you are given the pajamas and the poor bastard you've got on the stretcher. Matches the description the Commodore gave us. With me, maybe if the low-grade he's got in his system holds out long enough we may be able to save his life." The woman gestured and Crusher and her team followed quickly, past the rows of sedated patients and attending physicians. The sheer scale of this place, that it was on a ship, was still mind boggling

Arriving at a surgical suite, she and her people quickly donned their surgical gear. "Good," the Umojan doctor grunted, "don't have to waste time familiarizing you with our gear. Now, what about his medical records?" Crusher handed over her datapad, a mild frown on her lips. The situation was serious, but the woman could stand to be a bit more polite she thought.

"No outstanding medical issues, aside from a broken bone as a child." She finished donning her scrubs. "He's as healthy as a young man in twenties can be expected to be for someone in security. The biggest issue I foresee is his heart. I didn't have a full suite down on the planet, but even with just my tricorder, I can tell the damage is extensive. He's had veins and arteries damaged or outright destroyed, and one of his valves may have been semi-cauterized." They moved Kershaw into the suite proper, Crusher and her people doing their best to help, but the foreign equipment they left to the people who knew it best.

Some people may have considered her arrogant, even narcissistic, but she wasn't going to tell foreign doctors how to run things in their own house. Kershaw didn't need her trying to micromanage people who were probably working off of borrowed and tenuous trust at best. As they finished hooking him to all the myriad machines, the devices finally outputting the information they would need to save his life, the Umojan doctor swore verbosely. Crusher felt her cheeks redden.

"God damn it! Doctor Crusher, I hope you and your people are in for a long stay. It's worse than either of us thought. I was right about the low-grade nanomeds keeping him alive, but they're starting to fail, and he's not just dealing with severed veins." The other surgeon stormed over to some manner of medical analysis unit, practically dragging Crusher with her.

"Dealing with that'd be simple, rather there's a chunk of his heart that's so much seared meat. And that's not even counting the damage done to the muscles on his back. Doctor, I don't know what your people's stance on cybernetics is, but if your man wants to live to a ripe old age, we're going to need to replace his heart entirely, and that's after we replace some of his veins with tubing so he doesn't bleed out. We'll have to patch a lung, but the beam cauterized that shut at least. After that we'll have to do a spinal graft to repair the nerves and bone there, and that's assuming we don't have to replace entire segments of his guts. "

Enterprise-D, meeting room
Stardate 44099.6
1930 Shipboard time

The meeting room was somber. Worf and Riker were clearly exhausted; the change into clean uniforms following their return had done little to help hide that fact. Crusher was no different. She'd been on her feet practically from the word go, even after helping to save Ensign Kershaw's life. The young man was currently recuperating on the Umojan vessel still, their doctors insisting he remain for a period of observation until they were sure his new heart was fully functional and that his body was healing properly. He wasn't sure he was entirely okay with one of his crew having foreign technology in their body, but he wasn't going to condemn the young man to death over it.

Out of everyone present, Troi was palpably uncomfortable, La Forge and Data didn't seem the least bit exhausted, although that was likely because the latter had been in engineering and away from the action, and Data was Data. He didn't need much "sleep" to function. All of that and more was why Picard was carrying a platter of hot drinks: Earl Grey tea for him and Crusher, coffee for Riker, and raktajino for Worf.

They were all in severe need of a small boost, and right now his officers especially needed their captain to be on the more calm and considerate side given the circumstances. He handed out the beverages, taking note how out of the three, only Worf gave him even a nod of thanks, and Riker's stare reminded him all too much of what happened after Wolf-359. He had to fight the urge to grimace as he sat down, seeing his people like this.

"I understand how difficult this has been for all of us," he began with a soft and even tone, passing over them one by one, "but I want you all to know that I think you did the best you could given the circumstances. We all faced parts of a difficult, dangerous and dehumanizing situation and in doing so we helped to save thousands of lives. More than that, we may have just taken the first steps in preventing a war." He paused to gauge their reactions.

Crusher tentatively sipped at her tea, her eyes refusing to meet his. Riker gave him a cynical look, repressed anger apparent in his features. It was clear he wanted to say something, but was struggling to find the words. Worf, perhaps the most strange of them all, seemed oddly deflated. Picard hardly ever considered his chief of security bloodthirsty, but he hadn't expected the man to be so subdued, especially not after what he had managed on the planet.

"Jean-Luc," Crusher's voice was soft, almost whispering. "Today I may have pushed the boundaries of what constitutes good medical ethics. To call what happened here 'difficult' is an understatement." Still her eyes did not meet his, simply gazing out the windows and into space.

"Now hold on," La Forge interjected. "From what I've heard, you helped save Ensign Kershaw's life. I really fail to see how that stretches any boundaries, doc. It's not like you experimented on someone to make it possible. Besides, the captain has an artificial heart. I'm not seeing what the problem here is." The way she slowly turned her head and glared at him gave La Forge just long enough to realize he'd probably put his foot in his mouth again, and that he was grateful there weren't any medical implements nearby.

