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

Invasion - Part 1

VEKARIA, GOVERNMENT WORLD OF THE UNITED SYSTEMS OF QOVAKIA, THE OUTER ZONE

The planet's green-blue daytime, flecked with dark storm clouds, shone silently foreboding in the star-spangled blackness of space. Positioned behind it, smaller and silvery bright, the crescent of its heavenly counterpart in the Vekarian system. Beyond, as an almighty backdrop, the enormous density of the Milky Way galaxy.

No one had thought a place like Qovakia existed, wedged as it was between the border of the vast Tholian territory and the emptiness of intergalactic vacuum beyond. Qovakia - the very edge of the galaxy itself, some 10 years' worth of uncharted expanse spilling out around the base of a spiral arm which arced out and around the Tholian empire for many light years and the Alpha Quadrant for even more.

As Dean of Stellar Cartography at Starfleet Academy had begun to describe it to her most recent students, if the Milky Way galaxy were a squashed orange, Qovakia would be the zest running along a minute part of the circumference.

Upon its discovery, Starfleet had been the first to give the region a name, calling it the Outer Zone...

EARTH DATE: DECEMBER 22ND

The Starfleet runabout Hudson made short work of travelling the distance between Vekaria and its grey moon. A low gravity piece of dead rock with negligible atmosphere, the moon hadn't merited a name for a long time after Vekaria's sentient inhabitants first noticed it rise into the night sky. It had simply been referred to in the same way as other developing M-class worlds with only one satellite: la lun, or the local equivalent.

As civilisations formed on Vekaria, their understanding of the heavens grew, and soon Vekarians reached for the stars themselves - among the first to do so in this region.

Three centuries ago the moon had earned itself a name: Helub, the ancient Vekarian word for Trade. Historically speaking, Helub was the code-name of the first project on the moon two centuries ago - an edifice designed to attract other races with a beacon calling out to the stars currently beyond their reach, inviting a peaceful exchange of goods and information.

The name stuck and had been used ever since to describe the Space Port that quickly built up around it and now engulfed two thirds of the surface. Helub had become the biggest free Space Port in all Qovakia, though there were many other privately run ports. The Vekarian system, sited close to the border of Tholian annexes, was by no means the best-located port, but it was the best defended with its backdrop of vast asteroid fields and guaranteed protection for all visitors. That border had, of course, recently moved.

The Hudson swiftly descended toward the moon's surface, but veered away from the main concentration of the port and headed out instead toward the area where the surface was mostly barren. The runabout reduced speed and dived low to avoid busy approach and departure lanes overhead. She flew on thrusters at five metres, hugging the terrain, swerving from time to time to avoid jagged struts of rock and the occasional carcass of an over exerted spacecraft.

On board, two humanoids stared intently through the forward window. Seated gracefully at the conn station was a handsome human male, classically chiselled and in his mid thirties. Choosing to wear glasses to improve his faintly weak eyesight rather than take medication gave him a studious, almost eccentric look combined with his smart Starfleet uniform. His squinting eyes were intent upon the horizon, only occasionally checking instrumentation for guidance.

Beside him stood Re Lorken, a proud, sixty something native Vekarian and high ranking Qovakian official swathed in purple and blue robes pinned together with the familiar blue, gold and red badge of Qovakian office. She looked down at the younger man flying the runabout. He was calmer than earlier, she noted, and paused to drink in the silky fineness of his sandy-yellow hair and equally light colour of his brows and eyelashes. Most Vekarians had dark hair, though sometimes tonally coloured. The blonde officer had appeared intense and awkward when she first encountered him, but here she realised he was a focussed man with a physical beauty unlike most of the others of his kind. Though a studious, reserved type, she guessed, and wondered briefly at the possibilities of such a man's past.

Re Lorken wondered about their trip. She felt tense and unprepared for the task ahead. There she had been earlier this morning, quietly observing the traditional Qovakian pomp of the induction proceedings to the Trade Conference with Visitor Representatives in the upper gallery of the Qovakian Senate in Vekaria's capitol. The main Senate floor below was crammed wall to wall with thousands of delegates and officials slowly shifting from limb to limb.

Her aide had made a ruffling entrance during a quiet part of the commencement speech, causing some head-turns in the gallery, and rushed mouse-like towards Re Lorken with "a very urgent request from one of the Visitors". She had felt a brief moment of annoyance, mostly as it had been the first time in ages she had been able to sit without having to think about government business, just enjoying one of the privileges of high office witnessing such a resplendent and momentous occasion in Qovakian history. But looking into the contorted face of her nervous aide, the feeling, she reminded herself, was based on a selfish desire, and quickly dispelled.

'Visitors' had become the term adopted by Qovakians for the newcomers coming through the recently discovered ex-Tholian wormhole. 'Had it really only been three weeks since its discovery?' Re Lorken asked herself. It had felt like a lifetime. Two days prior to that, an all-frequency signal from Qovakia's violently isolationist Tholian neighbours had announced that a major catastrophe among their people had taken place, and there would consequently be an immediate retraction of the Tholian borders on all sides.

According to subsequent Qovakian intelligence gathered over the ensuing days, it turned out the Tholians had suffered a massive epidemic of some kind, and left with a much-reduced fleet, had tactically withdrawn to a more manageable area, laying down a new border. What had previously been Tholian was now 'free' space for about twenty cubic light years on all sides.

Within two days of the announcement, beyond Vekaria's old border, amid a field of asteroids in the new inclusion zone, eager scientists had stumbled across a stable wormhole leading to who knew where. But before the Qovakian government could advise how to proceed, several ships representing the Ferengi, the Federation and the Bajorans passed through to the Qovakian side to come face to face with the alert-ready scientists. Thankfully their intentions were peaceful - thankful because the Vekarians found these aliens to be slightly superior in weaponry.

Since then, it had been non-stop, with hundreds of transports crossing through the 'free' wormhole from both sides each week practically unchecked. Re Lorken and her many colleagues in the Qovakian government convened an urgent meeting to bring the 'polite invasion' to order.

With the Qovakians still picking up the pieces from half a century of bitter occupation by a fierce military race, tactically the Visitors' arrival could not have come at a better time, though the sheer volume of numbers arriving seemed daunting.

The Qovakian officials quickly made plans to turn a potentially damaging situation around. They decided to allow all parties from the Other Side to join them at the negotiation table to bid for trade franchises, no matter who they were. They also were to agree on migration policy, and most importantly to establish agreements to utilise the more powerful military might of the Visitors' technologies in order to secure peace and stability for the future. The final throws of rebellion had left Qovakia virtually defenceless, with depleted numbers of fighters left to ward off any major threat. Resources and manpower stretched, their fleet was still a long way from being replenished.

The Qovakian leaders also made the monitoring of Visitor activity a priority. Access to certain records was restricted, as was contact between Visitor representatives and Qovakian citizens. Fearful of a misguided judgement, they sought to manage the Visitors' understanding of the occupation and in particular events leading to the rebellion's conclusion. The price of victory had been high, and if the Visitors learned the truth too quickly, it was feared they would pull out from negotiations. But already the unplanned and extensive contact by general space farers with others amid the vast port of Helub had led to rumour and speculation about what had taken place. Thankfully, at such a stage of diplomatic negotiation, the Visitors were obliged to believe the official version of history, though in reality the Qovakian government knew it would only be a matter of time before the entire truth came out.

Re Lorken knew the truth, but was sworn to secrecy on the pretence it would be better in the long term. She was not convinced, but amazingly so far had not heard of any Visitor representative questioning the rumours spreading amongst the civilians. Just one of over seven hundred Qovakian liaison officers assigned to Federation and non-Federation worlds and organisations from the Other Side, Re Lorken was known for her negotiating abilities in the Protocols Ministry of Qovakia. Her credentials among fellow Vekarians as a pacifist and her extensive role as spokesperson for her people to the enemy's military forces for most of her life led to her appointment as Government liaison specifically assigned to assist the Starfleet organisation. It was deemed her knowledge of dealing with a large alien military organisation would come in useful in this respect.

However, on this occasion the relationship was thankfully pleasant. The Starfleet people seemed efficient enough to her, with high principles and strong codes of behaviour, though she failed to understand the conflicting range of humanity and science studies being carried out on some of the primarily military ships. Not to mention the presence of families - something akin to the military race that had ruled Qovakia so completely, Re Lorken thought. Despite misgivings, she considered herself lucky - her close friend and associate No Burrah had been assigned to the Ferengi, and former college room-mate Kezup Me Nehaha to the Klingons, both of whom had related terrible stories of misunderstanding and confrontation with their guests - and they weren't alone.

Though from what Re Lorken had seen, she secretly wished she had been assigned to the Romulans. They seemed charming.

At the Trade Conference, Re Lorken's aide had led her rapidly into the corridor where two Starfleet men appeared to be arguing. She stopped for a moment to give them time to finish, taking the opportunity to remind her reportee to use the correct terms to differentiate between each of the Visitors. Judging by the way that most of them behaved, the Visitors held stereotypical misconceptions about each other that could lead to disagreement or even conflict. Some were even rumoured to be at war, she had heard, although at this stage she wasn't party to the political intelligence-gathering taking place by the Qovakian secret service.

Gesturing her aide away, Re Lorken walked over to the clipped, but just indiscernible exchange taking place between the two Starfleet personnel. She instantly identified one of the men as Yeoman Lirik, the terse diplomatic aide to the Federation delegates attending the Trade Conference, and he didn't seem to be happy with this other bespectacled man. As he gestured his frustration, Re Lorken could see the slight shimmer from the energy of the active environmental shield about Lirik's body. Leonard kept his distance, but wasn't shying away from saying his piece to the diplomat.

As Re Lorken approached, Lirik withdrew with a polite smile and nod and the other man frantically introduced himself as Lieutenant Commander Leonard, Deputy Chief Engineer aboard the USS Draco.

As Leonard walked Re Lorken hurriedly towards the Senate's docking bays, he explained that while on shore leave here, he had been reading through the Vekarian database of alien contact - non-classified records had been made available to all Visitors as a gesture of fraternity and candour by the Qovakian government. Leonard had come across references to several spacecraft, apparently in storage on the moon somewhere, and having engineering features concurrent with Federation technology. They were not named, but had a catalogue number and brief technical spec against them - which, judging from the limited detail came only from a visual survey of the exterior.

Before the discovery of the wormhole, the journey to Qovakia from the Alpha Quadrant directly across Tholian territory would have involved travelling some 15,000 light years - and then only at the narrowest point. But of course the Tholians, being strict isolationists, would have prevented anyone making such an attempt, so to go around the perimeter from the Federation to Qovakia would have taken perhaps 25 or 30 years at maximum warp. As the Lt Commander explained to Re Lorken, he was more than a little enthusiastic to be the first to take a look and determine if the vessels were indeed from back home.

Leonard had chewed on his bottom lip constantly as Re Lorken contacted the Vekarian Security Minister to gain approval for the journey to the relevant storage facility on the moon. Surprisingly to her, it had been granted, although further instructions were to be issued to Re Lorken on departure.

Reading the single order, which had been personally scribbled by the Security Minister herself, disturbed Re Lorken greatly, but she had smiled to Leonard as they entered the runabout Hudson that, she noted, had been used by Lirik to ferry the delegates to and from Vekaria.

As Leonard carried out pre-flight checks - mostly resetting customised defaults entered in by the annoying Yeoman - Re Lorken was intently listening to Leonard's frantic suppositions and sighing inwardly. She would rather have listened to the initiation ceremony. But as her instructions were to be as fully co-operative with Starfleet as possible, here she stood on the deck of the runabout heading for a little known and rarely visited bunker installation on the 'dead' side of the moon filled with a sense of dread.

