Disclaimer: I do not own the various universes this meanders through and make no claim to them.

Chapter 3

It was a quiet day on convoy escort duty.

Not like this route's been exciting since General Solo took down Zsinj, thought Commodore Foraz, commander of the escort flotilla, for what that was worth. A dozen assorted bulk freighters escorted by three Nebulon-B frigates, a Corellian Corvette and his own Falcon Nest – a Quasar Fire class escort carrier. Oh, it was a fair enough weight of metal to shepherd freighters through the backwaters of New Republic space. More than enough to see off any marauders or pirates who might decide to take a crack at them.

At the moment they were making a brief run in realspace, making course corrections to avoid a number of stellar phenomena between them and their destination. The ships of the escort force had made the correction already, as had most of the transports. They were waiting on the last of the transports – a pair of bulk heavy freighters of pre-Clone Wars vintage – to form up, and then they would continue. Foraz was almost certain the to merchant skippers were being deliberately slow – both had acted like such a 'small' escort to their convoy was a dire insult. Still, soon enough they'd be on their-

The proximity alarm suddenly began to wail. Foraz shot bolt upright, eyes turned towards the tactical display. What it showed caused him to pale.

"Imperial fleet just appeared – they must have come out of hyperspace or something - directly to starboard!" shouted the sensor officer. "Count one Imperial-class Star Destroyer, one Victory- class Star Destroyer, five Carack Cruisers, and one Interdictor Cruiser."

"Sithspawn," he breathed, then gathered himself. Do your job. Panic later. "Order the convoy to scatter! Tell them to hyperspace before that 'Dictor can get its Gravwell Generators up to power. Flight officer – get the fighters into space now! Signal the group to concentrate fire on that Interdictor." The cruiser's gravwell projectors could disrupt their ability to jump into hyperspace – the more he gave that ship's captain to think about, the more likely he'd be able to get his own group clear. He wanted to order the entire group to jump out immediately; but they couldn't leave until the freighters were clear.

"Sir!" shouted the sensor officer, her young voice shrill with panic. "The Interdictor – It's gravwell generators are already running! None of the freighters can jump!"

"That's impossible," he heard himself say, "They just came out of Hyperspace..." It took several minutes to get gravwell generators up to power – not the bare seconds they'd had. From the bridge, he could see the first wave of X-wings form up as the Nebulon-Bs began to exchange fire with the Victory. He shook himself. Possible or not, they'd done it. And it fell to him to deal with it.

What felt like a ball of solid neutronium settled into the pit of his stomach. Well, I always knew this day might come. "Signal the group. Draw the Imp's fire away from the freighters. Looks like whoever's in charge over there just pulled another one out of his nether regions. Let's jam it back up, without grease." He paused for a moment. "Tell our gunners to open up on that Imperial. It's time to earn our munificent pay."

Arien Cracken – Director, New Republic Intelligence – sat back in his chair, lost in thought. One lucky freighter captain had made it out of that ambush intact; by virtue of sublight engines so souped up they probably bespoke semi-legal dealings when the ship wasn't on contract and the blind luck to be ignored in the earliest stages of the ambush, as Falcon Nest's fighter squadrons tied up the majority of the Imperial fighters. Her captain had the presence of mind to record the entire battle – however short it had been – and its aftermath.

The Imperials had primarily used ion cannons, disabling the freighters and their escorts rather than destroying them, though one of the Nebulon-Bs had been destroyed by a wave of concussion missiles from the VSD when it tried to ram.

Then – still pounding away with ion cannon, the Star Destroyers had launched assault shuttles against the ships of the escort as well as the larger freighters. They'd demanded the fleeing ship heave to and surrender, but the merchant captain had refused – colourfully – and continued his flight, still recording. In fair time, the boarding parties managed to secure the escort ships, which moved into formation with the Imps, as well as the freighters – who had probably surrendered rather than face troops or capital ship guns.

