Disclaimer: Star Trek and all associated characters are not mine.

A/N: Please make sure to read all information posted in the prologue.

September 20, 2265

Chapter 1

James T. Kirk was not having a good day. A good day involved drinking himself into oblivion and avoiding Vulcan foot soldiers. Oblivion was easy. All he needed was enough alcohol and it enfolded him in blessed nothingness. Vulcan troops were another matter. They were everywhere, seeming to derive contentment from tormenting Deneva's Human inhabitants.

He sat at the counter of his favourite drinking spot, Maxwell's Bar, enduring an afternoon search by the Vulcans. Apparently, the Human resistance sabotaged a supply convoy hours before, and now someone was going to pay. He glanced briefly around the room, noting the spotlessness of his surroundings and the symmetrical layout of each table. It always amazed him that on this battered world, he could find a drinking den, so thoroughly clean. In his opinion, it was abnormal, but who was he to tell Nyota Uhura that he thought she had a problem. He was the resident drunk; if anyone had issues, he did.

Kirk bent his head, lowered his lashes and focused on the giant mirror that made up the wall behind the counter. He brought his glass of whisky to his lips, took a sip and eyed the four Vulcans reflected in the mirror. Two stood on each side of the inner swing doors, while the others moved around the room. Given the methodical nature of their search, they appeared to be looking for someone fitting a certain description. Sometimes, they made random searches that only they understood. It made living here even more interesting.

His gaze first sought out their weaponry, then travelled up to their faces. The standard Vulcan uniform was charcoal-grey, with emerald-green collars that somehow highlighted their alien features. He still found it unbelievable, how impassive they often were. In those frantic days after the attack on Mars, Captain Christopher Pike had died and Commander Kirk found himself promoted to captain of the Enterprise. He took great pleasure in using the ship to kill as many of those bastards as possible. Not an easy task, considering the enemy had superior ships and weapons. During all that time, he often wondered if their faces remained blank. In his nightmares, they certainly were not expressionless. His dream Vulcans wore menacing grins upon grotesque faces.

The two Vulcans patiently making their way around the room stopped at a table toward the back right corner. Seated there were three acquaintances of Kirk: Terrence Mayweather, John Stiles and Elliot Bashir. Stiles and Bashir were permanent residents of Deneva. Mayweather, however, was one of the few Humans allowed a special permit to travel to and from Deneva. The Vulcans, throughout this bit of madness, had remembered that if they wished to continue tormenting half the remaining Human population, they needed to allow limited trade.

One of the Vulcans hauled Mayweather to his feet and began to question him. They wanted to know his whereabouts at the time of the explosion. Kirk watched as the man coolly answered each question with a lie. He was not surprised. Mayweather, the former security chief of Enterprise, performed admirably under pressure. Kirk remembered that he had remained at post, firing ship's guns as Enterprise fell to pieces under enemy bombardment. It might have been a magnificent sight were they not in the middle of a Human slaughter.

Increased tension flooded the room and prickled the back of Kirk's neck, as all eyes focused on the unfolding scene. It looked as if the soldiers meant to drag Mayweather away for further questioning. However, it never happened. Nyota Uhura chose that moment to intervene. Moving seductively, she went to stand beside her former crewmate. A sultry smile curved her lips and turned her beautiful face into something truly gorgeous. He almost fell off his barstool.

From his reflected view, he watched her lean against Mayweather all the while convincing the Vulcans that he had spent the night in her bed. Then she slipped an arm around the man and Kirk saw his blank face crack for a fleeting second. He recovered before the Vulcans noticed and returned her embrace. Accepting her answers, they moved to another table and questioned its lone occupant. Kirk noted the man's resemblance to Mayweather. Unlike Mayweather, he was little match for the Vulcans. When they made to drag him out of the bar, he tried to run. Kirk felt sorry for him. He and everyone knew that if you went off to an interrogation room you were either never seen again or came back traumatised.

Tired of their quarry's struggle, the two soldiers let him go. They then pulled out their disruptors, aimed and fired. In a matter of seconds, the Human's nervous system shorted out and his internal organs failed. He died before his body hit Uhura's pristine floor with a soft sad thump, thus ending this afternoon's brutal lesson of Vulcan dispassion.

Kirk might have said a prayer for the man, but he had given up on religion and God a long time ago. Instead, he eyed his glass and tried to think of pleasant things. However, the dead body a few feet from him intruded on his thoughts. He sighed and swallowed the remaining half of his whisky. He ignored the bite from the alcohol and placed his glass on the polished wooden bar. He was still sober. This was indeed a bad day.

xxxxxxxx

Mara Barnett-Kirk needed help. She had exhausted all avenues and came to a cheerless conclusion. There was only one person with the connection necessary to grant her the audience she desperately wanted. Unfortunately, said person was her bitter estranged husband.