"We should be very close now, Lieutenant Commander Leonard," Re Lorken referred to the map she carried, provided via matter transfer beam at lightening speed by the Helub Security Office.

Leonard smiled, "Just Ottmar will do, Minister."

"Then you should call me Re Lorken," she smiled in gentle reply.

The Hudson's internal systems chirped an endorsement of Re Lorken's orienteering skill as they banked around a particularly large rock stack and encountered a huge but lifeless construction of curvaceous proportions and high, sloping walls leading to a multi-domed roof. Moon dust banks lapped unmoving against the sides of the building indicating years of disuse, and several window spaces were black and beckoning. The facility appeared to stretch back several kilometres.

Leonard brought the runabout to a full stop and whistled; "You know in the Alpha Quadrant, this storage complex would dwarf many of our Starbases."

Re Lorken smiled in accordance with diplomatic etiquette, though she had no idea what the man was talking about. Leonard sensed this, but before he could explain she changed the subject; "Your accent is unfamiliar to me, Ottmar, what is it?"

"It's German," the man smiled again, and this time turned to her, flashing his too-white teeth and bright blue eyes. Leonard found that when he smiled, most people tended to relax, even though he felt self-conscious doing it.

"But you are Human, though?" Re Lorken was on diplomatic autopilot, her real attention had turned to the muted grey complex before her. She had never seen it up close before, but then being so short staffed and under-resourced since the 'success' of the rebellion nearly five years ago, Vekarians had had little time to go exploring. Still, Re Lorken had just been informed of its purpose and it sent a chill down her spine to think she would actually be going inside. Moreover, the note from the Security Minister set her a task, which she would have traded anything to avoid.

"Yes, I am Human and I am German. Germany, my nation of origin, is situated in Europe, an area on the continent of Asia," Leonard had dipped into condescending info-mode again, something his roommate Winston Winston had constantly jibed him about through his entire time at the Academy: 'You swallowed a Vulcan, Lenny?' he used to laugh.

"Ah, Earth. Yes. The Starfleet Command Headquarters are there, as is the Starfleet Academy and the President of the Federation of Planets," Re Lorken was pleased to talk about something she had memorised. "We need to find a land vehicle entrance because the main space doors cannot be accessed from the outside. I have the necessary codes to gain entry." Re Lorken scanned intently with her eyes.

"Then you haven't been here before?" Leonard had assumed that a Minister representing Qovakia, especially one who had lived all her life on Vekaria, would be familiar with all facilities in and around the moon. Especially one so large as this.

"Oh no, this place has not been visited since Elequin Foradni, shortly after the rebellion's victory," Re Lorken reached for the ornate case which had been be beamed aboard by the Security corps shortly after departure, and removed a set of old films inscribed with coded language.

"That was four years ago," Leonard had picked up a little about Vekarian time measurements during his stay in the cosy comfort of a renowned Helub hotel. He guided the runabout slowly along the base of the building, adjusting sensors to hunt for a land vehicle entrance; "I can't believe all this has remained so untouched, so unexplored, for so long."

Leonard couldn't quite make out this older woman; on the one hand she seemed uneasy with the situation, but on the other, she kept staring at him in the oddest way.

In fact, the look she gave reminded him of his only (and aged spinster) aunt, Gertha. While he was a Starfleet Academy trainee, she had managed to transport into his parents' apartment in Cologne just about every time he had gone home to visit. She would always pinch his cheeks too hard and kiss him fully on the mouth, making him blush. Having made his parents giggle by her actions she would further embarrass him by enquiring after who he was kissing or how his love-making was coming along or talking about her own eventful life and past lovers.

Aunt Gerty loved to put people on edge. As he thought this the voice of his Bronxian Academy roommate, Winston Winston popped into his head again; "What IS it with these older chicks?" Leonard had heard this phrase repeated over an entire day following the Senior Alumni Academy Ball during their final year in San Francisco together. He and Winston had managed to avoid the campus-wide pranks carried out by the retired female officers during the night, but they were nevertheless duly impressed by the outrageous and daring feats of the veterans. The saying had stuck and to their endless amusement was always used in communications between the two when talking about higher-ranking female colleagues.

Re Lorken had been talking while Leonard drifted: "Since then it has taken the Qovakian people all their time and all their resources to bring a sense of normality back into our lives.

Leonard could feel that Re Lorken was not talking pat diplomatic speech now. He kicked himself for letting the voice of Winston Winston get in the way again - he was just one of those guys you couldn't get out of your head.

Re Lorken was lost in thought; "There was so much to be done, so much to rebuild."

"I didn't find much information about what happened during the occupation in he Qovakian databases," Leonard quizzed her, adjusting the sensors to account or the interference being given off by the strange composition of the palatial structure before them.

Re Lorken gained composure slightly at this; "It's still being compiled. Don't look so surprised, Ottmar, there are just not enough resources and more important priorities, frankly. Our own records of he occupation itself are limited, of course. Mostly it's personal accounts. It's not something I want to remember myself, much less read about."

Re Lorken was using emotion to try and prevent Leonard from questioning further, but she suspected he would continue anyway. One thing she had learned about Starfleet types: they had an unquenchable desire for truth.

"The race that had been in power...?" Leonard prompted.

"The K'Tani," Re Lorken hacked the name out in clear contempt.

"What happened to them? If they had ruled so many light years of space, controlled so many planets and races, they must have been very powerful. So it must have been a long and bloody war to get rid of them." Leonard was pushing her. He reminded himself that, for a society living under a cold-blooded regime for so long, there was surprisingly little evidence aside from weapons damage and newly constructed buildings that an occupying force had ever been there.

"The K'Tani were ambitious if not arrogant. They believed that the whole Galaxy would be better off under their rule and pushed as far as they could in every direction. They eventually spread themselves too thin. A rebellion force had chipped away at them for decades. In the end, they were overthrown by a ...combined effort of force, shall we say. Most of the K'Tani fleet was destroyed in battle at Merova aboard their vast fleet of battleships and stations. Only a handful escaped capture and fled to the far quarters or beyond. Those who were picked up were sterilised and interned for processing," Re Lorken waited for his predictable human reaction.

"'Sterilised'?" Leonard turned to her in surprise.

"The K'Tani were genetically improved. Their reproductive process had a short incubation period of only two weeks from conception to birth. Their offspring were engineered to learn and grow quickly to puberty when the cycle slowed down to a more normal ageing. Basically that was how they attained control in the first place, by breeding in vast numbers and spreading their rule throughout Qovakia." Re Lorken noticed Leonard's puzzlement.

"I grew up on Vekaria. I'm one of the few who remember how it was before they came, and I'm proud to say I lived to see the day they were removed from power. I had been prominent among my people as an aggressive spokesperson and I was among the group who formed the interim government when we regained power. Sterilisation was the first thing we did to all those captured. Believe me, it was the least they deserved."

Leonard regarded the Vekarian differently now. He reminded himself of his first year training in security at the Academy - Lieutenant Tuvok had repeatedly pitted seemingly friendly characters against his class during holotraining. All had appeared harmless, yet all had been at best untrustworthy, and at worst deadly. Was this woman such a character? Then again, he supposed, such radical measures against the K'Tani were understandable after a lifetime of oppression.

"What then happened to them?" Leonard asked.

"Some K'Tani faced trial, but most were imprisoned on Cell Ships in the Moriban Nebula," Re Lorken looked up as if she could see the Nebula from this distance. "They were a military race from top to bottom, you see, everyone performing a role, playing their part. Just following orders, they said. It seemed as if there was no individual or single group who took responsibility."

"But there must have been a leader or a figurehead? The orders had to come from somewhere?" Leonard was beginning to pick up a faint reading, perhaps a door, and shunted the runabout forward to take a look.

Re Lorken shook her head, "They were too highly organised, split into Divisions, Sectors, Quadrants, Regiments ... Platoons and Units. Each of them only knew their immediate superiors and surrounding colleagues. There was never any mention of any one higher up in authority. You see, understanding their military hierarchy is to understand their entire society, as they are one in the same. Everyone plays a part from the youngest to the oldest; it's their way of life. To this day we still don't fully much about their society. Just its purpose," Re Lorken paused for dramatic effect, "to invade and assimilate."

Leonard skipped a heartbeat at that all-too familiar word; "Like the Borg."

"The who?" Re Lorken could see the glimmer of fear in his piercing eyes.

Leonard gave her a half smile; "Trust me, you're better off not knowing." The engineer made several fine-tune adjustments to the sensors. "I still don't get it, though. If the K'Tani were so powerful, so great in number, how were they ever overthrown? The Qovakians must have had very powerful allies-" but Leonard was cut short by Re Lorken's dramatic cry.

"There!" she almost shouted. "I see an entrance. Configure an infrared beam to the following coded shapes and signal configuration." Re Lorken handed Leonard a plastic sheet of ornate designs, each having an apparently numerical equivalent.

Leonard took his cue, placed the sheet onto the runabout scanner and entered his computations into the beam controls, "Computer, scan the cell and apply code references to an infrared beam to the following signal configuration."

"Ready." The computer voice said.

"Begin transmission," Leonard watched his controls affirm the transmission, but nothing immediately happened. He was about to re-send when a square section of the wall in front of the vessel slid inwards and upwards into an unseen housing. Leonard instinctively swept the dark hole with sensors, his spare hand hovering over the shield control, and studied the readings carefully. Moon dust billowed slightly as the entrance lifted, suspended in the air in soft undulations. Using the directional sensors, he could make out a fifteen-metre conduit leading to an inner pressure door, big enough for the runabout to enter. Leonard skilfully guided the Hudson in.

Re Lorken tensely sat down in the co-pilot seat, pulling the ornate case onto her lap. Opening it, she retrieved several odd items: she placed a decorative headband over her blue-purple permed hair and discretely checked her wrist-mounted sensor bracelet to check the device on her head was recording efficiently then glanced at Leonard. The Lieutenant Commander appeared to have thought nothing of her actions; presumably not aware of the disguised security devices she carried with her, she noted silently.

Re Lorken reached a hand over to the communication panel, surprising Leonard. She paused at his reaction. "May I use your communicator?"

"Of course, Minister," Leonard was wondering whether she had been briefed on the layout of Starfleet controls or whether she had logically surmised the panel configuration.

"This is Minister Re Lorken aboard the Starfleet runabout Hudson," she licked her lips and waited.

A soft voice replied, "This is Security Minister At Arin, go ahead."

"We are now entering Storage Facility Orlega one, expected duration..." she turned to Leonard, brows raised.

"About four hours?" Leonard suggested - he had plenty of time before his leave ended.

Re Lorken blinked impassively. "Expected duration one hour."

"Acknowledged, Runabout Hudson, one hour from mark."

Leonard could feel his face flushing at the blatant put-down and wondered at the extra precaution of timing their visit. Re Lorken smiled that disconcerting expression again, "I have a busy schedule to keep, Commander."

As the Hudson came to a halt inside the small conduit, Leonard activated the external search beams. The door to the rear of the conduit automatically closed off the exit behind them and shortly after, the pressure door in front of them split apart. The conduit continued on for a short distance in front of them, then dropped away to either side, phasing out onto the floor of a significantly larger internal space, much like the inside of a Starfleet space dock. The lights of the runabout didn't have much effect penetrating the darkness, though Leonard just make out a very large, far off black object hanging in mid air beyond the widening gap before them. 'Some sort of starship?' Leonard asked himself.