Then the formation abruptly vanished. Not the streak of pseudomotion that heralded a jump into Hyperspace – indeed, through the entire proceedings, the Interdictor's gravwell generators never stopped running – but simply vanished, leaving behind a blotch of purple-on-black that faded quickly into a more normal view of the starfield.

What in the name of the force have they come up with now? He wondered. Some variation on the cloaking device Zsinj had used to hide Razor's Kiss? Or perhaps the sensor-dampener that had so confounded them at Sluis Van? He didn't know; didn't have enough information to manage more than a wild guess. Cracken didn't like that. Not one bit.

He was still deep in thought when his secretary paged him. "Director, we've just received a report from one of our field agents. The preliminary analysis suggests it's connected with that convoy ambush."

"Send it in." A clue, perhaps? Or worse news?

His secretary appeared, brandishing hardcopies and a datatape. They exchanged nods, and then he was left alone with the data and his thoughts. Cracken plugged the datatape into his console, started it decoding as he went through the hardcopy. One of the men I have watching the Imperial yards. Interesting. Timestamp says this is from today... He skimmed the summary, a leaden weight settling in his stomach, then turned to the console.

There were two holo clips contained in it. The first – timestamped bare minutes before the attack on the convoy began – showed two Star Destroyers, identified as the Formidable and the Death's Head, form up with the ships that made up the rest of the Imperial attack and then abruptly vanish in a blotch much like that shown by the freighter's report. The second was timestamped perhaps ten minutes after the attack finished. It showed the task force and its prizes.

Cracken glanced at a starmap, quickly ran the numbers. Impossible. The fastest ships in the universe couldn't make it in even ten times that time – forget the ImpStar or the freighters. How in the name of the Force did they manage that?

Arien Cracken wasn't an alarmist or more paranoid than his duties required. But right now, he wondered if some greater power had it in for the New Republic. And if the rumors about the Empire being lead by a Grand Admiral now were true.

Janos Harbid was not a happy captain.

By rights he should be feeling quite pleased with himself – the raid had gone all but flawlessly and in the balance a single light freighter escaping their net was of minimal importance. Indeed, it might even aid their situation – the New Republic had no way to know how they'd pulled it off, and like Thrawn's previous gambits, it could only throw them into further confusion. Right now, with their best fighting Admiral in chains – he couldn't help but smirk at the thought, at least for a moment, and send a grateful thought to opportunistic Bothans everywhere – was the Empire's best chance to restore itself to glory. They'd barely even lost any TIE Fighters – practically unheard of, that. By all rights, it was a triumph. He should have taken notes.

But his satisfaction was marred by a growing unease. The Omnissians had grown, if anything, even stranger. Now they worked in an unnerving silence, and they'd modified the bunks in their guest quarters to incorporate something that looked vaguely like droid recharge and data transfer sockets. When he asked Nassistor about this, he was simply told that they were 'following the Way revealed to them by Thrawn's Gift of Borg.' He did not trust such dogmatic mumblings, but they wouldn't give him any actual answers.

And he couldn't press. Not too overtly, at least. The Grand Admiral had assigned him additional engineers, who were trying to figure out how the Engine worked without breaking it, and until they did they needed to keep the Omnissians happy. They were still putting the drive through its paces, which was of marginal help to the technical investigation – the Techno-Mystics would allow no outsiders to interact with the Engine while it was in use.

He sighed, put those thoughts out of his mind. He had too much to do. Death's Head would be leading another raid tomorrow, targeting a larger convoy this time, one with a stronger escort. Delta Source, whoever or whatever it was, had given them the details. More ships to capture, supposedly to be crewed by the first fruits of the Mount Tantiss operation, whatever that was. Much to do, and too many mysteries to deal with.

Chrono resisted the urge to sigh as he scanned the reports. Hours of scanning had failed to lock down the strange temporal and spacial anomaly that had diverted them from the hunt for the Bradesons. The energy signature was complex, with half a dozen elements woven in, complicated by temporal anomalies. All he and his own sensor techs had managed thus far was to confirm what he'd been told by the Archives division – it wasn't a match for the Bradeson's Dimensional Drive, and it had elements they'd encountered before.

