It was never truly dark in the Corynix nebula. The diffuse clouds of dust and gas dulled the young stars, but were illuminated by the harsh, searing glare of protostars igniting into main sequence stars. Instead of the familiar, utter blackness studded by hard points of light, space in the nebula was a dim glow with soft, blurry patches of light within.
The Federation ship hung motionless, its hull scarred by the tracks of phased polaron beams. It emitted no light. Its shields were down, its weapons offline, and its warp coils inert. The only sign that it wasn't dead in space was an automated distress beacon, sending it's plaintive squeal into the subspace void.
A Dominion fighter, drawn by the distress signal, drifted closer, trying to scan for life signs through the interference of the nebula. Cautious, wary, focused closely on the Federation ship, it skirted round the ruin of another Dominion fighter. Dead, it's hull pierced through, but it seemed to have taken the Federation ship down with it.
A faint, momentary chirrup in the distress beacon's wail was followed an instant later by intense energy blazing from the stricken Dominion ship, vaporising what remained, and sending a shock-wave of antimatter laced plasma hammering into its sibling.
The fighter reeled, shields depleted and sensors blinded. Before it could recover, energy surged in the Federation ship's weapons, and phaser beams lanced out, drilling through the fighter's bridge.
Forest realised he'd been holding his breath, and let it out slowly. "Enemy status, Mr Grant?"
"Their bridge is dead, control systems down. Warp core is intact, but unstable."
"Life signs?"
"Fifteen, Sir."
Forest nodded. "Very good. Ms Pashzto, remodulate shields."
"Remodulating. Shields at... twenty percent, Sir. That's the best we can do at present."
"Understood. Helm, take us to a safe distance. Ms Pashzto, when safe, finish them off."
"Sir."
Forest waited, listening to the hissing hum of the impulse drive. It should have been smooth, but an uneven stuttering showed just how sick the Ptolemy was. Then the phasers fired, detonating the Dominion fighter's warp core. At least the phasers still work. That's something at least.
He tapped his comm badge. "Forest to Sotar."
"Sotar here."
"Mr Sotar, congratulations. Your trick of masking our shield signature worked."
"As the ship is intact and underway, that would appear to be self evident."
"Ahem. Indeed. In any case, well done. And well done to Marshall for his work on booby-trapping that wreck."
"Thank you, Captain."
"What progress on restoring warp drive?"
"Up to warp factor three should be safe. Any higher than that risks destruction of the ship."
"Could you improve that with more time?"
"It is not impossible, but unlikely."
Forest gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and counted slowly to five. "Very well. Forest out. Helm, time to rendezvous with the USS Amundsen at warp three?"
"Ahhm... Err... Two? Two days, Sir."
"Lay in the course and get under way."
As the crewman at the helm slowly and hesitantly laid in the course, Forest sat, sunk in gloom. A barely trained crewman at the helm. Nobody else available to man it; to man a bridge post! Torrence dead, Powell's hands burnt, Oesterreicher sedated in medical... Why did he do it? Trying to release plasma coolant? Even if he wanted to die, to go like that?! To take other people with him... How did it come to this? How are Starfleet officers reaching the point of attempting suicide?
How far am I from it?
I need to talk to Mathis. Again. Counselling isn't doing it. Hellier probably needs counselling herself; she looks stressed enough.
We must get poor Oesterreicher transferred to the Amundsen and shipped back to Earth. Powell too, if Mathis can't patch him up. Get some parts from them to sort out our shields and warp coils?
I hope things are going better at DS6. I really do.
Trathal stood outside Carew's office, trying to summon up her courage. She knew this was hopeless; that all she could do was follow orders. But she couldn't live with herself if she didn't at least try. She took a deep breath, drew herself to her full height, and tapped the admittance pad.
"Enter."
The door slid open. Inside, Carew's office was little more than an empty room with a desk, two chairs and a wall screen. There was only one thing that wasn't entirely functional, a large piece of abstract sculpture. It looked bizarrely like an old antique desk that had been partially crushed. It's probably some strange comment on entropy, or the loss of respect for the ancient.
Carew himself sat behind his desk with a sombre expression, He didn't stand. "Lieutenant, take a seat."
"I would rather stand, Sir."
"As you wish."
Trathal opened her mouth to speak... then closed it again. She knew what she wanted to say, but somehow the words wouldn't come. It was as if her tongue and vocal cords wanted no part of this.
"Lieutenant? I was happy to agree to this meeting, but I do have a lot to do, so unless you have something to say...?" It was Carew's calm, detached manner that finally swung her voice round to her point of view.
She came to attention, looking straight ahead. It was easier to not make eye contact. "Captain Carew, I regret that I must tender my resignation from my commission and from Starfleet, effective immediately. I feel that I... that I am unable to discharge my duties."