As the doors disappeared further into their housings, the black shape in the distance got larger and larger. Leonard began to see it was indeed the outer hull of vessel before him; he identified vague portholes, the outline of hull panels beneath a strange, pitch-like surface. There were also more conventional windows, and a tiered section of upper decks. It was strangely built, a conglomerate of designs, and Leonard wanted to see more.

Manoeuvring thrusters only, Leonard guided the runabout out of the conduit into the open space. Instantly he became aware there was more than just one ship here - many more, in fact, all suspended high above the hangar floor. Suddenly, small spotlights winked on high up in the roof as the runabout skimmed slowly across the floor, causing Re Lorken to gasp. The ineffective light cast myriad shadows off the hangar's many contents.

"We must have tripped some sort of automatic power-up sequence," Leonard guessed.

The hangar reminded Leonard of one of the holoprograms Winston Winston used to play repeatedly in RnR-time. It was the one based on the 20th century futuristic genre celluloid entertainment film called "Alien". This hanger was probably bigger than the inside of the alien vessel in that film, but equally felt like massive caverns carved out of fossilised material such were the materials that made up the Orlega One facility. The walls, floor and ceiling were of ornate design, the space twisting off in other directions hundreds of metres distant.

Here, though, there were not thousands of eggs, but rather hundreds of vessels suspended in the vacuum of the hangar. They were of many designs, all unfamiliar, and in various states of disrepair. Looking down, Leonard was faced with indiscernible readings as the runabout sensors were bounced around off the alien hulls. At least there were no signs of alien life, he thought.

The biggest object in view seemed to be this black, glistening hull in front of them that swept off to either side for hundreds of metres and upwards for many decks - it was massive - long and almost cylindrical in shape.

Using conventional viewer enhancers, Leonard traced along the hull, noticing some of its more recent fate - large pockmarks and the odd breach that had been covered up with what looked like makeshift panelling. He guessed the damage must have been uncomfortable for the crew at the time. There was similar patching where external devices had been removed - this old bird had certainly been through the wars, Leonard thought. High above the aft to his right, Leonard could make out a stepped turret, presumably housed on her top deck that, taking into account the logic behind the design, would probably be flat.

Then it dawned on him. He couldn't believe it, but having a passion for famous and infamous spacecraft of the past, Leonard knew exactly what she was, though he couldn't believe it. Aside from its strange shape and unfamiliar black coating - and its lack of apparent warp nacelles - which had at first thrown him, the overall shape and design was unmistakable.

"I believe this is a Federation ship, Re Lorken," Leonard was excited but astounded. He eagerly punched up the onboard Starfleet database. "The SS Fantasy, formerly a luxury passenger liner ... succession of owners ... last listed as the property of the Genoise Proprietary, a legitimate business believed funded by the Orion Syndicate. Her final position was logged in Federation territory, near to New Fabrinia while making deliveries of various goods to the Federation's Historical Preservation Depot on Verigan 6. It never arrived, listed as lost without trace."

"Fascinating," the Minister was clearly bemused. Leonard took another general look about the hanger walls again; there was something not quite right.

"Am I mistaken, or is the architecture here different to that which I have seen around Helub and on Vekaria?" despite reservations, Leonard noted the efficient power supply lines and uniform yet organic design of the structure.

"No," Re Lorken stood and gave a slow visual scan of the surroundings, "you are not mistaken. This was built by the K'Tani."

Leonard had begun to think as much by Re Lorken's actions and words. He supposed that being here was no worse than being aboard Deep Space 9 after the Cardassians had left.

Re Lorken picked up an archive report and read from it. "After we had secured Helub for safe habitation following the final defeat of the K'Tani at Merova, Qovakian security carried out a rapid and extensive reconnaissance of all facilities. This one was visited twice, once to ensure its safety, and another to carry out an inventory check. It was deemed low priority in the general scheme of things to be done, and in fact..." Re Lorken checked her own files again, "...it is not due for a thorough examination for another seven months, by your chronology. "

Leonard didn't quite understand this and Re Lorken added; "We've been very busy."

The runabout squeaked a warning causing them both to jump. Leonard checked the flashing readout on his sensor and tactical panels.

"A force field is forming above us, underneath the spacecraft stored here. It's covering the entire complex. Now an atmosphere and gravity envelope underneath," Leonard compensated his flight controls accordingly, "another automated system. It seems that from ground level to ten metres there are habitable conditions. Above it's still zero g and vacuum, perfect for storing space fare. Now that's fascinating."

Leonard steered the runabout along the floor of the cavernous hanger until he came to one of several groins protruding from the inner most walls. He located a doorway, presumably leading to control and administration rooms and, he hoped, engineering rooms. He lowered the runabout and cut engines, then following standard procedure, opened a hailing frequency to the temporary Starfleet Command Headquarters in the spaceport.

"Commander Leonard to Starfleet Headquarters, may I speak with Commodore Jackson?" Static replied. Leonard ran an analysis. "Strange. The structure is causing unusual communications interference."

Re Lorken nodded, "The K'Tani experimented with a variety of new materials to shield themselves from sensors and block communications without the use of energy fields. Some of their constructions could cause sensor interference or reflect communications."

"The K'Tani were powerful AND hard to find? I'm beginning to be amazed at their defeat," Leonard made some mental comparisons to the Romulans - theirs was a military culture, too. He called a Yellow Alert in his head. "I want to take a look around, care to join me?"

Re Lorken froze in her seat. "I don't think it would be safe, Leonard. Surely a visual survey from your ship will suffice?"

"You'll be fine," Leonard clipped a phaser and tricorder to his belt, smiling sweetly. "You said yourself this place was cleared as secure and has been abandoned for years. Besides, " Leonard offered a hand, "I will need your help in analysing anything I might find."

Reluctantly Re Lorken took his large, strong-fingered hand. It was her duty to go anyhow, so she had no choice.

Leonard and his tricorder were as one when the runabout outer door retracted. Stepping out into the oxygen rich atmosphere made Re Lorken reel slightly. "Oh, my!"

Leonard steadied her, and then reached back inside the runabout grabbing a small medical kit. He retrieved a hypo and selected the appropriate solution cartridge.

"Here," he injected himself then Re Lorken, "this should help compensate for the high oxygen atmosphere."

"Thank you, Ottmar," the Minister was putting a brave face on the situation, Leonard could tell. Something was scaring the wits out of her.

Standing underneath the multifarious vehicles, the hangar seemed even vaster now. The multi-recessed roof was hundreds of metres high, though the aspect was difficult to see. Leonard walked to the inner hatch on the groin, scanning all the time and running routine analysis in his head, but Re Lorken did not follow him. Something else had grabbed her attention and pulled her in the opposite direction.

Nearing the access, Leonard turned, sweeping his tricorder in a 360-degree arc. Readings were still indeterminate, though he could eyeball cable connections and some personnel gangways attached to some of the vessels, including the SS Fantasy. Re Lorken had stopped some distance away, staring at something on the ground.

Leonard decided to leave her alone, thinking this could be a difficult moment for her. He paced over to beneath the Fantasy, looking up at her enormous bulk safely parked above. He noted the many large bay doors along the port and starboard underside. These would have accommodated passenger vehicles during its many voyages, Leonard recalled, as well as providing egress for the liner's own launches. The tar-like surface covering the ship was not part of its original design, however. In its day, the liner had been a gleaming white, like a space bound albino whale of gargantuan proportions. The surface had obviously been applied later, and appeared to have similar properties to the hangar walls as the tricorder readings were unclear. He would have to wait for a closer analysis.

Turning around, he saw Re Lorken had not moved, her eyes fixed on the floor. Tricorder still running, he jogged over to where she stood, head hung low. As he slowed, he saw something sticking out of the ground in front of her - a large piece of colourful cloth, charred and ripped at the edges had been staked to the thick metal floor by a long, elegant, ornately carved spear. It was the strangest site. The cloth reminded Leonard of a flag design, though the curves, lines and ellipses that made up the design were unfamiliar. The spear appeared older, intricately carved with strange creatures, and apparently made out of wood.

The scene before them was symbolic to say the least.

"What is it?" Leonard saw that Re Lorken had removed her headband and dropped it to the floor. She looked distraught.

She whispered: "It is the K'Tani flag of Invasion. It flies wherever they claim ownership."

Leonard scanned the objects with his tricorder. "I know this flag may look old, Minister, but if these readings are correct the flag was manufactured less than a month ago."

Re Lorken didn't react. Instinctively, Leonard drew his phaser and scanned once more for life forms. He continued his analysis; "The spear is much older, perhaps several hundred years I'd say. Amazing, although the spear is made of a sufficiently hard metal, there are traces of humanoid tissue imbedded in part of the surface at an angle concurrent with the trajectory of impact." He translated in plain language; "It's as if the spear was thrust into two inches of solid metal floor by a human hand."

Re Lorken face was colourless and she remained silent. Leonard was trying to work it out. "Minister, is the spear K'Tani as well?"

Re Lorken shuddered. "No," she murmured, "it is a Challenge Stick, a symbol of retribution used by the Ore."

EP1 ACT 1

SECTOR KAPPA NINE NINE SIX OF FREE TERRITORY, FORMERLY THOLIAN SPACE IN THE ALPHA QUADRANT

A larger than average Ferengi Pod, bronze-burnished and dripping with tacky add-ons, pumped a steady warp two through the new Free Territory bordering Tholian space.

In its tiny lower deck, amid an oil and orange hued excuse of a cabin, a handsome thirty something Starfleet officer slept obliviously as a slender, bony hand reached through the open hatch and extracted his personal holdall. The name badge stamped onto the holdall read 'Christian, S.L.I., Commander', though there were heavy scratch marks over the last word. In the low bunk, the officer shifted slightly, pulling the threadbare rug across his back, his stupor restless but deep.

Inside Christian's mind, he dreamt of the fateful celebration that had taken place only a month ago. He hadn't been there in person, though had intended to be - an incident with the Cardassians saw to that. Because of this, he had missed his parents' celebratory 8000th performance, suitably acted out upon the infamous stage of the Theatre Imperial in Jeuneaux, capitol of the New Paris Colony of Napoleon, where the two had first met.

On the grand and cavernous mock-Broadway style stage, the post-performance party was swinging, with pulsing party lights and music, but Christian was puzzled as to why he was here. He reminded himself this was only a dream, and felt sick at the thought of what was to come. He wanted to leave, to wake up, but he couldn't. As he thought of escape, Counsellor Skorran appeared beside him. The Deltan's very appearance was soothing, but his words were firm:

"Don't resist your dreams, Commander, they are your unconscious path to peace."

He'd said as much to Christian back aboard the USS Venture. But the words didn't help him then or now. He was perspiring, heart racing, his parents were nowhere to be seen and he felt the urgent need to find them. There were Starfleet top brass mingling about the stage area, along with several Federation dignitaries visiting the colony, actors, dancers and crew, some of whom Christian had known since he was a boy accompanying his parents' troupe on their tours. As he pushed through the crowd he overheard snippets of conversation complementing his parents' performance:

"Their choice to perform The Taming of The Shrew on their Anniversary was quite aptly an 'omage to their wildly turbulent courtship."

"With two such elderly actors playing the leading roles, it gave the play a whole new edge, don't you think?"

"Have you seen the Christians' Anthony and Cleopatra? It's truly primal."

"Do you remember that time they did 'The Shrew on Vulcan? Talk about over their heads." Much laughter at this.

Pushing through a clump of alien musicians, chattering and clucking to each other between sets, Christian finally found his parents, holding hands as usual and politely holding court. They were delighted to see him:

"Son, you made it. We thought you were stuck on your ship, light years away."