It was also almost certainly causing damage to the dimensional barriers. There was simply too much raw energy, blazing and chaotic, for it not to. This was not some well designed device. Some emergent power crafting a new drive was always a possibility, but the fact that two of the elements of the energy signature were near-matches to others in the database made that seem... unlikely. He didn't believe in co-incidence. Not on this scale.

But how to track it down? He wondered. The bloody thing as a whole was riddled with too much chaotic energy to pin down even without the temporal anomalies playing merry hell with everything. He sat back, let the white noise of the ship wash over him as his mind turned the situation over a few times. It didn't help that something niggled at him – some thought that they were trying to solve this in exactly the wrong way.

Then it hit him. The initial Hibiki incident had been similarly hard to solve – something they'd gotten around by tracking the instigator by alternate means. Saotome's fate was linked to Hibiki's, and through that link they'd managed to trace the lost boy via sympathetic magics. Perhaps they could do the same again.

"Navigator," he said as he paged the bridge. "Plot a course to Protectorate World #97 and transmit it to the task force." He switched channels. "Communications, put me through to HQ."

It had been over a year since he'd last been to Earth, and Chrono was impressed.

They didn't have magitech, and they didn't have a united world government, but it seemed an external threat had motivated them immensely. He'd read the reports, but they hadn't really sunk in until now.

The International Space Station, ignored by the Bradesons in a gesture of contempt, was now the nucleus of a growing network of defensive satellites. Most of them were based on something called the Strategic Defense Initiative, but several were, according to the reports, something entirely new, employing what they'd learned in the battle. The weapons – a mix of mass drivers, bomb-pumped laser cannons, and missiles – would not be enough to beat off a determined, modern force, but they'd set the tone remarkably well: This is our home and we will fight you for every inch of it.

"When these people decide to build something, they don't do it by half," muttered one of the sensor techs. "This might not stop us, but we'd know we'd been kissed. Especially once they finish it."

"'We'd know we'd been kissed.' You've been watching too many of their entertainment programs, Leyland." Chrono shook his head. While most of their tech was, of course, of no value to the TSAB, the resourceful earthers had found a market for their media, and were making a fair amount of money doing so. They couldn't get much of substance for it, of course – as a protectorate, they were subject to TSAB import laws, and the vast majority of TSAB tech and magitech was, of course, far too advanced for Earth to be ready for. Such restrictions were for their own good.

And he had to admit, he liked a fair bit of their music and shows, even if he wasn't sure they were a good influence on the youth of society. But that wasn't terribly important at the moment. They had business to conduct. Checking in with the guardian fleet took a few moments; a call from the Earther's own station command was unexpected but swift. Polite and formal, as they would hardly like to give their protectorate the idea that they weren't respected.

It was almost amusing, the way the Earthers had kept their orbital defense grid targeted on them until their pitiful lightspeed-limited sensors had confirmed they were who they said they were. A plucky bunch. Though what should we expect from the world that gave us Nanoha Takamachi and Hayate Yagami?

Not for the first time, he idly wondered if the TSAB was making a mistake, treating Earth like it had other, more primitive protectorates. Their level of magic was higher than the information in the TSAB database's indicated, information rolled into the general database from the files of one of the smaller powers that formed the Bureau. Once, about a year ago, Yuuno had decided to try and track down the source of that old rating for Earth. He hadn't been able to, and Chrono had enough respect for the researcher's data gathering ability to conclude that whatever report had spawned it no longer existed. A shame, really – he was genuinely curious about what it might have said.

The bureaucracy of the TSAB had decided that Earth didn't need a re-evaluation, and that there would be no harm in letting them tinker with some of the Bradeson wreckage they'd recovered. They wanted to try and solve some of their manpower issues by recruiting from the populace, and felt that a show of generosity would be useful in such an effort. Besides, they reasoned, the supposedly magicless populace would likely be unable to decipher such magitech, rendering it a harmless gesture. In Chrono's opinion, that was quite possibly a mistake, but he kept his own council. The politicians doubtless would not want it.