"Yes, the captain has an artificial heart, Geordi, but his is more like a recreation of the real thing. He has a pulse. Kershaw does not." Worf turned his head to look at her with an unsettled expression, Picards face hardened, Troi paled and Data furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean that Kershaw doesn't have a pulse?" Geordi's tone was tinged by irritation and confusion. Everyone could see that he did not see a problem given the young man's life had apparently been saved.

"Just that," her tone wasn't quite dead, but it was hard and yet hollow, "I'll freely concede that whatever technology these people may have in regards to prosthetics it may be ahead of us in several ways from just what I saw on that ship." She leaned in closer, staring daggers at him still. "But he doesn't have a pulse. That heart doesn't beat. It's basically a pump keeping blood and oxygen flowing through his body. If you listened closely you could hear a faint hum, maybe it would be louder in a stress situation. I checked the specs, as far as I can tell it's safe, and it's capable of regulating pressure and shifting in the event of say, a fight or flight response, or other autonomic functions of the body. But for all intents and purposes he doesn't have a pulse. And that's not counting the grafts we had to do to repair the damage done to his spinal column or his muscular system."

She leaned back in her chair, slumping a bit, taking another tentative sip, refusing to meet the gazes of the others. Crusher was known for her strong and often opinionated views on matters, things she would defend passionately, or go into sometimes gruesome detail over. It wasn't unusual for her to become somewhat depressed following a crisis, but to see her disturbed in such a way was far from usual.

The heavy silence continued unabated for several minutes, each of them processing this information in their own ways. Worf, eventually, broke the silence.

"Captain, as terrible as what happened to Ensign Kershaw is, he will live. I would also like to put him forth for commendation given his bravery in the face of the danger faced," his tone was somber. "However, I believe that the injuries he sustained could have been prevented, or at least their severity lessened, and that if such measures had been taken, captain, Ensign Chelos would have survived." Picard arched an eyebrow. This was not what he'd been expecting from his chief of security.

"Mister Worf, perhaps you could elaborate," he knew he was choosing his words carefully. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow." There was some anger evident in Worf's eyes.

"Simply put, Captain, we were not equipped for this mission. Had we been better equipped, I do not believe that Ensign Kershaw would have required a total replacement of his heart, and again I must stress that Ensign Chelos might still be alive. I believe that if the away team had been issued proper protective equipment, events may have played out very differently. I intend to note all of this in my official report to Starfleet." Riker himself blinked in confusion.

"I thought that Klingons did not fear death or injury, Mister Worf."

"We do not, Commander Riker," Worf turned to him, gaze hardened, "but there is no honor or glory in senseless death or injury that may have been prevented with proper precautions. If the Enterprise had been stocked with even basic phaser resistant vests, Ensign Kershaw may not have needed to have his heart replaced. How many other deaths could have been prevented had Starfleet issued such equipment to the Enterprise?" Riker went to reply and swallowed his words.

He'd not protested Worf or those who went with him to the communications station borrowing armor from the colonists at the time. Someone may have argued that it was heavily against protocol, but in the heat of the moment it made sense, especially after what they had seen. Worf's answer though was one of the most pointed he'd been given in a long while. Starfleet officially didn't believe in such measures needing to be common place. But the assertion that Chelos and others may still be alive had they been issued proper equipment was a point he could not argue.

Troi reached over, laying a hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Will," her tone was soft as always. It was her job as ship councilor to placate worries and inadequacies and such. That didn't do much for him in the current moment. Ever since the Borg attack, he wondered if there had been more he could have done, something that would have made the affair less of a disaster and saved more lives. Now he was confronted by such a notion again, this time it wasn't because of some horrific gestalt hive of enslaved minds. This time it had been the Cardassians, and already he knew there was truth in Worf's words.

'Have we gotten so used to peace that we aren't even taking the measures necessary to protect ourselves?' Riker shook his head morosely. He didn't want to believe that, that they'd gotten so complacent that people were losing their lives due to the Federation just not thinking it necessary in this age. He was politically savvy enough to know Starfleet wouldn't see it that way, at least elements of it, but in the moment he didn't care.

"For what it's worth, captain," he tried to keep his tone even, not that it was hiding how miserable he looked, "I agree with Lieutenant Worf. I know we were working with limited information at best, but…we were not ready for what we found down there. I think it's a testament to every member of security and medical who was present given what we did accomplish. By no means though did we do much to change the outcome of the battle. We saved some lives, but fourteen people with light equipment did not mean much in the overall battle." He looked down, not wanting to meet Picard's gaze. Losing people never got any easier, not even after the three years he'd spent as the second in command of the Enterprise.