"How's my favourite Executive Officer? Not got himself a Woman or a Ship of his own yet, I see."

Christian laughed, his parents were very fond of him, and he missed them when he was away for too long. Ordinarily he would have thought of a witty response, but again reminded himself that this was only a dream, and he was merely an observer.

Suddenly, behind his parents, a blue-white flash of electrical discharge was followed by a single scream and much scuffling. The crowd parted quickly, and Christian saw a steel blue Medusan casket laying broken on the charred wooden boards of the stage, energy crackling about its main systems and a very obvious gash in its casing. His parents stood motionless, staring at the now twinkling casket as the crowds, shielding their eyes, fled into the wings in blind panic.

Silently, a figure dressed in black from head to toe came out of the stage floor in front of Christian, blocking his view. Before he could respond, or move the strange character out of the way, the faceless figure seized him by the shoulders and dragged him off the stage and into the auditorium. His parents began to scream, but didn't move. Christian couldn't stop his legs from moving back, and his mouth was an open vacuum of empty sound as he got further away from his parents standing alone on the stage. The Medusan entity began to seep from its casket, bright, sparkling with such intensity that the colour and light filled the entire house.

Christian's parents were now silent, rooted to the spot, unable to resist looking at the hideous energy creature. He tried to call out to them, but could only shed a single tear. His mother fell convulsing to the floor, and it was only her action that caused his father to wrench himself away, covering his eyes and swaying over his wife - driven mad by the Medusan effect.

Christian struggled against the shrouded figure, but the grip was unbreakable. He turned away from his father and looked into his assailant's black visage. As he stared into the figure's infinite face, still trying to wrestle free, tiny sparkles of Medusan energy appeared from within, crackling where its eyes should have been. Christian found the energy eyes irresistible, almost beautiful. But they did not affect him, as they should have. It seemed with this character the Medusan energy had no effect on him, as if the figure did not wish him harmed. Realising that his own mind wouldn't be taken, that he would not be joining his parents in their fate, Christian could only flop into the faceless figure's chest and sob at his loss.

Christian slowly came into consciousness, his clothes sodden from sweat and tears rolling down his cheeks. It had been another vicious nightmare. Counsellor Skorran had said they would continue to flourish until he had truly put the whole experience behind him, but that would take time. Counsellors were always so smugly accurate in their diagnosis, but living it, Christian felt, was another matter entirely.

Christian had tried hard to come to terms with the reality of what had happened to his parents, but he freely admitted to Skorran that he held much anger toward the Medusan delegation for their part in the 'accident'. He felt his loss could not be more unjustified. A badly maintained power regulator had caused a malfunction in the anti-grav of the casket. Coupled with the particular angle in which the casket fell, the faulty component had caused the power overload and the resulting explosion, which ruptured the casket releasing the unwitting alien.

His parents hadn't realised what had occurred until it was too late and they were mesmerised by the energy form of the Medusan. Christian's mother had died almost immediately. Metaphorically stated by the New Paris pathologist in his clearly apathetic coroner's log, her brain had been "fried to a crisp." That was yet more pain to add to his already gut-wrenching bereavement. Seeing security logs from the overhead sensors in the ceiling of the theatre's auditorium had helped Christian to acknowledge their deaths, but somehow, with them being on the stage like that, it had just seemed like another performance to him. The realisation that it had been real, the pain, the horror of it all, had come to him later, one night, when he had wandered the corridors of the Venture naked, asleep, and crying out for his parents. Embarrassment to add to his suffering. The thoughts continued to upset him when alone in bed at night.

Immediately after the incident, Christian's father had been transferred to the orbiting USS Intrepid where the Vulcan team of medics, said to be the best in the field of mental illness among Starfleet's medical personnel, spent three long days making their diagnosis. The Medusan entity, Korlan, had been safely retrieved from the theatre by automatons, and was reported devastated by the incident. Messages of condolence from Korlan via Medusan representatives on the Federation Council to Christian had later been returned unviewed. He had also filed an official complaint against the Medusan delegation and the technicians on the New Paris Colony responsible for maintaining their equipment. In truth, they were unsatisfying attempts at retribution on Christian's part. All he got in return were official reports as to what happened, and apologies from the parties involved with an indictment that such an incident would not happen again. Empty promises for his grief.

Although Christian, still aboard the Venture, had been informed of the incident and reviewed all the reports, the Cardassians continued to delay his flight to his father's aid. In his absence, the crew of the Intrepid continued to try and reach some part of his father's mind, even travelling to the permanent facility orbiting Medusa, where a seemingly ancient blind human telepath gave a more detailed assessment of his father's condition. The verdict: he was beyond disjointed - aware, but not able to communicate. There was nothing she in her infinite experience or anyone else could do.

By the time Christian finally made a rendezvous with the Intrepid on its return to the New Paris Colony, his father was comfortable, but held in restraints. Doctor K'Pa, CMO aboard the Intrepid, described his father's condition as being like standing on one side of a vast lake, only vaguely aware of what was on the other side, but unable to see it clearly, much less get there. In between were many veils of consciousness, each with their own imagery, causing his perceptions to be distorted. Physically speaking, his father was fully functional, could even perform certain reflex tasks to seeming perfection, but mentally he just wasn't all together.

On K'Pa's recommendation, a short leave of absence (for his own state of mind as much as anything) took Christian and his father to the planet Elba II. Christian was at first reluctant to put his father among criminally insane life forms from around the galaxy, but when he realised the secure facility holding the criminals was on the other side of the planet, he felt happier. Nine thousand kilometres away from the underground fortress, on the sheer face of a spectacular mountain with magnificent views, a huge care facility and research establishment had been constructed as a home for the mentally ill. It was somewhere for treatment and, in some cases, even cure. The nurses and doctors were excellent, many from the Starfleet Medical Corps, and having spent nearly two weeks on extended leave there, Christian felt comfortable leaving his father in their hands, and ready to return to active duty. His father's nurses promised to keep Christian informed on a weekly basis wherever possible and Christian found that reassuring.

During the last afternoon he spent on Elba II with his father, Christian received shocking new orders. Instead of returning to the USS Venture as Executive Officer, a post he had been in for only six months, he was to be transferred via Starbase 27 and the USS Enterprise to a command position aboard the Firefly, a science vessel currently assigned to the newly discovered Outer Zone. Out of the blue, he had made Captain. He cried as he told his father the good news, but all the old man could do was drool and manage a half smile. Before he left, Christian promised his father he would do his parents proud, and that he would return to visit him at the earliest opportunity.

The journey to Starbase 27 on the Runabout Solent had felt long and uneventful, giving Christian time to read up on the data gathered so far on Qovakia. As he waited on Starbase 27 for onward passage, Christian made several communiqués to his friends and to his father.

Aboard the USS Enterprise, Christian had only the briefest of meetings with Captain Picard, who congratulated him with a warm handshake and immediately proceeded to talk about Christian's unusual childhood and his own love of Shakespeare. Clearly Picard had fleetingly read Christian's resume and picked a subject to ease the flow of the meeting he was obliged to have with another of equal rank. Christian wished he had chosen another subject.

The conversation for some reason, perhaps because of the unusual setting, had brought Christian embarrassingly close to tears, reminding him of his parents, and he suspected Picard had realised a faux pas as he cut the meeting short. Counsellor Troi had dropped by his quarters repeatedly after that day to drag him away to a variety of events. Spending time with her was okay, but he preferred his women a little less ... emotional.

But Christian did have some quality time with La Forge one evening. Geordi had been his junior at the Engineering school by three years and was an equal in the field of warp theory. Christian had made the transfer from engineering to command just four years ago, and found himself missing his old engine rooms when hearing about La Forge's adventures.

Back in the humming, and spicy smelling cabin of the Pod, Christian rubbed his face and carefully rose to a crouch. Stepping through the small hatch into the closet-sized access corridor, he almost hit his head on the multifarious amounts of curious and mostly tasteless memorabilia strung up on the ceiling. Trophies and souvenirs of the owner's travels, no doubt. Something didn't feel right; he turned and looked through the hatch, noticing his holdall was missing. 'That damned Ferengi...' he thought.

Christian inwardly cursed for the umpteenth time in 48 hours. Not more than a day ago there he had been, reclining in the comfort of his resplendent temporary quarters aboard the Enterprise, reading up the specs on the small, but amazing Firefly science vessel and downloading the personnel files of his interesting new crew to his personal padd when an urgent priority reassignment of the Enterprise left Christian dumped onto the Starfleet Communications Relay at Epsilon XIV, transported there hurriedly and unceremoniously at near-warp.

The Relay now served a dual purpose, its original secondary function being as a border outpost. Now its subsidiary function was as regional base for Starfleet and local patrol vessels in and around the new inclusion zone. The base was light years from anywhere and weird looking. The communications array formed the largest part in the form of two hexagonal 'wings' attached to a central column tapered at either end. At one apex was a large, donut shaped module containing storage silos and secure holding cells and at the other, a clump of cube shaped modules containing administration and operations centres, accommodation and support services sections and, slung underneath, a refuelling and external repairs turret.

It was basic to say the least, and its personnel the isolationist, rugged types you tended to find opting for this remote kind of posting. Relay Commander Troppa didn't like Christian and didn't hide her feelings about it. She seemed against him from the moment he fell off the transporter, posting him the smallest and oldest of quarters next to the constantly whirring and 'plopping' reprocessing plant and being uncooperative concerning his onward passage to the Outer Zone. Perhaps it grated her that he had been granted a command at a relatively young age. Or maybe she didn't like humans, or Americans ... or men. Christian didn't much care, so pestered her office repeatedly for news concerning his transport.

Three long, head-splitting days later, in the middle of the night, Troppa had awoken him from a fitful sleep, saying she had managed to arrange his onward passage and would he meet her in the shuttle bay for immediate departure. Christian didn't stop to wash or put on underclothes, he pulled his uniform and boots on roughly and grabbed his holdall - he had refused the temptation to unpack, and took pleasure in hitting the shuttle deck less than two minutes after the Commander's message.

His suddenly woeful expression must have been amusing to Troppa. Looking at his onward carriage, he couldn't believe his eyes. An oversized Ferengi Pod, clearly double decked and clad in burnished bronze sat pointing towards space. The shuttle bay doors were housed, revealing the nebula beyond, a passive forcefield holding the bay atmosphere in place. The Commander was almost smiling as a security officer exited the turbolift and led a rough looking character with mad hair, handcuffed, and still half asleep towards them.

Christian saw that the offender had Ferengi parentage, though he looked more Human than he did Ferengi; a tall, thin man, with long, fine hair covering what head bumps might be there, and small lobes that swept into the man's temples without forming heavy ridges. His nose had faint markings where there would have normally been scaling, and he had almost piercing green eyes. Then the smell hit Christian, a heady aroma of stale alcohol, which matched this man's unkempt hair, unshaven face (this half Ferengi even had the makings of a beard - and was that chest hair Christian could see?) and wwell-stainedleather apparel. 'A man could not look more renegade if he tried', Christian thought.

As the security officer unbound the yawning, unfocussed man, the Commander had made a short speech:

"This is Rebbik, a ... 'trader' ... and pilot for hire in these parts. We brought him in on minor smuggling charges yesterday. You are in a hurry to reach the Outer Zone and I really can't be bothered with the paperwork for this felon, so I've decided to waiver his penalties on the condition that he ferry you through the Tholian wormhole to Qovakia." She turned on her heel to leave.

"In this?! But it could take days..." Christian almost pleaded.

The Commander paused only to smile slightly wider, "Three days, I reckon. But don't worry, you'll be quite safe. Bored, but quite safe ... Commander."

