Star Trek: The Quadratic War

[Cynical Cat]

Kallor checked the reading on the tricorder. "This section is good," said the elderly Klingon.

"At last some luck," replied Kadon. He was further down the corridor, realigning flow guides in a power conduit. "That leaves a mere one hundred more meters to check in order to make sure the SIF field is working for this section and all of it may need repair or replacement."

"At least half will need repair and a quarter replacement," replied Kallor, "if this one is any judge."

"If not you, then who?" replied Kadon. "No one has seen as many battles as you have. You may be the last living Dahar Master."

"Perhaps," Kallor replied. He scanned another section of the conduit. "Also good. Half of it or better might be good. I may be going senile or it might be the best luck we've had in a while."

"That might be overstating the case, old man." Kadon snarled at the readings on his instrument. "Also the luck has gone out. The section won't align."

"We'll have to tear it open and do it the old fashion way," replied Kallor. "Captain, this one has a question."

"Ask," replied Kadon as he opened up the side of the power conduit.

"Why are you here? This fleet tender is important, but you are the captain."

"Because it is important," Kadon replied. "We don't know what we'll find in Bajoran space but this could mean the lives of all our ships. Perhaps even the future of our race. And, after sitting through that meeting I need to work with my hands and I have not forgotten my days as a young officer in the Dominion War where I did my share of repair work."

"The Federation does love sitting around a table and trying to talk a subject to death."

"I now understand Sisko didn't include a conference room in the Defiant, why Anderson and his crew unilaterally opened fire without consultation with anyone else, and why it took so long for the Federation to bring the Cardassians to heel the first time."

[Josh]

Chief Hantle cracked his knuckles, the sound of ancient bones popping echoing down the corridor.. "Now we see what happens when you connect three systems that were never meant to be integrated together into one loop," he told the Bobsy Twins. The Binars looked at each other, then back at him.

"The specifications..."

"...are in line and the harmonics..."

"...are coordinated properly."

"Could've used the two of you when I was spacing on the Prince Henry," he said. "Blasted idiots I was working with then couldn't count their own thumbs."

A background hum caught his attention. His head snapped up. "Belay that!" he bellowed, lurching to his feet. Hantle's diminutive frame was stooped with age, but his voice still had the sharp, crisp snap of authority that had terrorized ratings and midshipman for the latter four and a half decades of his Starfleet career. "You! Idiot!" he yelled, grabbing a spanner as he stalked across the compartment. "Are you trying to kill everyone on this ship?"

The ensign working on the generators on the opposite side of the compartment rose up, his face coloring. "This is inappropriate, chief," he said.

"What's inappropriate is you tying a Romulan SIF genny into a Klingon one without putting a buffer in the relay! The Romulan generators resonate at 222.6 gigahertz and the Klingon ones run at 114.9!" He brandished the spanner at the young officer. "What happens when you hook them together?"

The ensign stared at him, mouth gaping like a landed fish.

"What happens is you create an inverse resonance. Best case is that you trip the power relay and that's a two-hour reset including the time you take to work the buffer in after you've melted the fittings! Worse case it blows when the ship is at warp and we lose the whole damn thing! I know they damn well didn't teach you to think at the Academy in between all the poetry readings and ball dances, but you're out here in the black and it's damn well time you started!"

"I'll report you!" the ensign squeaked.

"Go on and find a grownup and tell them that the mean chief kept you from bringing this whole ship apart at speed. I'll be here."

Hantle tossed the spanner aside and returned to his work, the ensign retreating in his wake.

"He's going to..."

"...report you, that..."

"...may cause trouble."

"Eh," Hantle wiped his brow with his forearm. "I was getting masted in the 'fleet when Picard was still in his diapers. What're they gonna do, send me to the slowest, smallest ship in the task force? Quit chattering and get that linkage to spec."

***

The Meh'Ta was at station, passive scanners soaking up input from the roiled disturbances of the Badlands vigilantly. Shirazi had turned the conn over to M'Lara to enjoy the fruits of his begging, pleading, and finagling of rations from the other ships in the fleet. The Tarellian fondue had been something else, a little slice of heaven. The real treat lay on the desk before him, though.

An eighth-kilo of replicated dark German chocolate. He sat before it, staring at it hungrily. It wouldn't do to just wolf it down in one go, no, such a rare luxury should be appreciated, savored, the moment taken with quiet contemplation and a reflection on the fact that every so often the universe would pay a man back for all the travails he had to endure.

After approximately 2.7 seconds he terminated his respectful contemplation and seized the chunk of chocolate, telling himself that he'd just take a small bite to honor this moment. As the chocolate neared his mouth, the intercom chimed.

"Incoming call for Captain Shirazi on ship to ship relay tightbeam," Gleck's voice was rendered tinny by the speaker. "It's some lieutenant Fassel from the tender and it concerns Chief Hantle, though he won't tell me what it's about. We can probably guess, though."

Shirazi dropped the chocolate with an exasperated sigh. When it came to getting a meal and being in command, patience was never a virtue. He knew he should've figured that out by now. He pressed the button on the desk.

"Put it through."

A stern-looking junior officer materialized on Shirazi's screen. "Captain," the lieutenant said.

"Lieutenant, let me start by apologizing for any Starfleet or other personnel that the chief might have offended, but I would like to point out that he was probably correct," Shirazi said, hoping to preempt whatever can of worms the old man had created this time.

"That's... not necessary captain. Though I've had to reassign ensign Becker to another section, but the chief made a good catch, a big one. I'd like to think that we would've caught it on the inspection pass, but you know what sort of timetable we're working under here."

Shirazi sat back a bit, startled. "So... what's the call about? I'd figure you were pretty busy over there."

"Just wanted to let you know that if you ever get tired of covering for him, I'd take him off your hands."

Shirazi's left eye narrowed into a squint. "Lieutenant Fassel, keep your damned hands off my chief. Shirazi out."

His finger stabbed down to sever the link. He regarded the chocolate once more, leaning forward in the manner of a cat stalking its prey. "Now. Where were we?"

[Josh]

Shirazi sat on his bunk, feet propped up on a ration case with the PADD in his hand running a simulation. As the simulated Meh'Ta finished her run, a wave of objects ejected from the hangar bay slammed into the target. He dictated his notes to the PADD as the target exploded in a satisfactory cloud of debris.

"According to simulation, once the objects clear the proximity of the phase field, they re-materialize with conserved momentum. However, the final third of the attack run must be made at straight/level attitude and so cannot be utilized against any subspace-distortion weapons." He tapped the button to save the projection. "File under Shirazi Tactical 074, flag for practical test vis a vis phase rematerialization. R-E-M-A-T-E-R-I-A-L-I-Z-A-T-I-O-N, yes, it's a word you stupid thing, add it to the dictionary."

File saved he put the PADD down and pulled his overshirt off, then collected the device as he laid down and stretched out.

"Open Shirazi Strategic 014, begin dictation." He studied the words he'd last spoken, rolling them around in his mind before he began. "We have established that our underlying principles are dedicated to the preservation of as many independent species of the Alpha Quadrant as can be saved, as well as continued resistance to the invasion. The Borg possess both superior quantity and quality, leaving us with very few options if we wish to be more than a tactical annoyance. What advantage we do have lays in innovation- the Borg are a reactive force, and while previously we have applied our strength to this weakness on a tactical level, we need to begin to apply it on a more strategic level. The ideal outcome would obviously be to force Borg evolution toward the recognition of our basic principles of liberty and equality.

However, given that the Enterprise attempted just that during the early encounters, the evolutionary protocol they engendered seems to have been contained and eliminated. Therefore, a more focused approach must be taken toward forcing Borg evolution toward the path where they can either be persuaded to end their continual expansion, or else we must evolve them toward the creation of fundamental weaknesses that can ultimately be exploited in a decisive fashion. The difficulty of either approach is ensuring that it proliferates thoroughly before becoming active, thereby preventing the Collective from adapting away from it and undoing the work.

This may be a generational effort, requiring a shift in strategic resources as our capability to directly oppose the Borg even on the tactical level will likely continue to dwindle.

What is clear and will have to be made clear to the current remnants of the various military establishments is that the current systems and methodology will not work. As much as it may satisfy some souls to think that we are able to will our way to our own version of Plataea, the likelihood is vanishingly small and efforts in that direction not only waste our precious sentient resources, they may well hasten our extinction."

He closed the recording. Nothing like ending the cycle on a cheerful note. He glanced at the clock displayed on his desk. Three and a half hours to his next watch, time to make the most of it. He rolled to the side and closed his eyes, sleep coming within moments.

[Comrade Tortoise]

Humboldt, Bridge
Badlands, Alpha Quadrant.