Finally, the task force moved into its parking orbit. Chrono's plan, at the moment, was simple: they'd try to locate the Hibiki boy, and try and trace the elements of his energy signature via sympathetic magic. If that failed, they could return to the place where they'd first encountered the Borg and try to capture some of their equipment to try the same thing – though hopefully it wouldn't come to that. The Bureau had enough fights on its hands without picking another.

Ranma Saotome, master of the Anything Goes School of Indiscriminate Grappling, took a moment to sweep the front walk of his dojo – a daily ritual he'd started months ago, shortly after purchasing the place. The Saotome Dojo wasn't terribly traditional looking, being rebuilt from the shell of a gutted warehouse after the Battle of Tokyo, but it was sizeable, well placed, and for him, it was home.

He'd moved out of Nerima to start the school after tricking the old letch into a challenge. Luckily, Happi hadn't realized just how powerful Ranma had become before the fight, and Ranma had picked his challenge site with care when the bastard showed up, ranting about girls with chainsaws and hundreds of thugs with guns and being lost at sea. It hadn't been fair, taking the old guy on when he was in that state, but fighting fair wasn't exactly a tenet of Anything Goes. Once Happi'd pulled himself out of the concrete, he'd agreed, pleased that 'at least some of my good habits' had rubbed off on him.

Soun Tendo had been happy for him, and grateful to see the Master humbled. Genma... well, Ranma didn't really know, and he didn't really care. He and his father still weren't speaking. It'd be a while before that changed if he had anything to say about it.

He'd founded his own dojo, then. Officially, it was because a true Man Among Men should be able to make his own living and build his own fortune. His mother, and the fiancees, had swallowed that. And hell, starting his own little business had been an interesting challenge in and of itself. But he'd been trying to get a little distance, a little space... and as he'd sort of guessed, the idea was doomed to failure. Less than a week after he'd opened the place and gotten his first few classes finished, he saw that two other rebuilt buildings had been bought – the new locations of Ucchan's and the Cat Cafe.

Still, even if it wasn't working the way he'd hoped, he was happy enough with the place. And he'd found that he quite enjoyed teaching. There were a few students who aggravated the hell out of him, but for the most part it worked out. He'd gotten a deal on the place, too – it had been a bit of fixer-upper for one thing, and for another, while most of the media attention and such landed on the Senshi and TSAB, he and his fellow martial artists hadn't been overlooked by the powers that be. The JSDF kept him on retainer now, to help deal with similar emergencies in the future and deal with rampaging monsters, alien invaders, or martial artists.

He figured it wasn't exactly a bad plan. Nabs had approved: he was getting money to do stuff he'd have done anyway. He got a little discreet help buying his dojo and fixing it up, and he politely ignored the fact that a largish chunk of his adult classes were JSDF troops brushing up on their combat training. Most of them even wanted to be there. More fun were the special classes, working with the fiances, Nabs, and the Senshi. They were crafting a new combat style out of whole cloth together, and even though the martial artists could use little of the magic aspects of it, it was good stuff to know.

Nightly ritual complete, Ranma turned to his door. It had been a good day. He waved at the sound of a familiar bell, as Shampoo rode past, doubtless returning from a delivery. It was time for him to catch up on his own training and hit the books for a while. He'd thrown himself into his studies, as much to spite his father's ideas of what a Real Man did and didn't need to know as because of the sheer number of times he'd found his lack of knowledge a liability.

He'd just entered when a voice sounded in his head. Agent Saotome?

He blinked, surprised for a moment. It had been a while since someone had contacted him this way. He took a moment to place the mental voice. Uh, yeah. Admiral Harlaown, right?

Yes. We need your assistance. We're attempting to track down your associate, Hibiki, and he's proving as resistant to casual tracking spells as ever. Is this a good time?

Sure. Just gimmie a minute to lock up.