She adjusted the navigational controls of Delilah, her worn but faithful scout ship. Content with her changes, she engaged autopilot, locking in Deneva as her destination. Mara felt a twinge of apprehension as she considered what Jim's reaction was going to be when he saw her. The last time they faced each other in person, he had looked at her with such loathing. A painful thing to bear, although she understood fault rested with both of them. She regretted the encounter. What was she to do? Her husband became a distant stranger, reshaped by a war experience neither could have imagined.

They had met each other at a Starfleet gathering held by her father, Admiral Richard Barnett. She was a second-year cadet and he an ambitious lieutenant. She took one look at the cocky young man and hated him with a passion born of jealousy. Her father showered this stranger with the type of affection she'd craved since the death of her mother six years prior.

He seemed so smug, golden tanned and all aglow under the hall lighting. As if sensing her scrutiny, his laser bright blue eyes caught hers. The bone-melting smile he sent her way made her world hiccup for a moment. Then she remembered, she was supposed to hate him. Her opinion did not improve when her beaming father formally introduced them.

Two years later, they would meet again. It was the summer of her graduation; his ship, the Farragut, was docked for repairs, and she was awaiting assignment as a pilot. They spent time swapping stories about what it was like to navigate through high family expectations and bad breakups. A young scientist named Carol Marcus had just dumped him. She was still recovering from the end of her yearlong relationship with Starfleet doctor, Geoffrey M'Benga.

Their affair began weeks later over a bottle of wine. The first time they consummated the relationship, she knew she loved him and would continue to do so for the rest of her life. This realisation came to her in the quiet hours of early morning, as she stroked his warm skin. One year later, they were married and he was assigned to the Enterprise as first officer. Almost two years later, disaster struck, war erupted and Mara's marriage disintegrated.

Mara stretched her legs and chided herself for indulging in wasted melancholy. She got up from the nav-pilot's chair, took a long look at the stars and exited the tiny bridge. A few steps and she entered a dimly lit mess hall. A narrow metal table designed to seat six stood at the centre. To the back was a food synthesizer and cooking area. The doorway on the right led to the engine room.

She brewed a cup of tea, an insisted-upon luxury, and headed for the wall com. She touched the unit and asked, "Computer, time to Mentara system?"

"Eighteen hours, twenty-two minutes," replied the emotionless feminine voice.

She had enough time to get some sleep. "Is cloak functioning at peak efficiency?"

A short pause, then, "Cloak is operating at ninety-eight percent capacity."

The cloak was a hard-won prize from the Suliban. A large number of resources and an agreement not to duplicate the technology had resulted in the UE receiving three devices. She drank her tea, placed the cup in the washer and headed to bed.

xxxxxxx

Terrence Mayweather hated the cold. It was 0200 in the morning and freezing. Normally, Deneva's temperature ran from mild frost to punishing heat. Just his luck that he should be outdoors on a rare frigid night, awaiting the arrival of Mara.

Mayweather had grown up in the tropics of Earth's South Pacific, on a wide estate befitting the great-grandson of a Starfleet pioneer. Sometimes he wondered how Mara could spend so much time in the Pirara System. All three of the occupied planets were cold, although there was a moon orbiting a gas giant that was almost tropical. It served as a popular vacation destination. The only other habitable moon, Abiri, was arid, icy and orbited a demon class planet.

He pulled his heavy leather coat closer to his body and wished she would arrive before he froze his nuts off. He looked at his star lighted surroundings and grimaced at the charred surfaces he could make out. Luckily, most of the fighting had taken place in orbit; otherwise, a few scarred patches would have been the least resulting damage. Deneva was one of the first Human colonies outside the Sol system. Within two generations, it grew from a frontier settlement into a thriving powerhouse that demanded a seat on the UE Council. The crystals mined in the hills gave them the economic power to make such claims and it worked.

After the attacks in the Sol System, Proxima and Vega Colony, the surviving Earth government fled to Deneva. Immediately, the haggard group set up offices. This was supposed to be a place for regrouping and strategising. In the end there would be more fleeing.

Mayweather shifted his feet and willed his body to feel warmth. Cursing under his breath, he pulled back his right coat sleeve and checked the black device strapped to his wrist. Paranoia or not, he needed to check that the jammer worked. Otherwise, he would have a great deal to explain to the Vulcans. Like why he was standing in an opening toward the edge of a forest at this ungodly hour. After yesterday's incident at Maxwell's, he had to increase his vigilance. He vividly recalled his silent rage while helping Jim and Bashir bury the man who had died in his stead.

The jammer, illegal on Deneva, distorted his presence enough to fool Vulcan sensors. One of the few advantages they had over the enemy. He wished the resistance had more of the devices at their disposal. However, if one always got one's wishes, he would be married and on his way towards producing children. A beautiful dream, just as dead as his family.