The Operations consoles at the rear of the Humboldt's bridge had every station manned. Some of these were sensor and communications relay stations. Others had Science and Engineering officers, headed by a Warp Field Theorist--a refugee from Nivok--working on the algorithms that would permit adjustment of a shared warp field within the badlands.

Other than the constant beeps of the LCARS operating system in use however, the work was completely silent. They were in such close proximity that their conversations were held in the realm of pure thought, without the encumberance of actual words. None of them were particularly strong telepathically, but all they needed to pass an image or an equation, or an explanation was a bit of physical contact, and there were enough of them at those stations that such contact was easy to accomplish. The initial prototype was almost done. All that was left to do was check the code. Then they could load it into the Holo Display for simulation under fixed, and then stochastic sets of conditions. Once the results came back, improvements could be made.

...

IRW Saehir
Badlands, Alpha Quadrant

"Lieutenant Salarak, report." Lt Commander Vagel said over her comm badge

"EPS Conduits in this section are repaired, I.D.F. field generator is ready to be installed."

"Very well." she replied back, and then went to work integrating one of the spare generators from sent over from the USS Spector. It would take some work to integrate it, as this was the first federation generator to be integrated into a Romulan power distribution and computer system. However, once that was done, she would update the information needed to every engineering team.

[Josh]

Shirazi patted his cheeks to check his shave before he stepped into the ship's mess. Satisfied, he followed the sound of Kolar's steel guitar and the savory sent of Centauri waffles and hot, fresh butter.

The Klingon technician had apparently decided to celebrate the arrival of fresh gagh by breaking out the music to serenade the third watch before they got to their duties. As Shirazi entered the room, he was regaling them with an ancient tune telling of the tale of the Klingon play Othello. The watch crew laughed and ate and consumed real fresh replicated coffee, tea, and milk while Kolar's expert fingers danced across the strings.

Frank piled his plate down with food, then looked for an open seat. Doctor Alenis Meru gestured to him from her seat in the corner. He sucked air through his teeth, steeled himself and took his tray to her table. "Doctor Alenis," he said politely.

She was, as ever, impeccable. Even when they'd been on the run she'd always somehow managed to look less run-down and grimy than the other Maquis. Of course back then the raven-black hair had been cut short, more befitting the uncertain nature of their existence. During her time in rehabilitation she'd let it grow out, though she kept it swept away from the d'ja pagh dangling from her right ear.

"Really, Francis? Even over breakfast we're still being formal?" She arched an eye at him.

"We need to talk, Meru, but I don't know if this is the place and time."

She gestured toward Kolar and his enthusiastic audience. "Nobody's going to hear us over all of that."

He checked the room to see if Yhrea was lurking anywhere, then nodded. "You're right."

"So," she said, spearing a forkful of waffle. "You feel guilty, I think."

"Maybe I do," he allowed. "I did take the release."

She snorted. "For a smart man, you're appallingly dumb at times. You were given a parole because you were 'essential to the war effort'. Bajor didn't have a war effort at that point, so I had nothing to be essential for."

"Still," he said.

"Still, you feel guilty because you got to fly unarmed transports and freighters into combat zones while I sat in a comfortable cell with plenty of books."

He paused from cutting his food. "When you put it that way..."

"Stupid," she said decisively. "And you weren't there when I was released."

He grimaced. "Meru, I don't know what we had exactly. We didn't make any commitments-"

She cut him off. "We couldn't make commitments, and we weren't usually going in the same direction. You had your shuttles and fighters, I had my parts and pieces shop on the go. Most of the time you were going directly toward what I was running away from."

"So?" he asked. She had obviously thought the conversation through a lot more than he had.

"So now you're the captain and I'm the doctor. And I know that you'd say that it's inappropriate to try to see if there was anything more than the supply closets and rock quarries we used to commandeer."

He smiled suddenly. "Pretty much, yeah. I would've liked to have shown you Tehran, like I said I would."

"I would have liked that. I do understand, though. But even if we're going to be properly professional and act like we're part of a real organization this time, I'd like to think we can have a nice, social breakfast together."

"I'd like that," he said.

"Besides," she told him. "I've completely moved on." She looked past him toward Kolar. "You know how I've always had a weakness for musicians."

"Meru," he said, giving her an arch look. After a moment they both broke out in quiet laughter.

"Thanks," he said. "And I am sorry."

"You should be," she said. "But it's the past and it's forgiven. And thank you for getting me off that Prophets-forsaken asteroid."

"You were sitting comfortably in a rock fixing skinned knees and had plenty of books to read," he pointed out.

"I had enough time in confined spaces," she said. He looked around the cramped mess hall theatrically, prompting her to give a disgusted sigh. "At least this one goes places."

He nodded. "That it does."

Behind him, Kolar launched into a rendition of All Along the Watchtower. Shirazi's head drooped. "Every time. He plays it every time."

"It does get a little worn on repetition," Meru agreed.

[Josh]

Yhrea sat at his console as the computer sorted out the voice profiles and keywords from the subtle listening devices he'd placed in key locations and fed the results to his earpiece. Shirazi was still bludgeoning the psychotic helmsman with the threat of stranding, an effective strategy for the time being. Lee held no interest in the fate or well-being of anyone else on the ship, but he could be counted on to maintain a certain modicum of good behavior in exchange for being able to enact the greatest amount of positive control of his own destiny.

When the medical personnel at the Nveid had alerted Yhrea to the aberration in the human's neurological linkages, they'd given him the option as to whether he wished to disclose the matter to the captain.

Yhrea gambled that Shirazi would be able to resolve the matter in a fashion that either eliminated the potential threat or made a good usage of the man's obvious talent. For his own part Yhrea most likely would've simply snapped Lee's neck or arranged a proper accident- the man's dispassionate self-interest reminded him a little too much of the Vulcans and their own emotional repression.

Shirazi himself was proving to be a pleasant surprise. In spite of his lack of command experience, he had assembled an excellent crew from such disparate parts. He'd had a wealth of talent available, but managing such a collection of personalities was a challenge that would've daunted many others, driving them toward making safer and more manageable choices.

The contents of his logs were particularly invaluable- Yhrea had dutifully copied the ever-burgeoning collection of potential usages for the phase cloak system. The sheer instability of the system had made it entirely too uncertain for most commanders to countenance its installation on their own vessels. Decrepit and obsolete and she was, the Meh'Ta was the ideal test platform for the device while the scientists attempted to refine and stabilize a better version. Shirazi was a man who saw possibilities, and Yhrea had come to believe he was the ideal man for the testing process.

He tapped the display and replayed the most recent recording, a rather surprising and personal bit of business between the captain and the doctor. He'd suspected that they had a history...

Ah Shirazi, he thought as he looked at the captain in his seat. If you get us through the next trial alive, I shall have to arrange some time for the two of you to work past this formality and rank nonsense. At the brink of extinction we can't be closing avenues for breeding, even among the lesser races.

He realized that Shirazi was staring back at him. "Something you need?" Shirazi asked him.

"Oh no, I was considering one of the carrier cube variations that has been reported. Lost in thought," Yhrea said.

He saved the recording and pulled up the latest simulation that Lee had been tasked with.

[Josh]

Spoiler

Show

Soundtrack

Yhrea rubbed the back of his neck, then rolled his head around as he waited for the turbolift to arrive. The work was important, but sitting at a console all day was not his idea of an ideal job. As far as he was concerned it was more properly delegated to the Navy, or staff functionaries and similar less-evolved lifeforms.

The doors swished open and he stepped inside.

"Hold the lift please," Jason Lee said, accelerating as the doors began to swish closed. Yhrea briefly considered feigning confusion and riding down to the crew level in peace, but relented and pressed the button on the antique lift control panel.

"Thanks," Lee said as he stepped in. The doors closed, and with a hum the lift began to proceed down. Lee suddenly reached over and pressed the 'stop' button, freezing the lift in place.

"Wanted to talk to you," he said as he turned toward Yhrea with a plastic smile.

Yhrea considered his options. There was the disruptor hidden in the waistband of his trousers, the blade in his sleeve, the near-instantaneous venom in the ring on his finger. Or he could break Lee's neck, crush his heart with a single blow, or choke him to death. If Lee were thinking ill thoughts, he would not be able to advance them very far.

Given the close confines he would definitely rule out the grenades in his belt. He matched Lee's false smile with one of his own. "Is there something you need?"

"I know you told the captain about me," Lee said.

Yhrea considered, then discarded the notion of lying. "I felt it necessary to inform him of your condition."

"And he told M'Lara and the doctor, of course. The four of you all watch me. M'Lara wants to kill me, Alenis wants to rewire me even if there's no way for it to work, and you," Lee hesitated. "You feel like M'Lara does."

"Why would I?" Yhrea said. "Many of my finest coworkers have similar tendencies."