There. It was done. A final, shameful admission of defeat. She thought for a moment of her former friends and colleagues who'd been unable to take the stress of examining the scenes of violent crime; or even just suspicious accidents. She thought of Ethyt, who'd finally cracked as they'd been sifting through the wreckage, and corpses, from a crashed civilian shuttle, potentially the target of separatist extremists. She'd found him sitting, holding a scorched and battered doll, studying it minutely, saying nothing. He seemed to have been rendered mute. He'd been taken away by medics... and no-one in the squad ever spoke of, or to, him again.
Her family had been angry when she'd applied for a transfer to Starfleet. Even as lowly as her position in the Imperial Guard had been, even if she'd effectively been doing civilian duties, it was still an honour to have been accepted. When they heard she'd left Starfleet as well... She wasn't sure they'd ever speak to her again.
It gradually dawned on her that Carew wasn't speaking. She looked back at him. He hadn't moved, was still regarding her carefully. But his expression had changed. To... sympathy?
"Lieutenant, we are at war. Requests for permission to leave the service are only to be granted in the most exceptional circumstances. I am aware of your emotional attachment to Chief Engineer S'Koil of the ARS Recidivist, and that her detention puts you in a difficult position." He glanced down at the terminal on his desk, paused as if reading something, then looked back at her.
"I will make a request to Starfleet Command to have you transferred back to the USS Ptolemy, or another vessel if the Ptolemy fails to return from patrol. In the meantime you have skills essential to the war effort, and I expect you to discharge your duties and honour your vows.
"Permission to resign denied."
He looked back down at his terminal, and began making entries on it, as Trathal stared at him in silent dismay. Then he looked up again. "Was there anything else?"
Trathal swallowed, hard. "No. Nothing else." She couldn't bring herself to call him 'Sir', or to salute. It was all she could do not to swear at him. Or plead with him. She turned on her heel and marched from his office.
For a little while she just walked, blindly and without purpose. She didn't want to go back to her quarters. The signals analyst who was sharing them now was a dour and uncommunicative human. Despite Trathal's anger at Rel, despite her firm intention to give the woman a bloody nose next time she saw her, she missed the bubbly Betazoid. At first she'd thought she'd run into Rel somewhere on the station. But, of course, the telepath would sense her coming from two corridors away, and was obviously (and sensibly) avoiding a confrontation.
Trathal wanted to go down to the improvised brig, tell Orilai that she wasn't abandoning them. But she'd already tried that and been turned back by Security.
And she had no idea what she could do, anyway. Appeal to the Admiralty? There was no way Carew had gone rogue... was there? She pushed the thought away. She loathed the man, but she'd got no reason to doubt his loyalty. And she couldn't forget what he'd said to her.
If we can't get more detailed information from Shepard voluntarily, then Command will probably order me to obtain the information however I can.
This... obscene betrayal of their allies had come from the top, she was sure of it. Unless he'd lied about that. And if he had, there was no way she'd be given permission to send a signal to the admiralty...
Thoughts sleeted through her mind, but they were disjointed and incoherent. Frantic speculation, futile plans. She only came to herself when someone called her name.
"Lieutenant Trathal, do you have a moment?"
She realised with a start that she'd ended up at the bay where the Recidivist was docked. There was a small cluster of technicians by the docking port, looking at her anxiously. She marched over to them, and her tone was cold and hostile when she asked, "What do you want?"
"Er, Mr Johansson told us to start cataloguing systems on the alien ship, but we're having difficulty getting on board..."
So he's getting ready to strip the Recidivist already.
She briefly toyed with the idea of simply leaving them to it. But resigning from Starfleet was bad enough; she didn't think she could face being locked up for insubordination; or worse, for mutiny. "Let me look."
She pushed past the technicians, and tapped on the door as she'd seen Recidivist crew doing. For a moment she thought it had failed, but then, with a clunk and a sigh, it folded itself aside.
With mumbled thanks, the technicians shuffled past. Trathal turned to go away, hesitated, then turned back. I... I'd better make sure they don't blow the ship up. Or themselves. She sighed, rested her forehead against the airlock interior. Somehow, touching the ship that Orilai had worked on made her seem very close. Trathal whispered "I'm sorry." She felt stupid for doing so. Orilai would never know. She'd never forgive her, either.
She turned and went into the ship, to where the technicians were huddled together trying to work out who was doing what. They are... hopeless! Is this the quality of techs Carew's been lumbered with? Starfleet Command must despise him. Maybe he has gone rogue, and these washouts are why!
"All right!" She barked. "First off, dismantle nothing! Access nothing! Touch nothing! Tricorders only until you think you know what you're dealing with, then come and check with me!"
The technicians looked startled, then regarded her with expressions of resentment or, in some cases, gratitude. One, bolder than the others, spoke up. "With respect, Lieutenant, Mr Johansson told us..."
"Mr Johansson is a civilian. He's a theoretician, not a practical engineer. And Mr Johansson isn't here!" She glared at the man, channelling as much of her old drill sergeant as she could. "So unless you want to have your face ripped off by an errant gravitational flux, or turn off containment on a singularity, you'll do as I say. Is that understood?"