Lina Inverse stared into the night sky, brow furrowed in worry. Several times over the last few weeks, she'd felt some mighty, mystic force twist the skies above – just for a split second, but enough times that it worried her. There was just so much power being thrown around that it scared her, and she looked down to the campfire, trying to draw some wisdom or meaning from its flickering light. Or at least comfort from its heat.

She'd hoped that the world might know some safety after Valgarv's defeat, but it seemed that it was not to be. Meditation had failed to shed any information, or even any calm. The first of the mystic things had woken her from a dead sleep, but she'd been awake, if not totally attentive, for the ones since. They felt mighty, chaotic, and somehow tainted, as if magic was not all that was involved in them. About all she knew for sure was that they didn't feel like Mazoku work. It was frustrating.

If only I could find myself a decent atelier, I could try and study one. She sighed. And while I'm wishing for things, how about a Claire Bible and the Sword of Light back?

Gravel crunched as Gourry walked back into the circle of light cast by the fire. "Can't sleep?"

"It's nothing," she said by reflex, not wanting to worry him or confuse his tiny brain. "I just hope we run into some more bandits tomorrow. I want to work out some frustrations."

He smiled. "Yeah, they've been getting a bit thin on the ground these days. We might have to head somewhere else to hunt 'em for a while." He lay back on his bedroll, sighed contentedly. "Maybe Seyruun. We've been away long enough, some of 'em might have moved there to get away from us."

"What, follow the migrating bandits?" She laughed, then took a moment to consider the suggestion. Seyruun wouldn't be a bad place to go right now, all things considered. They had allies there. And perhaps Zelgadiss could help her puzzle out this mystery.

"Not a bad idea, Gourry. We'll start back there tomorrow."

Tom Paris sat at the helm of the Enterprise-E and felt something remarkably like first-date jitters.

It had been a while since he'd flown, and a lot longer since he'd been at the helm of anything bigger than an Intrepid. Part of him – a large part – expected Enterprise to handle like a wallowing pig by comparison.

The bridge – the entire ship's company, really, from what he'd felt – was eager for this. Enterprise was an explorer, and they'd been made to play diplomat for too long. There'd been some reorganization and turnover in the ranks, of course – Her usual councilor had taken leave to help rebuild her homeworld, and her first officer had finally accepted a promotion, among other changes. In Riker's place was the android Data, which many of the crew seemed to accept as an 'about time' sort of thing.

At some point he needed to check on the ship's doc, if only to see if she equaled her reputation. I hope nothing goes wrong. Breaking in one EMH was hard enough.

At least there were a few familiar faces in the mix. He'd spotted a few of the Voyager crowd as everything got moved in and settled down. Most of them seemed to be doing well, though the changes Seven had gone through were... surprising. He wondered what kind of behavior she'd run into to inspire such a retreat into herself. It struck him as unfair – she'd proven herself in the eyes of her shipmates many times over.

His jittery train of thought was interrupted by Captain Picard's voice. "Lieutenant Paris, take us out."

"Aye, sir," he responded automatically. Fingers danced across the console, and the mighty Sovereign class starship began to move from her position within the spacedock. He released a breath he hadn't even been aware that he'd been holding – the ship responded to his commands swiftly, a feeling of power and fluid grace to her movements. He relaxed back into his seat. I could get used to this.

"We are clear of Spacedock, sir," said the android, Data.

"Excellent, Number One. Mister Paris, set a course to the testing site, warp seven." Picard paused for a moment, and Tom quickly punched in the route. "Engage."

It was, perhaps, inevitable that the prototype Dimensional Drive had been dubbed 'HOP drive,' after some of Lister's stories got around. The souser was good company, and a lot smarter than he generally let on. And it had been information he'd retrieved from StarBug that had been key to working out a method of creating the Drive itself. Amazing what an eccentric AI could come up with over three million years of boredom.

And Geordie LaForge had to admit he found it better than the title the Science committee had hung on the blasted thing. Interdimensional Bridging Propulsion Device. A name devised by committee if he'd ever heard one. The blasted thing that was stuck in his engine room, since the calculations insisted that it needed an all-up warp core for power.

