My goodness, thank you for all the amazing reviews. A few of you I am unable to reply to personally - so Guest 1, and Spanish speaking Guest 2 - thank you!

Now then, on with chapter 3...


Worf pushed the door chime then shuffled foot to foot on the doorstep as he waited. He had spent the day in the official rescue debrief, long hours running through every minute detail. The mission had been hard; all those people, barely alive and facing who knew what kind of recovery. He had started to sort the pieces of Intelligence he had picked up through its course, and the conclusion he was leaning toward was one he half-hoped for and half-dreaded. If he were right, the outcome would be explosive, for the Federation, and for his friends. He wouldn't say anything, of course. Tiny nuggets of half-formed evidence weren't going to help anyone. But he'd be there. When they called again, and he knew they would, he would make sure he was there.

He was hot, tired, and his feet were killing him; his years on the Klingon home planet had broken his ability to endure the unpleasant experience of a full day in dress uniform, and he could still feel the irritation around his neck, even though he'd just had time to go back to his billet to change. He rubbed at the chafing around his collar, wished he'd worn something softer...

After a moment, Riker answered the door, breaking into a huge beaming smile before he clapped Worf on each arm and pulled him, unwillingly, into a hug.

"Worf! It's so good to see you!"

"Admiral Riker, I am… happy to see you as well." He replied, taking a step back.

"I hear you've been doing a great job for us," Then he added under his breath, "Seriously Worf, without you, those people would not have made it home. I hope you know how much that means."

"Thank you. That is very kind of you to say." He said, knowing his voice would be heard. He communicated his understanding of Riker's quieter comment via a firm nod and grim expression.

Riker slapped him on the back, raised his voice back to normal volume, "Well, I mean it. You did a great job. Come on in, everyone's here."

Riker lead Worf through his home, making Worf suddenly feel too big for his environment. On reaching the dining room, he was overwhelmed for a second by the sight of the ex-Enterprise crew sitting around a huge dining table. Deanna, Kestra, Geordie, Data, and of course, Beverly.

After a few moments of greetings and fierce hugs, Worf took a seat next to Beverly. She patted his hand, smiling warmly at her old friend. "It's good to see you Worf."

"And to see you…" he paused, looked uncomfortable, practically squirming in his seat.

"Something the matter?"

"I… wanted to say… perhaps you do not wish to discuss private matters here."

"Come on Worf, out with it. I can handle it."

"I wanted to say, how sorry I am that I was unable to attend the memorial."

She was dumbstruck for just a moment. Unexpected references to Jean-Luc's death still had the capacity to shock her, even if they were growing fewer and further between. In truth, she was getting used to it. His death still felt raw, like a physical pain, but she was focusing on following one day with the next. The more she tried things out, the stronger she felt. Of course, coming here tonight had been a no-brainer. Though there wasn't another group of people who could make her think of Jean-Luc faster, they were her dearest friends and she wouldn't miss an opportunity for them to gather. Besides, she needed a night off from Louis… he was driving her crazy.

Her voice fell to just a whisper, "It's alright Worf, I know you were on some kind of mission. Really… I know you would have been there if you could." She smiled at him again, nudging him with her shoulder, lovingly.

"The Admiral is sorely missed."

"He is…"

Before they each had the chance to dwell on the person missing from the party, Deanna called for a toast. Kestra appeared suddenly, ready to fill glasses starting with Beverly and Worf.

Grateful for the emotional wisdom of her empathic friend and goddaughter, Beverly swallowed down the sadness threatening to end her night prematurely. She was surrounded by her dearest friends, she knew she was lucky that everyone was so close to Earth, if not planet-based.

"I'm so happy we were all able to gather tonight. To dear friends."

Everyone responded before taking a sip of their drinks, "To dear friends!"

Deanna continued, "And to Ambassador Worf – it's been too long."

As before, everyone said at once, "To Worf!"

Worf glowered with embarrassment, he had never grown used to the human habit of drawing attention to oneself. He growled to express his discomfort and concentrated on not snapping the delicate glass in his hand.

Just as Riker was about to raise his glass to make his own toast, Worf's commbadge sounded. "Excuse me. I must answer this."

"Go right ahead Worf, use the study." Riker said, knowing that the Klingon needed some privacy. He also had an inkling as to what the call might be about.

After a few minutes, Worf returned to the happy group.

"What's up Worf?" asked Geordie, reacting to the grave expression on Worf's face.

"It appears I am being recalled. My original mission is not quite as finished as we had first thought."

"Do you need any assistance?" enquired Data, already standing as if to join Worf.

"No, thank you. I am sorry, I have to leave immediately. Admiral, if I might speak to you?"

Will stood quickly adopting a grave expression of his own. He followed Worf to the front door. "Recalled?"

"There is another one."