The technician who'd spoken up nodded urgently. "Yes, understood ma'am. But he said specifically that he wanted the Dominion communication equipment removed immediately, to help us intercept their communications... I think?"
Trathal stared at him. Dominion communications... We can't intercept those...
"Ma'am? Are you..."
She pulled herself together. "That equipment's hooked into their main computer, so I'll remove it. Unless you want to risk wiping the computer?"
He shook his head hurriedly. "No ma'am! Thank you ma'am. I'll, err, I'll help with the scanning." He hurried off down the cramped, twisting corridor, while Trathal marched as confidently as she could in the other direction. An idea was occurring to her. She just wasn't sure if she could actually carry it out.
Oh, blood and ice, I hope I don't wipe the main computer!
Shepard lay, with her hands laced behind her head, on the mat she'd been given, staring upwards.
They'd been put in impromptu 'brigs' in a cargo hold. Just a collection of forcefields, forming cubes, with some makeshift privacy partitions around what looked like portable toilets. The screens between the cubes were rather more robust, and there was some sort of noise dampening technology in place. She, Dorot, and Orilai had each been put in a cube on their own.
Carew definitely doesn't want us talking to each other and forming any sort of escape plan. I can't believe they haven't figured out their signal blockers don't affect QECs.
She looked up through the forcefield above her into the gloom.
+ Shepard → Dorot + I can't see it. Is it by that spotlight?
# Dorot # No, at the junction of the support beams along from the spotlight.
She shifted her gaze and tried to peer into the gloom past the glare of the spotlight.
+ Shepard + Got it. Hm. Looks a bit small.
+ Shepard → S'Koil + Orilai, are you sure that's a field emitter?
* S'Koil * No. I'm not sure of anything!
+ Shepard + Keep it together chief. I need you focussed.
* S'Koil * Right. Sorry Commander. No, I'm not sure it's a field emitter. But it looks to have been added recently, and I didn't see anything like it anywhere else on the station. And Dorot's spotted a grid of them.
Shepard sighed, closed her eyes and considered their options.
+ Shepard + Ok, a lance might not get get through these shields, but I'm guessing we can take those emitters out with warp. Or even just pull them down. A singularity on them might work, but if it distorts the shields we might kill ourselves. But we're not bringing them down quickly.
+ Shepard → Recidivist + Reci, what progress?
+ Shepard + ...ARS Recidivist, respond!
- Recidivist - Yeah, yeah, I heard you.
+ Shepard + Reci, our lives are on the line here! All our lives, yours included! You sulk on your own time, not now.
- Recidivist - Hmph! It's alright for you, you haven't got these... maggots crawling through you!
+ Shepard + If you hadn't let them on, they'd have just used those transporter things.
- Recidivist – Good! I'd've turned them inside out!
+ Shepard + And then they'd have burned their way in. Your best bet... Our best bet is for you to keep acting the dumb machine. And get. Control. Of this station! So, without wasting any more time... WHAT PROGRESS?!
There was an agonisingly long delay before Recidivist responded. The QEC implants might have been little more than a glorified text messaging system, but she could feel Reci's sulky whine in his message.
- Recidivist – Not much. I've got a lot of read access, but no control. But it's not my fault! The computers in this system are so dumb. There's almost no back doors, no hooks! Most of the systems don't even connect to each other. It's just a bunch of dumb VIs, and I've got to hack them one by one. And if I try to get them to do anything faster than a human could, or outside a hard-wired template, they'll just reboot and scramble all their access permissions. This station was built by a fucking paranoid!
+ Shepard + Hm. What about that ship that just docked?
- Recidivist – The USS Chadwick? Ugh, that's worse. One matrix with about a million VIs all cross connected. Half the time with contradictory priorities, pulling in all directions and using some sort of emergent consensus model. If I poke that I'd probably blow up the ship and take the station with it. Or it'd suddenly develop an insane sapience and decide to do crochet with everyone's intestines!… Which'd be funny as hell.
+ Shepard + Not for those of us with intestines. Ok, you can't take control. Can you shut the station down? It would be a distraction at least.
- Recidivist – Err. No. I might be able to push down the priority of all the control panel VIs, push up the priority of everything else. Lock the station crew out of their systems. But I don't know how long that'll hold for.
+ Shepard + Better than nothing.
+ Shepard → Dorot + Reci thinks he can lock the station systems down, for a while at least. That'll be our opportunity to wreck those field emitters and make a break for it.
# Dorot # If we can't wreck the emitters fast enough, all we'll manage is to tip them off about him.
+ Shepard + An acceptable risk. What state are you and Gucks in?
# Dorot # Those phasers did a number on both of us. You lot had it easy, just got paralysed, but their idea of 'stun' is more like being stomped unconscious by an Elcor. It's hard to concentrate, and we've still got ringing ears.
+ Shepard + Are you able to fight?