With that she had bounded out accompanied by her stooges. Christian flushed red. He had forgotten to put his extra pip on his uniform, leaving himself wide open to a departing jibe from Troppa. He turned to the strange man who grinned stupidly and offered his slightly shaking hand. Christian rolled his eyes, ignoring the offer of acquaintance and walked toward the pod's entrance, noticing the customisation Rebbik had made to his ... ship.

Rebbik was obviously very proud of his vessel, Christian thought, as for two hours after departure he constantly hammered on about all the close scrapes he had been in. Christian admitted to himself the man did seem to be a competent pilot, and certainly used his skill as a technician and engineer to customise what would have been a standard issue vessel into something far superior. Yet his constant bragging, most of which was probably vastly exaggerated, and the scratching, belching and farting forced Christian below; this was going to be a very long journey.

As Christian climbed the short ladder rungs toward the upper deck, he could hear Rebbik sniggering and coughing as he watched and listened to Christian's log entries from his personal padd relating to his recent weeks of trauma.

"Do you Mind?" Lunging into the cockpit area, Christian snatched the padd off the startled young man and kicked his legs off the vacant co-pilot seat. He noticed Rebbik had got most of the way through a bottle of Saurian brandy and was now frowning in inebriated annoyance.

"Hey, what you kick me for?" Rebbik was drunk all right, Christian thought.

"You," Christian fought for the words, knowing the man would only understand something basic in his state, "are ... in BIG trouble."

Rebbik paused, then his face contorted into almost painful hysterics, ones that wouldn't stop for a minute or two.

"Oh, jeez.." Christian murmured to himself and cast his eyes upward in defeat. But there was no relief there as pictures of naked couples in a variety of explicit poses filled his vision. He closed his eyes in controlled disgust, seemingly making Rebbik ha and haw even more.

Rebbik continued to splutter and choke for breath, before shaking his head and quietening down, "Man, you make me laugh. Oh, dear..."

As Rebbik wiped a tear, Christian frowned at the readings he had begun analysing on the pod's flight control panel. He hit a few buttons for confirmation, causing Rebbik to become agitated.

"You idiot!" Christian couldn't believe it; "We're light years off course and ... oh my God, we're in Tholian territory!"

"No, no no," Rebbik smiled again, shaking his head, "you mean we're in free territory that USED to be Tholian space."

"No, I mean you're the worst pilot I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."

Rebbik needed no further prompting as his eyes checked the readouts. Spurting out a particularly descriptive curse in Ferengi he was a crazed man over the flight controls, flipping the pod on its side as he turned it around in a sharp arc and headed back toward free space at maximum warp.

A warning chirp worried Christian. "Don't tell me..."

"Ah," Rebbik's hands were lightening fast with the familiarity of his ship's systems, but still the man found the courage to play down the situation, "just a couple of Tholian patrol vessels. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh, great," Christian slumped back in his seat, folding his arms. He waited a couple of heartbeats, a seeming eternity as Rebbik floored the accelerator and kept the ship steady on course. The warning signal chirped again. And again. And again. Christian couldn't take it any longer; "Time to free space?"

"Ah... just two minutes," Rebbik tapped a couple of buttons, "and before you ask, they'll be within firing range in about one and a half." Although his voice seemed clear and controlled, Christian could see the man had begun to perspire. Christian had been in a similar situation twice before, once aboard the Shuttlecraft Panama in battle simulations around Saturn's rings, and once aboard a Lethean scoutship in the Neutral Zone. In both cases the ships were in dire situations and in both cases his actions to either take control or assist the pilots in their work had done nothing more than interrupt their concentration and cause more problems and tension. Christian had vowed not to interfere a third time.

Christian sat on his hands as his tension rose, and couldn't help make a suggestion. "Open a channel to them," he said.

Rebbik scoffed; "You know they won't listen."

"Just do it!" Christian was tensing up and took a deep breath to relax. "We should at least try, stall for time."

Rebbik hit the auto transmit but it wasn't acknowledged. "Think about it, we're running away from them well inside their borders! I don't think stalling for time is an option." Though that gave Rebbik an idea.

Christian had sat forward now, hands gripping the console but resisting the temptation to operate controls, mulling over their limited options. A panel flashed red in front of him.

"They're trying to lock weapons," Christian reported.

Rebbik was still calm, but busy, which seemed more than a little strange to Christian; "I'm going to try something."

As the half-Ferengi brought several redundant systems on-line, Christian watched, trying to follow his actions to work out what he intended to do. It seemed Rebbik was setting the structural integrity field for a big overload, and the engines to reinitialise at emergency speed after stalling.

"Er... is that such a good idea?" Christian knew that when performing such a dangerous manoeuvre in anything less than a Starfleet ship it was touch and go whether the inertial dampners would come on-line before the vessel jumped to warp.

Rebbik ignored his question and activated the rear viewer on the panel below Christian; "Tell me when they fire their torpedoes."

Christian looked at the man beside him in disbelief, then at the viewer in front of him as the images of the arrowhead shaped ships closed in. He was conscious of swallowing hard. Suddenly there was a flash from each vessel. "Torpedoes away!" Christian shouted.

"Hang on!" Rebbik throttled back and spun the Pod into a tight reverse corkscrew, cutting engines. The ship gave a deafening groan and systems popped and sparked all around them. Both missiles overshot their target and exploded into two balls of energy webbing a few hundred metres in front of them. The Pod's systems flickered back on line. The Tholians had to swerve to avoid collision with the Pod, giving Rebbik just enough time to jump to warp. In less than a minute, and in one piece, they were finally out of range and in free space.

When they were safely over the border and sure of no pursuers, Rebbik slowed the pod to a halt. "Don't tell me, I know. That was really stupid."

"Actually," Christian was still aware of the man's inebriation, even if he was more alert now and pumped with adrenalin, "that was an act of war. We're damned lucky we weren't blown into space dust."

"I suppose you are going to report me for this?" Rebbik seemed pathetic to Christian in this state.

Christian laughed at the man's incredulity. "What do you think?" Christian held back his anger, despite the urge to pop him one. But he knew damn well that he couldn't report Rebbik for the incursion without facing a reprimand of his own. As far as Starfleet regulations went, simply by being on board he would be considered an accessory to the incident. Then again, he thought, he didn't have to let Rebbik know that. Finally he felt it was time to take charge.

"I'm laying in a revised course for the wormhole. Taking in our minor detour, we should be there in ..." Christian slumped, "... about sixteen hours."

Christian reached across in front of the tense man as he entered instructions into the pilot's console and realised for the first time that Rebbik was probably only a few years younger than himself. "Why don't you go below and sober up," he suggested.

Rebbik didn't answer, but nodded. He stood and ducked back through the hatch toward the galley and head in the rear. He stopped on the other side of the hatch to say, "For what it's worth, I'm... ah... I'm sorry, Captain."

Christian suddenly realised he still hadn't put his extra pip onto his uniform. Rebbik must have discovered he had been promoted through reading his padd and he thought it odd that this character would be apologising - much less give recognition to his official rank. 'Must be the Human in him,' thought Christian, 'that or the Saurian brandy, of course.'

* * *

STORAGE FACILITY ORLEGA ONE, HELUB, 16:30 hours

"Re Lorken, did you hear me? I said who are the Ore?" Leonard wasn't sure who Re Lorken was most afraid of, the K'Tani or these Ore people. The Minister just shook her head, staring into the air.

"We should leave," she said suddenly and picked up her headband, turning toward the runabout.

Leonard tried to prise the spear out of the floor to take it and the flag back with him for further analysis, but it was wedged tight. He heard Re Lorken gasp aloud and turned to see what the problem was now. She had stopped dead in her tracks only a few paces away. Beyond the spot where she stood, the hangar floor was empty as far as he could see. The runabout had gone.

STORAGE FACILITY ORLEGA ONE, HELUB, 16:31 hours

A brief moment of disbelief later, Leonard was using his tricorder to find out what happened. Interference from the multifarious space vehicles and the structure around them made his analysis impossible. He tapped his comm. badge instead; "Leonard to Runabout Hudson."

Static replied, and he snapped his tricorder shut in frustration. Moving to her side, he could see Re Lorken was shaking. He looked all around and above, trying to eyeball the runabout or some movement within the hangar, but there was nothing except the hundreds of ships suspended in silence.

"Where the hell is she?" Leonard was more puzzled than afraid.

Re Lorken turned her head as if listening. Leonard followed her eye line but couldn't see anything.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"Nothing," she smiled vaguely. "We should seek an alternative means to return to the port, Ottmar."

"But shouldn't we wait here? You told your security people you would only be an hour - I assume if they don't hear from you they will come out here to find us," Leonard also considered this an opportunity to take a closer look at the Fantasy.

Re Lorken faced him, it seemed she had composed herself once more. "We should not remain here any longer than necessary. There should be a number of anti-grav platforms in a transport conduit under this complex. They will provide slow but safe passage back to Helub." Leonard pouted his lower lip, wondering how she knew this, but she anticipated his reaction. "I saw it on the plans."

Leonard was still searching the endless shadows of the hangar. "That could take a while, Minister. But I don't understand how the runabout could have just disappeared ... unless there's a temporal anomaly of some kind in here." He recalibrated the tricorder with new enthusiasm.

Re Lorken raised an eyebrow. "No, I don't think it's anything as far fetched as that."

She was right. There were no identifiable temporal anomalies here. Leonard began to distrust this ageing politician. "Are you keeping something from me, Minister? Do you know what happened to the runabout?"

Re Lorken stepped close to him. "If we leave now we should get to the outer perimeter of the Space Port by evening. I should be able to communicate with security once we're beyond this structure." She walked toward the doorway leading to the complex beyond, and presumably the way down.

Leonard took a final look around the hanger, at the spear and flag, and then decided to stand his ground. "No, until you give me some straight answers I'm not going anywhere."

But Re Lorken was indifferent, calling over her shoulder "As you wish." She opened the door and entered the complex, leaving a flabbergasted Leonard behind.

* * *

USS FIREFLY, ON ASSIGNMENT IN NEW QOVAKIA SPACE, 19:00 hours

In the dim light of the evening shift, the bridge crew silently carried out their duties. The doors to the turbolift hissed open to reveal a sweaty middle-aged woman dressed neck to boot in quilted, figure hugging midnight blue.

Duty Officer Lieutenant Sarilev jolted everyone to attention; "Captain on the bridge."

"Good evening, ladies," Commander Vancek exited the turbolift and walked down to the command chair. Sarilev stepped aside and made for the vacant science stations to the rear of the bridge as Vancek watched her go; "And that's Acting Captain, Lieutenant."

"Whatever..." the inappropriate whispered reply to her old friend made Vancek snigger.

The Commander flopped down into the command chair. It had been a particularly demanding game of Ferisi Squares on the holodeck, but she felt truly alive.

The female officers on the bridge turned and smiled at their cheerful Acting Captain.

"I take it you won, Sir?" Ensign Shirley Braxton smiled from her conn station.

"And then some!" Vancek quipped, wallowing in self-adulation.

"Captain," Lieutenant Sarilev, now serious, called over from science station four, "long range sensors are detecting multiple magnetic storms erupting throughout the quadrant."

"On screen," Vancek didn't want to walk all the way over to the readout panel; she was too comfortable where she sat.

The star field on the main display changed to a three dimensional representation of the quadrant - this new class of science vessel utilised holographic stellar cartography technology on the bridge itself.