"Not like me. I spent a good deal of time deciding what sort of life I wanted to lead once I realized what I had, and the intelligence services of every major civilization avoid beings with Cognitive-Empathic Deficiency. That's the modern term, by the way, not 'sociopath'. 'Sociopath' is so twentieth century and has a hateful connotation, the -path suffix indicating I have a disease rather than differentiated evolution."

"It pleases me that you find comfort in the modern nomenclature, then," Yhrea said. "I do assume there's a point to this conversation?"

"I've never killed anyone," Lee said. "Can you say that?"

"Certainly. 'I've never killed anyone,'" Yhrea repeated.

"The difference between us is that I'm telling the truth. I mean I've let people die when they had no use for me, sure. I shipped with some very different crews out on the frontier while you lot were fighting your wars and so on. But I've never stabbed a being, or shot one. Never spilled the blood. But you look down on me all the same."

"Jason, I look down on everyone," Yhrea said. "It's truly nothing personal."

"I was born on Milford, you probably never heard of it," Lee continued.

"Federation colony, founded thirty-six years ago. Your parents were among the original settlers."

"Okay, you have heard about it. I figured out what I was when I was sixteen. I knew I was different, but that was when I put it together. We were a hard-start colony, mostly low tech but lots of library material. No screenings before the age of eighteen, when I was seventeen I caught a ride on an outbound freighter. I told you, I thought about what I could do and where I would go. I probably would've been very good at what you do."

"Unlikely. The reason we screen out your sort is that you have no innate loyalty or ethic. An agent has to have a level of attachment or they're completely unreliable."

"Well," Lee said "good at everything else you do. You know why I chose piloting?"

"I know why I loathe rhetorical questions. Do tell me." Yhrea idly wondered if anyone else was waiting for the lift.

"Because the helm is really controlling the ship. Everyone else is along for the ride. The captain can give the orders, but the helmsman, me, I decide what we're really doing."

"If you're trying to impress me with your power over the ship, you're not doing much to move me away from M'Lara's position on your continued survival."

Lee laughed. "I... I just wanted to talk. It's lonely, very lonely, and you're one of the few people I've ever met who could probably really understand me. Other Emp-defs..." he shook his head. "We don't get on well."

Yhrea arched an eyebrow. "I would not consider this the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship, were I you."

"Beings like us don't have friends, Yhrea," Lee said "we-" he was cut off by the chime of the lift's comm.

"Is the lift stuck? Do I need to call maintenance?" Gleck inquired.

Lee pressed the button. "No. Yhrea and I were just talking."

"Oh, for the love of...!" Gleck snarled. "Use the cargo bay like everyone else. Tell me you at least put some sort of cloth down to absorb the sweat and other fluids."

Lee snickered and Yhrea chuckled softly. "Don't worry," he told Gleck, his eyes fastened on Lee as he kept the same placid smile he'd held throughout the conversation. "I'm prepared for anything."

He pressed the button to start the lift again.

[rhoenix]

Once the majority of the refugees had gathered in the mess hall, and adjoining hallways, one of them immediately voiced his opinion in a suspicious and slightly belligerent tone of voice. "So why's a Romulan in a Starfleet uniform, anyway? And how'd you get to be a Commander, huh?"

Commander Inzeti forced herself to not consider her phaser sidearm as an option, and took a deep breath before responding. "In my case, it was a simple transfer of rank once we were rescued six years ago."

The hall quieted down immediately, and Commander Inzeti inwardly smiled. Though she didn't display it in the same ways, she did have some diplomatic talent. One had to in order to rise to any degree within the Romulan Star Empire's military, after all. "After the Borg came, the Romulans closed our borders and prepared for a siege. What happened instead was a rout, with thousands of ships lost attempting to defend our outer colonies, then our inner colonies, then our home system. My ship, the Vampaja, had been recalled from a long patrol to form a Red Line of defense for Romulus and Remus, and we prepared for it like the rest - setting defenses and preparing for the assault."

She paused, and listened to the silence in the hall, and stopped her mind from drifting to the awful silence her beloved ship made as it died. "The Borg came, and in numbers that we did not anticipate with our worst-case projections - it was as if they wished to make a mockery of all our careful preparations with simple brute force. Within 38 hours, our last defenses had been broken, and my ship had been reduced to a smoldering wreck, in a slow descending orbit of Remus. The Borg had won, and we resigned ourselves to fade from the pages of history, as simply soldiers lost in the battle - not suffocating and dying in the dark, as it seemed we would do."

She took another deep breath as a pause before continuing. "Salvation came in the form of a severely understaffed Federation Defiant-class ship you're familiar with. He saved our lives and pledged to take care of us, and so we cautiously tried working here, under his command. After another year or so, we decided that with Romulan and Reman peoples so few in this galaxy, joining what remains of the Federation, while ensuring that Romulan and Reman interests are addressed, seemed to be the best long-term outcome. And so, we adapted - most of our ranks were simply transferred from what they were in the Romulan Star Empire into their Starfleet equivalents."

Her eyes narrowed at this. "We did so because it is better to fight and strive for better than to give into despair and do nothing. I gathered all of you here for exactly that purpose - this ship still has need of good crew. We formed a fleet out of a random chance of survivors meeting in the same place, and together we destroyed a Cube and its escorts," she said, pausing for effect, before raising her chin slightly and speaking in a commanding voice. "If you simply wish to be dropped off at New Bajor when we arrive so you may attempt to make your lives there, you may, with no ill will. However, if you decide to listen to that fire within you that compels you to fight, to strike back against that which has stolen your home, has taken your people, and even now works to exterminate us like simple pests, well," she said with a small smile, "We have another purpose for you."

The room was quiet for a few moments, before a Romulan in tattered clothing spoke up. "Don't you think our people might lose what made us Romulan though, even if we win, Commander?"

Commander Inzeti turned to the man, and looked him calmly in the eyes a moment before responding. "Do you suspect that I have? I can assure you that I have not. Romulans are and must remain a distinct and unique people, even if we win. However," she said, pausing for another moment to look into the Romulan man's eyes, "we must also acknowledge that we are far stronger when working with others for a common goal than standing alone. If the Fall of Romulus taught you nothing else, I would hope it gave you that lesson."

"I know you," an old Klingon in the back of the room said, before roughly chuckling. "The Vampaja was a blood leech on the arse of the Klingon Empire for at least a decade with those damnable patrols," he said, before grinning ferally. "If that was you, then you smashed my battlegroup that was designed to draw you out and destroy you just before it could finish forming. I lost my command for that."

The old Klingon stood, taking a loud, growling breath before laughing again. "And now here she stands, calling to re-ignite old fires. The fires of war!" he bellowed. "How can even these old bones resist such a call? I, Kavan of the House of Martok will stand with you, Commander Inzeti of the Gilgamesh. I will fight with you to set this Borg infection set aflame."

Five minutes later, Commander Inzeti smiled to herself as she passed our padds for testing in various subjects to all the refugees. A few had shaken their heads, to be certain - but well over fifty of them had not. Yes, Commander Inzeti thought to herself with satisfaction, this indeed had been an opportunity hidden within a problem.

[General Havoc]

"I can't believe you didn't hit him."

"That would have rather spoiled the effect, wouldn't it?"

"Still..."

"I'm not as psychotic as you are." Kalpov lowered himself into the ready room chair, setting the cane against the wall as he did so. Changelings' looks were deceptive by their very nature, and Ereshal wasn't seeing him the way that others might, but regardless of both elements, he was playing the part of a near-invalid quite well. There was probably a reason for that.

"Are you all right?"

"I will be once you stop asking me that," said Kalpov, groaning as he shifted, the bandages and medical patches flexing in turn. "You've seen me walk away from worse than this."

"That's not true, and you know it," responded Ereshal. "And even if it was, how long's it gonna take you to regenerate all that protoplasm?"

Kalpov lifted his head at that comment. "How the hell can you - "

"Ivan, it's been years since you could fool me. How much did you lose?"

Kalpov groaned again, slouching down in the seat. "Twelve liters," he said. "Eight, maybe, I don't know. It's not that simple."

She couldn't help but smirk. "I thought you looked smaller."

"I do not," came the instantaneous reply, along with the sharp look she expected. "I've been doing this for four years, Ereshal, you think I'd walk into a room off a micron?"

"No," she said. The flash of outrage passed as quickly as it had come, and Kalpov slumped forward, laying his head in his hands. By now she knew the patches were real, the bandages real, all the machinery hooked up to him the real thing, no doubt a hedge against having to take some of it off. Or perhaps it was actually helping. She could sense the drawn lines in his uniform, a fake one of course, but no less real for that. He was exhausted, she could tell that much, not with the periodic urge to return to his natural, fluidic form, but with some other, deeper exhaustion, one that took months or years to create. She shook her head, walking idly over to the desk. "Only you could lose twelve liters and not shrink."