# Dorot # Heh. Kid, we're Krogan. The ability to fight is the last thing to go. I'm more worried about Shosak. That paralysis field seems to have done something to him.
+ Shepard + Fuck.
+ Shepard → Shosak + Sergeant, what state...
~ Shosak ~ KILLKILLKILLKILLFEDERATIONKILLFEDERATION...
+ Shepard → Dorot + Huh. What do you know, he finally sounds like a Vorcha on QEC.
# Dorot # This isn't a joke.
+ Shepard + Trust me, I'm not laughing. If he doesn't snap out of it before we make our move, best we can do is point him at the enemy and leave him to it.
# Dorot # You know that'll be a death sentence for him.
+ Shepard + So we hope he snaps out of it! We'll be lucky if we're not all killed trying to escape, but we've got to try!
# Dorot # Agreed.
- Recidivist → Shepard & Dorot & S'Koil - Hey, thought you'd want to see this. The little Andorian's fiddling with that Dominion communicator, entering a message by messing with its maintenance ports. Message reads - "[TO: USS Ptolemy] [ATTENTION: Captain Forest]. Recidivist crew detained on order of Carew. Security chief Xah confined to quarters. Technicians instructed to prepare dismantle Recidivist. Act of piracy under cover of war? War crime? Unable to contact Starfleet Command. Piracy authorised by Admiralty? Please assist." Heh, she started entering something much longer. She's got quite the mouth on her, Chief!
* S'Koil * Shut up, Reci.
+ Shepard + Huh. So they aren't all against us.
* S'Koil * Commander, if she sends that she'll just end up locked up herself. Or worse!
# Dorot # Only if they catch her. Recidivist, can you make sure it's tight-beamed to the Ptolemy's position?
- Recidivist - Hang on. Yeah, Ptolemy's next rendezvous point is in station's logs. Close enough, unless they're late for it.
# Dorot # Commander, I think we should sit tight as long as we can. Forest might be able to do something.
Shepard surged to her feet and started pacing round her small cell, fists clenched, muttering curses under her breath.
+ Shepard + I'm not risking us on the off-chance that moron comes to our rescue!
# Dorot # No need to jump the gun either.
She lifted her fist, almost slammed it into the forcefield before she caught herself. She'd already tried that, been thrown back against the forcefield on the other side, and almost turned into an Asari pinball.
She slowly lowered her fist, breathing fast.
+ Shepard + Fine. We wait. But the moment something changes, we act! Understood?
# Dorot # Understood.
+ Shepard + Reci, keep me informed of everything those Federation techs are doing.
- Recidivist - Yessir!
Shepard looked through the open side of the forcefield at one of the Federation security people. He was watching her with more care than before.
Shouldn't have shown I was angry about something. He'll be more alert now.
She made an insulting gesture in his direction, and sank back down on her mat.
+ Shepard → Dorot + What are you thinking?! You trust Forest after what he did to me?
# Dorot # No. I don't trust him to mop a floor right. But he looks to me like a by-the-book boy scout. If Trathal's message is on the level, then he'll start making a fuss about this. At the very least it might create some confusion. Distract Carew. And if Carew is going rogue, or someone in their chain of command, he might get the rug pulled out from under them.
+ Shepard + Urgh. Fine. But I mean it, if anything changes I'm not going to wait.
"Sir, signal from the USS Amundsen."
Forest handed the pad he was studying back to the ensign standing beside him, sat up straight and ran a hand over his hair. He was despondently aware that he was looking more crumpled and disreputable by the day. "On screen."
Captain Fowler of the Amundsen looked revoltingly spruce and alert. "Rupert, glad to see you're still in one piece! I hear you've been having a difficult time of it."
Forest relaxed a little, and smiled wanly. "Terri, it's good to see a friendly face. 'A difficult time of it'... You could say that."
His old classmate smiled warmly and glanced down at something, then back up. "So, the last update we have on your status is five days old, what's your situation?"
Forest closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. "Well, in order of priority: We have six casualties and three deceased to be taken off; our shield grid has multiple failed emitters, the best we can get to is thirty percent of designed capacity; our warp coils need an overhaul, we've got no better than warp four, and that's pushing it. And to manage even that we've had to take all non-essential systems offline; our antimatter injectors were hit by a feedback surge in our last fight and half of them have locked off."
Fowler's smiled had slipped, and had become distinctly anxious. "That sounds bad. I assume you've got no capacity for replicating spares?"
"Only if we take engines offline and reduce phaser power by fifty percent."
"I'll get my people transporting over spare parts, I assume your chief engineer can send us a list of what you need?"
"Hah! I think the list of what we don't need would be shorter. But yes, I'll get him to send it."
"Thank you." She hesitated. "Rupert, I think I should come over and we can do a joint assessment to send to Starfleet. Would that be alright?"
"That would be fine." He pulled a wry face. "By the way... sonic showers count as non-essential systems. Bring nose plugs."
