Chapter III

All told, it went as well as could be expected, reflected a flushed Felix Pavlik as the swished shut and locked behind his girlfriend. Well, maybe ex-girlfriend. Did we break up? The hell if I could decipher anything like a coherent thought from all of the shouting.

He surveyed his living room. Having some experience with dealing with passionate women, he thought of the damage as relatively minor. A pillow on the floor near his bookcase that belonged on his couch, a holoframe knocked from the side table and two untouched cups and saucers of tea on the coffee table was all that were out of place in this otherwise tidy space.

It could hardly be described as Spartan, as many other Starfleet Officer's planet-side homes were. His walls were adorned with various personal effects. The north wall was where he put his diplomas, degrees, medals and citations. The south wall were portraits, both static and holographic, of the people most important to him which included his parents, grandparents and friends - both those lost in the wars of the last decade and those who managed to survive them.

The east wall, the one that lacked any entranceways or windows, was cluttered with images of his personal interests: tall-ships and other sailing vessels, a couple of his favourite classic starship designs, and, of course, maps. He delighted at the map collection he had amassed, almost entirely of the older, strictly static two-dimensional kind. He was certainly more inclined towards interpreting them and their clever dotted lines and color-coding than standing in the middle of a holographic projection, and this put him in the extreme minority of common folk.

Overall, his room had the feel befitting a man of his experience as a sort of jack of all trades. At points of career he had worn all three colours of the service, in virtually every capacity. He had spent some years planet-bound as a researcher, but about just as many travelling the galaxy in various capacities, from engineer to spy to infantryman to commander to humanitarian.

It was the merciless meat-grinder of war - first against the Klingons, then the Borg and finally the Dominion - that allowed him to find his true calling. In his heart, he knew he was a soldier. He took no pleasure from the act of killing, but he was singularly efficient at it and the feeling that followed any sacrifice he made for king and country was what gave him the most profound sense of purpose he knew. He had long come to terms with the fact that this would isolate him in a society where compassionate individualism was the norm, so he doubted that his fight with Emily would be the last of its type - even if it were the last one with her.

Having set his living room back to rights, Pavlik dismissed the idea of having a beer and decided to turn in early. He walked into his small, but adequate, bedroom and ordered the lights to dim illumination. A cold chill ran down his spine as he caught with his eye a dark figure.

"Son of a bitch," he exclaimed, half out of surprise and half out of recognition. His eyes ran to above his headboard, where his family's antique rifle was hung, and looked at it longingly.

"You didn't think we forgot about you, Felix," said the shadowy figure as she stepped underneath a pot light. She was a relatively short human woman in her late sixties, still looking as chipper as women her age typically were in the year 2379. Felix had always imagined that she was something of a looker in her day, back when the hairstyle she wore her hair was still fashionable, which was more than thirty years ago. She wore the plain black jumpsuit that seemed to be the uniform of her "branch" of the service, and she looked much worn since Pavlik last saw her.

"I am just shocked at the fact that you're still alive, Sloan," he said in a half sigh as he still pondered his firearm. Not that he was feeling particularly murderous; it was just that he wanted these nut-jobs and terrorists to leave him alone. "Given the general incompetence of your organization, I figured you'd have gotten yourself killed by now."

The older woman threw back her head and cackled. "I have missed you, Felix. I really have. But, I didn't just come for the jokes. Congratulations are in order, Captain. You are to be given the Surprise, but you won't get the orders until the end of the week."

Felix visibly tensed. He was torn at the news; happy that he had gotten a command, but deeply upset he had to hear it from this particular source.

"I suppose that now I would be of use to you," he said with thinly-veiled distaste.

"As you were back when you were first officer of the Deliverance," she replied, ignoring his tone. "And if you had agreed to my proposition then, that Sovereign-class masterpiece may have been yours now. Instead, you are reduced to the Surprise."

"A small price to pay to serve with a clear conscience," he replied easily, moving to his wardrobe. He pulled out a pair of pyjamas. "I'll have my pick soon enough."

"Only if it pleases the organization," the woman replied menacingly. She took a step toward Pavlik. "Given what we know about you, Captain, you serve in Starfleet at our leisure. I hope you haven't forgotten that."

"If you and your kind actually believe in that nonsense you spew about protecting the Federation, then you'll let me serve and leave me alone. You and I both know that I'm a greater asset in the stars as an officer than on Earth as a private citizen, even if I'm not in your pocket." Felix stripped off his shirt and replaced it with a light cotton top. "Besides, you made the same threats back on the Deliverance and I outmanoeuvred your hidden, scary, omnipresent secret service then. You're not so tough."

"Is that how you saw your transfer off your ship?" Sloan laughed hoarsely again. "It never occurred to you that maybe we wanted you back on Earth and on a counsellor's couch for a time?"