Which begged the question: how had this Ryoga Hibiki in Voyager's reports managed the trick?

Still. All that aside, he was feeling cautiously optimistic about the situation. He liked the idea of being an explorer again. Showing the flag and putting out brushfires was important, especially during a war, but damned if it wasn't boring. It also reminded him that he was slowly losing the battle with age – his dress uniform felt awfully snug lately. And for all he'd prefer it to be on someone else's engine deck, well, he was excited at the idea of breaking in a new method of exploring the universe.

Universes, he corrected, shaking his head a moment. Hard to get the ol' skull around that one, sometimes.

Still, they were almost to the test site, where they'd rendezvous with the science vessel USS Copernicus and start testing. That would be – he called up the chrono overlay on his ocular implants – another hour and change. He could hardly wait.

Saotome had changed in the last year and a half. Chrono had only met him briefly, in the aftermath of the Battle of Tokyo, though they'd spoken on the long range comms before then, while he was assisting Nanoha in dealing with the Hibiki incident. His impression, from those meetings and a few reports, was of an idiot savant.

That seemed less and less likely as the evening wore on.

Ranma was on Claudia's bridge at the moment, leaned over one of the sensor displays. Attempting to track Hibiki with a sympathetic tracing spell had given them a general location, leading to a patch of forest a day or so of foot-travel outside of Tokyo. The woods seemed to have some kind of mystic properties – Ranma claimed they were full of giant animals – that made pinning him down more precisely difficult. The martial artist was hunched over one of the sensor displays, having picked up the basics of its use in a few minutes of watching, and was actually being reasonably useful in helping to clarify the signal.

He was sharper than Chrono'd first guessed. He'd expected the young aquatransexual to rubberneck and be distracted by the various tech, or perhaps the view of Earth from orbit. But apart from a brief glance around the bridge when he'd been beamed up, and a short, reverent glance at the orbital view, he'd been all business.

Staff Sergeant Aston, commander of the ship's Marine detachment, stood at the Admiral's side, one hand resting lightly on the Intelligent Device at his belt. He was watching Saotome with frank curiosity.

Aston, thought Chrono to his subordinate, try to remember that he's both a provisional agent and a guest at the moment.

Of course, Sir. I'm meaning no disrespect; just the opposite.

Fair enough. His thoughts turned to other business. Unless we have a breakthrough up here, we'll need to head groundside to finish tracking down Hibiki for our tracing spell. How long to get a team ready?

A few minutes sir, but it's closing in on local dark, isn't it? From what I've overheard from Saotome, Hibiki's persona non grata with most of their mutual friends right now, and he's been in seclusion for a few weeks; he might not react well to unexpected guests. I'd rather not surprise him at night.

Persona non grata? Did Saotome say why? Chrono cursed himself for not listening more closely – Saotome had been chatting non-stop, asking and answering questions, and the admiral had tuned him out.

Something about an old secret coming out. It brought one Akane down on him like the Wrath itself, and his reaction to that annoyed his current paramour. Something about being angry he still had feelings for this Akane and not just her.

I can see that inspiring a man to get away from it all. And leave him on edge.

Aye, admiral. The female of the species is far more dangerous than any man. Aston grimaced. Though looking at his file, I wouldn't want to pick a fight with this Hibiki on a bet.

Too close to a fair fight?

Absolutely. You know how I feel about those. The two exchanged brief grins.

Well, we know he and Saotome are friends. Why don't we get his opinion?

Fair enough, Sir.

Chrono cleared his throat. "Any luck on the tracking?"

Ranma glanced over. "We're getting' it narrowed down, but I think I know where he is. There's a good cave in the chunka forrest he's camped out in, we found it a while back. It's in the general area we've pinned him to."

"Excellent. Would you be able to find this place after dark?"

"Probably, but that forest ain't safe at night. Some nasty critters live there." He glanced at a watch. "Lookin' at the time, I should probably get back anyway. The gang'll be at the Dojo soon for our training."

"Training?" asked Aston.