The map displayed the newly established Tholian border sweeping across the background. Just in front of it was a grey area indicating the free space containing the wormhole. Before this, in the foreground, were the nine grid squares showing the clusters of stars that made up Qovakia's union. Empty grid spaces on the borders represented the as yet uncharted sectors of the Outer Zone. Small, fizzling graphic effects began to appear all over the chart both in and around Qovakia. There must have been at least a hundred storms.

"There are so many ... are they a natural phenomenon?" Vancek asked.

Sarilev cross-referenced readings with the Qovakian database recently downloaded to the Firefly's computer core. "They are not uncommon in the Outer Zone, particularly surrounding wormholes or other spatial disturbance where electromagnetic activity is high. But in all my years of service I've never heard of so many appearing at once. That's odd," Sarilev tapped at her controls twice. "The Qovakian database contains references to magnetic storms, but no detail."

"Display the storm nearest to our position," Vancek ordered, sitting forward with her elbows on her knees.

The holographic display morphed forward into the Qovakia sectors, showing the thousands of various type stars there. The image continued to zoom in until it reached the desired magnification showing the former border of Tholian space close up. The Firefly was traversing it - one of the first requests from the Qovakians had been Starfleet's assistance in making a thorough reconnaissance of the new free space. The Firefly had therefore been mapping and gathering data for the past three days while awaiting its new commanding officer.

The map showed the small Starfleet insignia, ship's name and registry representing the Firefly's position, slowing moving at sub-light speed from left to right across the screen. There were no planets or stars nearby - though the entire area was covered in vast asteroid fields. One storm had erupted in their direct path on the outskirts of the asteroid field close to the Tholian border, between the wormhole and Vekaria.

The wormhole, Vancek guessed, was still several hours away at maximum warp. "Inform Starfleet Headquarters we are continuing on course toward the magnetic storm nearest to the wormhole for a closer analysis," Vancek said.

"Aye, Sir," Ensign Crosby, communications specialist grabbed Vancek's speech part from the live log for relay and opened a channel to Starfleet.

Suppressing a yawn, Vancek walked over to Ensign Braxton. "Lay in a course for the storm, Shirley, Warp 4."

Braxton had grown accustomed to the Commander's non-regulation familiarity. It made the intimacy of such a small ship more bearable. "Course laid in, sir. Estimated time of arrival ... three hours, fifty one minutes."

Crosby shifted in her seat. The storms had begun to cause slight interference to subspace communications. She recalibrated the signal and finally got through. On pinging with the Headquarters based on Helub, a stream of communications flooded back down the comm line. "Captain, I'm receiving an update on the fleet's space chatter for the last few hours."

Vancek heaved herself up the few steps toward the turbolift with a slight groan. Lieutenant Commander Stryker had really taken it out of her. "Relay all non-classified communiqués to the senior officers, I'm off for a shower."

On the way to her quarters, Vancek slumped dog-tired against the walls of the turbolift and wondered what it would be like to have the only man amongst a command team of women sitting in the centre seat from tomorrow. Having come aboard as First Officer herself, Vancek's immediate promotion to Acting Captain had been a pleasant surprise and the experience more than a little enjoyable. She had built up an immediate rapport with the rest of the crew, but hoped she hadn't overstepped the mark in terms of familiarity with her senior officers. It could be difficult for Christian to join in.

"Krishnamurti to Vancek," the relayed commlink from one of the science heads jolted her eyes wide.

"Vancek here. What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Sarilev tells me we're about to investigate one of many unusual magnetic storms that have just appeared around Qovakia," her voice conveyed more than a little concern. "You better check Starfleet space chatter. You'll see the Craybourne reported one such storm appearing in their vicinity almost an hour ago - HQ hasn't been able to raise them since."

Vancek recalled that the Craybourne was a Steamrunner class vessel, crewed by the team that was so successful aboard the USS Preston until it was trashed in the conflict with the Borg almost a year ago. She had been friends with Bretton and Leung, the surviving tactical and operations officers, and knew them both to be cautious, mature officers.

"Computer, halt!" Vancek put hands on hips and thought for a moment. "Krishy, call all senior officers to the briefing room immediately."

"Aye, sir." In the comfort of her small quarters, Krishnamurti turned back to her divining board and slapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

Back inside the small turbolift, Vancek had re-routed her journey back to the bridge. Before the doors had fully opened, she called out to Sarilev "Lieutenant, call the crew to duty stations and sound yellow alert."

* * *

DESIGNATED VISITOR AREA 13, HELUB SPACE PORT, 20:30 hours

Beneath Helub's Old Fortress, basically a chunk two square kilometres by twenty-five levels designated as Visitor Area 13, the Space Port of Helub spilled out for thousands of kilometres and hundreds of levels still deeper. Here, a thriving civilisation had existed for generations - through both peacetime and military occupation. Most Vekarians now lived and worked on the spaceport - a mere 22 million still lived their daily lives in the natural air of the lush planet below.

In the depths of the space station, within the deep rock of the moon, the cavernous docking areas were interlinked like a multi-spoked wheel by enormous conduits that ran for thousands of kilometres. Huge, man-made tunnels, they were capable of allowing up to four lanes of heavy cruiser traffic at any one time if necessary - though they mostly carried internal transports as goods and people were shifted from one area of the port to another as interstellar transactions took place. Off the main conduits, the labyrinthine transit tunnels spilled off to smaller marinas and private berths, and even narrower transport tubes, some with passive force fields containing pressurised jetties and dry docks for easy humanoid access.

Wedged between the mostly transient areas of the spaceward edifices crammed together on the surface and the transportation and docking levels far below, a slab averaging around four hundred levels contained the main living and administrative facilities of Helub. It was a multi-megalopolis split into many and varying districts of industry, corporate headquarters, accommodation zones, parks, shopping facilities and an inordinate number of leisure and entertainment areas.

In one such pleasure area, within a small bar off an off ramp from a subway leading to the local inner ring corridor (colloquially referred to by the arriving Terrans as 'the Mall'), some fortunate Starfleet officers had managed to sniff out the conducive atmosphere of a taverna-like establishment.

The bar, in fact, was sited directly across the corridor from one of hundreds of maintenance access shafts that latticed through the structure of the port. This particular one backed onto the multileveled Fortress assigned to official Federation and Starfleet Visitors. For the past few weeks, then, the shaft had provided unofficial but easy access for off-duty staff to slip straight out of the back door of Starfleet HQ and into the intimate bar across the way.

Fiery redhead Lieutenant O'Hara sat with her fellow officers in one of the window booths, watching Qovakian citizens go by, and took another swig of the strange purple liquid. She gave Lieutenant Mellors a sideways glance and sniffed at the drink again.

"Are you sure this is just fruit juice?" she screwed up her nose and gave it back to Lieutenant Gravant.

"That's what the guy said," Mellors smiled, and drained the remaining ale from his own glass. The burly security Lieutenants Jackson and Japell smiled and followed suit.

"It most definitely is more than just fruit juice," Gravant shook her head in conclusion, but continued to drink it all the same.

Gravant was O'Hara's charge for the evening because she hated going out without a female companion by her side. Ever since her antics of hanging around exclusively male cadets had caused much whispering at the Academy she made sure the false reputation had stopped there. So junior Lt Gravant had become the unwitting sidekick for tonight. She clearly wasn't much of a drinker, and O'Hara wondered if she would last the course of the evening.

"Your round, I believe, Nurse," Jackson smiled wickedly and swept the empty glasses toward her with his large hands.

O'Hara couldn't help react to the use of the word 'nurse' (she was practically an MD in her final year of study) and wouldn't miss the opportunity for a return dig at the handsome man. "You are SO the son of your mother, aren't you?"

The others giggled. "Don't knock my mother, Lieutenant," his eyes glinted; "you may regret it."

O'Hara turned to Japell and Mellors, mouth agape in pretend astonishment, but she clearly didn't feel at all threatened. If anything, there was an air of flirtation about her.

Gravant suddenly roared with laughter, a little too loud, urging O'Hara quickly toward the bar. As she stood waiting to be served, she noticed through the entrance to her left that a heavily shrouded figure was hanging around the maintenance doorway to the Fortress, just across the way. O'Hara couldn't see what race or nationality, but guessed it was a young woman by the general stance and shape. As she thought of mentioning it to her security colleagues, a scuffle broke out in the bar to her right.

It was over by the time she saw the unlikely perpetrators - traveller types with well-worn faces and expressions of hardship and woe. They quickly gathered their belongings and stormed out of the bar.

The bartender caught O'Hara's eye; "What'll it be, miss?"

"Two ales -no, make that three ales and another, what was it, Darkiller Berry Punch?" O'Hara noticed the locals where the scuffle had occurred were huddled in intent discussion.

The bartender was smiling, watching Gravant flailing her arms about as she relayed an amusing story to the three deadpan faced men. O'Hara gritted her teeth, but the bartender nodded toward her table. "Don't worry, I'll add a shot of Disahol to her drink. The more she sups, the more sober she'll become."

"Thanks," O'Hara was amazed that the bartender had a supply of the drug.

As he added it to the purple liquid, the barkeeper thumbed upwards. "Your Commodore up there personally told me to keep this bottle on hand for any of you Starfleet types who start getting the worse for ware."

O'Hara looked over at Lt Jackson - she decided he would probably oblivious to his mother's actions. Personally she felt insulted (if a little amused) by the direct action of the commanding officer of the Starfleet base above. "Did she, now?" As golden liquid was poured into the long cylindrical glasses, O'Hara glanced over to the now louder discussion going on among the locals. "What's going on?"

The bartender shook his head. "The things people get upset about..." One glass was frothy-full.

"What?" O'Hara urged.

"Oh, just some rumour. Well, not just any old rumour, it's a rumour I've heard many times, actually. But people have begun to talk a lot about it, recently. Perhaps it's because of the new era we're entering with you people from the Other Side," he smiled broadly at her as another glass of ale slopped down beside the first. O'Hara found this form of manual service quaint, but unpredictable. Give her a replicator-assisted service every time.

"What? What rumour?" O'Hara was verging on pissed at the round-the-houses answer she was getting.

"That the K'Tani are coming back," the bartender said it matter-of-factly, but clearly didn't believe it himself.

"The people who were overthrown from power a few years ago?" O'Hara asked.

Like all Starfleet personnel arriving on Vekaria, she had received a scant briefing on the people and culture of Qovakia and its main points in history. Qovakians had been likened to the Bajorans in their state of affairs just after the Cardassians withdrew, but their personalities were more a combination of 21st Century frontier Terran and 9th Dynasty Ferengi. Historical studies had never been O'Hara's strong point, and the facts had become blurred.

"Overthrown?" the barkeep slopped the last glass down. "Well, you could put it like that, I suppose."

"Why would they be so convinced the K'Tani were coming back?" O'Hara handed over a few notes (too many, but the bartender skilfully pretended not to notice). "We've heard nothing to that effect."

"Because a few days ago apparently their fleet was spotted, out in the far quarters," the bartender said. "Don't ask me by who, because no-one seems to know. No one ever seems to know. I think it's the merchants on Melndis spreading these rumours, myself. Ever since the K'Tani left Helub, our rivals' trade has plummeted." The bartender raised a calming hand to an almost hoarse Vekarian sluice cleaner who had been hollering for his attention for the last minute or so. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you," O'Hara thought for a moment, remembering overhearing that Melndis was a free port, smaller than Helub, but which had been less affected by the K'Tani occupation. They were now trying to tempt traders back by wild offers of hospitality and had even suggested building Starfleet a regional HQ there. This sounded to O'Hara like a good offer considering the cramped space and crazy lifestyle on Helub.

