ACT THREE

His pronouncement was greeted by silence.

Fury at the Council's continuing self-inflicted blindness thundered through him, and Thy'lek Hravishran th'Zoarhi glowered darkly. He had come here at the Council's invitation to argue his case for lending aid to the pinkskins against the Romulans. Instead, he had found himself speaking to politicians who had already made up their minds.

There was nothing Shran hated more than other people wasting his time.

"Do you need me to repeat myself?" he asked angrily, hands balled up in tight fists. He had hoped the Council of Eight would listen when the civilian-appointed leadership of the Imperial Guard had not. Publicly elected every four years, the Council was made up of two politicians of each gender: shen, thaan, chan and zhen. It was an ancient part of the government, having its roots in similar traditions from centuries before Andoria had even been united.

"You do not," one of the zhen councilors stated regally. She was heavyset and wore a long-suffering expression of boredom as she gestured expansively. "Your arguments have been heard."

"Have they?" Shran demanded, crossing his arms as he spoke. He glared at the members of the Council, bitterly amused to see that most of them wouldn't meet his eyes. There was no way to tell if they were embarrassed by their actions, or if they were intimidated by him or his reputation, and Shran didn't care either way. "While we waste Guardsmen and materiel on this absurd border war with the Oh'reons," he continued loudly, "The pinkskins – our allies! – continue to lose territory to these Romulans!"

"Enough!" One of the male chans banged his hand on the table. He had once served in the Guard, rising to the rank of general, and Shran felt his antennae curling in contempt for the male's abandonment of the moral code that bound Guardsmen together. This buffoon had once ordered the Shran to betray the crew of Enterprise in the Delphic Expanse, and Shran had never forgiven him. "The Council has heard your arguments, Fleet Captain, and we will weigh them against Andoria's interests." Another flare of anger caused Shran to grind his teeth.

"Andoria's interests or yours?" he snapped furiously before turning away. He didn't even bother waiting to be dismissed, and knew he had made even more enemies with the blatant insult. The Guardsmen at the entrance to the council chamber stood aside without a word, but showed their approval in their body language. It was to be expected, after all: they were the ones who would die when the shooting began.

As he stormed out of the meeting hall and exited the council building, Shran could feel eyes upon him and he knew, without looking, that his angry exit had drawn notice. He was beyond caring, though. Too many lives had been thrown away in this useless expedition against an enemy that wasn't even a threat to Andorian security. When word of raids along the Empire's borders reached the ears of the government, the Imperial Chancellor had quickly ordered the Guard to retaliate against the perceived origin of the raids: the Oh'Reon Syndicate.

For nearly an entire sidereal year, Shran had commanded a squadron of warships to hunt down an enemy that didn't have an organized government or even an identifiable chain of command. The targets he had been assigned to destroy were generally symbolic, but, on several occasions, their destruction had resulted in massive civilian casualties. Morale among his officers plummeted as they experienced the bitter taste of becoming murderers and war criminals. Unable to stomach the growing feeling that he had turned into the enemy, Shran had begun to speak out, arguing with his superiors about every element of the ongoing war. He quickly became the most outspoken opponent of the hostilities with the Oh'Reons, which, to his surprise, made him one of the most popular officers in the Guard. He would say things publicly that the generals only thought and that made him dangerous.

It was almost enough to make him laugh.

The fact that he had been promoted after the drone incident and the loss of the Kumari continued to amaze him. It was common knowledge that the Imperial Guard seldom gave another command to officers who had lost a ship. Due to the pinkskin Archer's glowing report of Shran's heroism in the face of impossible odds against the Romulan craft, the Guard was pressured by the chancellor to reward the Andorian captain. That second chance had been the driving factor behind Shran's hesitance to begin his campaign against the senseless waste of lives; he had been so intent on proving to the Guard that his promotion wasn't a mistake, that he did his best to ignore the fact that the orders he received went against everything the Imperial Guard stood for.

Climbing into the groundcar that waited for him, Shran wiggled his antennae in frustration. Every scrap of intelligence he had acquired during the year-long war with the Oh'Reons pointed toward the Romulans being behind the raids. Admittedly, this information was circumstantial at best, but there was no profit in a war with Andoria for the Oh'Reons! They were scum, of course, and at any other time, he'd be behind an effort to wipe their organization out entirely, but with the humans losing their war with the Romulans, the Vulcans paralyzed by their foolish religious revelations, and the Tellarites too busy arguing with everyone, the quadrant needed a strong Andoria.