"Sure. The regular stuff's done, but I still got my own skills ta work on, an' the rest of the gang. Advanced stuff." He shrugged. "Lots to learn, an' not enough time, so I don't like ta waste any of it."

Aston smiled. "I think I like your attitude."

Chrono thought for a moment. It's not like waiting until local morning is going to be too critical, and it'd be a good gesture... "Well, in that case, we can pick this up in the morning." He paused, curiosity nagging. "Can I ask what sort of 'advanced stuff' you'll be working on?"

"Ki techniques with the fiancees an' Nabs, magical combat with the Senshi, stuff like that."

"Magical combat? You're not a mage."

Ranma grinned. "Don't mean I can't fight, or help 'em figure stuff out. 'Sides, Dojo's a better practice place than anythin' they've got."

"That sounds interesting," said Aston, smiling broadly. "With the Admiral's permission, I think I'd like a look at some of this."

Chrono glanced from his marine to Ranma, who shrugged. "No objection from me. T' Art's for anyone who can learn."

"In that case, I think I'd be interested as well."

Once upon a time, Ukyo Kuonji would find the addition of strange mages to their evening sparring/training/general fun time annoying. Especially when one of those mages radiated 'I'm better than all of you.' But the last year or so had cured her of that sort of thing. She blamed the Senshi.

Though she didn't really hold it against them – the Inners especially were nice girls who a) were regular customers, b) liked to share interesting recipes, and c) didn't try to put the moves on her Ran-chan. That last was important. And probably safest for them, magical girls or no. She, Akane, and Shampoo had agreed to something of a ceasefire among themselves, but such courtesy was not extended to any other girls who might try for the man whose heart they fought for.

The evening had started a touch late – Ranma dealing with TSAB business had slowed him down, though she'd have barely been on time anyway. One advantage to her new location being so close to his dojo – lots of hungry people coming by after his late classes. It had been interesting so far. She hadn't gotten to see much of what the TSAB's fighting styles were like – even before they started working with Ranma the Senshi's style was a hybrid, so that was interesting in and of itself. But she also got to watch Admiral Arrogance's growing disbelief as he saw what the Senshi and the martial artists were creating.

Right now, Chrono's assistant/bodyguard was in the ring, sparring with Makoto and giving a good account of himself. He seemed to surrender a fair amount of power to the tall magical girl, but Tomas Aston had decades of experience and was keeping up nicely. Ranma was shouting pointers to both fighters as they roared around the limited space of the dojo, magic and ki flashing. The brown-haired Senshi was the only one of the Inners who could throw around much ki, though even Usagi had picked up the knack a little. Even if, without her magic, the blonde was less powerful than Nabiki.

And the Mercenary Girl with ki powers was still an unnerving and somewhat frightening thought.

Finally, after most of fifteen minutes of hectic combat, Aston held up a hand, laughing. "Bloody hell, that's impressive stuff. Your files' don't do you justice, Miss Kino." He ran a hand through thinning black hair. "Good fighting style you've got going."

Makoto smiled. "Thanks. You're pretty impressive too."

Ranma chimed in, "Not a ton of power, but ya use whatcha got real well. Very impressive."

"Thanks." He shook his head, walked over to a side table and took a pull from one of the water bottles there. "Give me a day to think on it though, missy, an' I'll take you in the rematch."

"Sure you will," said Makoto, smiling as she walked to where the other Senshi sat, exchanged high-fives with Rei.

Ranma stood. "Who'se up next?"

Aston spoke up immediately. "I vote you and the Admiral." Chrono shot him a look.

"Second the motion," said Shampoo. She and Shenhua were both grinning, as if anticipating the coming show. The older Amazon girl was still something of a mystery. She'd apparently been in town during the invasion, and had run into Cologne, who had pressed her into service at the Cat Cafe. For the first few months, she'd been treated little better than Mousse, and none of the other Amazons would say why, beyond 'an issue of honor.' She wasn't in the same skill class as the rest of them, not quite, but she was a quick learner.