"I'm not a damn amoeba," he said. "We don't work that way."

"I know," she said. She might have said more, but she could tell there was something more important. And she knew what it was.

Kalpov said nothing for a little while, letting the machines talk for him with their whirrings and beepings. When he finally did speak, it was out of nowhere, as always.

"We need to talk," he said, not lifting his head.

"Yeah," she said.

"DuBois knows." No emphasis, no sign of what he thought of this development. Perhaps he didn't know what to think yet.

"I figured," she said. "What did he say?"

"Lot of threats. They went through hell in the Gamma Quadrant. The Dominion wouldn't let them use the wormhole. He thought - "

"I know what he thought."

Kalpov looked up. "I had to tell him everything. More or less."

"What's he going to do?"

The Commander could only shake his head. "I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe broadcast it to the rest of the fleet. Maybe he sits on it until we get to Bajor."

"If we get to Bajor."

Kalpov said nothing to that, closing his eyes a moment in perfect imitation of what a human might have done in his place.

"Fi'yat," he said at last, using the name he almost never did, the one that among Aenar was used only for emergencies. "We... need to talk about how this ends."

Ereshal's eyes were useless ornaments, vestigial orbs from back when the Aenar and Andorians were one and the same. Yet she too closed them at the very mention of what she knew already he had wanted to talk to her about. "This doesn't end," she said. "Not yet."

"Two of them know already," he said. "They're going to tell someone, eventually. And then it'll come around."

"None of the crew will believe it," she said. "Not from some brass-polisher they've never heard of."

"Yes they will," he said. "It fits too closely with everything that's happened. And even if not..." He didn't finish the sentence, shrugging and leaning back in the chair. "We need to figure out how to end this."

"End it how?" she asked. "You can't just disappear."

"The simplest way possible," said Kalpov, his voice almost leaden. "I die, you take over."

"Don't say that."

"It's the easiest thing to do. I can lay the groundwork starting now. Plasma burns and overwork."

"Stop it, Ivan."

He ignored her. "Bajor's a good a place as any to do it," he said. "You know that. A fresh start for everyone. They'll have a structure again, something to fight. A chance to win maybe, I don't know. It'll be a good time."

"You really think that's what we're going to find at Bajor?"

"I don't know what to think, Ereshal," he said, sharply, his unbandaged eye staring. "I don't have a plan here, in case you haven't noticed. But at some point we're going to have to deal with this thing or somebody else is going to do it for us. And I'm not putting this ship's cohesion in the hands of a Romulan, and a guy who's looking for an excuse to bag a changeling."

"If he wanted to bag you, wouldn't he have done it already?"

"Maybe," he said. "You wanna risk he's biding his time? Or might change his mind next time we're late with fire support? We've got a fleet around us commanded by people we don't know, walking into a situation we can't see. And the guy in charge..."

Something sharp and very cold ran through Ereshal as Kalpov's sentence petered out. "How bad was it?"

Kalpov groaned, this time in exasperation, and massaged his eyes with one hand. "He jumped them. By himself. Made a play to grab the pirate commander with his own hand. Used some kind of code to tell his ship to open fire. I don't know why."

It was about what she'd expected. "Did he get him at least?"

"It was a hologram. But that's beside the point. He charged three armed men barehanded standing on a ship he'd just told his own to take down."

She smirked. "Sounds like someone I know."

He gave her a look. "Yeah, well, I don't think he's a changeling."

"Could you even tell if he was?"

"Probably not. But whatever he is, he got a lot of people killed. And if one of the others goes blabbing to him, he might try to hold it over us or something."

"You really think he'd - "

"Dammit, Fi'yat, I have no idea! You people fought a war with us for two years. It killed a billion people. There's rumors out there that the Founders sicked the Borg on everyone just to get revenge. For all I know, it might even be true!"

"That's got nothing to do with you, or us."

"Like hell it doesn't. I'm not leaving this crew's survival up to whether or not a proven maniac believes some rumor about shapeshifters."

She let that one pass too. In the meeting she'd been ready to kill Anderson, but this was a new situation. "I can't run this ship by myself."

"Bullshit," he said. "You've been all but running it for three years."

"That's not true."

"It's close enough. And Luthor and Joral'vek and Tafwik will all be there to help."

"And what, you're just gonna walk away? Board a shuttle as some refugee and disappear into Bajor?"

He didn't say anything, which was answer enough.

"Goddammit, Ivan, how can you even think about - "

"Ereshal, if they find out I'm on this ship they will tear it apart. Do you get that? When we get to Bajor they will deconstruct the Argonaut looking for me. Quarantine the crew, blood test them. Is that what you want?"

"Oh bullshit," she exclaimed, "they won't have time. Not with the Borg bearing down on Bajor."

"They are not going to send a Heavy Cruiser into the last great battle for the Alpha Quadrant with a changeling on board, Fi'yat, let alone with one in charge. Not when there's a chance the Dominion was involved in starting this."

"You're not from the Dominion."

"And how exactly are they supposed to know that? How the hell do you know it, Ereshal, I could have made that up!"

"I know you, Ivan."

"Fine. But they don't. And whatever plan they've got for all this, they cannot take the chance that I'm gonna sabotage it. I wouldn't in their place. And if they know I'm onboard, they're gonna suspect every single person here of being me. And worse than that..." he paused, holding his tongue for a few moments and when he continued again his voice was subdued. "Worse than that is what they might do to you."

She sighed. Of course this was on his mind. "I'm not afraid of a board of inquiry."

"Well that's good," he said, "because I doubt they'd give you one. They might just shoot you, or lock you in a cell till the war's over."

"They're not going to - "

"You knowingly participated in a conspiracy that put a changeling in command of a Federation starship, in place of an officer who died under circumstances nobody can verify. You know how this is gonna sound to them, so stop trying to pretend that everything will be fine. I've seen how militaries pressed to the breaking point can react to something like this. It's not going to - "

A chime over the ready room's intercom interrupted Kalpov's rant. "Bridge to Commander Kalpov."

There was a several second pause, as both Ereshal and Kalpov took a moment to breathe the fire out of their lungs. At length, Kalpov slapped the badge on his chest. "Kalpov here."

"Sir," came the voice of Lt. Luther, "we've got something on the long range sensor net. You guys are gonna want to see this."

The conversation was over. They both knew it. Exigencies of service. Kalpov's look promised a sequel, but that was dependent on other factors."

"We're on our way," he said, and as Commander Kalpov began the mental checklist she knew he ran through every time he had to step out onto the bridge, Ereshal sighed, and walked over to pick up his cane.

"Just... don't do anything rash, Ivan," she said. "Not until we can talk it out."

"What are you talking about?" said Kalpov, his voice pained as he struggled to his feet. "I never act rashly."

She didn't laugh, but it helped regardless.

*-------------------------------------------------------------------------------*

"Is anyone capable of explaining what exactly I'm looking at?"

"It's an orthographic projection of the Humbolt's sensor probes," said Ensign Resir, "You've got to kind of imagine the color gradients as Z-axis changes. This uh... this would be a lot easier to do in Astrometrics, sir."

"I'm not hauling myself down to Deck 3 for a light show," said Kalpov. "Just tell me what we've got."

"Well um... the Humbolt deployed a network of probes out in the direction of Nivoch, and those four blue dots there... those are the external ones. The ones they pushed beyond the boundaries of the badlands."

"How come I only see three dots?" asked Ereshal, her antennae aimed down over her tactile display. Without working eyes, the spacial sense she used in place of vision was of no help for the viewscreen projection, but Joral'vec had made enough modifications to the bridge to compensate.

"Sorry, Ma'am," said Resir. He pressed a few buttons, and one of the dots vanished from the viewscreen. "One of the leading probes got caught by a plasma tongue on the way out. Vaporized it through the shields. The other three were transmitting normally until about a minute ago."

"And then?"

Resir typed more commands into his console. "This is the last thing they recorded."

The viewscreen divided into three sections, each one showing a fish-eyed panorama of space. One by one, all three viewpoints spun round towards an oncoming object. One never got there, dissolving to static without having so much as glimpsed its assailant on sensors. The last two managed to locate the objects moving towards them. Even at a split-second's glance, everyone on the bridge knew exactly what they were looking at. A pair of Borg Spheres, spotlighted against the ambient stars, which glowed a sickly green in the darkness moments before a single disruptor shot obliterated both probes.

For a few seconds, the bridge was silent, broken only when Commander Kalpov weighed in with what everyone was already thinking.

"Oh shit."

"Um... yes, sir," said Ensign Resir.

"How long ago was this?" asked Kalpov.