Picard nodded gently. "Will, if need be take some time and talk with Counselor Troi later. And that goes for all of you," he looked between each of the other officers in the room. "I don't want any lingering doubts or what-ifs festering. You all did the absolute best you could. You are a credit to Starfleet and I won't have anyone saying otherwise. Now then, I believe Commanders Data and La Forge have a report for us regarding cutting down on travel time to this…Terran Dominion's capital of Korhal," he nodded to the two, and Geordi leaned forward with a soft sigh.

"Well, Captain, there's not much to report. Their engineers had a bit of trouble working things out for our end, but we think that, regardless of however they open that rift to subspace, we can follow. Data has a theory on that, but I'll admit we're flying a bit by the seat of our pants here. I didn't understand all of the technical docs they sent us, and translating 'warp space' to 'subspace' was a pain, but I think the Enterprise should be fine. The navigational deflectors should be enough in conjunction with the ship's integrity fields," he shrugged, leaning back. "Beyond that, we're within the realm of pure theory, Captain. Or at least we were. This will still be a first, even by Starfleet standards." Picard simply nodded before turning to Data.

"Simply put, sir," the android didn't even miss a beat, "I believe that by modulating the Enterprise's tractor beam, we can, for lack of a better word, 'tie' the Enterprise to Commodore Brownrigg's ship. This will allow us to share the same theorized subspace rift as his vessel, cutting the Enterprise's travel time significantly. I will also make any needed adjustments to the sensors, as I am sure Starfleet and many others in the Federation will want access to information we collect from the journey." A small buzz of joy went through the room at the duo's report. It was the first truly good thing any of them had heard since this they'd arrived at Konnie. Picard felt his heart sink when he realized he was going to have to snuff out this moment.

"Thank you, Commander Data, Commander La Forge. Once we're done here, do what you have to get the Enterprise ready. I don't want any more surprises getting in the way of things if it can be helped." He took a breath to steady his nerves. His officers needed to know about the contents of the first contact package. "This unfortunately brings me to the contents of the first contact package that Commodore Brownrigg sent earlier. What I am about to tell you is not to leave the confines of this room." He noted their glances as they cast about, looking between each other and him. Confused, anxious, unsure of what was so important and yet so secretive Picard would ask for such secrecy. It wasn't unusual perhaps, but for a scenario like this, everything was in some way unusual.

"To make a very long story short, this package confirmed to me what we have been suspecting from the start. Q was almost certainly in some way involved with the appearance of this region of space, and who knows what other changes. Simply put, whoever these people are, and whatever other races have been brought with them, it would seem he pulled them from another universe entirely," he paused, letting them take that in and process it. Even after the three years they'd spent working together under his leadership, even after their various encounters with Q, this was a difficult idea to comprehend.

"Forgive my ignorance, sir," Data, formal and to the point as always, "but if that is true, then even considering our past encounters, it would seem we have vastly underestimated his powers. Although for what reason he may have done this I cannot yet ascertain." A groan of frustration, it was Riker rolling his eyes.

"It's Q, Mister Data. At this point, it may not be wrong to assume this is just another twisted game of his. Another attempt to put humanity on trial or something else that's asinine," he ground out. He really was coming to despise Q. It was bad enough he was an enigmatic trickster, but the hypocrisy of singling out humanity out of all intelligent species especially grated on Riker. He turned to Picard, the captain gently raising a hand to call for silence and order.

"Regardless of Q's intentions," his tone was even, "I refuse to play into whatever game it is that he may have envisioned, even if it is not entirely clear. The reason I am calling for such secrecy is simple. Regardless of the existence of these Zerg or Protoss, and believe me when I say there is much we will have to discuss regarding them, there is a far more pressing matter since we will be dealing with these people, these terrans," the name rolled of his tongue with some difficulty, it brought too many dark shades to mind, "And unfortunately, in some ways their early history appears to be an inverted reflection of our own.

Simply put, these people are victims of their own version of the Eugenics Wars. The key difference, it would appear, is that an appreciable number of them are descended from the augments, alongside those also deemed undesirable by their Earth." He paused to gauge their reactions again. Worf's jaw briefly clenched in what may have been anger; Crusher didn't bother to hide the look of horror on her face, which he'd expected. Riker's eyes had narrowed, and he seemed to be processing this as he usually did such things, in terms of threat potential most likely. Troi and Data looked equally confused, and La Forge almost laconic as he whistled lowly.

"The bioconservatives are not going to like that, sir," was his chief engineer's reply. La Forge was almost casual about it. "But on the other hand, to them my visor is a controversial topic, so that's not really a surprise."