Fowler nodded gloomily and terminated the link.
Forest tapped his comm. "Captain to engineering."
"Sotar here."
"Mr Sotar, the Amundsen is asking for a..."
"Captain!"
Forest froze, and then rose to his feet, glaring at the crewman manning the conn station. "Crewman, you had better have a damn good reason..."
"Sir, we've just received a tight burst, encrypted signal from the Dominion! Addressed to you, Sir!"
"What!?"
The crewman looked at him with an anxious, vaguely pleading expression. "It's definitely on a Dominion frequency, and the header information is Dominion format. But the encryption is... Sir, Computer says it's Andorian Imperial Guard encryption. And no known Federation key is unlocking it."
Forest stared at her for a second, then snapped, "Put it through to my ready room... And inform Captain Fowler that I'll be busy until further notice. Ask her to contact Sotar directly. Do not inform her why!
"Sotar, you heard that?"
"Indeed, Captain."
"Good. Not a word to Fowler until I know what this is about. Forest out." He spun on his heel and strode off the bridge.
A Dominion message with Imperial guard encryption... Shepard and her crew had pulled a Dominion communications system from that fighter they took down. And Trathal was in the Imperial Guard. It must be her. But why not just contact me directly? What's happening over there?
He sat at his desk, pulled up the message, and tried to think of words or phrases that Trathal might have chosen as a key.
Something that only we'd know... Something one of us said on the Dominion fighter? Or something we saw?
Grimly, he started entering guesses. I hope this isn't a 'three wrong tries and you're locked out' deal. Time passed as he racked his brain, trying to recall everything they'd seen, or said to each other. Several times his communicator chirruped for attention, but he ignored it. On the fourteenth try, using the phrase 'You might want to keep your eyes shut', the message was decrypted.
Forest read it. Then, in horrified disbelief, read it again. And again.
Eventually, he tapped his com badge. "Forest to Commander Sotar."
"Sotar here. Captain, I have been trying to contact you regarding..."
"Mr Sotar! All in good time. I need you to come to my ready room immediately."
"... Very good Sir. On my way."
- Recidivist → Shepard & Dorot - Commander, I don't like this. They're offloading your weapons and armour!
+ Shepard + Right, that's it, I'm not...
# Dorot # Commander, wait. Recidivist, where are they taking them?
+ Shepard + What difference does that make?!
# Dorot # If they're moving them onto the station, that's good. They're closer, we can go grab them on the way back to Recidivist. If they're moving them to the Chadwick, we're out of time.
- Recidivist - Hang on... Fuck, I'm not seeing... Wait. There it is! They're moving them to a cargo bay on the station. Some stuff about installing scanners and workbenches there.
# Dorot # Can you get us a route from here to there?
- Recidivist - ...Got one.
+ Shepard + Dorot, we can't risk them dismantling our gear.
# Dorot # I'm betting they'll go slowly. But it's your call.
Shepard put her fingertips to her temples, massaging them. Trying to relax. Trying to think.
+ Shepard → Dorot + Dorot, be honest with me. Do you really think there's any point in waiting?
# Dorot # I've been studying the stuff they sent us about themselves. The Federation lives on the idea they're noble and enlightened.
+ Shepard + And you believe that rot?
# Dorot # No. Nor does Carew, I reckon. He knows it's a luxury they can't afford. But I think Forest believes it, and probably a bunch of people in their 'Starfleet Command'. It's a thin chance any good will come of waiting. But I think it's a chance worth taking.
Shepard didn't respond for a while. Her every instinct was screaming at her to break free and run for it NOW! But she couldn't see anything wrong with what Dorot was saying.
Finally she gritted her teeth, and did the thing she hated most. She prepared to wait.
+ Shepard → Recidivist + Reci, monitor what's happening with our gear. Every memo, every comm call. See if you can monitor conversations in that cargo bay. If it looks like they're getting ready to start cutting, not scanning, shout. Same goes for yourself. Doubled!
- Recidivist - Right. You got it. Beni, this is bad, isn't it? Think we'll make it this time?
+ Shepard + Not a clue. If you've got any virtual fingers, cross them.
Forest studied Sotar as he considered the message from Trathal, searching his face for any hint of reaction. But, even though Sotar was unusually expressive (for a Vulcan), he was giving away nothing. He'd read the message without comment, put down the pad, and was now sitting absolutely still with his eyes closed.
Then he spoke. "There is no verifiable source on the message. Captain, have you considered that this may be misinformation from the Dominion?"
Forest wanted to wanted to jump to his feet and pace around his ready room. To move. But he forced himself to lean back in his chair, to at least appear relaxed and focussed. "Yes, Commander, I considered that most carefully. But apart from the content of the message, and the encryption, the decryption key is one that only Lieutenant Trathal would know. So unless we're going to descend into baseless paranoia by thinking that she's been a Dominion agent all along, then there's no doubt the message is from her."