At this, Pavlik burst out laughing so hard he almost tripped over his pyjama pants. He took a moment to regain his balance and smirked sarcastically at his elder. "Maybe this omnipotent, game-in-a-game, everything-has-a-purpose bullshit impresses the wide-eyed innocent ensigns who want a little excitement to improve the dull, meaningless existence they have to endure on some deep-space tub, but I ain't twenty two anymore. I won't fall for it."

"Given the nature of my work, you're only being prudent by not believing me," Sloan acknowledged, but then she produced a PADD out of seemingly nowhere. She handed it over to Felix. She smiled hollowly. "That, however, might convince you otherwise."

Felix, against his better judgement, read the PADD. It was a psychological evaluation dated shortly after the Second Borg Invasion. He checked the file's authenticity code and it appeared legitimate. While skimming through the report, a few key phrases jumped out at him, such as "suffers from severe emotional trauma," "a likely candidate for depression, survivor's guilt," and, the coup de grace, "it is Starfleet Medical's opinion that Lieutenant Commander Pavlik is unfit for... any assignment in a command setting."

When Sloan read from his expression that Felix had seen these highlights, she continued, "You were given command of the Audacious in spite of Starfleet Medical's most ardent objections, thanks to some well-placed sympathizers who recognized your true potential."

Pavlik was too dumbfounded to note that she had carefully avoided claiming any direct credit for his assignment to the Audacious, which he would have normally found significant – it meant that Sloan's organization had nothing to do with it.

"Although it would be nice to have an ally on another Sovereign-class ship, it would also serve us to make sure our operative had a clean bill of mental health," Sloan continued without breaking stride. "After all, the man who's serving in spite of the recommendation of Starfleet Medical is going to be the first person suspected of any out of the ordinary."

"Shut up," Felix demanded, his voice almost as shaky as he felt after learning that he had only done precisely what Sloan wanted. He had felt quite secure in his superiority after their last encounter, and he missed that sense of security desperately. "I owe you nothing. And I'm never going to be your agent."

Sloan waved her hand dismissively. "None of our operatives say they will. Well, at first.

"We'll be in touch, I'm sure."

The lights flickered, and before he knew it, Sloan was gone.

He plopped down in his bed, but not before he picked up his rifle. It had once belonged to a distant, but direct, ancestor who had fought during the First World War. A peasant who fought as a grunt in the Austro-Hungarian Army in Italy. While it still could shoot, Felix had no bullets for it. He would replicate them every time he took it down to the shooting range. So, although it could be quite deadly in the right hands, its power in this era was merely symbolic.

No, he thought, as he held the weapon close to his bosom. It will not do. I'll have to start carrying around a concealable phaser.

Pavlik did not hear from Sloan over the next few days, which was just as well. He had decided to put her tip into good use and he began to prepare for his new assignment. With his project at Starfleet Research winding down anyway, he pushed his team to accelerate the preparations to pass it off to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers, who were tasked with implementation.

He also had some personal business to attend to as well. His first visit was to the Main Earth Branch of the Commercial Bank of Ferenginar to speak to his broker about an advance. He had learned during the war the value of keeping a few bars of latinum on hand while off-world, and when trade and investment restrictions were eased as a result of the enlightened tenure of Grand Nagus Rom, Felix was quick to make some investments. He was delighted to find that they were doing quite nicely, producing a steady profit from dividends alone, meaning he would not have to touch the principle amount he had amassed over the last few years to be able to cover the occasional need for hard cash that arises on the frontier.

Another item on his to-do list was to get in touch with some of his friends and contacts around the fleet. He had found out that the Surprise was currently without a crew, and that made it almost certain that he would be allowed to assemble his own. Through his relations he intended to gain some direction in making his choices. He knew that most officer's records were spotless, filled with glowing recommendations. What he needed was, instead, a sense of who out there would be a good fit for his way of doing things.

The only position he didn't require some advice on was that of first officer. He already knew who he would pick and that he would be eager to serve. In spite his species' - and his personal - reputation of being easy going and all for free-love, Treyvin Smyne, a Risan, had never been indiscrete with the relationships he had while serving as an officer, except for one, with the wife of a highly-placed Bolian diplomat. Although Pavlik didn't seriously suspect that there was any systematic discrimination of his friend as some kind of retribution, he wasn't astonished that Smyne was stuck at the rank of commander or in a Starbase. That kind of lapse in judgement was a black mark.

"For the love of the Sun," Smyne exclaimed when Felix had called him. "You can get me off this tin can? I'll be on the first transport to Earth."

"Whoa there, Trey, what I know is currently unofficial. My source says I should know for sure by the end of the week. And who knows how long its refit is going to take?"

"The Surprise stopped here on its way back to Utopia Planetia. Aside from some minor upgrades and maintenance, she's ready for another cruise. Won't be more than a month."

"Your orders might not come through until then."

"No worries, friend. I've got enough shore leave to cover that. I just want to get back on a ship, you understand?"

Felix did.