Will nodded, "I see…"

"I do not know anything more than that. Except I have been assured this really is the last rescue."

Both men refused to voice the hope they had each buried deep inside. Riker knew he had been sworn to secrecy, knew he hadn't been told everything Intelligence knew, but Worf wasn't stupid. They shook hands, nodded grimly.

"Best speed Mister Worf."

"Aye Sir."


A hooded figure skirted the shadows of the marketplace waiting for a signal. He furtively scouted the area, as though he were in the market for supplies of hardware, counterfeit computer parts, or whatever else he might legitimately require of this place.

Soon enough, there was a tap on his shoulder accompanied by a gruff whisper, "This way, Orfin-Rin, this way."

He recognised his contact, following him through the crowd as it thinned out. He made sure he tracked the direction in which they were travelling. He would be coming out alone, or encumbered with the dead weight of a broken person. Either way, he could only rely upon himself.

After several twists and turns that he charted in detail, his contact lead him to a back street leading to a dock. In the corner, next to the doorway of some kind of warehouse, was a wooden box. The contact pointed at the box, "The last one."

He took his hood down, now they were out of sight, he knew it was safe to do so. He looked at the contact, "The very last?"

"This time, yes. The last one." He said again, pointing at the box. "You, transport." He said, pawing at the personal transporter on his arm.

He nodded, understanding. Time was of the essence and the usual instruction for him to carry his cargo to a discreet point further away was to be ignored. "Thank you."

The contact nodded back. "Transport now."

And with that, he was gone. He went to the box, tapped at the transporter activator on his sleeve and in seconds, he and the box dematerialised from the street.

When he rematerialized inside his ship, he activated the comm unit sending an encrypted alert to his contact at the Federation. "Qo-noS, connection." Two words that would trigger everything into action.

Once he had his shuttle's course laid in and the computer had taken control, he went to the box. He took out his phaser, and using the lowest setting, set about opening the locked latch.

Once the lock was released, he peeled back the lid slowly, carefully. Experience had taught him that on occasion, the person being returned, wasn't in stasis at all, even though that was supposed to be a given.

He opened the box, and he gasped. This one was a man. He was bound into a tight ball, a harness covering his body and holding it in what had to be an intolerably uncomfortable position. Not in stasis at all but deeply sedated he expected.

"My god…"

He'd been gagged too, a bloody rag stuffed in his mouth. Orfin-Rin pulled the gag from his mouth, and this seemed to reanimate the sorry-looking man momentarily as he swallowed convulsively and groaned almost imperceptibly. He smelled terrible, beaten beyond recognition, barely alive.

"It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you." He said as he worked at the straps. He knew the man couldn't hear him, but it seemed like an act of kindness.

It took him several long minutes, but eventually, he managed to free the man, then ran a tricorder over him, clocked the high heart and pain ratings, and the low blood pressure. He nodded at the reading, making his decision, this one would have to stay sedated. It was too dangerous to have him lose – no saying how he might react, what he might do. Sometimes he did that, with the other ones… let them come-to as he was flying. But this one was too badly injured, it wouldn't be fair, wouldn't be safe.

He approached the man with a hypospray, and in a second, it was over. Orfin had doubled up the sedation, no telling what had been used wherever he'd been, best to rely on Fleet medicine. He set up an EMH to alert him to any changes of his condition, then broke down the edges of the box letting the sides flop down. He stretched out the man's body but it took time. His limbs were contracted, locked solidly into position. He dragged him over to the bunk, pulling him up on to it and then placing a pillow under his head. He activated an energy safety harness, safer that way. And he didn't want to jostle him with physical restraints. He grabbed a warming blanket, tucked it around the man's body, activating it so it would warm the man's ice-cold skin.

He headed back to the flight controls, checked the security monitor to make sure there was nobody tailing him. He knew very little about his contact on the surface, just enough to trust that someone somewhere had some kind of conscience.

The Xhand were ruthless, without a shred of empathy or thought for relations beyond their own system. A tiny part of him thought perhaps the tide might finally be changing. The Xhand had controlled this system through fear for centuries; anyone who got in their way or interfered in trade was destroyed, forced to service them… if they lived to tell the tale. That someone was working on the inside to free what he figured were probably Federation citizens, somehow caught up in the whole sorry mess, was nothing short of a miracle. He knew the Federation should have left well alone…

He'd heard about a missing Starfleet ship a couple of years ago… the timing seemed right. It wasn't worth thinking too hard about it, it wouldn't change anything. All he could do was keep going back, finding the contact, getting them out.

Three days… three days to safety. Then he could drop off his latest cargo, get his payment, and disappear for a while. This was the last one. He'd hated every second of this job. They'd been wretched, broken… he wasn't used to dealing in people… he needed to go back to salvaged computer components, much safer.