As she walked back to the table carefully balancing the drinks, O'Hara glanced through the taverna's glass wall to the maintenance door. The figure had now gone, so she put the incident down to her own suspicious nature. O'Hara sat down and handed the drinks around, guiding the freshly filled antidote drink safely to the lips of a violently hiccupping Gravant. As the boys opposite chuckled amongst themselves, she caught Jackson's eye, noticing it carried that lustful look again.

* * *

STARFLEET HEADQUARTERS, LEVEL 27, STORAGE ROOM 223, 20:55 hours

The Starfleet engineer snapped his toolbox shut, scratched his crotch, broke wind and began the long climb up the ladder to the complex above. He muttered to himself his options for the evening as he disappeared through the hole in the ceiling, failing to notice the figure hiding in the shadows behind a clump of pipes in the corner of the storage room below.

Hedrik breathed a heavy sigh and wiped the perspiration from her brow. A full fifteen minutes that idiot had taken to repair a faulty circuit, she thought. Flipping back her hood with gloved hands, she flexed her tensed muscles and stepped cautiously into the dim light of the storage room, glancing up to the maintenance ladder. There was no sight or sound of the now off-duty worker.

Most of the room in which she stood was occupied by a caged area, only about five metres square and twice as many high, but within it was the means for making a lot of money. Hedrik walked around the sides of the storage cage, noting the clearly labelled Starfleet contents and adding up the expected values of each in her head as she did.

She was a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Her face smooth and well- proportioned, green skin forming high cheekbones, strong chin and full mouth. Her dark hair was tinged green rather than red, and tied back in a tight bun. Hedrik was in her mid-twenties, though her emerald eyes belied the seeming innocence of age and beauty. This was a person who had endured more experiences than a woman of her age should have. But as a native Orion female, her life was already laid out before her when still within her mother's womb. The only difference was, Hedrik didn't ever buy into it.

Many times in her relatively short childhood Hedrik had nearly escaped the clutches of the Orion Syndicate member who owned her. (The syndicate still marketed its women efficiently and ruthlessly, albeit illegally and unknown to most.) As she got older, Hedrik had even managed to stay away for longer periods - almost a year on one occasion, but each time the Syndicate had managed to catch up with her, and return her to the Orion moon, which was both her home and her prison.

She was sure that were it not for her natural beauty (and quick wit), she would have been terminated as faulty, unreliable ... uncooperative goods. When Starfleet moved into Deep Space 9, Hedrik saw the Gamma Quadrant as her salvation. In her mid-teens, she hadn't tried to escape for some time, waiting for the right moment. This, she thought, would surely be it.

An easily persuaded passing Moropan trader provided safe passage as far as DS3, but unfortunately for Hedrik, trouble between the Federation and the Orions had flared up. DS9 was now out of bounds for her. So she had begun to live her life moving frequently from place to place, earning just enough money to pay people for their silence or their protection, and constantly looking over her shoulder.

Aside from the more traditional form of employment for an Orion female, there were few options available to Hedrik, as she had no proper schooling to fall back on. Though against a life of crime in principle, she knew that because of her heritage, and many a race's misconceptions about Orions, there was little option left to her. As she made her way around the known galaxy, she picked up many useful tricks and tips that hardened her to the solitude of preservation on the run.

Hedrik's tearful moments were always followed by the determination to one day make things better for herself, move as far away from the industry of personal service as possible. Day after night she read and studied all the technical manuals she could lay her hands on. Eventually, she managed to convince a salvage ship to employ her as a maintenance worker. Aboard that patchwork ship, among a crew of only twenty, she befriended a much-maligned roly-poly old Bolian man. He was like a father to her, and in return for her company and friendship, he taught her all he knew about his particular field of expertise: transporter technology.

Hedrik was a gifted student and natural engineer. Within a year she could strip and reassemble a transporter unit, and perform as complex a procedure as any Starfleet chief. It was only fitting that she took over his role when the old man curled up one night and died. But with him gone, life aboard the wrecker seemed hollow, especially with the constant and unwelcome advances of the newer crew who had come aboard. So Hedrik jumped ship at the next opportunity, and took once more to a life of crime, this time utilising her knowledge of transporter technology wherever she could. It served her well for a time.

However, an unfortunate altercation with the USS Enterprise above Ventax II left her frighteningly close to being returned to Orion. Thankfully an exceptional Starfleet counsel took pity on her situation and saved her green skin, but, penniless and worried about the Syndicate finding her, she returned to a life of petty crime on the run.

Transporter systems were a breeze for her to tamper with by now. From planet to station to ship to planet, Hedrik used all her talent and cunning to steal non-critical goods for re-sale on the black market. She never went for the big steal, or adopted the opportunistic approach like many in the field of thieving. Stealth was her middle name, and she knew that to stay free took a lot of planning and a good deal more strength of character when it came to resisting temptation. She never cut corners, and she never put herself in unnecessary jeopardy. So far, she had managed to save nearly twenty thousand bars of gold pressed latinum in a reliable savings account.

It wasn't quite enough to safely retire on, but sometimes at night Hedrik wondered whether she was merely putting off the inevitable, avoiding settling down for fear of being tracked down by her owners, or losing her edge. So she kept on going. Coming to the Outer Zone had seemed like a necessary risk in terms of being so far away from her life savings. This region of space had the added advantages of not only being as far away from the Orion Syndicate as she could get, but also being a mostly peaceful society having lived for many years under a ruthless tyranny, the spirit of post-occupation friendship and goodwill was now ripe for the picking.

Hedrik, satisfied that this latest job would be worth the money, took out her small flat pouch of tools and set about making a thorough scan of the cage and its security system. Her recce complete, Hedrik swathed herself once more, deciding to return in the morning, just after the first security sweep. Luckily for her, a few hours earlier Hedrik had overheard a security officer discussing personnel deployment to the docks for the next day, and how there had been a jump in the amount of traffic requesting departure slots for the next day, so she assumed less security personnel would be on duty in the complex.

Already there had been scenes of pandemonium in several travel agencies because many Qovakians had decided at the same time to try and get immediate passage off world. Either everyone had suddenly decided to take a holiday, Hedrik thought, or something was seriously up.

Having covered a good deal more of the space port than most Visitors in the past few weeks, Hedrik had been aware of the increasing speculation about the return of the militia who had ruled Qovakia until recently. But upon seeing the dozens of powerful Starfleet ships and even more warships from other Alpha Quadrant states pouring in and out of the port, Hedrik was convinced that nothing less that no-one would stand a hope in hell's chance of succeeding in a coupe here, maybe not even the Dominion.

Through the crawlway space and into an air duct leading to the main access shaft that descended to the off-ramp entrance, Hedrik had to briefly hold her heart as a group of Starfleet officers wended their way back into the Fortress above. Pressing flat against the dark recess, she watched through the grill as two security officers followed by a moaning science officer and two bad-tempered medics clambered their way up the thin-runged ladder. From what she could hear, it seemed the CMO assigned to Starfleet Headquarters had recalled all off-duty medical staff for an emergency briefing.

Hedrik waited until it was safe, then pushed the grill open, being careful to replace it and cleanse it before deftly dropping to the floor below. The coast clear, the Orion woman skilfully exited the doorway and blended into the gathering crowds flowing past and up into the main corridor beyond. Where had all these people come from? And where were they going?

Before she knew where she was, Hedrik was instantly swept into a heaving mass of people crushing slowly in one direction - to the docks. There were thousands, many shouting and screaming, most laden with personal belongings, shoving this way and that. It was an exodus.

It took a few bruises and much physical strength on Hedrik's part just to wrench herself free of the squashing streams of people and grab on to the relative safety of a wall support. She couldn't believe her lack of luck. The local situation was clearly getting worse, and might even jeopardise her plans for tomorrow. Carefully she made her way back to the lower level and into the taverna where she sat opposite the doorway and considered her options.

EP1 ACT 3

DOL BATTAKI INTERSTELLAR HOTEL, VEKARIA, 22:30 hours

Lirik sat on the edge of his bed staring into mid-distance waiting for the communication to come in. He glanced at the clock; it had been a full seventy minutes since the Vekarian authorities had gone to look for the missing dignitary, and Lirik was broiling at their shambolic attentiveness.

The hotel suite comm panel housed within the marble side table cheerfully trilled, and Lirik hit the receive button a little too hard. "Yes?"

"Officer La Barami here, Mister Lirik. Your Ambassador Narli is not within the hotel complex or any of the government buildings, I'm afraid," the male voice reported, placidly.

"So...? Do you know where he went?" Lirik dropped his head into his hands.

"Er ... we're not sure, sir. My men have checked passenger logs of ships leaving Vekaria, but he wasn't listed as being aboard any of them, so he must still be within the city limits somewhere." The security officer had decided that the Ambassador was probably out enjoying himself, and didn't understand the Yeoman's over-concern.

"Okay," Lirik resigned himself to getting no further with the police; Narli had slipped away successfully yet again. "Just let me know when he shows up, will you?"

"We will, sir." There was an uncomfortable pause, then: "I wonder, could you confirm his description again?"

Lirik swallowed hard, not bothering to complain that not only had a full description been given hours earlier, but also a full set of picture files. It would be simpler to just repeat the description and get the hell off the line. "He's about one metre ninety, with bright blue skin, white hair and a couple of antennae sticking out of his head."

There was silence at the end of the comm line for a few seconds. "'Antennae'..?" the voice almost whispered.

"Yes, antennae. You do know what antennae means, don't you?" Lirik was bemused; perhaps the universal translator had overlooked some nouns in its programming.

"Yes...yes, I do," The officer said quietly. "We will inform you if he turns up."

Lirik flopped back onto the bed. He was warm, and if it weren't for the atmospheric controls he would feel moist from the turbulent weather beyond the glass wall of his hotel suite. He could feel in his gut the marked change in electromagnetic density of the air outside - there were more storms coming. Wherever Narli was in the city, it was not the sort of night to be outside. That's if he was still on Vekaria, as he could easily have conned his way off-planet bypassing the passenger lists, the Yeoman thought. Eyes closed, Lirik ran through the seemingly endless possibilities of where the Ambassador could have got to on this occasion.

He knew the Ambassador quite well. Before his transfer to the Diplomatic corps, Lirik had worked for Starfleet Intelligence where he had met him on several missions - and not always on the same side. Lirik knew that Andorian agents never really left the Secret Service and that in his new role as Ambassador for Trade, Narli had become better placed to gather more sensitive information than he could as a regular operative.

Narli had become one of those oddities of cold war. Outwardly, the Ambassador was a generous and authoritative figure. Polite, gregarious and warm, he'd charmed his way through many negotiations where other Andorians had let their violent nature interfere and he had become well liked among diplomatic circles. In that respect, Narli was not a typical Andorian. He had certainly become used to the resplendent lifestyle of the upper echelons of society, and the freedom of self-expression it brought, though he hadn't gained the weight that most did from the exotic diet of alien banquets.

Still, there was a deep and strong sense of nationalism in his soul, a pride in his people's culture and beliefs. Lirik had seen with his own eyes that Narli would willingly die for his people, and in that respect he was a classic, dangerous example of Andorian socialisation at work. Glimpsing the darker side of his compatriot had made Lirik wary of the older man. His only cure for this reaction was his own strength of will to try and understand. As with most engaged in Starfleet or similar organisations, too often one's own morals and beliefs were challenged, and a strong conviction in self and in the Federation and its principles was often required to get through conflicting situations. Some used their beliefs as a weapon, or even as a shield, but Lirik liked to question himself, so tried to view it merely as a choice.