"Be that as it may, Mister La Forge, I don't rightly give a damn what they'll think," he said it so matter of fact that no one dared to doubt him on it. "Before this meeting, I received word from Starfleet command. They're still compiling a full report of what they think happened and they will send it with a proper diplomatic team once we have established initial contact. That these people may in part be descended from augments should not be grounds for prejudice, especially since they were the victims. If the records that Brownrigg sent were even half accurate and truthful, their universe's…United Powers League formed in the wake of a global economic collapse. It would seem the governments of their Earth saw fit to cast the blame on anyone genetically or cybernetically augmented."

He swallowed, hard. Reading the history of these people had been difficult. The Eugenics Wars had been bad enough, but this was something else entirely. The former had been good intentions twisted to cruel ends. Judging by the shared looks of horror, even Data was caught unprepared given his cautious expression; he was not alone in his feelings on the matter.

"They murdered at least four hundred million people for being augmented in any capacity, or being dissidents to their regime. Then, as an experiment that killed another ten thousand in testing, thirty thousand survivors were sent out as a colony mission, which missed its intended destination, leaving them stranded in the sector they call Koprulu. And that is just the start of this…frankly morbid story. The rest of their history is rife with wars and dictators of all sorts, the most recent having only been twenty years ago. Now, I'd like you all to review the package when you are able. There's more than can be covered in a single meeting, and even I had to skim parts prior to now.

Be aware, the full record was not provided to us by Brownrigg. I do not know why, perhaps part of it was for security reasons, or perhaps he simply thought we would not believe him. Regardless as to his reasoning, I do not think any of this is a fabrication. There is simply too much for a work of fiction, too many things that make a sad sort of sense as the pieces come together. These people have suffered enormous injustices, on top of being victims of Q. Politics be damned, I will not add to those injustices."

Unknown Place
Unknown Time

These corridors were dark, unnaturally so, illuminated only by the lights on his armor. The metal beneath his armored feet clanged loudly with each step, there was no room here for finesse or quiet movement. This place was cold, lifeless; it bore a malevolence that felt as unnatural as the darkness around him. The only comfort he had was the strange suit of armor he now wore and the odd rifle in his hands, and even then the fact they existed was still alarming.

It seemed somewhat like the armor the locals on the planet had been using, but it was different. The armor's appearance was less brutally utilitarian, or perhaps at least more elegantly so, almost as if a Federation hand had designed it. The same was true of the weapon. It was a large, bulky thing, but the organic, utilitarian curves still reminded him of Federation design, at least on some level. Yet all of it felt right, even if he was alarmed to behold it. The weapon in his hands felt like he'd practiced with it hundreds and hundreds of hours, and the armor felt like a second skin.

'Where am I? What's going on? This isn't the Enterprise. This isn't the colony.' He cast about, looking for any signs of life, of light besides his own, a sign that he wasn't mad, or worse, in a coma induced nightmare. He heard a scrabbling nearby, down the hall. With a hitching breath he turned towards it, weapon leveled. Something was coming, many somethings, countless by the crescendo, howling and screaming, all for him.

He fired his weapon down the hall, the thump and buck of its kinetic slugs–some part of him realizing how odd it felt, but yet also natural–almost comforting as he fired, further illuminating the writhing mass of things that were screaming towards him.
They were everything and nothing. Humanoids, non-humanoids, that strange Zerg thing and more like it, the armor of the locals, a Borg drone, countless species and things he couldn't identify. It was impossible, it shouldn't have been possible, but the impossible things didn't seem to care, and they continued to surge forth. He ran. It was the only thing he could do.

There was a light ahead of him, one that hadn't been there before. It was the only thing he could think to, to get it. The light meant safety, it had to didn't it? Closer, closer, each step feeling like an eon.

He felt something slam into his back. Warning messages flared across his vision, and he felt a sticky wetness along the points of impact. It was happening again. He could hear the things howling, drawing closer. He was so close to that light, just a bit further and he'd be there, dragging himself along the metal floor, but it wasn't enough, he knew he was too slow.

Out of the light stepped a suit of armor, similar to those of the locals in general profile, but he couldn't tell more than that. It fired at the howling things, and for a reason he couldn't discern, this time they recoiled. The other armor grabbed his and began to drag him.
"Come on, kid. You need to wake up. It ain't your time, and folks are going to need people like you around."

Umojan Science Vessel, medical bay
March 3, 2528, Koprulu Terran Calendar
1945 Shipboard time

Kershaw awoke with a start; a startled gasp escaped his lips. He looked about through bleary eyes, and tried to sit up, but find himself restrained by unfamiliar equipment in an equally unfamiliar place. He groaned, the light was too bright, it hurt to have his eyes open, hell everything about him felt like it hurt. He heard heavy metallic footsteps approaching, and forced his eyes to open as he looked in their direction. The armor that filled his vision wasn't like that of the locals on the planet; it was smoother, more organic in how utilitarian it was. It seemed almost familiar.

"Easy, kid. I've called the docs, and they're on their way. Sorry for any scare I gave you, but the Commodore wanted you under proper guard. Welcome back to the land of the living, by the way. You're one lucky son of a bitch, you know that?" Somehow, he found it in himself to chuckle.