"Three minutes now," said Luthor.

"And the other ships?"

"They've got the same telemetry we do," said the Lt.

"How the hell did they even find those probes?" asked Ereshal. "The background radiation from the badlands should have scrambled every sensor they had. Finding a probe, let alone all three..."

"Maybe the Borg are smarter than us," said Kalpov. "Or maybe they got lucky. It doesn't matter now. Charles, if they knew where to find us, how long until - "

"If they made best speed in? Maybe forty-five minutes."

"They can't possibly know where we are," said Ereshal. "The badlands are gargantuan, and those probes weren't in direct line from us."

"You really want to take that chance?" asked Luther.

"The work crews on that tender need another eight hours minimum," responded Ereshal. "And Gilgamesh is still out there hunting for stragglers. We can't just pack up and leave now."

"And exactly why the hell not?" asked Luther. "The Borg get a fix on us in here, we'll be playing cat and mouse with them all the way to Prophet's Landing. That's a nineteen-hour run. What shape you think we're gonna be in dancing with cubes all the way from here to there?"

"Can they get Cubes into this storm?" asked Kalpov.

Luthor shrugged. "I wouldn't, but who knows what they can do?"

"Any ideas on how badly the badlands will degrade their sensors?"

Nobody answered, averting their eyes as Kalpov turned his to them in turn.

"Great," he finally said, and shook his head, rubbing his good eye as though to clear it. "If they do show up, how much warning would we get?"

"We can't see a damn thing beyond a few light-seconds in this soup," said Luthor. "Some of the science vessels might have better visibility, but less than a minute anyway. Humbolt's got other probes out, but the Borg could come in from any direction. Unless we get spectacularly lucky, we won't know a thing until they're practically on top of us."

Kalpov took in a deep breath, the medical machines all over him recording minute alterations in heart rate, blood pressure, and a host of other vital statistics. He let it out slowly, like a smoker savoring the taste of a fine cigar before needing to stub it out.

"Commander," said Luthor, "do you want - "

"Red alert," said Kalpov. "All hands to battle stations. And open channels to the Immortal, the Riskadh, and the S'harien. Let's see what our fearless leaders want to do about this.

[White Haven]

Sleep was an intermittent quantity for the less well-staffed divisions aboard Scylla. During high-alert situations, few of the meager tactical staff got much rest; in the wake of a battle, the minuscule medical personnel got even less. One change that the decided non-understaffed engineering department made long ago to help with that issue was to set up berths near the duty stations for the more overworked members of the crew.

Leyton made the decision long ago to convert his own permanent quarters into an emergency armory. He never really slept in them anyway, not as often as he was needed either on the bridge or potentially on the bridge at very short notice. In the engineering department's defense, it was actually quite a comfortable cot.

The alarm that woke him was decided non-Starfleet-standard; the old standbys of yellow and red alert just didn't carry enough information. The ability to discern at a moment's notice exactly what sort of trouble an alarm posed had proved essential more than once in the ship's recent history. Accordingly, the grey-haired man was startled out of a somewhat uneasy dream by the familiar wail of the yellow-external siren. Incoming trouble -- but outside of the ship. After so long fighting the Borg, the last thing anyone wanted to hear was the strident howl of an Internal alert.

Even as he jerked on a fresh pair of uniform trousers over a slightly worn set of grey boxers, the door to the tiny cabin hissed open to admit an Andorian, already in uniform. The hallway beyond was just beginning to fill with half-awake officers spilling from neighboring compartments, many of them still pulling on shirts.

"It's a good thing--" Leyton began, cut off almost at once with a snort.

"That you don't sleep naked? Please, not after so many of these. The sensor net's spotted incoming, and we're well short of being ready with the tender. No accurate time to contact yet, but it's more than a few minutes by best guesstimates."

"Geometry?"

"Two spheres so far."

"Escorts?"

"Not any we've seen yet."

"Bad, but not apocalyptic. Keep the teams working," Leyton paused mid-sentence to pull a shirt over his head, continuing once it wasn't over his mouth, "on the repairs to Saehir. Everyone else, full weapons loads, we need to cover both our teams over there and Scylla herself. If they stage through the tender, there won't be shields blocking them. Spin up transport inhibitors for the moment, just in case, but be ready to drop them at need." He paused for a moment, running over things in his head, then added a question, "You've been awake longer, am I missing anything, Lesschey?"

"...Shoes?"

"Ah. I'll...just meet you on the bridge then, shall I?"

[LadyTevar]

Spector
4 hours prior

"Captain, the replicators are handling the load well. We are shipping more components over to the 'tender now."
"Captain, more of the Orion vessels are standing down and allowing boarding. We are continuing to take a census of individuals aboard those we have already boarded."
"Captain, three more vessels are asking to speak to Kirk, to surrender in person."
"Captain...."
"Captain...."

"Captain, you need to go to bed."
Eoife Kirk's head jerked up to look at the Ship's Doctor, who was almost never on the bridge. "Wait, what did you just say?"

"You have been on duty for three shifts, and you haven't heard the last two things Serin has said to you, which I might add was highly amusing to hear you agree that we were flyin in borsche, and Orions are purple." Ian Jones drawled, a slight grin on the older man's face.

"uh....." Eoife wasn't sure if that was exaggeration or not, but as she looked over the battle bridge, she realized she couldn't recall when shift change had been. "Maybe... maybe you're right.... Serin, you have the... no, you've been..."

"I have slept, unlike yourself, Captain," Serin replied in his normal logical tone. "The doctor and I were merely concerned about you."

Serin had left the bridge? and Eoife hadn't noticed? She lowered her head. "Ok, ok, if I was too far gone to notice that, I need to sleep. I'll be in my cabin in case of emergency."

The two men, one a green-haired humanoid, the other as Terran as they came, watched Eoife enter the turbolift. "She's beating herself up over things again, isn't she," Doctor Jones asked quietly.
"Indeed. I believe something was also said in the Captain's meeting that she thought should have been addressed further."
"That's Eevie for you, letting things gnaw at her. I"ll check up on her in an hour, and if she's not sleeping I'll give her a relaxant."
"Thank you Doctor."

**********
"Captain Kirk, to the Bridge!"

Groaning, Eoife, rolled over in her bed, waving a hand for the lights to come on She refused to look at the clock. "Kirk here. Are we ready to move out?"
"Not at present, Captain," Serin replied. "The Humboldt's probes have been located by the Borg."
"Yellow alert, comm the Immortal and the Klingons to ask for orders, and I'm on my way."
"Acknowledged."

Four hours of sleep was not much, Eoife admitted, but her own fault she hadn't gone to bed earlier. As she rolled out of bed, she was surprised to see a tray of food already out for her. As she turned off the stasis field that had kept it warm, she saw the note beside it. ~Food First. Doctor's Orders. YES, you have TIME.~
Eoife didn't argue, dressing quickly as she ate. She carried the synth-caff out with her as she headed to the battlebridge.

[Josh]

Shirazi was making his way off the bridge when Yhrea called out. "Captain, we're getting activity across the fleet. Shields online, weapons powering up."

"Red alert," Shirazi said. He forced himself to walk calmly back to the command chair. "I have the conn." M'Lara lurched from the chair and limped to her station.

"Gleck, traffic?"

"Nothing directed to us, but..." the communications officer "the Humboldt's probes were discovered. Two spheres, potentially inbound. ETA in 45 minutes."

"Well that was too good to last," Shirazi said as he sat in his chair. "Yhrea, get me pathing for a Hunt and Pull on the nearest available bodies. Gleck, query command for orders on our disposition."

The calm descended on Shirazi. Around him the voices sang out- M'Lara confirming the readiness of all stations, Gleck murmuring on the communications line.

It was the waiting he hated. When the moment came, it always moved with a rhythm of its own. His voice spoke of its own accord, giving the orders necessary to prepare his vessel for the fight. As per standing orders the main viewscreen shifted to a tactical projection, with pertinent data concerning ship's functions on the lefthand sidebar. He never had understood why so many captains kept the main screen on visual spectrum during engagements- the eyes were some of the most useless instruments in the void, better suited for processing interpreted data rather than raw analysis.

"Mr. Lee, prep for phase operation," he heard himself say, giving orders based in countless hours of training, drill, and experience- mostly at receiving similar orders. Behind the voice, his mind calculated the weights and dispositions of the vessels in the task force, the consideration of the wealth of their science and engineering departments currently stranded in a vessel that was completely vulnerable. There were civilians in the mix, threatened with death or worse.

Starfleet protected the innocent and the defenseless. It was the principle that had led him to take the oath and in turn betray the oath.

"We're going to kill the bastards."

"Sir?"

He realized that he'd uttered the thought aloud and shook his head. "Carry on."

