Star Trek: Outerzone
Episode 7:
Erowoon - Part 1
by Peter Wildash
(PWildash@Channel4.co.uk)

EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - TEASER

The section of the SS Fantasy which the survivors of the K'Tani invasion had come to know as the Command Yacht slid silently through space, passing fleetingly through the Borovati system at warp speed.No-one noticed on the Borovati homeworld, of course.Well how could they?Even had they possessed subspace telescopes or scanners, the Borovat were a subterranean race and only the foolish and stupid thought of life on the surface. Besides, covered almost entirely in a jet black metallic substance, the vessel could hardly be seen against the backdrop of night.

COMMAND YACHT 1124 HOURS

Captain Christian walked around the Yacht's upper bridge, his sense of achievement increasing with every stride he took. At last, a run of good luck, he thought, and scratched his unkempt beard. He was desperate to tell the others of what he had just found following their most recent escape from K'Tani clutches [see last ep - ed], but he knew that it was something best kept secret for the present.

"No sign of pursuit, Captain," towering over the tactical station, the middle-aged yet still trim and imposingly handsome angular frame of the Andorian Ambassador for Trade Narli re-checked the long-range sensor display.He turned to the Captain, his slicked back hair, neat Van Dyke beard, eyebrows, eyelashes, teeth and the whites of his eyes all a dazzlingly white contrast against his cobalt blue skin."I'd say we've lost the K'Tani for at least for a day or two."

Christian smiled and turned to the gently perspiring, rotund African American Commodore as he sat down beside her. Oblivious to his inquisitive stare, she pinched her button nose beneath the bridge of her glasses, her lower eyelids uncontrollable twitching from physical and emotional tiredness.

"That's excellent news, Ambassador," he said.After their first warp jump out of danger, Christian had ordered Reb find a succession of other pockets of clear space from where they could make short and seemingly random warp jumps, in an attempt to evade even the most persistent of K'Tani trackers.

Christian thought back to that time, just an hour or so earlier, after escaping the K'Tani by the skin of their teeth.The half Ferengi helmsman had proffered a best guess as to the location of the rest of the ship based on their recent navigational logs.This prompted the Captain to make the unpopular decision to first lead the K'Tani a merry dance before they re-connected with the rest of their vessel - it was risky, and would use valuable fuel, but Christian insisted they do their best not to lead the K'Tani to the other survivors.

Whilst Reb had executed the carefully calculated series of warp jumps under Jackson's beady eye, Christian took a moment to himself in his office, whereupon he had made this outstanding recent discovery he was so desperate to share.

Christian couldn't stop thinking about it - and realised several more minutes had passed since he'd spoken. For a heartbeat he wondered if Reb had miscalculated the final return vector. "Mister Rebbik, how long until we get back to the Command and Passenger Sections?"

Reb merely gestured to the main viewscreen of the Command Yacht bridge as they dropped out of warp, star streaks shrinking to pin pricks of star light all around and a vague dark image in the space before them grew steadily larger.

In less than a minute, Christian and his bridge crew saw the rest of the Fantasy parked in space ahead of them. However, the Passenger Section's sleek nacelles were now visibly deployed and glowing with life, protruding from what appeared to be long indentations in each side of the ship. The smaller, more compact Command Section nacelles some distance behind and below them were also deployed, but were shades of dull grey and off-line, as if like small dead wings. Even at this distance they were all reminded just how big the ship truly was - and in the short time they'd been aboard they barely knew a tenth of her.

Ambassador Narli tapped his console controls several times, switching to a short-range sensor diagnostics setting."Although I'm getting indeterminate readings from the hull, from the energies they are emitting those larger nacelles appear to be fully powered."

"They must have got them working somehow," Reb commented.

It was an odd site, Christian thought to himself, seeing the long, dark ship, almost invisible to the naked eye against the blackness of space, with two sets of nacelles fully deployed. He focused on their first task.

"Can you zoom in on the..ah.. separation furrow?" Christian wasn't sure of the correct terminology for that area in the top of the Command Section, though he was sure the designers had a name for everything on this curious vessel. Perhaps now he wondered, with enhanced computer control more or less fully restored, they would be able to gain archive access and ascertain the exact history of the ship.Everyone was curious to know how it had reached the Outer Zone in the first place, what the K'Tani had done with it, what other mysteries it contained - and of course how they could use it to their best advantage.

Narli tapped the controls some more, activating the viewscreen angle menu, each movement ringing a soft localised 'beep' to his long, thick blue-fingered caresses. "On screen," he said, posting the desired image to the main viewscreen.

The original white surface of the concave connection plane would have shone in brilliant contrast to the surrounding glistening night-dark hull had it not been blackened and charred around the many power connection points and docking tethers, showing evidence of where the Command Yacht had so violently ripped free hours earlier. Cabling protruded from these points, twisting out into the vacuum of space like innate sea anemone. A small explosion had also opened an untidy gash very close to one of the tethers, its right-angled hook now not quite flush with the housing as it was meant to be.

Warnerburg sighed audibly to Christian's right as she made a calculated visual estimate of the repair needs. "It's too damaged for us to reconnect out here.The whole area requires an extensive dry dock overhaul by the look of it."

Narli's comm panel flashed a message."I'm receiving a signal from the other part of the Fantasy, Captain, audio only." Without waiting he posted it to the speakers.

"Fantasy Beta Section to Command Yacht," Lirik's English voice was crisp and clear over the short-range comm channel.

The Captain slapped the leather arms of his chair with uncontrolled joy, curious at the expression 'Beta Section', but accepting it as means of identifying the Command and Passenger Sections combined."Mister Lirik, for once it is a pleasure to hear your voice." Jackson shot the Captain a disapproving look at the untimely jibe, glowering at him over the top of her spectacles. "What's your status?"

In the mellow surroundings of the Secondary Bridge over on the Command Section, Lirik swallowed the Captain's unkind remark away and shifted in the centre chair as if to recompose himself.There was too much detail to explain everything that had transpired in one hit, so he carefully tried to sound as much like a Starfleet Commander as he could - suddenly keen to impress the Captain."The Command Yacht's unscheduled separation took a heavy toll on us - I'm afraid we have two dead," gasps from some Main Bridge crew at this, "and the Command Section's warp engine has been disabled in the process."

The Captain shifted in his own chair, eager to know who the dead were, but suppressed the question until later. "What happened?"

"Having initially lost main power we switched over to reserve generators. This somehow brought as yet inaccessible systems back on line, including the security systems that had previously cut us off from the Passenger Section," he said.

"Something similar happened to us," Warnerburg blurted out, but her eye was caught by a disapproving glance from the Captain."Sorry..."

"Carry on, Yeoman," Jackson hurriedly said.

"We made our way to the Passenger Section's main engineering and sickbay areas respectively. Commander Leonard managed to start up the warp core - we are now running off main power from there, slaving fuel supply from the Command Section tanks. However, we're so low on fuel reserves that we're rationing power to all but the most necessary areas. Sadly Lieutenant O'Hara's venture to sickbay was not as rewarding, though she would like to immediately relocate her operations there once full power is restored," Lirik could carry on, but that was all he thought the Captain would want to know for now.

One pressing thought forced itself forward in the Captain's mind, though he was also conscious of his own relief that O'Hara and Leonard didn't appear to be either of the two dead. "I'm afraid your situation will get worse before it gets better, Yeoman.There is a possibility that harmful arachnids are roaming the ship. Take all the necessary intruder protocols - confine people to secure sections. Don't let anybody wander off, and keep all duty personnel in groups with at least one person armed."

"Understood, Captain," Lirik nodded over to a depressed looking Souveson sitting at the tactical station. She barely reflected a nodding response at her new task, deflated at not being more in the thick of things on the Yacht's bridge, out-done by the veterans around her. It was a difficult situation for her to handle emotionally, even though she was, as the Captain had asked her to be, Head of Security and Acting Tactical Officer.Perhaps when she was in his presence, she wondered, she would begin to feel more useful and appreciated once more.

"Did you find the K'Tani agent?" Lirik asked, eager to know what had happened to the mysterious Bajoran girl - he assumed from the outset that she had been responsible for the Yacht's unexpected departure.

Jackson whispered something into Christian's ear."Let's just say she won't be any more trouble.Standby... er Beta Section." Christian called to Reb; "How does space look ahead?"

"The intense ionisation we've been passing through begins to dissipate about ten minutes from here at maximum impulse," he nearly smiled, but held it back for some reason. "Clearer space exists beyond that."

"We are in what we call 'hash' space, Captain," Ganhedra called over from the distant corridor. "Beyond Qovakian space, but not quite in any other state.There are several routes further away from the K'Tani that we may take from here." The old man with thick, leathery antennae moved away from his group of people and came to stand beside the helm station.

"Unfortunately we're none of us going far at the moment.We first need to find somewhere local to dock and make repairs," the Captain called down to the alien leader."We also need fuel - plus food, medicine and other supplies.Is there a friendly race who might help us anywhere hereabouts?"

The old man bowed a deep nod. "Not a friendly race as such, but there is Erowoon, a merchant trader station in a corridor of neutral space, about seven or ten hours at warp speed from here, give or take. It's a port of call between Qovakia and several other races.Though I warn you that the station mostly extorts its visitors for profit, so we would need a good deal of collateral just for the privilege of docking there," the Helan had anticipated the Captain's request and began to show Reb its approximate location on the navigation planning controls.

"I'm not worried about the money, Sir," Christian smiled, much to Ganhedra's horror.

"You should be, Captain. Although the station provides a full range of maintenance and repair services, they charge way over the odds. The more shrewd visitors opt to make use instead of one of the many private shipping companies, shipwrights or scrappers who use the station as a base from which to drum up business," the old man said.He spread his fingers and clenched them tightly together."There are a good few dozen such installations in these parts. Most know they can undercut the station's prices by more than a third, so I recommend we merely make an overnight stop to find an independent dry dock supplier, take on fuel and supplies, and then continue our journey on to the private dock."

"Mister Lirik, I take it you have warp capability?" Christian glanced up at Jackson and followed her gaze toward the Helan group gathered on the lower part of the bridge behind Ganhedra, whispering softly amongst themselves. He had also observed them in such a way more than a few times since coming aboard - there was just something not quite right about them...

"Yes, sir, all flight systems appear to be fully operational," Lirik said, "However, if Ganhedra's estimation is correct, we'd run out of fuel before we even got half way."

Ganhedra suddenly turned from his location next to the helm and looked up at the ship's commander. "Actually, I recommend we take only the Command Yacht on to the station anyway, Captain."

"Oh? Why is that?"Christian noticed the rest of the Helan slowly leaving the Bridge.

"As I mentioned the station is located in neutral territory that is merely a thin, winding corridor between a number of states beyond the border of Qovakia. While they do not have much of an opinion about who they trade with, I suspect that with the recent K'Tani invasion of Qovakia, they will not be exactly welcoming to potential refugees or asylum seekers," Ganhedra fluffed the cuffs of his jacket slightly."The Yacht is more or less in good working order and would pass as a passenger or cargo transport of sorts.But with so many people aboard, it's possible they would regard the Beta Section as an escape vehicle, a casualty of the invasion, and most likely refuse docking rights," he had a strange, almost cruel glint in his eyes as he spoke - as if he were proud to be conveying such gloomy information.

"We would have to find somewhere to hide the Beta Section, then..." Christian gazed off deep in thought.

"How can we be sure Erowoon hasn't also been invaded, or at least infiltrated by the K'Tani?" Jackson felt concerned; walking into a trap would end in certain defeat.

"I would doubt it," the old Helan scoffed."The local population don't exactly like the K'Tani.During their last occupation the K'Tani constantly intercepted any traffic going to or returning from the station that passed too close to its own Qovakian border patrols.."Needless to say the station's shareholders didn't appreciate such interference, let alone the friends and relatives of those who perished in such incidents."

"Then surely that's a good enough reason for us to steer well clear...?" Jackson deterred.

Ganhedra shook his head. "I think perhaps the K'Tani are still too busy securing Qovakia and picking off any potential hostiles for them to be interested in the station.At least for a few months yet, anyway."

Jackson flinched at Ganhedra's matter of fact assessment.She still couldn't decide if he was telling them everything. His eccentricities didn't help to sharpen the picture, either.

"Well judging by recent experiences, the K'Tani seem pretty interested enough in this ship for some reason," Christian admitted."We can only assume that they will resume their search for it at some point. Perhaps the Commodore is right. Is there not another station we could go to? Somewhere less conspicuous? Maybe go directly to one of these private dry docks you mentioned?"

"The next nearest station is at least 15 days hence from here, and controlled by one of the most ruthless extended families in the sector," the old man said. "I wouldn't recommend it for repairs, either, it would be a long, drawn out and botched job at best.As for making independent contact with freeporters, well it's just not done. Not if you value your life and property.Since the last occupation, anyone living on an isolated homestead has learned to shoot first and ask questions later.No, Erowoon is the only place to guarantee meeting someone who is legit."