Ranma shook his head. "An' as the owner of the building, I'm usin' my veto. I want this place ta still be standin' in the mornin.'"

The marine chuckled. "Spoilsport."

Chrono shot him a look, then said, "As much as I'd be interested in seeing more of this combat style, I'd prefer to see it somewhere with less chances for collateral damage. It's quite impressive."

Ranma shrugged. "It ain't really done yet, we're still workin' on it."

"Does the style have a name?"

Rei said, "Not yet. Ranma's being stubborn."

Chrono raised an eyebrow.

"They wanna give it some frilly girly name. I want to call it somethin' traditional."

"It's a fighting style developed by magical girls for magical girls," said Rei, "And it should be named accordingly."

"I ain't no magical girl," said Ranma. Ukyo smiled, knowing how this argument was about to go.

Ami muttered a word, gestured slightly, and a ball of water popped into existence just above Ranma's head. It splashed down on the suddenly-redhead, who closed her eyes for a moment and tried to hold her temper. "Curses don't count," she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

The USS Copernicus standing by, the Enterprise prepared to test its dimensional drive. All the diagnostics had been completed; all the self-tests run. The region of empty space in which the ship sat had been thoroughly scanned for any anomalies that might affect the testing. The ship was at yellow alert in preparation for the test, with shields at maximum and weapons at standby. The senior officers, as were two of the 'experts' on the Interdimensional Bridging Propulsion Device – Lister and the Borg. He disliked both, though for different reasons.

Jean Luc Picard exhaled slowly. Time once again to boldly go. "Engage," he said, tone as close to normal as he could manage through his excitement.

Lieutenant Paris entered the command into his console. "Aye, sir."

The bridge seemed to shift slightly, as if everything lept millimeters to the left in an instant. From his station, Commander Data said, "The Interdimensional Bridging Propulsion Device appears to have functioned as planned. Copernicus's tracking signal is no longer detected." There was a pause, and the Android who was his first officer now frowned. "I am detecting two other vessels, sir."

"Identify, Mr. Data." Picard kept his expression neutral. What happened?

"They appear to be a Magellan class science vessel and a Sovereign class starship." A pause as the viewscreen switched to displaying the vessels in question. "The Sovereign is hailing us."

At a loss for another response, Picard said, "On screen."

The main viewer switched to a view of a bridge, almost identical to his own. At the conn was a female human who bore a vague resemblance to Lieutenant Paris. In the center seat was a striking brunette woman. A female klingon stood at the weapons station, mirroring G'rokas on his own bridge. In fact, all but two of the strange ship's bridge crew were female, save for an androgynous looking android at the first officer's station, and a young man at the ops station, mirroring the young woman at his own ops station.

The surprise threw him for a moment, and he only belatedly realized that the other ship's captain was speaking. "This is Captain Jeanette Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise, to unknown starship. This is a restricted area; state your identity and your reason for being here at once." Then her operations officer quietly got her attention, and he saw her eyes widen with surprise.

Data said, "Captain, their ship's transponder also identifies it as the USS Enterprise, NCC 1701-E." The android paused for a moment. "I am unable to explain this phenomenon at this time."

Lister chuckled, then waved at his counterpart on the screen. "'Allo, Deb."

"'Allo, Dave," she replied.

"Looks like none o' yours believed t' story, either."

'Deb' shrugged. "Nah. Just won me twenty quid, though."

Jeanette glared at the female souser. "I believe we need to talk, ma'am."

Picard shot Lister the expression's twin. "We, also." He turned back to the screen. "I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise. An Enterprise from another universe than your own, I believe. I.. apologize for interrupting your test. If we might take our leave?"

"I believe that would be acceptable." The connection ended.

Picard took a moment to compose himself as he turned towards David Lister, who was trying not to laugh at the nonplussed reactions of the people around him. "Mister Lister, did your reports mention anything about this?"

"Think so, mister Picard. I'd 'ave ta double check."

"Please do so. With dispatch."

Lister nodded, and headed for the turbolift.