Enterprise-D, bridge
Stardate 44099.6
2035 Shipboard time

Things were almost in order for the Enterprise to begin the next leg of her journey. Ensign Kershaw had been returned to the ship with a clean bill of health, after a thorough examination by Crusher of course. Along with being put on leave for a week before returning to duties on the doctor's recommendation.

Commanders La Forge and Data had fine-tuned the ship's equipment and from their testing, they had given the all clear to proceed. The latter at the helm, Picard allowed himself a small and brief smile. Finally, things were progressing beyond the initial fear and violence of this first contact. The rest of Brownrigg's forces and those of Commodore Reid would remain behind to help the colonists, and Brownrigg would make good on his promise of leading them to Korhal.

"Commodore Brownrigg, we are ready to leave when you are," his tone was light, even a bit Jovial, and it didn't escape his notice that Troi was smiling or Riker even appearing not quite as dower.

"Acknowledged, Captain. I've already received word from command. They're already preparing for our arrival. Our drive is spooling up now," the Commodore's response was still lax, seemingly the man's default state, but in the moment it just felt right. Picard nodded approvingly and turned to Data.

"Mister Data, engage the tractor beam, and let us get this journey underway. It would be rude to keep our soon to be hosts waiting." The ship thrummed as Data carried out the order, the modulated tractor beam locking them in step with Brownrigg's own behemoth flagship. Soon after, that telltale rift opened, and they were dragged in alongside the Shield. Then the sensors went crazy.

"Data, what the hell is happening?" Riker demanded, tensing up, a hand almost going to a phaser that wasn't there. Data looked over his console for a brief moment, before turning. The look of near actual confusion on his face was disconcerting to all those on the bridge.

"I believe Commander La Forge and I have made an error, sir. It would appear that, whatever this is, it is not subspace."

Protoss Carrier, Light of Aiur, bridge

Kaldalis ruminated on his situation. He was a veteran warrior, a Templar who had fought for centuries, and he was stuck on an old model carrier that had been retrofitted with the enhanced automation technology of the Purifiers so as to allow the ship to function with a smaller organic crew. The new technology allowed it to act more independently beyond its production of drone fighters, and more than that to act as means of long-range patrol and exploration without risking one of the newer models of carriers being produced at Aiur. On top of all of that, he'd been sent out here in an otherwise aging model with it escorts for patrol duty, and by Artanis no less.

The former Khalai was hardly bitter by any means. He understood the logic, especially given the recent event with the Xel'Naga artifact and the reports that were now being shared between the Daelaam and the terrans. Whatever had happened, there were things close enough to the borders of Koprulu that were creating detectable transmissions. Going on alert made logical sense. Sending out enhanced patrol fleets and response forces while the Armada was brought to a state of low readiness made logical sense. He even understood the logic of Artanis sending him out here. They were old friends, and the Hierarch trusted his judgement and skill. Kaldalis though found he preferred facing down a Zerg charge alone to the utter boredom of patrolling empty space. That and he hated the uncertainty surrounding the source of the transmissions. Whatever it was, he couldn't help but see shades of the UED invasion decades ago now.

That he had a Nerazim passenger who seemed intent on being his shadow and needling him to no end did not help. He never felt animosity for the Nerazim, what his ancestors had done to theirs was unforgiveable. Still, he could do without Rersa's remarks. She had great skill as a navigator and explorer, but her constant chiding of him being an "old Khalai" was most annoying because she was likely as old as him. He let out a low psychic grumble. He could feel her dropping her cloak behind and off to his side.

"Staring into the stars looking for a battle to fight again are we?" her voice was lilting, teasing even, as was her norm. He closed his eye for a moment; he still didn't have a good read of her often flighty moods. Was she here just to needle him again for being restless, or was she trying to make some other point?

"I'm doing my job, Rersa," his tone was terse, but there was no real bite to it. "Shouldn't you be helping the other navigators? We're on the fringes of the sector, and last I checked, the Nerazim pride themselves on their ability to navigate the unknown." She laughed softly.

"They don't need me there, Kaldalis. Or rather it would be more accurate to say they didn't want me there this day. Apparently they consider me something of a nuisance, and likely are still a bit unhappy over me adjusting their algorithms to be more efficient. Navigators are a prideful sort." That he found hard to argue. It seemed anyone that flew a ship, be it a fighter pilot or a navigator and pilot of a carrier, had something of an ego that could be at least partly be seen from orbit.

He turned to her, just enough to bring her into his field view. The deep purple of her cloak and armor contrasted sharply with the glimmering gilding of the Daelaam carrier. "And so you've chosen to entertain yourself by annoying me I take it." She laughed again, and he shook his head in consternation.

"Nothing of the sort. I come here because I have little else to do, and you strike me as needing someone to talk to." He had to fight to roll his eye at that.