"Then we have a difficult choice to make," Christian said, fixing his eyes on Jackson. "I've been thinking it for a while now, but we could ditch the Beta Section and continue as we are in the Yacht."

"It makes sense to me," Jackson swiftly agreed - she had always instinctively felt the whole ship was too big for them to manage.The Passenger Section seemed like a dead appendage they were lugging around for no reason. And with the spider creatures on the loose, it was even more reason to be ditched.

"Captain," Narli interjected, "if we're ever to hope to rescue our friends or take on more survivors, then we would need a large enough ship to accommodate them."

"Er, excuse me Ambassador, but we haven't even decided on a clear course of action, yet," Jackson interjected.

"We haven't even begun to explore the vessel in detail," Warnerburg added, "As you said, the K'Tani appear to want it back for some reason.We know it contains a lot of inventory intended for the Federation Archive planet - it could hold some valuable assets for our particular needs."

"Also, sir," Lirik piped up from across the speakers, "its unique configuration of interdependent and multi-redundant systems and especially the cloaking substance it's covered in are all a distinct tactical advantage."Souveson shot him a glare at that remark - she felt it was her duty to point out such facts, not his, and once again she'd been pipped at the post.

Christian nodded to his bridge crew, smiling about one such valuable asset he'd stumbled across. "My thoughts exactly." He turned to Jackson. "So we'll keep hold of the whole ship for now then.Commodore, perhaps we should take our chances with these people of Erowoon."

"In my opinion, Captain, the station is only interested in turning a tidy profit," Ganhedra added. "I do not believe we would be in any danger."

"I'm still uneasy," Jackson bit her lip."Isn't it too risky putting our trust in such total strangers?We've so much to lose.And virtually nothing to trade with.What if there's another one like that android girl aboard the station?"

'Android girl?' Lirik thought to himself, surprised but understanding a moment later.

"As I said, don't worry about the money," despite being annoyed at her giving something away across the comm channel, Christian couldn't restrain a grin - a little too widely for Jackson's comfort."The fact is we need supplies, and we need them quickly.And who knows, as well as finding a repair contractor we may also gather information on the fate of our comrades.Perhaps even make some allies in the process."

On the bridge of the Command Section, Ensign Souveson couldn't contain herself any longer. "Captain, as your Tactical Officer I recommend we at least assess the risks further before making a final decision. Going to the station in the Command Yacht is dangerous enough, but leaving the Beta Section unprotected-"

"Thank you Ensign," Christian smiled an almost paternal expression to Jackson. "But I've made my decision. Reb, find a safe place to park the Beta Section and lead it there - be sure no one will find it, even if they brush past her.Mr Lirik, once you're safely parked come get me and the other section leaders in the runabout, I want to assess the damage for myself and take a look at the Passenger Section's engineering deck.In the meantime, Ambassador, please would you get together a must-have list of supplies we need.I'll be below with the Commodore."

Narli nodded, though Reb seemed a little annoyed by something.Jackson raised a massaging hand to her brow in disbelief at their fate.

The Captain patted her cheekily on the thigh."Relax, Commodore, we'll be fine.I feel sure of it," Christian smiled."Come with me and I'll show you why."

EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT 1

Christian led Jackson into the Captain's office below and behind the bridge and secured the doors after them. The Commodore raised an eyebrow, intrigued at such caution. Stepping over to the large map table he spread his hands wide, much like he had done less than an hour before, and hung his head, taking a deep breath and an opportunity to relax. "Do you believe that there's a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow?"

Jackson stood across the table from him, studying his mousy brown, matted head of hair while waiting expectantly. Closing his eyes, Christian reminded himself of what he was - a Starfleet Captain, and new to the full-time position, despite his experience as a command officer while serving as XO on a very demanding ship. Now, because of the situation they'd been thrown into, everyone on board the various parts of the Fantasy was depending upon him, and he had to keep a clear head above all others. Even Jackson.

The Commodore felt slightly irritated that he was keeping her in suspense for so long. "Well?" she prompted, a little too brusquely.

Opening his eyes, Christian caught his reflection in the glass surface of the table. Bearded, bedraggled, with dark lines under his eyes and all facial shadows cast deeper by the single light from the desk lamp, Christian pointed into the shadows beneath the glass top. Jackson leant over, her new glasses affording her a highly detailed view of a mechanism of some kind underneath.

"What is it?" she couldn't identify any familiar parts.

"It's strange, but I hadn't paid much attention to this, about the biggest piece of furniture in the office," the Captain crouched low and studied the decorative carved side panels of the table.

Jackson followed suit, her knees clicking in the process. The table, about one and a half metres square, was encased in solid dark wood, each intricate panel a stylised image of sea legend: mermaids, monsters, fishes, sea ferns and myriad shells and pebbles.

"You'd expect a map table such as this to have either drawers with maps stored flat inside, or to provide some kind of interactive holographic program," the Captain explained. "I'm sure there is some kind of technology for creating star charts here, but when I was studying the table earlier all I could see were these carved scenes. However, further investigation found that when touched in a certain way," he touched a mermaid's tail and that side of the table split open, causing Jackson to gasp. He continued: "the decorative panels around the table popped open to reveal small, concealed lockers of varying shapes and depths."

Christian reached inside and pulled out a number of items, placing them on the table. "Though most were empty, one narrow, deep locker contained old rolled up 2-D maps of unknown localities of space and miscellaneous antique naval charts. Another revealed a woman's earring of the gaudy, dangly variety - perhaps mislaid during an errant encounter with a previous ship's Captain," Christian grinned mischievously, holding up the object. Its diamond encrusted silver strands hung from a large single ruby heart, the facets twinkling shades of rose pink and deep red in the light.

"Really," the Commodore was secretly intrigued by his romantic suggestion, but didn't want to admit it. "Is it worth much, then?"

He ignored the crack. "So at first there seemed no indication of the mechanism itself," Christian walked around the table. "However, on the third side of the table, there was only this one large, glorious panel depicting an old triple rigged ship braving a rough sea. By caressing the rigging and waves and running my hand along the surface just so, this panel also split in two to reveal..."

Christian 'flicked' the relevant switch, causing the side of the table to pop open and the Commodore to flinch with expectation. She peered inside. The dark interior glowed with several coloured lights that brightened to full intensity as an octagonal console cranked its way forward. There was seemingly no logic to the elaborate, outdated console's design, but she was sure this was the holo-technology that Christian had made inference to.

"It's a technology I hadn't seen before. So I was about to withdraw, leave my investigations till later, until I noticed a single switch housed discretely in the lid of the cubby-hole," Christian pointed to the small barely noticeable key. "It's positioned as if it could be activated in secret from a standing position by reaching underneath the opened unit, so ...I did."

Christian stood and reached under just so, Jackson following suit. He felt along the underside of the open unit until his finger contacted the soft clicking button. As it did, across the room in front of them a small section of the wall adjacent to the office's angled entrance shunted inward with an inviting hiss. The crack of darkness gave way to flickering lights, and increased to brighten what looked like a hidden passageway beyond.

"My, my," Jackson was pleasantly surprised, beginning to guess what was coming next. "So, yet another hiding place," Jackson walked up to the thin entrance and felt the warmth of the bright lights beyond.

"'Another' hiding place? What do you mean by that?" Christian paused.

"Over the past couple of days since leaving Ere space the search parties investigating the Command Section have found similar hidden closets and secret cubby holes on several decks of the Command Section," Jackson said. "What with that and your 'hidden deck' it seems the culture of this passenger liner was at one time a web of intrigue and deception - something the refitters clearly wanted to retain." She watched Christian pull a surprised 'is that so' kind of face.

"It's all in Yeoman Lirik's reports, Sir," Jackson nodded over to the desk indicating the padds that Christian hadn't yet read. "So far only empty spaces and a few non-valuable oddments have been found."

"So anyway, at first I couldn't think where this lead," Christian said, returning her abruptly to his own story, and then heaved the wall further inward.

It was almost a squeeze for the Captain to side-step into the bright interior of the narrow corridor beyond. The deck, walls and ceiling were all sprayed a brilliant white glossy finish, though there seemed little air conditioning within. Jackson had a much harder job squeezing her way in, but once huddled together inside they slowly made their short but cosy journey a few steps forward, then a few sharp right. The passage then ended abruptly with a conventional doorway on the left.

Christian cast a short look over his shoulder at his senior and, pleased at seeing her anticipation, grasped the handle, twisted it and pushed. Opening inward, more lights flickered into life in the space beyond, but this time an amazing, multi-coloured panacea was revealed.

Christian muttered to himself as they stepped carefully inside the larger but cluttered interior. Jackson whistled in awe.

The entire room was crammed full of treasure. All around the walls and stacked on the floor were paintings, elegant statues, masks, and ornate boxes overflowing with gilded, gem encrusted precious items. Guns, ceremonial swords, head dresses, elaborate phaser devices and orbs of infinite colours were on display behind glass or in open, silk-lined chests. Small velvet lined cases and tiny highly decorated nik-nak boxes cosseted swathes of jewellery comprised of rare metals and thousands of many faceted stones - rings, bracelets, belts, necklaces, earrings and keepsakes. Yards and yards of bright silks smothered piles of fur and tight, well-bound leather goods.

"I felt like searching for an overflowing treasure chest of gold deblumes, perhaps with a cutlass sticking out, but there wasn't one," he beamed.

"There could well be one buried in here somewhere, it would look right at home," the Commodore smiled back. She pottered about noting several objects - an art nuveau style blue enamelled trinket box lined with platinum, a seven tiered ocracite necklace decorated with hundreds of filaments of swirling liquid gold and a pair of Zebo fur trimmed irlikay-silk gloves embroidered with silver thread and tiny baguettes of moon crystal.

"See those cases over there?" Christian nodded toward ten or so square shaped cases of Ferengi origin stacked in a far corner. Jackson, wide-eyed, read the alien writing with ease and knew immediately what they were.

"...Latinum Cases?" she gawped.

"Full to the brim," he said.

"That's .. my God, that's got to be about a million bars of gold-pressed latinum in total," Jackson was flabbergasted, but also relieved that latinum and other precious metals and stones were just as acceptable as tender in the Outer Zone as they were back in the Federation.

"What a stash, eh?" Christian commented again in a sense of self-satisfaction, lifting several alien works of abstract art and turning them over. "It must be the Captain's trophy room - civilian Captains have been renowned as collectors of great treasures for centuries."

The Commodore suddenly stood bolt upright. "Hang on. You've checked this isn't a hologram, I take it?"

Christian took a tricorder out of his pocket and tossed it to her. She picked up the nearest item of jewellery she could find - a single opal surrounded by diamonds strung on lace fretwork necklace of gold.

"I'm impressed," she smiled at the composite readings.

"With any luck, we'll have more than enough to see us through any supplies and repairs we need for quite some time," the Captain said, picking over a pile of neat tapestries.

"Not a bad wine cellar here either, Captain," Jackson peered longingly at the dusty labels of vintage varieties, interested in making more finds.

"I'm amazed someone would have left it all here like this, aren't you?" Christian commented, handling a pistol of ancient alien origin.

"Maybe they didn't get the chance to take it with them," the Commodore slapped her hands free of dust and began making a full audit with the tricorder.

RUNABOUT HUDSON APPROACHING BETA SECTION: 1239 HOURS

The runabout Hudson glided smoothly into the main shuttlebay of the Command Section, its landing so soft that Captain Christian barely awoke from his seated slumber before Commander Struckchev boarded and came aft. The Captain had been feeling exhausted ever since their encounter with the K'Tani employed android Pim and their narrow escape from K'Tani clutches, but he had refused to take any rest until they were reunited with the others - this short trip had been his first chance to get some shut eye.

"Sir," said the huge Kosovan in his best English. "Lieutenant Commander Leonard has asked to see you right away."

Christian cracked a tired smile, holding on to the same padd he had grabbed before leaving the Yacht, not that he had read a word of it. "And in which engineering section would he be, Commander?" he quipped. "There seem to be so many aboard this crazy ship."

"Actually, Sir, he's in triage," Struckchev displayed no emotion, hardened military type that he was. "He's not hurt himself, but it sounded like bad news."

"Great," Christian sighed, deflated. Currently, the awkward German engineer should have been in the Passenger Section, armpit deep checking over the warp drive systems as a matter of urgency.

Having decided to take the Yacht to Erowoon, the Alpha and Beta sections of the Fantasy had limped further away from the asteroid fields and the EM rich environment that had hindered their progress so badly in order to find a safe hiding place. A short jump at warp took them into a rough, little travelled patch of space, pitted with nasty lumps of dark matter and several ferocious strands of ancient, dissipating nebulae. The Passenger's warp drive had then started to play up - apparently the engine 'liked' to run on a fuller tank, so the German engineer had explained flippantly.