Sotar nodded thoughtfully. Then, after a few more moments of silent thought, opened his eyes and looked levelly at Forest. "Captain, I have no legal expertise. However, while certain otherwise unlawful actions may be treated as lawful under the exceptional powers available to Starfleet during an emergency, I do not believe that plundering a neutral or allied race for technology would be one of them."
He fell silent, evidently waiting for Forest to speak. Forest gathered his courage, and looked Sotar in the eye. I wish I knew how he would react to this. "Commander, I will be making enquiries with a contact at Starfleet Command. However, if, as I believe, Martin is not acting illegally on his own account, but is operating under orders from the Admiralty... would you be prepared to assist me in acting against those orders?"
"Yes Captain."
Forest was startled at how unhesitating his response was. He leant forward. "Mr Sotar, are you certain? If I'm right, to do so could be regarded as an act of treason. We'd be lucky if either of us ever saw life outside a penal colony again."
"I am well aware. Nevertheless, while committing a small harm for a greater good may initially appear to be a logical course of action, if the Admiralty come to believe they can set the law aside with no consequences to themselves or the Federation, then it will surely collapse.
"And that would be the greater harm."
Forest opened his mouth to ask Even greater than conquest by the Dominion? Then he hesitated. He had the feeling that any moment now he was going to start arguing against his own conviction that what was happening was, quite simply, wrong.
"Thank you Commander." He stood up and turned toward the window, looking out onto the infinite stars. "I'm not asking you to take any action now, I need to wait for my contact to respond to my message. But I think we need to make all speed to DS6. I want you to concentrate repairs on warp drive. Once further repairs will take longer than the reduction in travel time, inform me and prepare to make way without further delay. That is all."
Sotar stood and inclined his head. "Captain." Then he left.
Forest stared blindly out the window for a short while, then turned back to his desk and sat. He suddenly had the feeling that, for better or worse, he had just passed a point of no return. And he felt, in some indefinable way, soiled.
I think I'm doing the right thing. I feel like I'm doing the right thing. So why do I also feel as if it's all wrong? Am I saving the Federation, or betraying it?
Slowly, he leant forward, folded his arms, and laid his head on them. He wished, fleetingly, that he could just go to sleep, and wake up in happier times. Then, his voice slightly muffled, he said, "Computer. Open a contact request to Captain Fowler."
"Confirmed."
A moment later there was a beep from his desk terminal. "Rupert? Rupert! Are you alright?"
Wearily he forced himself to sit upright and smile at Fowler's anxious image. "Terri, sorry if I alarmed you. I'm... just tired. Look, I'm expecting a high priority call from Starfleet Command, I'm afraid I'll have to defer that joint assessment. Possibly indefinitely." For a moment he was tempted to take her into his confidence. No. No, she'd either have to stop me or, even worse, help. I can't do that to her.
Fowler looked worried, and bit her lip. "Rupert, I have to be clear on this; the Amundsen isn't just a supply vessel. We're also tasked with assessing whether Starfleet ships and their crews are fit and ready for further active service. And from what I've seen, the Ptolemy isn't. But I really don't want to send that report to Starfleet Command without your input."
Forest forced himself to smile; he hoped reassuringly. "I quite understand. If it helps, that's also my assessment. And as soon as the Ptolemy is capable of making anything like reasonable speed, I plan to return to DS6 for repairs and for the crew to get some rest."
Fowler seemed to relax slightly, and nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. I'll continue to liaise with Commander Sotar on repairs, and Doctor Mathis on your most serious medical problems. And, Rupert? If there's anything else you need, please let me know."
"I promise you Terri, I will. Forest out."
Forest closed the connection. He felt a sort of dull dismay. Is this who I really am? Deceiving not just to Starfleet officers, but friends? And why did it seem to come so easily?
He sat, and waited. He hoped that his old Captain, now Admiral, Stephen Bell would contact him soon, and put his fears to rest. Assure him that the message from Trathal was mistaken. Even that Carew had exceeded his authority, and that Starfleet would put things to rights.
He feared that Bell would do no such thing.
"This is wrong."
"Wrong? Ms Trathal, are you saying that saving the Federation from destruction is... wrong?"
Trathal's heart sank. Johansson had always seemed... harmless. An academic, a bit out of place. Rather comical, with his oddly mannered speech and ridiculous eyeglasses. But as he loomed over her, his expression cool and contemptuous, his narrow, rather angular frame seemed strangely threatening. Insectile. Even his eyeglasses looked menacing as they reflected the light and turned his eyes into two featureless white discs.
"Are you saying that protecting the citizens of the Federation from subjugation by the Dominion, the same Dominion that mutated the Jem'Hadar into little more than organic weapons... is wrong?"
Trathal gritted her teeth and practically hissed, "Mr Johansson, it is..."
"It is NECESSARY! And before you say another word, I would remind you..." He half-turned to also address the technicians who were keeping their heads down (and in two cases practically hiding in corners), "... all of you, of the consequences of insubordination in wartime."