He shifted his feet once more and focused on the twinkling stars. Where was Mara? If she was caught this close to Deneva, the Vulcans would use her to get back at the UE's highest-ranking Admiral, her father. He was beginning to worry for her well-being and by extension, Kirk's. He never knew what had driven a wedge between those two; he did know what ended things. He also knew how much the captain still cared for her.

A momentary twitch in the sky and then the stars and clouds righted themselves. A low audible whine soon followed, growing closer and closer. Dust swirled around Mayweather, whipping his coat about his body. A soft thud echoed from the compact dirt, then nothing, as all sound faded and the dust settled. He remained standing at his spot; his eyes searching to make sure the little disturbance went unnoticed. Within minutes, the hatch opened from nothingness and out stepped Mara Barnett-Kirk, her face partially hidden by the hood of her coat.

"You're late."

She gazed up at him and smiled. "No pleasantries, Terrence?"

"When we're safely indoors, we will exchange them." He turned around and began walking. He expected her to follow.

He heard her sigh then said, "I spotted four Vulcan heavy cruisers and decided to play it safe."

He glanced across at her and considered that she did have a valid reason for arriving late. "Understood."

There were no more attempts at conversation.

xxxxxx

The leader of Deneva's Human resistance cell was in a foul mood. The enemy killed a man in her establishment, and the best military tactician within her group was two steps from drunk. Nyota Uhura took a deep breath and reminded herself of why she had recruited James Kirk upon his arrival on Deneva.

Uhura picked up a glass that was the last from a straight line of drinking glasses on the table before her. With more vigour than necessary, she began to polish away traces of watermarks. Kirk's behaviour with the bottle made her forget at times that he was a hero from the early days of the war. Something she'd witnessed firsthand during the two years she served as Enterprise's communications officer. At first, the alcohol had been a good ploy, which she encouraged. Upon his arrival on Deneva, the Vulcans were suspicious. Playing the drunk suited the purposes of the resistance. Sadly, he now invested too much into his drinking. She felt pangs of guilt on the days she allowed her conscience to intrude on practicality. She was after all his main supplier.

When the glass was sufficiently gleaming, Uhura went about scanning for electronic bugs. It mattered not that she had checked the room minutes before James arrived. The large area above the bar was a replica of an early twentieth century gambling room. Before the war, her sister Mellie and her husband Duncan had owned the place. Duncan Maxwell's family were among the first to settle on Deneva, and they had built the business into a popular place of entertainment. Once upon a time, the room hosted high-stakes poker matches. Now, it was outfitted with illegal equipment attached to walls and shelves that shifted out of sight when trouble approached.

Satisfied with the bug sweep, she went back to her glasses. She stacked them away, and then moved to weapons. In a manner similar to the glasses, she had a line of phasers, phaser rifles, disruptor rifles and old-style phase and plasma pistols. The phase and disruptor weapons needed cleaning, while the two plasma pistols required recharging before they were battle-ready. Her small motley crew might not make much of a dent with the Vulcans, but they did cause damage. Most important, however, was the information they gathered and smuggled out on trade vessels like Mayweather's Helen. Uhura had no illusions about taking on the enemy and winning.

Sorrow shadowed her face as she began to recharge the plasma guns. One had smudges and speckles of dried blood, evidence of their last shootout days before the convoy incident. Damp cloth in hand, she rubbed the stains away while remembering Tania Barrows, the woman whose blood she now cleaned. Tania had been a friend and former Starfleet officer. Uhura wished her peace wherever she now resided.

Life as resistance leader came with a terrible price. It was no life to wish for, although she doubted anyone would. The Uhuras and Dembos family were mostly academics and business people. Her deviation into Starfleet had caused a stir. With Earth destroyed, Uhura and the rest of Humanity had travelled to Deneva. When the Vulcans arrived, her sister and brother-in-law died. She volunteered to remain behind, her brain reprogrammed to enhance her natural gift of acquiring and retaining information. Buried under all of that government manipulation was an end-of-life command. Uhura was to use it if she were ever in the position to jeopardise her government. She observed first-hand what triggering of the termination command did to a person. Her co-leader, a fiercely nationalistic Denevan government official named Joseph Mendez, took his life to save the crew seven months after the Vulcan takeover. He became a mindless shell. She left him to the explosion that destroyed their first headquarters.

Uhura placed the plasma weapon back on the table and picked up a phaser, as she thought about the wide-eyed young woman that entered Starfleet eleven years ago. Back then, had anyone predicted Humanity's current predicament, she would have laughed and called them absurd. A signal beeped from the wall monitors alerting her and James to the presence of someone at the service entrance. She looked over at her former captain and saw him discreetly touch the phaser hidden beneath his navy blue sweater. Maybe he was not as drunk as she believed. Good, she needed him functional when Terrence and Mara arrived. Soon her boring night was going to get interesting.