Finally, they had found what they'd been looking for - a relatively small, dense, dalmation nebula in which to hide the Beta Section and take stock. As with other dalmation nebulae, the problem was that instead of a large expanse of gas, there were instead many clumps of gasses packed closely together, thus leaving narrow corridors of open space between them.

It took a while to find one large enough to contain the Beta Section, and sadly Professor Karnak's initial assessment of the gasses concluded they were mildly corrosive with unpredictable em activity - that would put them on a time limit and risk further damage to the ship. But it was the closest anomaly to sufficiently hide them.

Christian had then signalled the Yeoman to bring the Hudson over to collect Jackson, Struckchev, Narli and most of the Helen, asking his Exec to assess the situation ahead of him and have each Section Leader prepare a succinct report for his reading en route to Erowoon.

The Captain meanwhile wanted some time to catch up on Lirik's previous reports and 'freshen up'. He requested Lirik to come back to the Yacht in one hour to bring him over for an inspection and a short briefing before the Yacht departed for the space station. However, in an unprecedented act of arrogance and belying all common Starfleet practices, Lirik had ignored the Captain's order and instead sent Yip in his place. A cadet, no less!

Christian shook his head, returning to the present. Yip, Christian and Struckchev exited the otherwise empty shuttle bay, bathed in the yellowy cream light from the gasses beyond the containment field, and walked with heavy echoes across the short corridor and toward the turbolift opposite.

The lights were on power-save, a dim, orange glow that faded further once a section became unoccupied. Bulkheads were sealed across main corridors to restrict life support to essential areas - at the same time protecting against any errant arachnids. Energy was being preserved in every way possible to supplement the ship's defence fields currently protecting them from their dangerous hiding place.

As they travelled in the turbolift, Christian noticed Yip occasionally glancing at the Commander, a strange look of concern, anger and disappointment on her face. The Kosovan kept his chin up, his eyes forward, ignoring her. In the Captain's opinion, despite having been cooped up in the gaggle of otherwise empty escape pods for several days, the Cadet and the Commander didn't seem particularly close. If anything, they seemed estranged - almost as if something fateful had happened. Normally such a dire situation would bring people closer together, but the demise of the USS Pappillon had instead seemed to drive a wedge between them.

"Has the Professor given you her full assessment of the nebula cloud?" the Kosovan asked, disturbing Christian's train of thought.

The Captain looked up into the big-jawed swarthy face - hair erupting over much of his cheeks, jaw and neck, giving him the look of an ancient Earth pirate. "Not yet. But I'm betting no K'Tani worth his salt would think of entering such a corrosive maze of a gas cloud unless they were absolutely sure we were here," he said.

"How long have we got before the nebula gasses start to affect us, Sir?" Yip asked - despite her own loss, she was still a regular little cadet, keen to learn, eager to please and always trying to join in whenever possible.

"The nature of the nebula's make up means some people are naturally affected from the outset. But the ship's hull and systems should be protected for as long as our defensive fields can hold out," Struckchev replied. It sounded as if the Commander was just going through the motions of making conversation, Christian could tell from his tone of voice - either that, or he truly was divorced from his feelings right now, and just playing the part of an attentive staff officer.

Christian admitted to himself that that could be a pitifully short amount of time in which his group would have to accomplish their mission on the station.

The turbolift doors parted and the Captain made his journey once again through the winding corridors to the former luxury beauty spa. Unlike the last time, however, it was pitch black along several corridor sections where only thin strips of fibre-optic red lights in the carpet guided the way. His heartbeat increased as he thought of the spider - or spiders - on the loose, and only calmed when he remembered the huge Commander was several paces behind.

Upon arrival he saw that the multi-levelled area was once again full of the survivors. They looked less miserable than the last time he'd seen them, and some groups even nodded or smiled an acknowledgement as he walked past, genuinely pleased to see him. One or two patted him on the back, for some strange reason. Christian shook his head - this was no way for anyone to live, especially the children. Once the arachnids were dealt with, he decided, the survivors should be allocated quarters to at least give them back some shred of decency; this ship was one big floating hotel complex after all.

The Captain noticed that some people laying down on make-shift guerneys were clearly suffering from a host of minor injuries caused by the violent separation, and others sensitive to the mild radiation in the nebula were being treated for general sickness.

Behind the familiar, ominous plastic curtains ahead, Christian could see shapes slowly moving around. Who was it this time? Heart beating slightly faster, the Captain stepped through the curtain - he had no idea what to expect. There was Leonard, O'Hara and her medical team, all surrounding a groaning teenage girl, writhing on a treatment bed, her clothes ripped in slashes across her bloody mess of a stomach.

"What happened?" Christian asked slightly aghast.

"Would you believe, scratched by a spider?" O'Hara said quietly, damping the wounds and using what looked like a needle and thread to tie the ripped flesh together as Wheezy held her firmly down. "And we're talking a big mother here, by all accounts."

The Captain's face went ashen. "Where there's one, there's more..." he murmured.

"What?" Leonard briefly glanced at him, otherwise transfixed by the blood and gore.

"Something Souveson said," he explained. "Will she be okay?"

O'Hara cocked her head as like a twitch, her eyes intent upon her work. "Ordinarily I would say yes," she paused while she held the twine taught as Sister Matthew tied off and quarterised the end - one down, six to go. "But with such a lack of medical equipment and medicine, I can't be certain. What I wouldn't give for a dermal regenerator right now. But more than that I'm worried about infection - this ship is far from a sterile environment."

For once, the Captain heard a softer, more vulnerable approach from O'Hara.

"How did it happen? Where..?" Christian asked.

Leonard answered. "Some kind of Planatology Study Lab, by all accounts. Perhaps a Stellar Cartography facility, or this ship's equivalent. Some of the children managed to sneak away from their guardians and go exploring in the upper decks of the Passenger Section."

Christian scowled and looked around, eager to find someone to blame - the thought came in a flash. "Damn that diplomat! I told him to keep everyone away from unexplored areas!" Christian had personally put Lirik in charge of the civilians in the last few minutes before their fateful ship separation.

"I won't say I told you so, because I didn't. But it was bound to happen, sooner or later," O'Hara muttered. "Kids will be kids, after all, Captain, and we can't put everyone under lock and key just to keep them safe."

The Captain shook his head. "I'm not having this. We've got too many other things to deal with."

"What..??" O'Hara scowled, misunderstanding.

"Are you suggesting a bug hunt, Captain?" Leonard asked, thinking once again of his old friend Winston Winston's passion for old 'sci-fi' movies. "I've already brought everyone out of the Passenger Section, sealed it off, and re-routed engineering control to the Command Section's emergency bridge. Ensign Souveson's got several ideas for a way to track the creature down."

"If only it were that simple," Christian retorted. "When the Yacht was separated from the rest of the ship I was trapped on a deck with another such spider."

"Jesus, there are more?!" O'Hara looked the Captain in the eyes, wondering briefly how he'd managed to survive said encounter.

Struckchev chipped in for the first time, his comment ominous. "They could be anywhere on the ship - we're still blind to most of it with internal sensors off-line."

"It's an infestation, all right," Yeoman Lirik appeared through the curtain, closely followed by Souveson.

"Mister Lirik, I told you to look after the civilians! Not get them killed!" Christian angrily gestured to the prone, now unconscious girl. "Explain yerself."

Lirik straightened, sensing the same animosity the Captain had shown to him on previous occasions, and a sinking feeling gripped his belly. This was all so unfair, but he would be damned if he'd let the Captain treat him this way again in front of others. Yet he hesitated - this was hardly the right time or place for a showdown. Before he could decide either way, Souveson stepped between them.

"We've spoken to the girl's friends. They were told several times not to go beyond the safety of the beauty spa - once by Yeoman Lirik himself," the Canadian nodded to the prone girl, "but this one was determined, it seems. She must be something of a thief or would-be engineer as well, Sir, easily bypassing security locks to make it onto the Passenger Section undetected."

Christian shook his head, more trying to think of another way to pin the blame on the Yeoman. "But, why..?"

"You may as well ask her yourself, when she's better," O'Hara clipped. "But not now, okay? Now could we have some space here, this is a triage not a debriefing room."

The extraneous officers quickly made their way beyond the curtain, where three young teenage girls were anxiously waiting.

"Will she be okay, Captain?" the smallest one, a Kelvanite, asked tearfully.

"We hope so," Christian smiled. "Just let this be a lesson to listen to the crew when they tell you to do - or not do - something in future."

"Yes, Sir," a well-spoken English girl, the eldest of the group, responded politely. "It won't happen again."

They turned to leave, but Lirik stopped them. "Sir," he pushed the last girl who had spoken forward and stepped back, allowing her the space to speak for herself. "Go on," he prompted kindly. "Tell him what you told me."

"We saw lots of small planets," she explained. "Thousands. They covered the floor and went up in piles around the walls."

Christian and Struckchev didn't understand - the girls had probably seen globes, artistic, scale representations of many planets, probably also bound for the Federation Archive, no doubt.

"And were these planets all different?" Lirik teased the information further.

"No, they were all the same - a kind of veiny, bluey black metallic colour," she said.

Lirik nodded to the Captain. "Eggs," he whispered. "Thousands."

EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT II

COMMAND YACHT: 1410 HOURS

"Commodore Sarah Louise Jackson, personal log. This is the first opportunity I have had to make a log entry since the K'Tani Invasion of Qovakia on Christmas Eve. For information of our situation up to date, I refer to the Captain's recent log entries and those of the other appointed Heads," Jackson walked around the Officers' Mess on Deck One of the Command Yacht, watching her shadow undulate across the highly polished dark wooden table.

"Against my better judgement, the Captain has elected to take the Yacht to a potentially hostile, but apparently neutral, space station. Myself, Ganhedra, most of the section leaders and a small crew will assist him, taking on supplies, fuel and hopefully making contact with a dry dock facilitator who will be able to help us repair the Fantasy.

Meanwhile the Beta Section will remain hidden within a dalmation nebula under the command of Mister Struckchev. Lirik will assist him and see to the safety of the survivors. If possible, they will find a way of supplementing their power supply until our return. But they will mainly concentrate on tracking and neutralising the infestation of spider creatures - a task I don't envy. Other than that, their orders are to stay put and wait for our return."

The intercomm whistled. "Commodore Jackson, you are due for a meeting with the Captain in five minutes," the prissy almost elderly female voice informed her.

Jackson smiled - she had found the computerised office assistant program easy to set in a spare 10 minutes, and hoped that once the entire computer network was up and running and people were into a routine, everyone could make use of the system.

COMMAND YACHT: 1410 HOURS

"Captain's Log, Stardate ...note to Yeoman Lirik, please insert correct stardate to this log. End of note. It has now been 17 days since the K'Tani invasion of Qovakia and this log is well overdue.

"I have returned from my whistle-stop inspection of the Beta Section and had my first open meeting with the interim Section Leaders there. In summary, while the amount of pressing tasks at first appears insurmountable, all things considered my newly formed command crew is doing extremely well under the circumstances.

"Engineer Leonard has got everything ticking over on the Beta Section, though he has his work cut out for him. I thank God for Cally Warnerburg - she's more than coped with her own engineering challenges aboard the Yacht while he got things straight over there. I've decided to leave Warnerburg in charge of engineering on the Beta Section while Commander Leonard accompanies me to the station.

"Commodore Jackson, former commander of Starfleet's Outer Zone Regional HQ on Vekaria, is also proving invaluable. Despite her seniority over me, she has agreed to work as my executive officer in all ship-related functions. Thankfully, her rapid learning ability is coming in useful as she brings herself up to speed with the disciplines of ship command. But it's tough on the old bird...computer, delete the last sentence. But it's tough on her, she wasn't the fit, young woman she once was, and I fear that decades driving a desk may have dulled her instincts somewhat. I'm sure they will return, but it will take some effort on her part. If the truth be known, I think she thinks I'm a little headstrong. In fact, I would never have considered myself the gung ho type before now, but in Jackson's cautious, by-the-book presence, it sure can feel that way.

"Commander Struckchev, XO of the USS Papillon will be extremely useful in filling the gap of skilled, disciplined senior staff on board the Fantasy. He's forthright, sharp, and his rank sets him apart from most of his peers, although I am slightly concerned about how he's dealing with the destruction of his ship and the loss of all his shipmates. On face value, his abilities as a first officer would have made him ideal to become my own number one, but I have to bow to Commodore Jackson's greater experience and aptitude for the enormous task ahead. In this short space of time I have come to rely on her confidence and her ability to make me see all the aspects, despite her lack of hours in the centre seat.