[Cynical Cat]

Kadon's communicator chimed. "Kadon."

"The Borg have discovered the probe net. Two Spheres inbound. Possible additional units."

"Arrival time?"

"Forty-five minutes, if they proceed here directly at maximum speed."

"Beam Kallor and I up immediately. Meet us in the Strategy Room."

-----

Fires blazed in the heart of a sprawling mass of highly charged gas that cloaked broken planetoids and scattered asteroids. A glittering web of sensor probes was marked out with blue Starfleet symbols and soft zones of blue light that marked their detection radius. Two malevolent green spheres glittered at the edge of the Badlands, cones of light marking their possible current positions.

Kadon moved through the blazing fog. In a Federation starship this room would have been called Astrometrics, but the Riskadh was a Klingon vessel and Klingons had better uses for sophisticated holotechnology and advanced cartography than as a toy for map makers.

The starships of the taskforce hovered in a mass around their prizes, condensed by scaling into a tight cloud. "Relay this data to Immortal," said Kadon. "Signal the Gilgamesh and the Meh T'a to stand by for action. And get me a live link with Anderson."

[Comrade Tortoise]

Bridge, USS Humboldt
Badlands, Alpha Quadrant

Lt Karvak looked at the sensor telemetry as it came in. The external probes were gone, destroyed by at least two borg spheres, probably more ships than that, as the third probe had also been destroyed.

She turned to the Ensign near her.

"To use a colorful metaphor popular among humans.... Fuck." she then turned to the captain

"Captain Vladstok, our probes have detected Borg, spheres. Sensors outside the badlands are down. It is unknown whether they have detected the second line of probes within the badlands, or if they will follow the relay. If they come straight for us, forty five minutes to intercept. If not... it will depend on how lucky they get finding the shortest possible path through the sensor chain."

"Very well. All we can do is continue repairs and see what the Borg do when they reach the second line of probes. Communications, give me a line to Taskforce, Sans previously hostile ships, if you will. Tight beam transmission."

"Yes sir"

"Humboldt to taskforce. The Borg have reached the first line of probes. We expected they would do this at some point and in fact, they have done so later than I expected. In order to find us, they will need to follow the chain of sensor probe relays, which we set up in a deliberately... byzantine fashion. Or they can search randomly. Currently, we have confirmed two cubes. There may be more. If they search randomly, the search area is extremely large and their collective consciousness between ships will be disrupted by subspace distortions. If they follow the probe relay, how quickly they trace it back to us will depend on how lucky they get tracing the shortest possible path. We will take additional countermeasures to prevent them tracing the probe net back to us. It is not a guarantee, but it should buy us some time. Humboldt out.

"Ops. Prepare to update Ultimate sensor probe conditional instructions."

...

Code: Select all

Type VIII Sensor Probe #14 Designation Ultimate Relay Point
If: Type VIII Sensor Probe # 12 or #13 Designated Penultimate Relay Point I and II are
Detected by vessels designated Borg or Destroyed
Then:Sever Relay Connections
Then: Wipe stored data
Then: Lower Shields
Then: Overload Internal Power Relays and Components.

[Josh]

"Signal from the Riskadh, stand by for action along with the Gilgamesh," Gleck reported.

The words sent an electric jolt through Shirazi's spine. "Acknowledge the order, maintain tactical channels to the Gilgamesh and Riskadh for coordination."

Klingon command seats were built like thrones, and his posture reflected that. He sat back in the chair, head tilted to the side, arms draped over the armrests, feet askew on the floor. His eyes bored in on the tactical display, occasionally flickering to the status sidebar giving him information on shield capacity, SIF status, weapons charge, torpedo loadouts.

The background chatter of the bridge floated across his consciousness, only drawing his attention when it concerned an aberration in ship's status.

"Inform the others that we are willing to draw fire to set up their shots." he ordered.

He sensed the tension as it built- nobody liked the job of the decoy. He wasn't keen on it either, but the spheres were a bad matchup for them.

Truthfully, any Borg vessel of size was a bad matchup. But they would do their jobs, regardless.

[rhoenix]

U.S.S. Gilgamesh
Bridge

The Gilgamesh flew swiftly through the deeps of the Badlands, in the midst of searching for stragglers they had not yet found and marked. All too soon however, the quiet of the bridge was broken. "Captain," Lieutenant Adranis said, all traces of humor absent from his voice, as the Yellow Alert activated, the yellow lights along the walls emblazoned with a short legend, stating that external Borg contacts had been detected. "According to the Humboldt's probe's telemetry, the Borg have begun to explore the Badlands. The outer edge of the sensor lines has been breached."

"Incoming messages Captain," Swift reported immediately afterward, to which Captain Solheim rapidly read through the messages sent from Captains Kadon and Vladstok, nodding to himself once as he finished.

"Send a comm to the ships we managed to sway, Swift," Captain Solheim replied calmly. "Tell them to keep working for right now, and we'll hold the Borg off for as long as it takes. Next, send acknowledgements to Captains Kadon and Vladstok. Last, take us out to escort formation with the Riskadh - the fun is about to start."

"Got it, Captain," Swift replied, her fingers rapidly traversing her console. "Messages sent, and we're en route to formation with the Riskadh - ETA two and a half minutes."

"Good," Captain Solheim said, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "Go to Red Alert, with the message that we are about to engage the Borg."

* * *

U.S.S. Gilgamesh
Crew Deck

As the Red Alert sounded, Commander Inzeti appraised herself of the situation using her tricorder, and then nodded to herself. "Your first drill as crew has come early," she said in a loud, clear voice that would make a drill sergeant of any people proud. "Get to your designated stations, and prepare yourselves. Move!"

"The time has come for blood and fire!" Martok Kavan shouted with a grin on his face, and a glint in his eye as he moved quickly with the others to their stations - in his case, the Weapons section of Engineering. He was amused by the situation, despite its dire nature - old enemies had already drawn together to become allies on this ship, he mused, even as he did his work by double-checking the energy levels for the conduits leading to the vicious phaser cannons the Gilgamesh sported. It seemed fitting that he be here and now. Commander Inzeti was a name Klingons spat in deep dislike (and not a small amount of respect) a decade ago - and now, that canny Romulan was second in command of a quite advanced Federation destroyer. And unless he missed his guess, the good Captain of this ship had enough "Redacted" sections of his Bio to make his background obvious to any Klin worth the metal of his weapons.

Kavan chuckled to himself, even as he minutely adjusted one of the plasma conduits, allowing for a small, though notable throughput in energy transfer. Oh yes, this would be fun to watch unfold.

[Marcao]

Alpha Quadrant, Badlands
IRW Saehir, Engineering Team 14

The engineering team was composed predominantly of a core of highly trained Romulan engineers escorted by a lone Reman and a handful of civilians which had been liberated from Nivoch IV. The composition allowed for the maximum amount of flexibility and represented the most common of the teams which had been assigned to the IRW Saehir. The Romulan engineers used their knowledge to identify problems in the Romulan tender while the civilians provided extra muscle and sets of eyes. They completed the menial tasks, carried gear and followed the orders of the far more knowledgeable and essential trained personnel. The Reman was there for two reasons, firstly as an extra set of muscle should it be required and secondly as a method of dissuading any of the civilians from separating from the core of the team.

Each engineering team from within the S'harien was in contact with the others coordinating their efforts amongst each other. When one engineering team came within the same location as one from the Riskadh, Humboldt, Scylla or others they exchanged notes and collaborated as much as possible in order to achieve their specific tasks. Engineering teams one through twenty had a similar composition, while engineering teams twenty one through thirty were far more specialized in their tasks and were composed accordingly. Engineering teams twenty one through thirty did not have any non-trained personnel and were tasked with the intensive work of dealing with the most challenging systems or situations.

Team fourteen had been assigned with assessing the state of the plasma conduits and EPS feeds that would be wired in to the structural integrity fields of the Saehir. For the last sixteen hours they had busied themselves with repairing, rewiring and assessing their assigned section of the tender. The damage they had so far surveyed and addressed ranged from the moderate to the severe. In three separate occasions so far the damage had been so extensive that one of the specialized teams had to be called in. In two of the situations, one of the teams from the S'harien had been redirected to work in the locations. In the third, a team from the IKS Riskadh had been tasked with addressing the needs. Team fourteen had watched as the Klingons had deftly thrown themselves into their work with practiced ease. The leader of the team fourteen Erain Satol watched for only two and half minutes the klingon team work before moving his team further along their assigned path.