Abruptly he turned aside, picked up a piece of equipment, and very nearly threw it at Trathal, who was forced to catch it awkwardly just to avoid falling over.
"But since you appear to be too precious to do any actual technical work, let alone work fit for an officer and an engineer, you may as well see if you're capable of pulling some data off their computer."
Johansson turned away and started tracing the connections beneath an access panel. Trathal was briefly tempted to lift the interface rig he'd forced onto her and fracture his skull with it. But she knew that would solve nothing at all. She turned sharply and stalked off to the room (more like a cramped little closet) where the Recidivist's main computer access points were housed.
Once there, she thumbed closed the door, and started patching the interface rig into the computer. She could feel the tears starting to run down her face, and seethed with hatred for Johansson. He hadn't simply refused to listen; he'd humiliated her in front of the lower ranks. Pulling data was the lowest sort of scut work. The sort given to cadets and enlisted trainees.
"Rot take him. Rot take all of them." She paused, looked at the lead in her hand, and hung her head. "And rot take me too..."
"Captain, I'm sorry it took me so long to respond to your message. It's good to see you're still hanging in there! I was afraid we'd lost you at Tyra."
Forest shook his head. "Not quite Admiral, but it was a close thing. There were only a few ships still fighting when we were ordered to retreat."
Bell leant forward slightly, his face on the screen looking concerned. "That order must have been hard for you."
Forest shrugged. "It was, Sir. But we knew we were already defeated. We were barely an inconvenience to the Dominion at that point."
"Well, I'm glad you came through it. But," and Bell leant back and studied him thoughtfully, "you didn't contact me to chew over old bones, did you?"
"No Sir." Forest studied Bell in turn. While his former captain was looking pleased to speak to him, he was also looking, not only older that Forest remembered, but older than he'd expected. "I presume you're aware of the ship we encountered, the ARS..."
Forest's voice faltered and died at the abrupt change in Bell's manner. Suddenly he wasn't looking pleased to see Forest. He was looking angry, miserable, and... defeated. And his voice, when he spoke, was urgent, but low, as if he didn't want to be overheard.
"Rupert, listen to me. The further you stay away from that situation the better."
Forest stared at him silently for a moment before he found his voice. "So it's true."
Bell's eyes went wide. "I don't know what you've heard, or who from. And for the sake of whatever friendship we had, I'm not going to ask. But you can only make things far worse by getting involved." He leant forward, his face filling the screen. "If not for the sake of the Federation, then for your own; turn around and walk away from this."
Forest lowered his gaze, thinking, then looked back at Bell. "I'm sorry Sir, I can't do that."
Bell's expression was somewhere between grief and anger. "Then, if you believe in a god, may they have mercy on you. Because the Federation won't. Bell out." The screen went blank.
Slowly, Forest rose to his feet. He didn't know which was worse. The fear that Carew had gone rogue, or the certain knowledge that he hadn't. A spark of rage kindled in him, as the full realisation of what was happening crystallised. Abruptly he was striding across his ready room to the door and marching onto the bridge.
"Mr Sotar! Time to DS6?"
Sotar looked up calmly. "Three minutes Sir. I have provided DS6 a status report requesting interim repairs until such time as we receive further orders from Starfleet Command."
"Very good. I will be in transporter room one and will beam over as soon as we're in range."
"Aye aye Sir."
"Icefire, what's going on?!" Trathal stared in frustration and growing bewilderment at the output from the interface rig.
It wasn't that the Recidivist's computer was blocking the access attempts. Indeed, after the DS6 computers had cut through its firewall, it was an open book. And yet, the data being pulled was... off.
She glared at the symbols flowing up the screen, reforming into Galactic Standard text as the DS9 computers translated it. A moment ago the rig had pulled a fragment of technical data on the Recidivist's fabrication devices. But doing a more detailed scan of that storage was just getting what looked like a description of Asari and Hanar 'cultural interactions'. An unnecessarily detailed description. At first glance it was framed as a scholarly article, but on actually reading it... Trathal got halfway through one particularly explicit paragraph, and hastily marked the data as 'no strategic value'. That was just pornography!
She was beginning to think that the Asari used other methods of frustrating hostile access than simply blocking it.
With a sigh she called up a data pursuit algorithm on the interface rig. She felt guilty doing so, but it wasn't as if she was making any difference. Once Johansson had finished with the Dominion computer the Asari had stripped out of the Jem'Hadar fighter they'd killed, and the Asari weapons tech, he'd have the Recidivist's computer pulled out and shipped off to a properly equipped research station. Then there wouldn't be a single quantum of data that could remain hidden.
She started a fresh scan. She felt a sort of dull, morbid curiosity about what nonsense it would produce next.
Forest marched through the short stretch of corridor between the turbolift and Carew's office, still seething with suppressed rage. He'd hoped that the delay required in beaming over to DS6 and getting to Carew's office would help him calm down. If anything it had only allowed his anger and outrage to grow.