"With no more critical injuries to attend to, my field-appointed CMO, Lieutenant O'Hara, not to be known as nurse - computer, delete all after O'Hara. Has turned her attention to the psychological scars, bereavement and shock among the survivors. Having gathered a skilled team of volunteer medics to support her, she's now focusing on potential counsellors and other specialists. Despite this keeping her very busy, she continues to press me each day to urgently bring the Passenger Section's medical facility on line - something I can't do until our mission to the Station is completed. On this matter, she's also made a pretty good attempt at giving me an ultimatum about the procurement of medicines and vital equipment there. It was quite a piece of writing - if we ever get back, I'm inclined to submit it anonymously to the Unofficial Starfleet Report Of The Year Award as a work of a nut-crunching genius.

"With the help of these and other Starfleet and Federation colleagues I have managed to form a makeshift crew of sorts. At last count, 205 of the 496 civilians have volunteered to help, though most of them are currently incapable of all but the most routine maintenance tasks. They all require extensive training, but as we few don't have the time, we're hoping to give them crammer courses using the vast amount of holo-technology on board, hoping they'll also learn on the job. But of course that cannot happen either until power is fully restored to the Fantasy. This has an obvious impact on our repair schedule made worse by lack of proper repair equipment, not to mention the arachnid infestation.

"The civilians not volunteering to help have been passed over to the care of Starfleet Diplomatic Corpsman, Lirik, although at the moment that merely means keeping them together in one place out of harm's way.

"Note for Personal Log: I find Lirik to be arrogant and not a team player, which I believe makes him dangerous as part of the command structure. The Commodore vehemently disagrees with me. She likes and trusts him and although she doesn't say it out loud, she believes that my dislike of him has more to do with his Medusan heritage than it does his personality or ability. I have to admit that, despite his apparent insubordination, a trait he clearly learned in the Diplomatic Corps, he has proved himself to this crew on more than several occasions. End of personal note.

"I've also instructed Mister Lirik to supervise the search parties exploring the ship for the spiders - they are making a thorough inventory noting curiosities and potential hazards along the way. On a ship like this, that's some tall order, especially with so many nooks and crannies, not to mention the enormous amount of unusual artefacts still in their thousands of packing crates all over the ship labelled for the Starfleet and Federation Archive.

"It became obvious during our recent encounter with the android Pim that there are also some decks which are cleverly disguised and that were presumably off limits to all but a select number of crew when the ship was last in service. They don't appear to have been added by any of the refitters. Unfortunately we haven't been able to regain access to the deck I was on, even after gaining more computer control, so that's yet another mystery to solve later. And then there are the dead Vekarians we found in the turbolift when we first came on board - but that really will have to wait I fear for some time.

"In addition to these other duties, Yeoman Lirik is also helping the Commodore and myself with the strategic administration of the ship. Hopefully all that work will keep him more than occupied and right where I can keep an eye on him."

The door chime sounded. Christian pressed the release button and the door slid aside to reveal Commodore Jackson.

"Good afternoon, Sir," she said - he thought with a touch of sarcasm.

"And to you too," he smiled diplomatically as she entered and sat in the wing-backed leather chair opposite him.

"Here are the latest updates from all senior staff," she said, passing him a padd. Christian dutifully scrolled down but the first he came to was O'Hara's and, noticing the use of pleading diatribe in the first paragraph, he cast it aside, deciding to leave that displeasure until later.

"I was just in the middle of doing my own catch-up log," he said.

"Oh," Jackson was about to get up to leave, but he stopped her.

"It's okay, I'll have time to finish it on the way to Erowoon," he ran his hands through his hair and flopped back into his seat, causing it to squeak on the axis. "I would kill for a decent meal. If I see another plate of Husup rolls and Kreploaf I think I'll go completely mad."

Jackson smiled. "According to the idiosyncratic protocols of starship command I've been swatting, that's the wrong attitude for a Captain to display to his crew in this type of situation."

"So arrest me and throw me in the brig," he said trying the humour, but finding it just as sour as the repetitive breakfasts. "Wherever that is."

"Deck 8. And it's out of commission," Jackson cocked a smile back at him.

"Well, you really have been swatting a little more than me," the Captain half-grinned. "Is Struckchev ready aboard the Beta Section?" Christian scratched his thigh - his unreplicated clothes were beginning to cause his skin to rash. He wondered if he could sneak aboard the Hudson and use the replicator to change that - he was the Captain, after all.

Jackson lowered her head, then looked up at him through disturbed eyes. "Has been for the last hour or so by his reckoning. Though from what I've heard on the grapevine... he's got his bridge team wound up so tight they could probably work at warp speed," she wasn't intending to sound down on his leadership ability - she just didn't agree with the Kosovan's hard, detached style given the rawness of their situation.

"The 'grapevine'?" Christian quizzed. "What's that, some sort of idiosyncratic Starship protocol I'm not familiar with?"

"I've heard people griping openly about it," she retorted. "Do you think it's wise to leave the rest of the ship behind under his command? He must still be grieving for his shipmates and I wonder about his state of mind."

"We're all grieving, Commodore," Christian bodyswerved her question and paused for added effect. "Anyway, I've not had any official complaints."

"Of course you haven't," Jackson could sense where the Captain was edging her. "The main complainant wouldn't dream of coming to you at a time like this."

The Captain nodded knowingly. "If you're talking about Lirik then just say so," Christian said deadpan.

Jackson couldn't help but still feel hurt at the Captain's obvious hatred for the Englishman. "Is there any reason why you're playing the Yeoman off against Struckchev?"

"I'm what?!" Christian snorted, mock hurt, mock amused.

Jackson inched forward on her chair. "Look, you want to talk about grief? I lost my husband in a transporter accident. Walked out the house fine one morning with a 'Bye darling, see you later,' never to return. I know how that can affect a person. I was angry. I took it out on the people around me. I know about the fate of your parents. So I am naturally assuming that you're only treating Lirik this way because it makes it easier for you to deal with your loss."

"That's nonsense!" Christian sounded more like a disagreeable son than an argumentative colleague, she thought. He just couldn't seem to help himself from reacting like a child. "I've just put the most qualified man in charge."

"Have you?" Jackson looked him dead in the eye.

Christian shrugged, shaking his head trying to get to grips with his feelings on the subject. "Look, even if you're right, which I don't believe you are, I can't just go giving Lirik a field rank over Struckchev simply because he's had more years in service. It's not in my - or your - jurisdiction. Besides, Struckchev's Starfleet, through and through, he understands how I would want things to work-"

"LIRIK is Starfleet-" the Commodore protested.

"He's Starfleet DIPLOMATIC Corps," the Captain boomed, "there's a big difference." He paused, lowering his voice again. "Look, I've made my decision, I was hoping that you would support me in such matters."

That put her on the spot somewhat. "Well, of course I would, but-" Jackson began.

"Then if Commander Struckchev just happens to be a stickler for detail, well that's just tough," Christian cajoled. "But that certainly doesn't mean he's lost his marbles or that I'm purposefully trying to set up a confrontation. Anyway, if Lirik is the consummate officer you believe him to be, then I'd expect him to be able to cope with the Commander's regime and bow to his - in my opinion - better judgement."

"Okay," Jackson bowed softly. "Play it that way if you want. But understand me, if I need to, I will step in to prevent things from going too far. You're a Captain, dammit, and you cannot allow this emotive reaction to impair your judgement."

Christian's heart was racing. For some reason, he wanted to let off some aggression. "Look, Commodore, if you're so damned concerned about this, why don't you just pull rank and put Lirik in charge?"

Jackson paused - her bluff was being called. Despite her agreement to follow Christian's lead in ship matters, here they were already disagreeing over a command decision. Perhaps the Captain was right - taking command away from Struckchev might do more harm than allowing Lirik to suffer a couple of days' inconvenience under the Commander's orders. "No. No, I've said I'll stick by you and I will."

Silence fell between them and the tension dissipated a little. "Look," Christian conceded. "I'll make a decision on a firm command structure when the time is right, that should take away any misunderstanding between them," Christian bit his index finger nail. "But for now we've got far more important things to focus on. Besides, they're grown men, I'm sure they won't blow up the ship or anything."

"Hah!" Jackson snorted. "They're men. That's enough."

Christian rubbed his temple - he wasn't used to feeling this tense all the time. "Then perhaps forcing them together in this way is just what they need to iron out any ill-feeling."

Jackson folded her arms and peered at the Captain over her spectacles, apparently waiting for him to say something more.

He looked up at her and dropped his jaw. "What?"

"You're just asking for trouble, you know that?" she nodded her head, hoping for a response for him but the Captain just sighed in exasperation.

COMMAND SECTION: 1450 HOURS

On the bridge of the command section, Struckchev sat in the centre chair, leaning back with his legs wide apart. In between reading a defence shield systems analysis from Leonard, he was glancing across at the upturned posterior of the pert Cadet Yip as she made adjustments to the circuitry in the recessed housing behind and below the engineer's station. Although they hadn't spoken at great length since coming aboard the Fantasy, he could still feel a strong attraction to her small but delicately proportioned frame. So engrossed was he in his lurid thoughts about her, he didn't hear the turbolift swish open behind him.

Lirik hesitated beside the Captain's ready room, checking his curvaceous reflection in its observation window - the curved glass made him look taller and slim and he like that. He had ditched his uniform for a set of old-style orange overalls he'd discovered. They were one of many rolled up in a crate that had been found on deck 3, together with junked packaging materials and a few broken, antiquated hand tools and miscellaneous tiny spare parts. Lirik had purposefully chosen the filthiest, most torn of the lot, knowing fully well it would annoy the Commander no end - though it had not been much of a choice seeing as it was the only one large enough to fit him properly.

"Warnerburg has realigned the Command Section's power flow regulators and restored minimum levels to all but a few decks. Environmental systems are back on line," the Yeoman stated, letting his London accent bellow out across the deck. Walking forward to the Operations station he turned and leant on the console to face the burly Russian - who appeared oblivious to his presence. Struckchev suddenly looked up, quickly crossed his legs and slipped the padd down the side of his seat.

Cadet Yip glanced nervously over at Lirik as she sat back down, burying herself in detailed computational analysis in an attempt to try and ignore whatever confrontation was clearly about to take place between the veterans.

"Protocol dictates that you should address me as Commander or Sir when on the bridge, Yeoman," the Commander instructed softly. "We don't want to set the wrong example for the rest of the crew."

Lirik pouted, shaking his head. "If you're going to be a stickler for regulation, then strictly speaking it is you who should be calling me 'Sir'. General Order Absolute Addendum 1: 'Starfleet Diplomatic Corps', and I quote: 'all Starfleet personnel of all ranks bar senior Admiralty, the President and senior Council Members, all civilians and others in employ of Starfleet and related organisations- "

"I know the G.O.A.!" Struckchev's face flushed but rather than have-at-him in front of others he instead propelled himself out of his seat and stormed into the small glass fronted office several paces behind and above.

Lirik stood his ground for a moment, watching the Commander leave before slowly looking up at the window to see the Russian standing inside, glowering, his eyes compelling Lirik to follow him. Lirik was fast learning exactly how to push the Commander's buttons.

As soon as the Yeoman casually strolled across the threshold into the small, cosy office, Struckchev hit the sound-dampening field around the doorframe.

"I'll say this just once. Don't screw with me, Mister, especially not in front of the crew, or you'll live to regret it," Struckchev stepped closer to Lirik, then stopped himself - either because of the peripheral Medusan effect or because he might do something he'd regret.

The brutality of the verbal assault and the aggressive forward motion shocked Lirik, but he hoped that outwardly it didn't show. He hadn't thought of the Commander as medically unstable, but he was concerned at his lack of outward emotion following the demise of his shipmates.

"Okay, let's just cut the crap then...Sir," Lirik adopted a non-aggressive stance, and spoke confidently but with a hint of warmth to ease the tension between them. "You and I don't like each other - for whatever reason, who the hell cares."

"I could name a very obvious one right now," the Commander dropped his eyes repulsed over Lirik's attire.

"But," Lirik continued, "despite our differences we must work together. Because the Captain has left you in command - and I've agreed to obey his orders - I am forced to accept you as leader. I'll even do whatever you instruct me to do. But get one thing straight in your head: don't demand a respect you have yet to earn. Back on the Hudson you displayed to me what kind of a man you truly are and I'll take a lot of convincing otherwise."

'So far so good', Lirik thought to himself. 'You haven't even sworn at him.'

The Commander turned his back on Lirik and returned behind the desk, placing a physical obstacle between them to avoid further temptation to punch the Englishman on the nose.

"Actually, you don't know me at all," he said with some control, casually recalling in his head all the citations and moments of 'glory' in his career. "But you can see I'm wearing the pips of a Commander, and that means I've earned my rank through hard work and the respect of my colleagues."

"I know you've got everyone snapping to attention and fearing you every time you enter a room," the Yeoman said. "That hardly inspires respect."

"Discipline is necessary if we want to become an effective crew," the Kosovan stated.