The IRW Saehir was massive and its damage was extensive. So far, team fourteen had managed to meet the majority of the challenges presented to it. They had taken one six and half minute break in order to chew through their first of their assigned ration packs. Each team member had been authorized a ten minute break every twelve hours. There had been no complaints from the members of his team about the shortened rest cycle and he had been surprised that the civilians had not at the time complained either. A part of him hoped that they understood the enormity of the challenge before them. Perhaps they understood that the survival of the Saehir could in the future prove a pivotal point in the survival not only of this task force but perhaps, all their people.
Maybe they decided that since not one of us complained it was in their best interest not to do so either.

The thought swam to the surface of the Erain's mind before his PADD beeped. He instinctively reached out for the device located on his left hip and came to a stop his unit stopping around him as he did so. He retrieved the PADD and opened it, his eyes scanning the information therein.

"What is it?" asked a female Romulan engineer. Eredh Aenikh was one of the youngest members of the crew of the S'harien.

"Projections from teams one thought twenty." Erain Satol responded without looking up from the PADD in his hands.

"Are we on track?" Eredh Aenikh asked.

"Mostly. The information from teams twenty one through thirty is incomplete and they are doing a lot of the heavy lifting along with the Klingons and the Federation teams." He went silent for a moment and closed the PADD before he looked around at his team. The men and women that he saw wore determination on their faces. "We are on schedule as are most of our sister teams. If we manage to complete our route before the thirty hour limit we will be reassigned to assist others that will need our help."

Erain Satol watched as the men and women of his team nodded and gathered themselves and pressed onwards after him.

Alpha Quadrant, Badlands
IRW S'harien, Bridge

Riov Galen Cretak watched and waited as he sat atop his command dais located in the heart of the bridge of his Warbird. Before him, a series of holograms were projected in the air before him as he tracked the movement of forty five separate teams aboard the IRW Saehir. The bulk of his attention was upon the information trickling in from those teams although he was also informed of information provided to the task force by elements from the IKS Riskadh, the USS Humboldt, the USS Scylla and others. Unlike many of his peers, his background did not lay in Engineering. That was the sole reason why he himself was not within the hallowed halls of the IRW Saehir. As much as he wanted to be within the vessel leading from the front as it were, he was better suited aboard his Warbird prepared to protect the Romulan tender and the people within should the need arise.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. A pattern was emerging from the data provided to his Warbird by the men and women from over a dozen races within the IRW Saehir itself. It was a race against the clock as the teams sought to restore the Saehir the ability to survive its current circumstances. A part of him wished that he could have taken a different course of action earlier. Perhaps if his fire on the Saehir had not been as intense their situation at the moment would be different. He closed his eyes and pushed those thoughts aside. He could no more change what had transpired earlier than he could go back and save Romulus and Remus from their fate.

What is done is done.

He leaned back against his chair, his left hand moving dispelling the information provided by the teams of the S'harien and focusing on the teams of the Scylla, Humboldt and Riskadh respectively. The projections had been accurate to plus or minus five percent. The Saehir was still not restored enough to support the plan of towing her out of the Badlands. The data suggested that at the thirty hour mark they might be able to be finished.

Maybe.

He had attempted to push the scales in their favor by all but emptying the S'harien of all non-essential personnel. The sole engineers left on the S'harien at the moment were those required to maintain the operations of the Warbird itself. He had even asked the teams to be loaded with civilian personnel in order to assist in the restoration of the Saehir. While their presence was undoubtedly of some assistance, the bottleneck was not muscle but engineering know how and large amounts of damage. The data from the Klingons surprised him, even without direct Romulan assistance their progress rivaled those of his own teams. The difference was less than six and half percent and that difference was far thinner than he had expected. The Federation teams from the Scylla and Humboldt were also within that range plus or minus two and half percentage points.

It should not be surprising. The Borg killed all but the best.

The thought swam to the surface of his mind and vanished. His hand moved, the information from the allied ships moved to the bottom as the data from his teams was summoned back to the surface. His eyes settled on the data from team twenty seven when a new window appeared and momentarily dispelled the others. The priority channel from the USS Argonaut sent an icy chill down his spine. He immediately answered it.

"Cretak." He said firmly.

In less than a minute he had an accurate picture of what was transpiring at the edges of the Badlands. Forty five minutes was not a lot of time, but it was enough to formulate some sort of strategy. He thanked the USS Argonaut for its information and closed the link. His Warbird received the sensors feeds from the other ships in the task force and he explored the data from the probes himself before he spoke.

"Communications, open a channel to the USS Immortal and the IKS Riskadh. Take us to heightened alert status." He said. Captain Kadon and Captain Anderson would be needed to formulate a strategy to deal with this situation.

"Understood Riov. Should we recall our teams?" The sensor officer asked.

"Not yet. I want you to keep a lock on teams twenty five through thirty. The rest will have to stay on the Saehir for the time being and continue their work." Riov Cretak said. He could not afford to stop the work on the Saehir on the account of a pair of spheres. Teams twenty five through thirty however were essential for the efficient working of the S'harien during combat operations. If they were tasked with diverting away from the Saehir and towards the Borg, they would have to be withdrawn from the Saehir.

"The Riskadh is sending a message to the Gilgamesh and the Meh'ta Riov." His communication officer said.

Riov Galen Cretak nodded. The Defiant and the D-12 were the best candidates to move first. They were smaller and more maneuverable vessels. He had a great deal of confidence on the USS Gilgamesh. Solheim was a competent captain and tested in battle. He admitted however that he was curious about the performance of the other vessel.

Captain Shirazi mentioned a cloaking capability. Looks like I may have an opportunity to see it earlier than I expected.

His thoughts about the capabilities of the Meh'ta were momentarily forgotten when the channel from the Humboldt was established and the voice of its captain manifested in his bridge. He listened closely to the words and acknowledged receiving the transmission. His attention shifted to the sensor feeds of the task force and other supporting data. The posture and position of the ships in the task force took precedence over the engineering concerns aboard the Saehir. The IRW S'harien prepared once again to engage in open hostilities with the Borg. There was a difference this time however. Until now, the S'harien had fought to protect itself or work in conjunction with others with the goal of defeating others. Now, it was tasked with securing a priceless artifact a remnant of his people's past glories.

I will do my duty.

[Josh]

Independent Vessel Meh'Ta
Main Engineering

"Sure wish the chief was here," Tolbert lamented.

"Hah!" Kolar said. "The first time those words have ever been spoken in this space."

"It's just that, well, we're good. But the chief, he's been everywhere and done everything. No disrespect, but I've never known anyone like him or the Bobsys who could whisper engines like that."

"Do you think he wasn't like you once, young and frightened?" Kolar crouched down to pull an inspection port. Satisfied with the reading, he stood up. "Do you think he wouldn't be frightened if he were here now?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"Very," Kolar admitted. He caught her look of surprise. "Klingons know fear. A warrior without fear to temper the hot blood is either a lunatic who will die soon and fruitlessly, or a machine." He gestured toward a bank of instruments. "Keep an eye on the pressures. The captain will be wanting full speed soon."

Tolbert moved the the bank. "I just never see either of you afraid. Even when we got hit that time and it looked like we were going to lose the ship, both of you were all about your business and keeping us moving."

"The chief and I, we've seen a great many things in our time. We have the measure of fear and know how to contain it, use it." He crossed a narrow aisle and put a hand on the variance stabilizer, testing the feel of the machine before nodding. "But you have never failed us, brave friend. I recall you crawling into the main turbine to initiate the manual restart that day."

"I thought I was going to die in there," she said.

"But you didn't." He slipped back into the main space and rested his hand on her shoulder. "And now, you know what it truly is to be alive."

[Josh]

"Bridge, Cloak Systems,"

Hexce tr'Valdran sounded more agitated than usual. Shirazi thumbed the button on the command chair. "Go ahead."

An inset popped up on the main viewer. tr'Valdran looked completely haywire, his lank, unwashed hair sprawling from his head in various directions, bloodshot eyes, and he virtually hummed with nervous energy.

"Captain, I've just had an idea!"

"Make it fast, Mr. tr'Valdran," Shirazi said. He saw Yhrea clenching his jaw- the intelligence officer despised his fellow technician from the Nveid, for reasons that were probably fairly easy to surmise.

"Okay, even with system modifications we still have ion leakage from the cloaking system occasionally, just a feature, a function of the RL-317 cloak system design, can't be entirely eliminated though we can mitigate it."

"Faster, tr'Valdran," Shirazi said.

tr'Valdran nodded spastically. "With a focused concentrated tachyon tube we could possibly shunt the leakage away from the vessel, creating a false impression of our location." tr'Valdran's smile threatened to split his face open. "I'm pretty su... very sure... entirely certain it will work!" He pressed a switch off-screen, bringing up a horribly rendered animation depicting the Meh'Ta and a shadowy illusion being projected away from the vessel, followed by a horrendous mishmash of notes and equations. "It's not to scale," tr'Valdran said apologetically as the image shifted back to his face. "But you can see how incredibly useful it would be."