"I am perfectly fine, Rersa. I am…" He trailed off, not readily finding the words. He was used to action, not whatever this was.

"You are tense, a wire that may snap at any given moment." He turned towards her fully, and her eyes narrowed. "Caution, I can understand Kaldalis, but you are tense as if you expect Amon to reemerge from the Void here and now. You are clearly overcome with worry, and the only reason no one else aboard this ship is saying anything is because they respect you too much to say it to your face. As I recall, it is said you once had to tell the Hierarch himself to stop being an idiot on the eve of Aiur's reclamation. So I am going to do the same for you. Stop being an idiot and speak what is on your mind."

They stared at each other for a long moment before he finally relented, suddenly feeling very tired. "It's just the grumblings of an old warrior, Rersa. We are one of the fleets furthest along the fringe, second only to the most far flung of the observers. When has anything from outside what we know as our space ever heralded a good thing? First it was the Zerg, then the terrans, and then their UED, and finally Amon. It is hard not to conceive that whatever may be out there is another enemy." To his surprise, she approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Caution is warranted, Kaldalis, but to assume the worst is a dangerous path to tread, and a dark one. History can be a guide, true, but it can also mislead. Where one sees the specters of the past may just instead be a new face, another traveler among the stars. Keep up your guard, but an old warrior like you should know there is a fine line between caution and xenophobia. After all, for all the blood shed between our peoples and the terrans, did we all not bleed together to end Amon? Do we all still not bleed together to ensure the peace so many died for last? Even the Zerg have changed in this strange new era. What has happened does not wipe away the sins of the past. Nothing ever will, but they only have as much power over the present and future as we allow them."

A long and uncomfortable moment of silence passed between them. She was right; he knew that in his core. But more than that, he didn't know if he could do what she was asking of him. Those sins were still fresh, the memories forever seared into his mind. The unnatural, all-encompassing hate he felt, the drive to destroy and consume all that was. Could he so readily forgive himself for what he'd done?

"Kaldalis," there was a distant voice calling to him, but he didn't hear it, not clearly at least. How could he be forgiven after everything he'd done? That he had not been in control of his own actions was no excuse. He'd raised his blades against other Protoss, against the innocent. Nothing would wash away the blood on his hands. How could anyone forgive him for what he'd done?

"Kaldalis!" Rersa near shouted, shaking him almost violently. "Your eyes glassed over there, you old Khalai. Don't die on my account. I wouldn't get over the embarrassment of it all." Her tone was light, but there was no strength to her words. She was worried, and was doing little to hide it. He shook his head, trying to ignore the looks of his bridge crew.

"I am fine, Rersa. I was just…lost in memories for a moment. That is all." She gave him a chiding look.

"Be careful that you do not let those memories and the ghosts within consume you. Many have lost themselves to such things, fallen into the blackest despair. I know the loss of the Khala made such issues only worse for your people, but I would like to remind you that you need that face them alone." He wished she would stop talking. The stumps of his nerve cords itched, and he wanted desperately to extricate himself from this conversation.

"Executor!" It was one of his communications specialists, but even as he registered the warrior's call, he felt as though fortune was not in his favor. "The observers have detected a signal from beyond the fringe! They are working to triangulate it now, but they have translated the audio."

"This is Ciselb Foyath aboard the Kelmton! Please, if anyone is hearing this, we need help! Our ship has been damaged! We barely escaped a Cardassian patrol and we are leaking atmosphere! Please…help us!" The voice sounded oddly terran, but the names were nothing like those he was familiar with, and the language was almost certainly not of terran origin either. That didn't matter to him, not in the moment.

"Find the source of that message! Take us to warp the moment it has been located!"

Skies above unknown planet LV-5728
1230 Local Time

The clouds whipped by, the ground beneath a blur. Vacuum or sky, Ken Larson never tired of being a Viking pilot. There was never a dull moment, and the thrill of diving in and out of combat was like nothing else. Let the marines have their stims, pure adrenaline was far better, and it didn't cause physical harm like stims did.

However, as the one in charge of his squadron, he had to at least keep something of a level head. Viking pilots were highly skilled, there was no doubting that, but it took a special sort of person or years of experience to properly lead such a group. He was a mix of both, always quick on the draw, but with the uncanny ability to predict the moves of an opponent. That had served him well in his tenure with the Raiders, and he had earned his status an ace, with over twenty confirmed kills.

Against Kel-Morian backed pirates in tac-fighters and other lighter craft, he was a near unstoppable killing machine. Against the strange lizard aliens with energy weapons and heavy armor, he'd found an enemy whose capabilities he much more readily respected. The few engagements he'd been in against them prior showed that their weapons weren't some simple light show. The fact he was on his third Viking was a testament to their efficacy.