Lirik continued: "You want to know what I think? You screwed up back on the Papillon, and you feel guilty about it. You feel like you let everyone down who died on board. Now you're over-doing the disciplinarian bit to try and make up for it. Or maybe you're burying yourself so deep in the role that you don't have to deal with your emotions."

"How would you know?!" Struckchev barked. "Discipline certainly appears to have deserted you some time ago."

"On the contrary," the Yeoman squared his shoulders off, not wanting to appear tired of the bickering. "I've served under Starfleet's top brass and fought shoulder to shoulder with Commanders that make your methods seem anarchic. I know plenty about discipline."

Lirik had flashbacks of death and destruction that took place during such times and he suddenly remembered Struckchev's own loss. It struck a deep chord with him. For some reason - probably because he'd felt challenged by the Commander - Lirik hadn't shown much compassion or understanding of the man's feelings, despite his awareness of them. He'd been quick to judge, and now his own antagonism was adding to the problem. He decided to change his approach completely.

"Look, I admit you cannot have earned those pips by being such a hard arse," Lirik almost smiled. "But with a few exceptions these people working out there aren't even Starfleet. Being hard on them will only reflect badly on you."

"I've led crews for a long time now, Yeoman," the Commander seemed to relax slightly following Lirik's different approach. "I thank you for your observations, but I know what works and what doesn't, whatever you may think."

"Then take a little advice, at least," Lirik wondered if there was any getting through to the guy. "Ease up. Cut everyone some slack. And if there's anything I can do to help, just say the word."

For a few moments, Lirik wondered if this was the point when they would become friends and begin to work together. Struckchev sat down, not saying anything, and picked up a padd. Lirik paused and realised he wasn't going to get an answer. Sighing heavily, he turned to leave defeated, when the Commander spoke.

"There is one thing you can do," the Commander waited for Lirik to turn toward him expectantly. "Your attitude towards me in front of the crew isn't helping. If you can show your loyalty and your obedience to me in front of them, it might help inspire confidence in the rest of the crew," he was matter-of-fact, but still acting like a buffoon, Lirik thought.

"And those...those are your orders?" Lirik asked weakly.

"They are," he waited for Lirik to begin to leave and said: "Oh, and one other thing. I want toilet and replication systems functional - make it your next priority," Struckchev said. "Some of those old ladies haven't had a decent squat for a fortnight. Dismissed."

Lirik knew the Commander was doing this on purpose. He may as well have ordered him to clean the toilet bowls with a toothbrush - and Struckchev would probably enjoy that, he thought.

COMMAND YACHT: 2303 HOURS

The Command Yacht made short work of its journey to the station. With each crew member allocated several hours of sleep, most arrived refreshed.

"Mister Narli, put the station on screen," the Captain requested.

"Maximum magnification," Narli informed them.

It was still fairly small on the large viewscreen, but its main details were obvious. Erowoon was unlike any other station any of them had seen before - a massive, relatively thin rectangular platform with huge structures ranging along one long edge of the top, and many more massed together on its entire underside. Around the perimeter of the central platform and across the mostly flat expanse of its top surface, hundreds of ships of varying sizes were docked, several in the process of departing or arriving.

"Open a channel," Christian said nervously. Narli tapped the console.

"Channel open," the blue man straightened, intense upon the screen as the station grew larger.

"This is the Starship Fantasy calling Erowoon Station," Christian said.

The automated response came rapidly, audio only. "Erowoon station acknowledges, go ahead."

Christian composed himself, watching Ganhedra's face to make sure he didn't make a faux pas. "We would like permission to dock."

"For what purpose?" the computerised voice asked.

"We wish to refuel and take on supplies. We also need to find relief crew for the Grania crossing," the Captain glanced over at Ganhedra who nodded his approval. They had decided that Erowoon would be wary of any ship coming from the direction of Vekarian space, even if they weren't apparently refugees. The Grania crossing, it turned out, required additional damage and repair crews for the turbulent journey and such freelancers were to be found aplenty, mostly propped up in the plethora of near-dark bars and pulsating nightclubs of this station.

There was a pause as the computer processed the response, then a humanoid voice was filtered into standard English by the universal translator: "This is Sissador, Station Security Chief. Your heading indicates you have come from Vekarian territories - be advised that following the recent K'Tani coup our station has declared a neutrality to the conflict, and is not open to refugees. We simply do not have the resources-"

The Captain didn't like the sound of this, and quickly cut in. "We're not refugees, we are businessmen. Our vessel was en route from Palladoria to Kreo. We have had to endure the Wibbly Wobbly Way in order to avoid the coup." Ganhedra smiled, pleased that the Captain was remembering all the details of his briefing.

Another pause followed. Then: "Your ship appears to be partially cloaked, be advised we do not allow ships with cloaking technology to come within two thousand kilometres of the station or we will take action. Please drop your cloak and hold your position."

Christian felt deflated, but nodded to Reb who brought the Command Yacht to a standstill.

"Mister Sissador," Christian explained in his gentlest of tones. "Our ship is naturally cloaked at all times. How may we be allowed to dock?"

Yet another pause followed. Then: "Remain stationary while we assess your case. A survey team will join you as soon as one becomes available."

The transmission cut off and Jackson's console tribbled. "Two objects are approaching us. They seem to be probes of some kind."

Ganhedra swept around the back of Christian to look at the readings. "They are verification probes. They will make an external assessment of the ship in advance of the on-board search party."

"This is all very paranoid," Reb said. "How can they ever do any business around here?"

"Erowoon station is an efficiently run enterprise. It is funded mostly by the nearby Warataka State. The station needs to be wary of all strangers, even in peace time. With the K'Tani now revoking the Qovakian Union they have to be especially cautious, particularly to those who speak with voices they don't recognise or come in ships they haven't seen before," Ganhedra scolded the young Helmsman. "However, they do appear to be overrun with vessels currently - they must be turning a tidy profit today. Consequently it may also be some time before they get a team out to us."

Christian turned to Narli. "Can you zoom in on the platform? Let's take a look at those docked vessels."

The viewscreen morphed to show the neat rows of vessels plugged into the side of Erowoon. Some were recognisable as Vekarian, Ganhedra pointed out other Qovakian ships and those of other races he knew. Like a beacon, the viewscreen panned past the back of a Romulan ship, its green surface pitted with several impact marks.

"Oh my!" Jackson exclaimed out loud - she felt foolish of the outburst.

"Doesn't look like they're too fussy about their patrons' origins," Reb stated, then remembered that Murak was sitting at engineering, and felt embarrassed - if a little nervous of the Romulan's reaction.

Christian glanced over at the young man, expecting him to ask the Captain if he could be allowed to rendesvous with his fellow Romulans, or maybe even transfer to their ship. But perhaps because of fear, or perhaps with his new found freedom of sorts, the boy remained silent, head down trying to look busy.

Jackson's console chirped again and her earpiece whistled with local chatter. "I'm picking up some kind of confrontation taking place on the comm network. It's coming from the other side of the station."

"On screen," Christian ordered. To their surprise, the view revealed a Federation runabout, very badly damaged.

"There are...my God, eighty six people on board," Jackson couldn't believe the sensor readings. "Life support is failing, but otherwise the ship is intact."

Narli glanced at Jackson who exchanged his look of concern from what they were hearing. "Things appear to be reaching a head," Narli said and patched the chatter over the bridge speakers.

The channel hissed slightly - some kind of disalignment in the comm array, Christian guessed. "Look, I don't care about your damned rules, we have to dock with you now!" came the mid-Atlantic female voice.

"I say again. That's a negative," came the response. "Without exception, we do not take refugees and our sensors show you are carrying too many lifeforms for a ship of your size. Hear this again: if you travel two hours to the coordinates we know that you have received, you will find a planet-side refugee camp organised by the K'Tani that can provide food and shelter-"

"I've told you twice already, we don't have five minutes of life support, let alone two hours!! For the love of God, let us dock, man!" she was frantic and putting up a hell of a fight.

Christian could see from his own arm-mounted sensor panel that a reverse tractor from three of the station's patrol ships were trying to push the runabout away, but in response she had her impulse engines on three-quarter throttle, matching the resistance perfectly. Structural integrity was beginning to strain, but Christian knew from the life support readings only full well that the runabout had nowhere else to go - they would run out of air in a matter of minutes.

"I'm sorry," came the genuine but emphatic response. "We cannot allow you to dock. Retreat now or we will be forced to take further action."

Christian twisted in his chair, its leather creaking slightly. "Commodore?"

The woman simply nodded.

Christian pressed the all-hail channel. "To the pilot of the runabout," he said, not giving too much away, though clearly identifying himself as someone who knew what a runabout was. "Your life support is failing. In return for... a small fee we will take you on board our ship and deliver you to the refugee camp ourselves. With the station's permission, of course."

"This is Colour Twenty Seven to holding ship..." the lead pilot paused as he checked the preliminary registration via the network, "...Fantasy. Refugees are not allowed on the station, sir."

"I realise that, Colour Twenty Seven," Christian said calmly. "Rest assured we won't let them out of our shuttle bay until we hand them over to the K'Tani."

The channel went quiet for a minute or so. Christian was about to ask to be re-connected when the voice spoke:

"Very well," said the official. "We will escort them to you. But be aware you will be held fully responsible for them."

A moment later, the runabout female's voice spoke again. "I look forward to meeting you, Captain of the Fantasy," but the tone sounded more like 'kiss my arse'.

Christian turned to his crew. "Let's waste no time! Get that shuttle bay open right away."

COMMAND YACHT: 2343 HOURS

Christian stood in the shuttle bay control room with Jackson. Both had phasers set on maximum stun, wide-range, but hoped they wouldn't have to use them. When the Hudson had previously made it's shuttle runs to and from the Beta Section, the crew had discovered the shuttle bay had no passive forcefield mechanism, so each time they had to bring the vessel on board in a vacuum, close the doors and then re-pressurise.

As the new runabout arrival came into view just outside of the ship, Christian saw the word Severn on its battered, blackened side. As its nose pushed further into the bay, he could see the pilot - a rough looking young woman wearing a Starfleet uniform, command department. She was flanked by more than a score of people, and he could easily make out several children on the laps of adults in the other window.

The runabout touched down and immediately they closed the bay doors.

As Christian and Jackson entered the pressurised chamber, the runabout's door quickly opened and Federation civilians poured out, elated, stretching their limbs, breathing the fresher air deeply and running up to Jackson and the Captain, shaking their hands and patting them on the back. Finally, the Starfleet pilot emerged - no pips, so clearly an enlisted crewman.

"I'm Doreen Able," she said, "Crewman Grade Three." She weakly shook the Captain's outstretched hand. "Glad to see we weren't the only ones to escape the K'Tani with our lives."

"Where are your shipmates?" Jackson asked, looking around at all the people wearing civilian clothes.

"There are none," she said. "Our ship, the USS Van Gelder, was destroyed."

"The Van Gelder, she was a Galaxy Class starship," the Commodore recalled meeting the command crew vividly before they set off on a short tour of Vekarian space. Counting the survivors here, that meant a further 1000 at least could be added to the mortality list. "Commanded by Captain McGilligan." Able choked back a tear.

"I'm truly sorry," Christian grasped the woman's wrist sympathetically, reminded of the enormity of the destruction that had taken place throughout the sector. "You did good, crewman."

The comm speakers cut off any further dialogue. "Bridge to Captain Christian," Reb's voice spilled into the deck. "The Erowoon patrol craft is too big for the shuttle bay so wants to dock with us to make the internal inspection."

Christian's brain went into shock - no-one was rehearsed in ship to ship docking procedures for this vessel. "Tell them okay and then have an engineer and someone from security to meet me at airlock ... er ..."

"From the cofiguration of their lateral docking mechanism, I suggest Deck 1, Captain," Leonard's voice cut in.

"Very good, Deck 1 it is."

BETA SECTION/COMMAND SECTION: 2200 HOURS

Lirik entered the secondary bridge for the umpteenth time that day. On this occasion, however, he displayed a look of grim determination, knowing full well the next few minutes would be difficult.

As he passed the Captain's ready room, he noticed its occupant immediately. Given recent events, Lirik wasn't surprised that Commander Struckchev was residing alone in the quiet, plush interior of the small office whilst his crew, such that they were, worked their nuts off elbow deep in consoles and arguing laws of physics in tight little clucks. The glazed look in his eyes made the Russian seem to be staring through the display screen rather than at its surface content.

The Yeoman decided to play it cool, at least for the moment. "Ah-hem," he muttered, watching for the reaction on Struckchev's far-away demeanour.

A heart-beat later, the Commander glanced in his direction, not noticing who it was at first. "Report," he said instinctively.

"We've got limited head facilities on the upper decks of the Command Section and one waste reprocessing unit operational," Lirik read from the padd he held, holding back his outrage at the Commander's latest decision and the reason he was there now. "However, without replication and transporter systems working there's little it can do except store our waste. It's a different situation on decks 20 and below. Some parts of the waste pipe network there are clogged - matter that hasn't been shifted in years, so it's rather a ... big job."