"When did you come up with this?" Shirazi asked.

"Fifteen," tr'Valdran glanced at the clock. "Twenty-three minutes ago!"

"We'll test at the first available opportunity after the current action is concluded," Shirazi said, feeling his own jaw muscles bunch. "Be ready to make my cloaking system work. That's your job, Mr. tr'Valdran."

tr'Valdran looked crestfallen. "Understood." The inset cut out and the screen was once more dominated by the images of the upcoming engagement.

"When we're at the Nveid next time, can we get another technician?" Gleck asked.

"No," Yhrea said with a shake of his head. "Even if he dies, he's what we have."

"Less talking, more working!" M'Lara barked. "Attention on your stations!"

Why the hell couldn't you come up with that a month ago? Shirazi thought, putting aside the distraction and refocusing himself on the impending engagement.

[Josh]

"Attention all hands, a small Borg force has been detected bearing on our position. Fleet elements are moving to engage. Continue your work until further instruction."

Hantle shook his head. "They better take care of it. I don't want to die on some unarmed tub because some dumbass decided salvage in hostile territory was a great idea."

"Do you think..."

"...that the Meh'Ta will..."

"...be engaging?"

Hantle lifted the unit into place, then began to hand-tighten the fitting. "I think the skipper's been looking for a good fight since he got the middle chair, so... yeah. If they'll let him, he's taking our girl in."

"May we have..."

"...five minutes to..."

"...conduct a prayer ceremony?"

Hantle looked back at the Bobsys, who fidgeted nervously. "You've got two. Go ahead."

They scrambled into action, gathering some spare parts that were laying about. Their hands flew furiously, winding coils of wire from the power element of a fusion torch. One of them touched the activation stud and electricity coruscated around the wires in visible arcs. The tang of ozone filled the air as they knelt before the impromptu totem.

"Great and mighty Gods of the Warp..."

"...hear the prayers of your faithful servants..."

"...know that the vessel Meh'Ta..."

"...goes into battle in your names..."

"...giving glory to your light..."

"...may her heart beat strong..."

"...and her weapons fire true..."

"...let her be your instrument of..."

"DEATH."

They said the final word in emphatic unison. Then they quickly disassembled their totem and scrambled back to Hantle's side. He looked down at one of them. "If you weren't the best assistant techs I ever had, I'd put both of you in for psych evals. Eh, if we had any counselors left to do those anyway."

[White Haven]

Yellow-External. Yellow, so not an immediate threat. External, so something outside the confines of the hull. But yellow had a tendency to become red, and the Borg were always quite, quite determined to become Internal. A veteran crew like Scylla’s knew that all too well.

Not, of course, that there are anything other than veteran crews left alive by now.

Pale blue lips twitched in a pale shadow of a smile at her own thoughts as Scylla’s security chief rounded the last corner between her and the Deck 8 armory, a compartment with two sets of broad doors standing open as security teams and auxiliaries circulated in one with empty hands and out the other with a bewildering array of weaponry. Several nods were cast her way as she approached, but no more; this wasn’t an inspection, this was preparation for real combat. She stopped short of the doorway to let a heavy-weapons team pass -- ch’Treya’s team, with the rotary-mount for a half-dozen overloaded phaser rifle emitters.

Long drills took over as Savera fell in behind the figures in their up-armored vac suits, filtering into the stream of arming troops until she reached the small locker simply stencilled with ‘STANDARD ARMAMENTS.’ Another smile, this one with some genuine humor behind it, tugged at her lips at the simple fact that in the middle of an alert, that one locker hadn’t even been opened yet. While another team was busy extricating something monstrous studded with radiator fins -- something new, if she didn’t know it by sight or reputation yet -- she grabbed a sidearm and a phaser rifle, palmed a few extra charge-packs for the rifle, hesitated for a moment, and then closed the locker again.

Five to one, she’d be the only one to want anything out of it anyway.

As one of the rifle teams filtered past, she carefully schooled her expression into neutrality. As much as she’d actually like to play with one of the customized, overcharged phasers, maintaining the mystique as ‘the crazy bitch who makes us look bad with a stock phaser rifle’ was worth more. She fell in behind the rifle team on the way back out of the armory, then split off to make her way to her command post.

Last-minute orders weren’t needed any longer, and hadn’t been for quite some time. Everyone knew their jobs, their positions, and the consequences of failure.

[frigidmagi]

"Captain to Bridge I am on enroute. Status report." Captain Anderson ordered as he entered the turbolift. I really should just sleeping next to the bridge or something he thought.

"Captain, 2 Borg Sphere's inbound, we have a number of people comming for you. Captain Kadon issued alert orders to the Gilgamesh and the Meh'ta Riov." The joys of command. Captain Anderson nodded at Captain Kadon's choices.

"Acknowledged." The turbolift moved swiftly he was in at the bridge in minutes.

"Put them on screen... All of them." Captain Anderson ordered

[Josh]

Shirazi snapped up out of his chair. "Yhrea, get me our meteorological on the main screen."

The screen shifted, displaying computer's best guess as to the chaotic conditions in the Badlands. Shirazi studied the computer's projected locations and confidence intervals. He pointed at the screen. "Shifted this one bearing five-nine-seven mark twelve, increase the confidence to 90%."

"Are you sure about this?" Yhrea asked.

"I practically lived in the Badlands for over a year," Shirazi said. He pointed at another projected eruption. "That one's going to fizzle, lower intensity to three, confidence 70%."

He made several more adjustments to the projection. "Those two are going spawn a tertiary eruption at nine-nine-one-mark-sixteen," he concluded. "Confidence 60%. Gleck, forward the updated projections to the participating vessels and the flag."

For most of the others, the Badlands were a place of temporary refuge, one that had been breached by the invaders. For Frank Shirazi, they were home.

[rhoenix]

The Gilgamesh smoothly turned on its final approach, slowing to a stop a bare kilometer away from the Riskadh, and only a few more away from the Meh'ta, on the opposite side of the Riskadh from the Gilgamesh.

* * *

U.S.S. Gilgamesh
Engineering Deck

All too soon, Kavan became aware that a slender human woman in a Starfleet uniform had walked over to examine his work, curiosity seeming to echo from her being. "Huh, you got the throughput up another 1.5 percent," she said, sounding impressed. "But you forgot to re-install the regulator back toward the main power lead line," she finished, with a friendly smirk.

"Bah," Kavan spat. "That power lead already has two before it even gets to this point. They just cause drain on the power flow."

At this, the woman's entire demeanor changed, and Kavan wondered idly about this woman, and recognized the Chief Engineer's pips on her collar. However, she did not speak immediately - instead she paused for a moment, and replied in a calm voice after crossing her arms. "Do you know the power output of the Gilgamesh's power core?"

"Not the precise reading," Kavan grinned, showing his teeth in appreciation for the ship. "But I know that it is a mighty heart indeed, almost too large for a ship this small."

"It is," she agreed immediately, which caught him off-guard, and made him immediately more cautious. "In fact, it's an upgraded core beyond even the original Defiant specifications. Have you noticed that all the power leads are much heavier and better shielded than on other ships?"

"Yes," Kavan continued, eyeing the Chief Engineer Dawson even as he began to close the hatch to where he'd been working.

Her hand reached out, and halted the door's movement, without breaking eye contact with him. When she spoke next, it echoed a protective anger. "This ship's core is too powerful for the ship's size, to be blunt. And that means that we must be meticulous about regulating power flow. If it spikes in any one place too long without being evened out, it would rip this ship apart in a very pretty fireworks show that none of us would have time to appreciate," she said, taking a step toward him, and slapping the power regulator against his chest with a glare. "So, all the regulators stay connected, because I will not have this girl hurt more than she's been in the past. Got it?"

Kavan stared at the woman for a moment. Her movements weren't trained as much in hand-to-hand martial combat, the way the Captain, XO, and most of the bridge crew seemed to be. Nonetheless, her righteous protective anger of her ship made him grin. "Then we will make sure the hot blood running in this beast's veins stays where it should," he replied, opening the panel all the way back up, and re-installing the regulator.

"Good," he saw her nod out the corner of his eyes. "Let me know when you're done, I want your help with the cannon leads."

At this, Kavan chuckled to himself after he heard the Chief Engineer walking away, even as he carefully re-attached all the leads for the power regulator. He definitely could have ended up on a worse ship, he mused to himself.

[Cynical Cat]

Kadon didn't waste time. "I propose leading the Gilgamesh and the Meh'Ta to deal with the Borg advance party. We will destroy them, or failing that, lead them off while maintaining distance from the rest of the task force. All three vessels have cloaking devices and we can lead them out of the Badlands and evade them."