He realised that a tiny part of him had held onto hope that this was all a huge misunderstanding, but a very short conversation with the security crew on duty in the DS6 transporter room (a gloomy young Betazoid call Rel) had soon disabused him of that notion.
He thumbed the access switch, and was almost surprised that the door opened immediately. As he stepped through, he was already drawing breath to... He wasn't sure what. Shouting and ranting would do no good. Only make things worse. But it somehow seemed as if that was the only possible response to what was happening.
Carew was sitting at his desk, apparently speaking to someone on his desk terminal. He glanced up at Forest and held up his hand in a 'stop there' gesture. It wasn't the gesture that stopped Forest dead in his tracks though, but Carew's distant, almost lifeless expression. He realised that the voice coming from the terminal sounded like DS6's chief engineer, Johansson.
"... read them all the riot act, then gave her some busywork to do, to get her away from the other techs."
"Yes, of course. You did the right thing; the last thing we want is for any of the officers or crew to leave themselves open to accusations of insubordination. I don't think Starfleet Command would be very understanding."
Despite his dead expression, Carew's voice was sympathetic and reassuring. Does he actually have any real emotions, or is it all just an act? Do I even know him?
"Sir, may I speak freely?"
"Of course, Mr Johansson."
"If this isn't handled carefully, then insubordination will be the least of your worries. You may well end up faced with an outright mutiny. And, if it comes to that... if it comes to that, I cannot say I wouldn't be among the mutineers."
Carew said nothing for a moment, then, "Thank you for your candour. I have another meeting now, was there anything else?"
"Anything else?! ...No. Nothing else."
"Well, I can't stress strongly enough the importance of this work. The USS Eclipse will be arriving shortly to take material to Starbase 26b, so I want you to start work on dismantling the Recidivist's Blackstar cannon as soon as you can. Carew out."
Carew terminated the call, then, with what seemed to be a great effort, summoned up a weary smile. "I suppose I don't need to ask what brings you here, Rupert."
Forest stepped forward, his mind in a whirl. Why did he let me hear that? Is that his way of asking for help? Or warning me off? Or does he just not care? "Martin, what the hell are you playing at? Even if Starfleet Command have lost their minds, you can always appeal... to..." He hesitated. Carew had just slid a pad toward him, and tapped it as if to say 'read this'.
He glanced through the text, absorbing the salient points with a rapidity born of long practice. 'Detain the Asari Republic crew... maximum security... Secure military technology... emergency powers...'. Then his blood ran cold as his eyes settled on the end of the document.
'As ordered by the Council of the United Federation of Planets.'
Forest stared at that for along time. This explains why Stephen looked so upset when he warned me off. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was breathing hard. Then he looked up at Carew, and as he spoke, his voice was harsh and thick with anger.
"So the council issue an illegal order, and Starfleet Command... and you... just roll over and accept it?"
Carew opened his mouth to speak, but Forest carried on, not interested in hearing whatever cynical, or calming, or defensive garbage he came out with. "I don't care what so called 'emergency powers' the council trotted out as an excuse, what they ordered you to do is illegal! It's no more than naked piracy! We're responsible for our own actions, we can't say 'I was just obeying orders'!"
He paused for breath as Carew just sat there, watching him. Then, in a lower voice, almost pleading; "Martin, you know this is wrong. So why did you do it? How could you?!"
"Because I'm tired."
Strangely, in spite of his words, Carew abruptly looked less tired than Forest had seen him since the Asari had first arrived on the station. It was if a smouldering fire had suddenly blazed up into an inferno.
"I am tired of seeing ship after ship after ship coming in for 'minor repairs' when they should be in a shipyard receiving a full overhaul!"
Slowly Carew rose to his feet, hands planted flat on his desk, his voice rising.
"I am tired of carrying out inadequate repairs, with inadequate crew, and signing ships off as fit for service, when all they're fit for is scrap!
"And I am tired of seeing the names of those ships months, weeks, days later; 'Destroyed in action'. 'Destroyed in action'. 'DESTROYED IN ACTION'!"
Carew's bellow almost split Forest's eardrums. For a moment he stood, glaring at Forest, his hands balled into fists. Then, slowly, the fire in his eyes faded, guttered, and died. He sank back into his seat and sat eyes cast down. And his voice, when he spoke, was very soft and unutterably weary.
"I'm tired, Rupert. And I've got no strength for some grand show of moral defiance. So I will obey my orders, and hope to save the people I care for."
He slowly lifted his gaze to look Forest in the eye, and smiled thinly, bitterly. "I am, after all, my father's son."
In the silence that followed, Forest felt his own anger die, to be replaced by a terrible grief. Even so... He swallowed, hard. "I can't stand by and just let this happen."
Carew nodded. "Of course you can't." He sighed softly. "I won't stop you. But I can't help you, either."
And that was that. Without saying anything more, Forest turned his back on the man who'd once been his friend, and left.