The Commander was oblivious to the humour. Lirik carried on, laughing inwardly at the man's po-faced attitude. "Warnerburg's team have shored up the last of the plasma conduits that were damaged from the yacht separation. Some of them will remain fragile until we can get spare parts, but we can safely re-route power around the most unstable ones for now,"

Lirik stepped over the door-frame. He was amazed how the noise inside the room had no trace of an echo - he thought it was the dampening field, but on closer inspection he realised it was just clever use of sound absorbing materials within the room.

"Good," Struckchev responded weakly. He looked as if he'd been crying, but if he had, the jaw and mouth were now resolute and unwavering. The Commander must have sensed the Yeoman's curiosity at his emotional state for his eyebrows lowered and his stern gaze returned, raising the brutish front against the world once more. "Was there something else?"

"Yes," Lirik spoke immediately and with confidence, stepping deeper into the pin-drop room with his back against the smoked glass window. "Warnerburg tells me you want to put all the civilians in the stand-by shuttle bay while you gut the entire sensor network and tactical systems."

"That's right," the Commander sank into the big chair and picked up a padd, casually checking it - but clearly not absorbing the contents. His attempt at looking nonchalant merely riled Lirik all the more. "They are using up a lot of energy - valuable energy. We can save between 20 and 40 per cent of daily power consumption by keeping them all in one place, and it will also keep them well and truly isolated from the arachnids. I thought even you would appreciate that kindness."

Lirik huffed and shook his head. "Commander, there are hundreds of civilians on board. They can't all stay cooped up in one relatively small space like common prisoners. It could take weeks for this much extensive repair to be finished. Surely it would be better to leave it until we're in drydock?"

"On the contrary," Struckchev tossed the padd noisily to one side as it clattered onto the shiny desk and almost slid off the edge. "Many of the civilians have told me they feel scared of this unsafe ship, frightened of the arachnid infestation, not to mention vulnerable to the K'Tani considering its state of repair and lack of competent crew on board. They'll be pleased to be somewhere relatively spacious and out of harms way. And anyway, I for one don't need people who can't be bothered to help interrupting the work of those that can. And besides, once our sensors and tactical systems are operational they'll feel even safer."

"You're right about one thing - they are scared. Which is why it's important they become at ease with the ship. Maybe they'll even feel guilty seeing the volunteers working all hours and pitch in a hand themselves. Shutting them away is going to make them rely on us even more. They could even become more demanding as a result-" he was cut short by the Commander's hand slapping onto the edge of the desk.

"You've made your point, Lirik," he said. "My orders still stand."

"Permission to speak freely?" Lirik drew himself to his full hight.

"No," the Commander snapped. "Now get the hell out of my office."

Lirik paused for a fraction of a second. He'd have liked nothing more than to lash out at the Russian where he stood, but he found instead his anger was welling up toward Christian and the Commodore. How could they have left such an unstable, unapproachable person in command? Lirik's answer was simple: because the alternative would have been to choose a half-Medusan. The fate of the Captain's parents was still raw, and coupled with his distrust of the diplomatic corps, he would have been the Captain's last choice.

Several retorts popped into his head, but his sensibility turned him on his heel and sent him out of the ready room. He slammed his fist onto the call button for the turbolift, causing the panel to bleep in protest at being manhandled.

Stepping into the elevator he heard running footsteps and an approaching voice coming from the bridge behind him just as the doors were closing. "Hold, please!" the voice was male and young.

Lirik shoved a pinky finger across the doorway, keeping the sliding doors apart and a strawberry blonde big-framed Helan bounded in. It was Fraxon, slightly flush-cheeked, his shirt open to the waist showing off his muscled torso and flecks of golden chest hair.

"Deck 27," the Yeoman stated, dropping his hand. The doors slid closed and Lirik looked expectantly at Fraxon, waiting for his destination. Perhaps they were going to the same level.

"Has something upset you?" Fraxon suddenly asked.

Lirik humphed. "It's nothing."

The alien planted a big fingered hand claw-like around his shoulder, causing his environmental shield to shimmer, and gently squeezed. "Whoever they are, they should be ashamed."

Lirik looked into the younger man's face - despite its boyish appearance, there was more of a masculinity there than he'd remembered. Fresh skin, tousled hair, and bright eyes with a slightly agape full mouth displayed a sexy awkwardness. A firm chin and chiselled jaw supported by a thick, hard neck atop the big frame was firm and comforting.

"Thanks," was all the Englishman could manage with a half smile.

"It's my Penratta tomorrow," Fraxon grinned, stepping around the circular space until he was directly opposite the Yeoman. "Would you do the honour of accompanying me through the ritual tomorrow night?"

"What is penratta?" Lirik asked. He wondered suddenly at the culture of the Helan - they knew so little about these people, even having lived cheek by jowl for the last few weeks. Lirik's first thought was that he wouldn't be available. But he liked Fraxon (mostly, it was true, because he seemed to like him - and more importantly, seemed unaffected by his Medusan energies) and excused himself that it might at least be an opportunity to study the people closer.

"My coming of age," Fraxon said, almost alluringly. "The time for my first seeding cycle."

Lirik wanted to laugh. The alien words as interpreted by the universal translator left a lot to the imagination. "Do I need to do anything to prepare?"

Fraxon smiled innocently, but his eyes displayed a glint of wickedness, the Yeoman thought to himself. "Just try not to over exert yourself beforehand. The ritual can be quite exhausting."

Lirik groaned inwardly. The thought of physical exercise made him want food and bed even more than usual. While he'd shed a few pounds and regained some of his former fitness in the arduous conditions since the coup, he was hardly feeling athletic. Goodness only knew what would happen if the Helan's rights of passage were comparable to the Klingon or Andorian traditions, he thought. "Okay," he said weakly and noticed that Fraxon's body seemed to instantly relax and became content.

EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT III

COMMAND YACHT: 0011 HOURS

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" Murak popped his head cautiously around the door of the Captain's office.

"Come in, Murak," Christian was as cheerful as he could manage. "I suspect you know what this is about."

The Romulan stood at ease in front of the Captain's desk, Christian sat upright with one hand resting on a padd.

"The Romulan vessel," Murak stated. "Have you made contact?"

"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. I expect you wish to join them?" there was no other but a direct approach for Christian on this matter. Murak had been a great asset, but he couldn't force the man to remain aboard.

Murak hesitated. "It is my duty," he said, not really knowing how to express himself.

When the first pictures of the station were displayed on the viewscreen, Murak had immediately recognised the markings of the Romulan ship as being one of the Locharva Squadron, a renowned group of highly skilled tactical fighters that had been assigned to the flagship of the Romulan fleet visiting Qovakia. Its crew was sure to be among the cream of the service, and had a reputation for impeccable loyalty and commitment to duty.

Murak's previous posting had been aboard a diplomatic escort - half the size of a cruiser - and conduct was a good deal more relaxed there under an almost maternal Sub Commander. His reception on this larger vessel was sure to be icy, and life on board was bound to be gruelling.

"You don't sound very sure," the Captain stood and walked over to the entrance to his private quarters. "Please, come with me."

Christian led the curious lad down the narrow, winding corridor that widened out slightly before blending into his quarters.

"Please forgive the mess," the Captain said, "I've only just been able to gain access. Don't worry, I've checked the entire deck for spiders, we're quite safe."

This end of deck two was basically a large, open plan accommodation, almost as big as the observation lounge. The surrounding floor to ceiling slanted windows offered a full-on view of the space station directly ahead and to the left. Murak stared at the panoramic view. Amid a long line of unusual transports in the distance, sat the docked Romulan vessel. Murak then hung back in the shadows, trying to stay out of sight. It was not impossible that someone with a telescopic scanner would be able to see him.

"I thought as much," the Captain commented on Murak's obvious withdrawal from view. "You are concerned, as you should be, that your time spent with us will provoke mistrust, if not suspicion of collaboration with us. I can imagine your treatment could be quite harsh." Christian pulled Murak aside into the shadows, looking into his eyes in the half light. "It doesn't have to be that way. You could choose to stay with us instead."

Murak shook his head. "That would not be right. I appreciate the offer, Captain Christian, but I have to go to them."

The Captain nodded his head. "If you must, then I'll understand," Christian lied. He paused and offered his hand which Murak weakly took. "It's been an honour to have you serving under me, Murak," he said and patted the youngster on the shoulder, guiding him back to the corridor exit. "Once we've docked we'll make contact with the commander of the Romulan ship." The young Romulan nodded.

As the doors were closing behind him, Murak cast a look back at the Captain. His eyes said it all - he would be going under a great deal of duress.

BETA SECTION/COMMAND YACHT: 0700 HOURS

"I've had it with you, Lirik," Struckchev yelled and leapt out of the turbolift into the box room. He noticed there were two doors left and right, and an opening directly ahead. A metre beyond, there was a short flight of steps down, then another metre of deck ending in a thick bulkhead door - Lirik stood his ground beside this. It appeared to be an airlock. Fraxon was here also, holding an overflowing sack of tools beside portly Yeoman. The gentle blonde giant cowered slightly at the Commander's ire, but the Englishman steeled himself against yet another confrontation.

The big Kosovan commander jumped down the stairway and snatched the tools from Fraxon, several clattering to the grilled deck plating, and stuck his face close to the young Helan's. "Get lost."

Fraxon blushed slightly and edged fearfully away up the stairs. He practically spanked the turbolift door open and disappeared behind the closing doors leaving the two alone. As Struckchev turned on Lirik, the Yeoman almost disinterestedly looked over the Commander's shoulder at the lcars indicator pattern, following where Fraxon was taking the turbolift. Deck 42 section 6, deck 41 section 6, deck 40 section 6, pause.

"Now I know you are playing with me, Lirik. Rest assured I know how to screw you back just as good," his accent was becoming a little thicker as his face turned a hot red.

Deck 40 section 7, section 8, pause. Lirik raised an amused eyebrow at the Commander's turn of phrase.

"I told you to supervise the search teams this morning, so what the hell are you doing all the way down here?" the Commander yelled.

Deck 39:8, deck 38:8, deck 37:8, pause.

"Just wanted to spend more time with your little boyfriend, eh?" Struckchev was letting rip, he didn't care about holding anything back now.

Deck 37 section 9, section 10, pause. Pause. No more movement, Lirik observed. Fraxon had debarked at Deck 37, section 10 - right about where the off-limits science labs were located. What was he doing there? He realised his attention had wandered - what was this idiot Commander saying?

"Trust me, Yeoman, I'll be sure to let the Captain know about your gross insubordination," Struckchev spat the last word.

Lirik finally locked eyes with the ... gosh, to the Yeoman Struckchev suddenly seemed devilishly handsome. Was it his passionate, if not undeserving, mood or the fact he looked cleaner and leaner than Lirik had remembered?

"Be my guest. In fact, why don't you tell him about you and Yip and how you got off the Papillon so quickly while you're at it?" Lirik didn't want to enter a slanging match, but in this instance he hoped to calm the Commander down with a few well-placed verbal retorts. "You've got some nerve, Struckchev. Here you are, an experienced officer not too far from your own command, suddenly with some pitiful, misplaced vendetta on me just because of who I am or what I am, or whatever the hell you think it is I did to you. But what the hell does it matter? This situation we're all in is far worse than anything your sick little mind could dream up. Whatever it is, get over it, Commander."

The Russian grinned. "You think you know it all, don't you, Lirik?" Struckchev had adopted a more condescending stance. "What bugs me about you is that you never even made it beyond Yeoman before you gave up Starfleet and took the easier option of the Diplomatic Corps. What the hell makes you think you know more than I do?"

Lirik ignored the jibe against the Corps - a lot of Starfleet personnel felt the same way. If only they knew the true extent of what the Corps did and what its personnel were asked to risk each and every day, then they might have a little more respect. But as was nearly always the case, such matters were usually kept private and confidential, so nobody ever found out.

"Actually we're a part of the same service, you and me, both working to facilitate the ethos of the Federation of Planets," Lirik began to brandish a power stall inducer. "The reality is that you just don't like the fact that I'm more than your equal and that you can't outrank a Diplomatic Corpsman."

"You?!" Struckchev balked. "My equal?"

"More than," Lirik corrected.

"So why didn't Christian leave you in command?" Struckchev asked.

"Because he can't bloody stand me, that's why," Lirik shouted honestly. "That's got nothing to do with my abilities." This was going round in circles and the truth was that Lirik wanted to get on with his current task in hand. "Look, just start acting your rank - no, start acting your age, man and get over me."

Struckchev was dumbfounded by Lirik's remark but now realised why Christian behaved toward the Yeoman the way he did. His belly filled with the warmth of victory, there was no contest with this Yeoman after all.