"Home," Shran ordered the groundcar as he leaned back in the seat. With a hum, the vehicle accelerated away from the council building. The carcomp chirped as it accepted new data from the Andorian automated traffic control network, but Shran barely noticed as he stared through the opaque window at the passing terrain. Dormant was beginning, as Andoria's orbit carried her farther away from both the gas giant she orbited and the even more distant sun, and signs of the impending cold season were beginning to appear. Already, the days seemed shorter, and the precipitous drop in temperature was bracing even to natives. Soon, the attendants would begin patrolling the streets, wearing their distinctive heat-gowns as they made sure there weren't any obstructions on the streets. Only the bravest of Andorians – which was, most of the time, synonymous with stupid – voluntarily ventured out during Dormant.

With a grunt, Shran turned his attention to the carcomp and spent a few moments studying the reports that flickered across the screen. He frowned at the intelligence on the humans' war; their defeat at the place they inexplicably called Acheron was all over the news-nets, and Shran heaved a silent sigh of relief when he saw that Archer had survived. There were few pinkskins who seemed to understand Andoria as well as Archer did, and his death would have been a terrible loss.

The groundcar slowed and turned into the cul-de-sac that led to Shran's domicile. Even before the vehicle began slowing, he felt his tension and anger begin to melt away as Jhamel's presence in his mind grew. She was quite happy to feel his arrival, and Shran found himself smiling at her contagious good cheer. He didn't know how she managed to be persistently positive, not after having been told – diplomatically, of course – that she was no longer welcome among the Aenar, but he gave thanks to Uzaveh the Infinite for bringing her into his life, no matter the tragedy that had preceded her arrival. That his relationship with her was cause for scorn among many Andorians was irrelevant, even if it meant they would never find an Andorian or Aenar shen or chan to join them in a shelthreth bondgroup.

Shran silently grieved for the children that would never be.

Stop it, Jhamel's voice echoed in his head as the groundcar came to a stop. Smirking at the subtle chastising feel of her thoughts, he climbed out of the vehicle, pausing for a moment to inhale the sharp taste of home. Shran loosened his uniform jacket slightly, recalling with some amusement the first time he had seen a Vulcan ambassador step onto Andorian soil; the memory of the woman's nearly horrified expression as wind sliced through her clothes was something he still chuckled at. From that point on, she had only ventured out of the consular quarters with heavily insulated gear. Shran had even heard rumors that the assignment to Andoria was considered a hardship tour for Vulcans.

"You were angry today," Jhamel accused him as entered the domicile. She was seated on the round backless chair she preferred, and he shrugged his antennae in response.

"They didn't listen," he said, anger once more creeping into his thoughts. The fools wouldn't see that they were being manipulated by a force clearly intent on conquering the entire quadrant, he reflected bitterly. Instead of focusing on the future, they kept their myopic focus on Vulcan and the perceived threat there.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him, her sparkling presence in his mind washing away the anger and frustration like the warmth of First Thaw. Shran sighed.

"I don't know," he admitted, although that wasn't entirely truthful. He knew what he needed to do, but his stomach turned at the direction those thoughts would take him. When he had sworn service to the Guard, he had done so out of loyalty to his people and government. The very idea of taking arms against that same government, even if it had ceased serving the people, left a bitter taste in his mouth. It wouldn't be a peaceful transition of power, not unless he could appeal to the chancellor directly and point out where the Council had gone astray. He was so lost in thought that he didn't realize Jhamel had stood until she placed her hand on his face.

"I have faith in you," she smiled, her thoughts radiating her absolute trust in him. Whatever he decided to do, she would support and aid him, no matter the situation. He hardly felt like he deserved such devotion.

"You give me too much credit," Shran muttered, wincing at the mental chortle she answered him with.

"You give yourself too little credit," Jhamel retorted as she reclaimed her seat on the backless chair. "Trust your instincts, Shran. They haven't failed you yet, have they?" Shran gave her a sour look; he hated it when she was right, which was, he'd realized, most of the time. Smiling, Jhamel picked up the odd-looking wind instrument that had once belonged to her brother; she had tried to teach Shran how to play, but had given up when he displayed a staggering amount of incompetence with it.

As Jhamel's music filled the air, Shran drew in a steadying breath and walked to the wall monitor. He didn't want to do this, but could see no other option. Drawing a deep breath, he reached out and activated the comm system.

Seconds later, the wall monitor snapped to life.