Unfortunately, beyond the power and range of their weapons that same enemy was an almost total unknown beyond what they had seen thus far, and the standing order was to avoid engaging them where possible. The locals, it seemed, didn't share that outlook. As much as he hated to admit it, that was probably a good idea. The aliens had already shown a propensity for energy weapons that, at least in terms of appearance, weren't too dissimilar to those of the Protoss in some ways.

Their methodology was almost terran though, and that included strapping these weapons to large attack craft that seemed to double as transports and bombers, given their size. 'Damn things are almost half as big as a Hercules,' he thought with a frown. He'd seen the result of their firepower being dropped on a Raider FOB. Whoever these aliens were, they fought for keeps.

Given their current mission, it spoke to a high likelihood of an exchange of fire, the one language as universal as mathematics. He and his squadron were flying on an intercept course to a group of those exact same craft. They had orders to perform a flyby and ward them off before they neared a different FOB. Failing that, or if the aliens fired upon them before they flyby was completed, they had authorization to engage with extreme prejudice, hopefully before the craft reached the base.

His radar pinged, they were close to the targets now, and close enough his optics would let him get a visual confirmation. He tapped the corresponding control and in moments he saw their quarry. The ships were a bit on the oddly smooth but angular side, sort of like the Umojans, but more gunmetal grey. The craft were large, bulky, but they flew with far too much elegance, probably the result of whatever tech was inside them. The thing that struck him immediately though was the signs of battle damage that became clear the closer his squadron drew. That and the lack of ordinance that had been seen in the prior attacks

'I doubt that was us. We'd have been told if another squadron had already engaged the lizards, so that leaves the Kel-Mors. The locals don't like them anymore than us, but this is way too close to our turf.' He shifted in his seat. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his gut. Maybe these craft had hit a Kel-Morian base and simply ended up off course somehow following their attack run, but that seemed flimsy. He doubted anyone that was flying these skies could get lost like that unless their positioning system was disabled, and in most cases that meant a craft was already dead.

'So why are you out here?' He was rapidly closing on one of the craft, holes visible in the frame, and it was lagging behind the others. 'Either you're out of ordinance already and you're desperate, or…could they not know the FOB is in their flight path?' His craft drew closer still, a tone beginning to sound as his systems began to lock onto the most damaged of the craft. The gun pods on the enemy craft turning towards him and his people. Still, something didn't sit right with him. This was either a suicide run, a distraction, or they were missing something, something big.

He focused on the craft he had been targeting as his squadron zoomed by, the guns still tracking them. In the few moments he was close enough to see inside the damaged frame, his heart almost stopped. The craft were armed, that much was clear, but inside the one frame he could see some of the aliens, none of them were wearing the heavy armor that the ground pounders had reported. Some of them were injured. His mind jumped to one conclusion.

Those were civilians, or at least the closest thing the aliens had to non-combatants perhaps. It was just the one craft, it could have been an intentional ruse, but he doubted that. Both sides knew they didn't have to get that close to engage effectively, with either missiles and torpedoes or their craft's guns. While he didn't doubt there were those callous enough to consider such a tactic, basic logic declared that such a plan would have been impractical. It relied on too many things falling perfectly into place if they had hoped to hide behind noncombatants aboard their crafts. Basic logic said that, if one craft was carrying noncoms, there stood a good chance the others were as well.

"Peel off! Peel off and maintain standoff distance!" His people did as ordered, but confusion reigned on the coms, his people wanting to know what was happening. "Command, this is Larson! Those craft headed towards FOB Upsilon may not be on an attack run! I have reason to suspect they have civilians onboard! I repeat, the target craft may be carrying noncoms!"

He brought his Viking around and set about joining his squadron in maintaining the standoff he'd ordered. He wasn't sure how long it would take command to respond, but he needed it to be soon. If he was wrong, either more Raiders were going to die, or several craft loads of civilians were. Neither sat well with him, but he wouldn't have the deaths of noncombatants on his consciousness. Even if he lived, the Raiders would never accept him as one of their own again.

A shout came from one of his wingmen, and he checked the radar. There were more pings now. Multiple tac-fighters were inbound; they were giving off the IFF of the pirates. "All craft, on me! We're going to take those Kel-Mor bastards down!" He pushed the throttle to maximum and made for the fighters. A Viking pilot's life was always a series of gambles, and Larson knew he may have just made the biggest and most dangerous one of his career.

Unclaimed planet UCP-6532
0950 Local Time

Surprises were not something that DaiMon Novar appreciated in his life. He was a businessman, like most Ferengi males. Surprises were rarely a good thing, they were usually annoying, stressful, and incredibly costly. Sometimes they were even dangerous to the point of being life threatening. What had started as an expedition to look for new mineral deposits for Ferengi industry had become one of those times when the planet they had been on suddenly changed, sprouting large and anomalous crystal formations. That had not been the source of the danger. Rather, it was the gigantic bug things that were staring him and his crew down with what seemed to be oddly restrained murderous intent.