"Now," Lirik continued regardless, tapping on the door with the inducer's hexagonal head with heavy, echoing clunks. "Beyond this door lies the Marina Deck. All the search teams in the Command Section are working to schedule, checking in with me every thirty minutes, so I thought I'd see if I could gain entry here in the meantime. It's possible we will find useful engineering tools and equipment, the docking bays could even contain more cargo. Possibly vessels."

Struckchev snatched the inducer from Lirik with a slight sparkle from Lirik's energy field. It reminded the Commander this Yeoman was partly alien. "You have your orders."

"Don't do this, Commander. Just accept the fact that we're different - I sure do," Lirik snatched the inducer back. "Now will you please just let me get on with something useful?"

"Prove it," Struckchev said.

"Prove what?" Lirik was puzzled.

"Prove that you're better than me," the Russian seemed calm enough. What did he mean?

"You want us to slug it out or something?" the Yeoman wasn't sure he could win a physical fight with the Commander, but also knew that he was no lightweight either. The man riled him so much he'd certainly give it his best shot.

"After a fashion," Struckchev said. "But I was thinking more of a challenge, to settle this finally."

"Why Commander," Lirik was being flippant again. "You do want to build bridges. That's so nice." Struckchev didn't react. "Okay, but we need to make it fair - something that will test all of our abilities, not just one skill. What's the wager?"

Struckchev was nearly agog. "The reward of seeing your defeat will suit me."

"Well, likewise," Lirik offered his hand. The Commander hesitated, but then shook it - firmly and just the once, mostly because of the sickening feeling it gave him.

COMMAND YACHT: 0400 HOURS

"Captain's Log, supplemental. The internal inspection went well enough. The strange boarding party of three tall, silver-skinned wraith-like creatures had floated through the airlock all the way onto the bridge, each swathed in sheer, black material. As their fabric billowed, dozens of small, shiny orbs floated out into the air. Each orb then sped off in different directions to search the ship.

"The process lasted about fifteen minutes. The orbs returned to the bridge almost at the same time, though it was amusing to see the wraith-like creatures made to wait by one errant orb. The tallest of the three unleashed a tumult of synthesised noise at the shaking little bauble when it finally appeared, sending it dive-bombing for refuge in another's robes.

"They composed themselves, bowed, smiling wide, empty grins and floated off the bridge and back to their ship."

Christian walked back onto the bridge from the head, instinctively sniffing his fingers and wincing, wiping them on his trouser leg. He tossed the padd he'd been given by Lirik to use as his log onto his chair.

"I wonder what telemetry they managed to gather," Christian wondered out loud.

"They probably know the ship better than we do now," Jackson agreed.

"Captain, we're being hailed," Narli slid into his seat and activated the voice-only comm signal.

"Attention Fantasy, this is Erowoon Approach Control, proceed to the following co-ordinates to commence docking," the friendly voice had a hint of boredom in it. "Your day rate will commence once docking seals are activated."

Before Christian could respond, another voice cut in. "This is Erowoon Administration. We have decided to grant you docking rights-"

"Er..we know-" Christian sighed.

"-at the rate of 12,500 Roldal per cycle."

"Roldal?!" Ganhedra flew his hands up in horror. Christian frowned an enquiring look for further extrapolation, but the sales clerk was continuing.

"An Induction Officer will meet you on arrival for the first payment up front - Erowoon accepts all conventional and some not so conventional forms of payment. Some currency conversion rates are negotiable. We notice you are suffering an infestation of Corsa Spiders. We can clear that problem up for a ship of your size at the discounted price of 1,500 Roldal. In the meantime, you will have a pest control device fitted to your docking airlock to prevent them leaving your vessel. The presence of Spiders also means that until they are irradicated, you will have to take any supplies on board through your docking airlock."

"But we need fuel," Christian stepped in. "How do we take that through our docking airlock?"

"External scans reveal you have a fuel valve on your underside. We can provide a special tether service at 2,000 Roldal but we would need the precautional assistance of pest control, and they charge 1,000 per half cycle, plus expenses, plus materials," the agent continued to reel off a number of other charges, available services and special offers. Christian noticed that most of the bridge crew were transfixed by the sales shpeel, not wanting to miss a word of it.

"Ganhedra," Christian whispered. "Is there a problem?"

"Roldal," he said shakily, "it is the official currency of the K'Tani."

"Dammit!" Jackson spat and slapped her chair angrily - and a little too loudly. "They are in the K'Tani pockets. Well, we can just kiss our freedom goodbye."

Christian was shaking his head. "I don't see any K'Tani vessels here. We haven't been fired upon."

"Excuse me," the Erowoon sales agent cut in. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about our switch from the Independent Phroak to the use of the K'Tani Roldal."

There was silence on the bridge. Christian visibly blushed, he'd no idea the station's communications technology would be so advanced. "What of it," Christian managed to blurt out, then shrugged at Jackson - he didn't have a clue what to say, so decided to sound defensive instead.

"Erowoon foresaw the re-occupation of Qovakia by the K'Tani some time ago, and we decided that switching to the Roldal in advance would make our transitional relations go a lot more smoothly this time around," the agent explained. "However, as indicated we have a very preferable exchange rate with most other currencies. How do you intend to make payment?"

"Oh, I think your little probes may have told you already," Christian said, suddenly full of bravado. "Would gold pressed latinum do you?"

"Although only several weeks old, the GPL currency in Qovakia managed to secure itself on the free market and even spread in hard currency this far out. It has become quite fashionable and so is currently commanding a very good exchange...1.3 to the Roldal," his voice wavered, everso slightly. Christian smirked and looked at Jackson. She nodded at him.

"That sounds a bit steep," Christian said. "The hard currency will soon be in very short supply. As we are prepared to spend a substantial amount while on your station, could you not give us a lower rate?"

Reb turned in his chair, mocking the Captain. Christian winked at his Helmsman, proud to be impersonating a Ferengi so well.

"I'm afraid our rates are fixed," the voice wasn't sorry at all. "But we are prepared to waver the payment for the fuel connection - that is if you are willing to purchase 3,000 volumes of fuel before departure."

Christian frowned over to Leonard who shrugged. Ganhedra fumbled for a translation, but he didn't have to.

"That's about two thirds of your tank capacity," the agent explained.

"At what rate?" Christian asked.

"Again, Erowoon can offer you the post-invasion sale price of 50 Roldal per half volume," he said. Again there was that waiver again - it amazed Christian sometimes how the universal translator managed to pick up such inflections and nuances in an alien tongue.

Jackson shook her head violently. "Make it 25 Roldal.." Christian hoped.

A cheerful snigger came back. "We would probably settle on 35, so I will save us both time and make that my final offer."

Jackson shrugged - she had no idea how much they'd end up spending. And there was still the dry dock and repair bill to eventually pay for. At this rate, they would have no money left by the end of their visit.

The Commodore and her classmates had once taken a weekend holodeck vacation in fashionable 20th Century Paris. What struck them the most was the endless need to pay for things all the time - and tip. Even after she'd taken a leak, for goodness sake! While her elder years had exposed the Commodore to a wider range of commerce and commercial experience, she never quite forgot that overwhelming fear that had struck her back then. Whereas then she and her friends had been able to replicate more money once it ran out, in the real world, of course, there was only a finite amount available. That cold feeling was creeping across her once again.

BETA SECTION/COMMAND SECTION: 0800 HOURS

"Heeeeave!" Lirik gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the door plate. Struckchev's big powerful hands were alongside his, pressing on the door with all their vein-bulging might.

With a squeak of grinding metal it gave slightly. "Just a bit...more..." Struckchev muttered through clenched teeth and finally the door caught its runners and easily slid into the wall.

Both men collapsed sideways with a sigh, Struckchev onto the wall and Lirik holding onto his knees. The access door was inset into one of the wide sweeping arched walls that lined the long walkway of the Marina Deck. The walkway, low-ceilinged and some five metres in width provided the main public access to the private docking bays dispersed along each side. Although the two men did not know it yet, a further 'hidden' deck above provided an out-of-the-way maintenance area, each private bay having a retractable plate in its roof for the vessels to be drawn aloft. This maintenance deck also allowed for the quick movement of vessels between bays, as well as providing additional cargo and vehicle storage. A further deck below the Marina provided room for access crawlways and a myriad of fuel pipes, tanks, waste retraction and data conduits to name a few that fed and serviced the docked vessels.

The two men stepped through onto the bleached wooden floorboards of the Marina Deck's central walkway. Thick support struts were located uniformly every few metres, each housing a set of emergency bulkhead doors to cut individual sections off. Currently they were all housed, so the two men had a clear view along the entire length of the one hundred and fifty metre deck. Mesh covered lanterns lit the walls between each strut, casting light upward and creating criss-cross shadows on the decking below that stretched into the distance.

"Holy shit," Lirik couldn't suppress his surprise. "This place is huge. It must run beneath most of the length of the Passenger Section."

Struckchev quickly drew a phaser and Lirik did the same. He pulled open a tricorder and left it on the floor, actively scanning for any other movement (preferably of the eight-legged variety) and the two cautiously housed their weapons to investigate. The Commander walked over to the nearest of the bay entry doors. The opaque oval glass panel in the airlock door masked whatever lay within the bay beyond. He touched the lcars padd beside it and an array of tiny pink and cream text flashed up. He leaned forward and read it.

"This apparently contains the Fantasy Launch "Oprah", seating capacity two hundred and fifty, life support and supplies for that number for fourteen days, warp capable to factor five, though with limited range. It's classified as a 'Panoramic Touring Car and Mobile Debating and Lecture Venue'," the Commander pressed a few keys to try and open the bay door - the computer blurted a warning sound.

"Warning, environment differential beyond safe limits," she chirped snottily.

"I've got another," Lirik called from slightly further down. "Come and see." The Commander joined Lirik at the door - this airlock's glass panel was clear and provided a view of the dimly lit ship within. Just beyond the double doors was a short covered gangway with a control booth up some stairs to the right. The door at the end of the gangway was hanging open, a ladder leading down into the bay beyond. Suspended in the zero g hangar was a sleek, shiny deep crimson - almost black - panelled vessel with pointed wings and nose and tapering fins that gave a perfect aeordynamic appeal.

"It's a vintage 2350's Capellian Star Flyer," Lirik continued to read from the panel. "Seating capacity..."

"Five," the Commander interrupted, recalling from memory. "Life support and supplies for 30 days, warp capable to 9.5 and maximum range of six months continuous flight."

"I see you know your ships," Lirik complimented with a hint of sarcasm. "But I'm not exactly uninformed myself. You know, we'll have to have an umpire."

"An umpire? What do you mean?" Struckchev faced the Yeoman, backing away from the shield static instinctively.

"If we are going to compete against each other in a fair contest of skills, we need someone to arbitrate. Someone neutral," Lirik explained. "Like O'Hara."

The Commander immediately considered if she and Lirik were friends. They did seem to get on, but mostly it was out of duty and a mutual respect for, well, disrespecting authority. Particularly the Captain.

"There could be dozens more vessels here," Struckchev said. "And on first appearances it seems accessing them will be easy. We'll need to organise a search team right away."

Lirik smiled sweetly. "Yes, sir."

COMMAND YACHT: 0455 HOURS

The Captain stood in the gangway just outside his vessel and forward of his welcoming party, patiently waiting for some kind of response to his greeting. An Erowoon official waited nervously on the other side of the glass partition door leading onto the station. The small old man wore a plain brown two-piece suit with a light blue undershirt. A badge of office was clipped to the right lapel, shiny silver. He seemed surprised at the group he saw in front of him, repeatedly looking up at them, studying his clipboard and shaking his head. Worriedly he looked around as if missing someone and then paced out of view into the corridor around the corner.

Christian looked around at his own party, who were equally bemused. When the little man reappeared he was accompanied by two tall woman of alien origin. Bipedal and semi Humanoid, each had four upper limbs - two looked akin to arms, the others, crossing behind their shoulders were like folded gossamer wings that ended in a set of claws. Their heads were elliptical in shape, with hollow black eyes - some kind of light sensitive film glistened within. In contrast to the old man, they wore bright yellow suits of shiny plastic - panelled and clearly armoured. There was no mistaking the weapons both carried.

After a brief conversation huddled closely together with much nodding, the old man stepped forward and activated the voice control.

"You are Human," he addressed the Captain. "You are also Human," he looked over at Leonard, then turned to Narli. "And you are Andorian. All Federation citizens and declared enemies of the K'Tani." He fixed his eyes on the Captain.

"And you are...?" it was all Christian could think of saying, trying to make a point somehow.

"I am your Induction Officer," he reached over and released the door, stepping through to confront them. "You deceived us. You informed us you were businessmen, merchants. Our inspection team may not have been informed, but I can clearly recognise the uniform of the Federation's Starfleet."

"That may be true," Christian smiled disarmingly. "But we are not refugees. And our money is as good as the next alien's."