His crew were around him were either panicking, shaking where they stood and making pitiful squeals of horror, or they were hiding behind him, acting as if his body would somehow shield them from whatever these things were. He couldn't blame them for this. Had he been a lesser Ferengi he would have likely done the same. These things hadn't made to kill them just yet, and although it may have been a stretch to assume intelligence, life, like business, was not without risk.

"So…" he began slowly, wetting his lips, and trying to hide how nervous he was and not stutter. "Would any of you fine…specimens be interested in a deal perhaps? Something lucrative to both you and my crew and me? I am a very flexible sort. Some may call that a bit of a weakness, but that's where the one hundred and twenty-fifth Rule of Acquisition comes into play: You can't make a deal if you're dead. So, as I'd like to not die, and I'm sure you're much the same so…what do you say, yes? A deal and we can all walk away happy?" He grinned, but he already knew it was more of a grimace. He wasn't even sure these things could understand him.

"You wish to make a deal?" An oddly resonant, even melodic female voice spoke above the snarls of the other creatures. It seemed to tingle in the back of his head as another giant insectoid thing with six legs ending in sharp points with webbing between each one appeared and the thing in general just had so many spikes on it. He couldn't tell if they were aesthetic or natural, or perhaps more worryingly both. The fact the thing was at least three meters tall, spoke and yet had no mouth even as its eyes narrowed just added to how alien this thing was. This was not helped by the undulating egg sac on its lower body. The deference the other creatures showed it only made the scene more surreal in its horror to Novar's eyes. He had to fight down the urge to vomit in pure terror.

"I do not know of your kind, the Swarm does not know of your kind, your language is alien to us. Only by the grace of the Queen of Life's foresight do I understand you with great effort on my part," the gigantic thing said with that far too melodic voice. Novar swallowed hard, on some level he realized it was a telepath, and the thought that it was in some way inside his mind was repulsive, not least because it sounded so female. "Speak, and the Overqueen may yet allow you to leave in one piece."

Special thanks to Follower38 , Myuu , Kisame12794 , and knolden for beta reading as always. And as always feedback and critique are welcome.

Spoiler: A note on the coming arc

So, with this chapter starts the political elements of first contact, even if there will still be some action intermixed. This is also where I think we get into Star Trek's strengths, the focus on politics and philosophy, so long as it is nuanced that is. I realize that is potentially dangerous ground, especially these days with how polarized things are for many, many people, sometimes for good reasons, sometimes for less than good reasons. With that in mind, I would like to ask something of you the readers, the people who have been graciously reading this story and giving me support and much appreciated feedback: Ask of yourselves, for those of you who are in some degree fans of ST, what Star Trek is to you.

I think SFDebris's follow up video to "In the Pale Moonlight" has a very strong take on this. I for one will never not applaud optimistic sci-fi. I think modern sci-fi is inundated with mindless grimdark that has no light at the end of the tunnel, no nuance and is simply dark for the sake of dark, with walking tropes for caricatures rather than characters. But at the same time, how far can optimism stretch before it becomes unrealistic? How far can you can take the idea that people will not conflict until they're not even really people? Conflict, for better or for worse, is part of human nature. I would say it's even fundamental to intelligent life, to how we grow and learn. Sometimes this works, and sometimes it's horrible. If you are going to have free thinking, as Gene so claimed to champion, one has to accept that others are going to have differing views and that you simply don't agree, and not because they're "evil" or "stupid" or any other label of choice related to an "ism" you may dislike. (And I am by no means a saint in this regard, I think we are all in some way guilty of this on some level.)

So just consider what Star Trek is to you, as an individual, divorced from any fandom controversies or anything like that. You may just be surprised at the subtle similarities between the two universes in a few ways. That's also why I'm including this note. I think that, ultimately as this is a Star Trek crossover, there was no way to realistically avoid touching on things that may have some real world relevance, directly or indirectly. All I ask is that things remain civil. Disagree with me or each other all you want, but keep hate and vitriol out of the equation. The world has enough as it is, and honestly...none of us are Kirk or Sisko.

As a final reminder, Star Trek is as flawed a franchise as any. But there is a good reason people still love it. Starcraft is no different in this regard, and I think both have equally valid elements and themes, even if not all are as pertinent to the world of today as we may like.

Spoiler: TL;DR note

I'm using things like DS9 as a barometer for Star Trek given the elements that speak to me as an individual more than any of the others, and I'll continue the trend of acting like Discovery and Picard are fever dreams born from the diseased minds of Voyager's writers. Please remain civil in discussing anything of the story or related to it, especially it ends up relating to real world issues, as many topics involving Star Trek tend to especially.

Oh, as tomorrow is American Thanksgiving and all, I'll be traveling for a good chunk of the day and obviously will be with family, so my ability to respond may be a bit limited for a time.