"Hm," the official smirked. "Your ship does not appear to be made for war, it is crewed by relatively few and your supplies are clearly depleted." He tapped his board and looked up into the ceiling, considering his next action. An idea seemed to cheer him up. "If you were to register at the station under the premium confidentiality scheme," he rubbed the fingers of his right hand over his chin. "Then we could overlook the technicality of your race's political status."

Christian wanted to ask how much that was going to cost, but decided it wouldn't matter anyway. There was no going back now. "Very well."

"Good," the man thrust a thin, transparent board at the Captain. "Here are the station's rules of conduct, do not breach them or you will be detained and sued. May I see your method of payment?"

Christian stepped to one side as Karless and Kluless heaved forward the crate and slammed it on the deck with a dull chink, throwing back the lid to reveal the box full of glistening latinum. The old man nodded with a half smile, then looked up through heavy lidded eyes. "Klingons. Hm," he turned to Christian. "You might want to make use of our fully comp visitor's insurance policy."

EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT IV

COMMAND YACHT: TIME LAPSE TO 0730 HOURS

Christian stepped back inside the Fantasy flanked by Karless, Kluless and Narli. His four boxes of latinum had been exchanged into hard currency with no problem - indeed, the station's exchange officer had beamed from ear to ear from the amount of commission she was about to earn herself in one transaction.

Thankfully, the Induction Officer had made it clear that Klingons were renowned for their warrior behaviour, so Christian deduced that taking them along to convert the cash would provide all the protection he needed. The looks he'd been given by station inhabitants were intense - Narli seemed to be of particular interest. Everyone kept their distance, however. The Captain was intrigued to learn that Ganhedra insisted upon staying on board the Fantasy, as did the other Helan.

Just inside the airlock, Jackson greeted him. "How was it?"

"It went very well," Christian nodded to the Klingons in thanks, and handed over the huge wad of cash notes to Narli for distribution. "Here," he handed Jackson a very thick bundle of smelly notes. "This is what is spare. It's more than enough to cover our fuel and any additional expenses. Narli's sharing out the rest among our team of buyers."

Christian glanced over to the nearby turbolift and watched Murak exit slowly, followed closely by Souveson. "Ah, well here goes nothing."

"Why can't he make his own way back?" the Commodore frowned, flicking a look of impatience at the boy. "We can't afford to lose you to a trigger happy Romulan."

"I'm guessing they're not in much of a position to start throwing their weight around," Christian said. "And besides, we owe it to Murak to see him safely returned. If anything, they'll trust his story more if they see us 'hand him over' as it were. It will also provide a perfect opportunity to try and see what they know of the invasion."

"I hope you're not considering an alliance," Jackson whispered, conscious that Romulan hearing was almost as sharp as a Vulcan's.

"Xenophobia doesn't become a Starfleet officer," Christian chastised. "But I know how to handle the Romulans. Don't worry, I'll be careful."

Christian turned to everyone gathered. "Okay, now you know your duties. Narli, Leonard, Reb, Kluless will go with Miss Quatro to the main trading area," the young woman nodded her square jawed head with a flick of her long lashes.

(Quatro had been selected to join the crew on the Yacht by the Commodore. Jackson was made aware of the individual by one of a few Starfleet Intelligence operatives active on Helub. She had apparently spent a modest fortune while shopping in the Outer Zone in the short time since the wormhole had opened. An Alpha Centaurian heiress to her father's fortune, she had her own business buying and selling rare artefacts from across the Alpha Quadrant, and took every opportunity to carry out the field work herself. A drop out of Starfleet Academy, Quatro was nonetheless familiar with starship protocols, as well as being knowledgeable, bright, quick to learn, streetwise, and more familiar with the Outer Zone than any other of the volunteers on board.)

The Captain continued. "Karless will take Karnak and O'Hara to the administration and services area to try and procure medical supplies. Myself and Souveson will join you there once we've safely delivered Murak to his people. We hope to gather intel from them, so that may take some time. Each of you has a substantial amount of money, look after it well. You've each been issued with a list of inventory required and a copy of the station's rules. If you need to verify anything, or at the slightest hint of trouble, just patch through to the Commodore on the Fantasy, your commbadges have been allocated a unique interpersonnel frequency, though be warned that it doesn't work in all areas," he didn't like the look on Jackson's face. "Okay, let's move out."

BETA SECTION/MARINA DECK: 0900 HOURS

Diplomatic Corpsman Yeoman Lirik and Commander Struckchev sat on the steps of a jeffrey's tube half way along the Marina deck. Both had a padd in their hands and were frantically stabbing the surfaces.

"Thirty seven vehicles!" Lirik was beaming so hard his face ached. "And that's not counting anything that may be above on the maintenance deck you found."

"Or the supplementary shuttle bays in the Passenger Section," the Commander added. His own mind was on something else completely. "Here, this is the perfect game plan," Struckchev passed the list to Lirik who shook his head.

"I don't think so. 70 per cent of the points are based on engineering and flight principles."

"What, not up to scratch on them?" the Commander jibed.

"No, I'm just saying the tests should be a fair assessment of all our abilities," Lirik shoved the padd back at Struckchev and continued with his own. "To test our skills as thinkers, explorers, leaders and decision makers as well as competent soldiers."

"Sorry to bust up the little boys' meeting," Hedrik had appeared and neither had even noticed. "But you're both urgently needed on the Bridge."

Struckchev glowered at the Yeoman who shrugged and said: "The Comm System isn't patched in this far down."

As soon as they got within earshot of the turbolift, they could hear the wail of red alert in the distance.

"What's going on?" Struckchev yelled at the Orion, who visibly flinched.

"Well, we were analysing passive scans from beyond the nebula when we saw what looked like a couple of engine signatures coasting past," she said glibly, looking Struckchev up and down in an almost liscivious way.

"How long ago?" the Commander felt embarrassed - he hadn't expected an alert while concealed inside the nebula, so he may have also ruined all chances for the post of Second Officer in the process. Well, maybe he could do something about that before it was too late.

Presently, the doors parted onto the Command Section Bridge, busy with nervous Helan and composed Vulcan attendants who sat at now fully functional stations. Not that that mattered much, they had virtually no defence, certainly nothing to match up to a K'Tani vessel if that's what they turned out to be.

"Where are they now?" Struckchev asked Warnerburg as she conceded the centre seat to him.

"They went clean past just over seven minutes ago at eleven hundred kilometres, they must be some distance away by now," she said. "It was odd the way they passed us so close, like they were purposefully looking into the nebula. I can't believe they wouldn't have detected us."

"Perhaps they did," Lirik said - unhelpfully, Struckchev thought. "We don't know much about their technological capabilities yet."

"You're assuming they are K'Tani," Struckchev said. The Yeoman cocked his head to one side conceding the fact.

The old female engineer shifted from side to side. "Ah, I hope you don't mind, Commander, but when you didn't respond I took the liberty of reassigning all repair teams to weapons duty."

"Weapons?" Struckchev was surprised - he thought no weapons aside from the phaser turret Christian had used was operational.

"We have identified several repulse cannon housings along the sides of the Passenger and Command Sections on several levels. I've despatched six environment suited and armed teams of three to the remote locations. One of Lirik's search teams came across a small hoard of low intensity shells. Not Starfleet standard, but there are a number of them, some with multiple shell heads, volunteers are distributing them now," Warnerburg said. "It will take some time before they're on-line, though. I need to re-route power first of all, that shouldn't take long, maybe ten minutes. But then it'll take about twenty minutes to run a diagnostic, load and arm the phaser turrets, plus around ten or fifteen minutes realigning time."

"Won't using weapons deplete our energy reserves?" Lirik asked what was on the Commander's mind.

Warnerburg shrugged. "That is the catch."

Struckchev and Lirik snapped their fingers at the same time and said: "The ships."

Vostaline walked over to the group. "What ships?"

"On the Marina Deck," Lirik babbled, "all sorts of ships."

"Fighters?" Warnerburg asked.

Struckchev shrugged. "Most were listed as operational, but I'm not sure if they have weapons, let alone fuel."

The Yeoman remembered: "That Star Flyer would normally be equipped with standard defensive shields and a low yield central disrupter."

"Hardly a match for a military ship," Struckchev said, "but a good lure - she's very fast and manoeuvreable over the short range."

Warnerburg cast her hands into the fray, chopping the air. "But what about pilots? Those of us who can fly are few in number, and I for one am hardly trained to go into battle."

There was a pause, and Vostaline piped up cheerily: "Do we have any choice?"

The Commander drew himself up straight. "Okay, Warnerburg, the repulse cannons could have a better effect against K'Tani shields, so keep your teams working on those. Move anyone spare down to the Marina Deck to help survey the vessels. Lirik," he paused as he realised he was about to allow the Yeoman to prove himself. "Get all the civilians to shelter. Then I want you to get down to the M deck and scan the vehicle inventory and data gathered by the volunteers. Select any ships you think would be good in a dog fight - we'll worry about pilots later, but there's at least three of us I know of. In the meantime, I want to see if we can increase scan resolutions and bypass the interference from the nebula gasses. We may also be able to send a message to the Captain. I want to know the moment the K'Tani show themselves again."

EROWOON STATION: 0800 HOURS

Christian, Souveson and Murak stood at the inner airlock of the station docking ring where it connected with the Romulan vessel. A pair of opaque glass doors blocked the view of anything beyond.

Souveson pressed the attendance button again, but a faint shadow had already appeared approaching the doors. As it got nearer, it formed the unmistakable silhouette of a Romulan male in his big, padded square shouldered uniform.

The doors parted to reveal a large, fairly old man wearing the uniform of the Romulan fleet and the rank pin of a Senior Section Leader - about the equivalent of a Lieutenant Commander in Starfleet, Christian noted. The surprise at seeing Murak with the two Starfleet personnel played all over his face.

"My name is Captain Christian, this is my tactical officer Ensign Souveson and this," the Captain pulled Murak forward, "is someone who belongs with you."

"State your identity," the older Romulan had a deep resonating voice.

"Leading Engineer's Mate Murak Sa Druin, my ship was the Laytu," Murak's voice by contrast sounded weak and unsteady.

The old man withdrew a medical scanner and passed it around each of them, clearly confirming identities if not racial origins alone. "How did you come to be with these people?"

"I was cut off from returning to my ship during the attack on Helub. My only course of escape was with several hundred civilians," Murak would rather have said he was a prisoner, but had told Christian he would probably be unable to maintain that lie under interrogation. Rather it was best he tell the truth from the start.

The old Romulan looked at Christian, then at Souveson, then back at Christian again. "You say you are a Captain? And that is your ship?" He pointed towards an out of site porthole in the docking arm behind him, on the side where the Command Yacht could be seen.

"That's correct," Christian said.

"I am not familiar with its class. It's not like any other vessel in your current fleet," the Romulan scoffed, but Christian saw a faint glint in his eye. The ship, perhaps because of its deflective coating, clearly intrigued him.

Christian knitted his fingers together and let them drop, resting above his groin. "That's because it is a civilian ship," the Captain affirmed. "We commandeered it to rescue as many survivors from the K'Tani attack as we could."

"Civilian ship," the Romulan nodded. "That is how you escaped initial capture. So Starfleet did know about the impending K'Tani invasion."

"No..." the Captain began his protests, but the old man stepped aside and waved them frantically toward his ship's open airlock.

"Please, you must come aboard," he said eagerly. "There is much to discuss."

Souveson shot a nervous look at the Captain and automatically felt for her weapon, checking herself and hoping the Romulan hadn't read her body language. Murak had, but his expression was not upset, rather more assured by her wariness.

Christian cautiously led the troupe up the ramp and across the gangway, stepping over the threshold into the Romulan vessel. The smell of burning plastic almost choked him. Looking around it was clear the ship had been much more heavily damaged than it had first appeared. Ceiling panels were missing as was some partition panelling, though the debris had since been cleared away. Lights were dimmed and flickering in side corridors. He felt the ripple of an unstable gravity field sweep across his body and the warmth of an unsteady environment system - or a nearby raging fire. Souveson murmured her dislike of the place.

As the Romulan closed the airlock doors, he drew a weapon and pointed it at them. It was clear neither Human could draw and fire before he could, so they raised their arms slightly. He looked Murak in the eye. "Disarm them."

Murak hesitated, looking into Christian's eyes. Christian didn't relay anything except patience in his expression.

"Are you disobeying me?" the old man shifted into a better position from which to shoot any or all three of the newcomers.

Murak looked at his superior then back at Christian and finally complied, slipping Souveson's phaser into a pocket and holding Christians aloft at them.

"Thanks a lot, Murak," the Ensign couldn't help but say, so angry was she at leading her Captain into immediate danger. Some security officer she was.

After a moment's hesitation, Murak said: "They won't cause any trouble, Sir."

"Your life depends upon that," the old man pressed a few keys on a face level wall mounted console. "Chahleth to contr