Since Lirik had been appointed special representative of the Federation Council several years previous, he had assumed the role of personal confident, pilot, cultural aide, security officer and shoulder of support. In the official sense, he could be best described as a kind of chief whip, rounding up stray delegates, keeping them all in line and ensuring that everyone knew what was going on. Most importantly of all, he had to ensure that the Federation Council's interests were not forgotten.

Shortly after arriving in the Outer Zone Narli had disappeared for several hours on three consecutive days, presumably information gathering or making secret negotiations behind closed doors. This latest escapade, on the night before the presentations were due to begin, left Lirik feeling irked. He instantly had a change of heart - Narli knew the score and here he was overstepping the line again. This was one time too many and it was time to make it official.

Lirik hit his Starfleet commbadge. "Yeoman Lirik to Commodore Jackson." It was late, but he didn't doubt she would be available for him. As an aide to the leading body of the Federation and Starfleet, Lirik was granted a good deal of ... understanding.

There was a slight delay as Lirik's voice message was picked up by the local net, forwarded up to Starfleet HQ on Helub, verified by automatic voice authorisation protocols and re-routed to Jackson's location.

"Yeoman Lirik to Commodore Jackson."

Within her plush ebony, fur and smoked glass penthouse quarters atop one of the turrets of the Visitor complex on Helub, Jackson pulled her robe tighter over her still damp, curvaceous body, even though it was only a voice message coming through. The crimson silk enveloped her dark skin seductively, her quaffed hair sparkling like millions of minute stars in a black firmament. There was no doubt that for a woman of her forty-something years, she was still very attractive, though perhaps not quite in the shape Starfleet Academy Fitness Instructors would approve of as a role model of a command veteran.

Jackson ran her hands quickly through her damp hair and detached herself from the passionate escape of the novel she was reading. Her family sized quarters had come fitted with running water, and to have a proper bath instead of a sonic shower in what were essentially field quarters was a luxury she wasn't about to waste.

"Jackson here," swinging her legs off the sofa she scooped her Starfleet issue slippers back on and put her book and her warm drink down on the glass coffee table which was borne on the back of a pewter-like replica of a many-headed Vekarian mythical beast. "If it's about your runabout, Yeoman, I'm afraid I haven't had time to check on its whereabouts. Lt Commander Leonard is a good pilot, I'm sure he'll look after it."

Jackson actually couldn't remember much about Leonard. He had intercepted her earlier that morning and bullied her into using a little known Starfleet regulation to requisition the Starfleet-registered ship on permanent loan to the Diplomatic Corps. Still, as Commodore she allowed herself a certain amount of poetic licence when caught on the hop by this efficient but over-zealous diplomat.

The last few weeks had been crazy for her. Lirik's role as a liaison with the Federation's High Council had set him apart from most of the diplomatic corps members who performed personal assistant functions to individual Federation delegates. Dealing with him had the speedy, efficient, by-the-book procedure she rarely found in these days, yet it was probably his knowledge of Starfleet protocols and how to manipulate procedure to his own end, which made dealing with him so easy. It was no wonder that Lirik had been so maddened by Leonard when the engineer played the diplomat at his own game.

Most of the Federation delegates had their own teams of assistants and lackeys to help them. What made Lirik so unique was that he was assigned to the top Ambassadors and Representatives of the Federation to address anything which the High Council deemed important, and as such had the personal ear of the Commodore and her team. Still, at this late hour she couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed by this latest in a long line of hourly interruptions.

Jackson's day had begun in the early hours because of a fight within the Federation complex between civilians and Vekarian police, and right now a misplaced runabout was the least of her concerns. After a head-pounding 18 hour day, this was her statutory 30 minutes of quality time before retiring to bed, and she wasn't prepared to be delayed any longer than necessary.

"N=ccccz=no-o?," the quality of the transmission began to deteriorate and Jackson heard the vague bleeps as automatic compensators cleared up most of the interference, "it's not about that, though I would appreciate its return by morning, Commodore. Do you know where he took it?" Lirik adopted the friendly-formal approach rather than pull rank as a diplomat. He found he stayed on the better side of people that way.

"Not offhand, though I'm sure Vekarian authorities would have logged his flight plan. I'll get onto it first thing. Now, what was your call about?" Jackson turned her head as the elevator doors behind opened and her son stepped out and waved, a little over-enthusiastically, she thought. She returned the wave with a knowing smile while listening to Lirik.

"Andorian Ambassador Narli has gone missing again," Lirik braced himself for the Commodore's reaction.

"Great," the Commodore clutched her hair in frustration. "That's the third thing Vekarian security have screwed up today. I'll inform Starfleet security up here, tell them to keep an eye out for him."

"Thank you, Sir. Will you be coming to the opening ceremony of the trade conference tomorrow?" The static on the channel was getting worse, despite the computer's best efforts.

"Ah... no, I won't have time," Jackson was kissed on the cheek by her son, which was also a little unusual. The Commodore wondered what news he was about to convey after her call. "Inform my office if the Ambassador shows up."

"Aye Sir," Lirik signed off for the night and checked the time again. Not too late for a little R and R of his own, so he granted himself an hour's pleasure and practically leapt into the sonic shower in readiness.

In the darkness of her quarters, the Commodore depressed her commbadge and informed the Duty Officer in HQ Operations to get security straight onto a trace for the Ambassador. When she was finished, Jackson leant back on the sofa, folded her arms and put her feet up on the table, wiggling her toes and watching her son tuck into a bowl of steaming Gagh and Eggplant Stew - since his exchange to a Klingon Outpost months ago, he had developed some nasty food preferences.

"So-" she said in a maternal tone, but was cut off by his too-quick reaction.

"'So'? What do you mean, 'So'?" he scoffed. A gagh dangled out of his mouth, its juices dribbling down his chin.

"Well, you've either had a reprimand ... or you've fallen in love again," Jackson said, smiling. "I bet I know which. Let me guess who..."

The Lieutenant hated his mother's uncanny intuition, and sulkily tucked back into his stew.

"Lieutenant Chappell?" She was fishing, he thought, but it was only a decoy. "No, that redheaded nurse. Lieutenant O'Hara."

"Ha!" he protested, hoping his eating would hide the obvious gulp of guilt.

"Don't try to deny it, son, I've seen the way you look at her," Jackson smiled.

Her son stopped in silent protest, then carried on chewing while dangling a fork at her menacingly. When he finally swallowed, he said; "Have you been following me on security cameras again?"

She laughed at his almost convincing naivety, and decided to head for bed. Cradling her book she walked with her drink over to where her big son sat stuffing his face. She kissed him on the head. "It's okay. She seems like a nice girl to me."

He looked up and smiled at his mother, who was clearly thinking up a negative to go with the positive, but could only manage "A bit of a handful, but I guess you've always liked a challenge. Just promise me you'll take it easy."

The Lieutenant drained his bowl and grinned, saying: "Trust me, she's not that great a challenge."

The Commodore raised her eyebrows and headed for her room, turning back to him as the doors opened. "No doubt I'll be up early again tomorrow, so I won't see you probably. Take care at the docks tomorrow, it's getting a little rough down there with all these panic rumours flying about."

"I will, mom, don't worry," he tried to look relaxed. "Night."

"Night, son. Love you." She disappeared behind the closing doors, and he waited for her traditional reappearance nag. True to form a few seconds later she popped her head out. "And don't forget to write to your brother."

"No, mom, I won't."

She disappeared once more and there was silence. Jackson jnr recycled the bowl and fork through the replicator and slowly passed his mother's door. It seemed quiet enough, so he walked over to the turbolift. Pressing the door button it swished open and he whisper-called up into its roof. "She's gone to bed, you can come down now."

O'Hara dropped silently from the ceiling, despite her height and full figure. She looked at the muscle-bound security guard and smiled. Jackson took her hand, and the two tiptoed toward his room just as the main commlink in the room twilled loudly and said, "Operations to Commodore Jackson."

The Lieutenant's door closed behind them just as the Commodore appeared from her own room, now in her matching two-piece crimson silk bedclothes. Glancing around at the suddenly empty room she marched over to the main screen.

"What is it, Commander?"

The face of a middle-aged Troyian woman appeared, subtle blue-green beads framed her face, only a hint at her people's evocative culture. "Forgive the disturbance, Commodore, but we're receiving a hail for you from Admiral Street."

"A bit late for her, isn't it?" Jackson quipped. "Pipe it through, will you, Inaami?"

"Presently, Commodore," the Troyian looked over her shoulder and moved closer to the viewer. "We've also got a rather disturbed Lieutenant Commander here demanding to speak with you. Leonard, of the Starship Draco."

"Oh, good God," Jackson had had more than enough of this saga today. "Tell him I'll see him in the morning, but get him to make an appointment this time. Oh, and tell him to get the diplomatic assistant's runabout back to Vekaria double-quick."

"Aye, Sir. I'm putting the Admiral through now." The on-screen image cut to that of an elderly, but keen-eyed Admiral sitting in the centre seat of the USS Ajax, in orbit above Vekaria. There were strands of static flashing across the screen - some kind of spacial disturbance, Jackson guessed.

The Admiral, a Bahamian in her eighties, moved her arms and head with the grace of an elegant young woman. In her time, she had been one of the best among the fleet's captains, and her daring deeds aboard the Ajax-B were popular, though not recommended, reading at the Academy. It was clearly in her honour that she had been given the Ajax-D as the temporary Fleet command ship in the Outer Zone.

"Good evening Admiral, forgive my attire," to date, Jackson had not been on the friendliest of terms with Street - they were at opposite ends of the Starfleet spectrum. Street, a spinster, married to her job with a soldier' heart and a captain's soul; Jackson, a family woman with two grown sons, a dedicated worker and skilled administrator.

In an earlier time, the two may have been best pals, but in a crisis-ridden Third Contact situation such as this, they were both strung out and shouldering for their own particular area's needs. Street for the ships of the fleet in the Outer Zone and their activities, Jackson for the Federation citizens, Ambassadors and other representatives in the sector. Jackson's base served as a base for Starfleet's activities in the region, as well as a clearinghouse for all the paperwork and associated activities. Still, the two veterans had to keep the lines off communication open, even if it was only due to strict protocol at their level of work.

"No problem. You should know that I'm ordering the launch of all fleet vessels in dock, Commodore. I don't know if you've heard, but we've got one heck of a magnetic storm brewing up here, and it's just one of many throughout Qovakia." The old lady stood and walked sure-footedly over to the science stations to the rear of the bridge where Captain Ubu was assisting his crew in trying to make their technology work in the increasingly interference-ridden space.

"I wondered what the communications interference was. Does the local storm pose any threat to Vekaria or Helub?" Jackson's priorities were many; not least of which was safety of all Federation and Starfleet people within the spaceport. Already she had been forced to personally deal with a number of criminal proceedings concerning Federation citizens - both victims and perpetrators.

Off-screen, Captain Ubu turned and shrugged at the Admiral.

"No," the Admiral was playing down concern, "but the storms are affecting subspace communications and warp capability. We've already lost contact with nine of our more distant ships, and our Alpha Quadrant neighbours are not faring any better. I want all our ships launched and on yellow alert, just in case."

"Should we go to Yellow Alert down here?" Jackson was no soldier; she admitted that freely and always sought the guidance of those more experienced in such matters. Though as a base commander she was well versed in the rules concerning all states of alert, and she particularly remembered her drills from the time she began her career as an assistant personnel officer aboard the accident-prone USS Clarion.

"I don't think that's necessary at this moment. I hear rumours of a possible K'Tani invasion are causing you enough problems as it is. You wouldn't want a riot on your hands as well," the Admiral smiled, referring to the lost tempers and crowd gatherings around the port departure terminals. They had begun swelling in number as soon as the rumours of a possible invasion were turned into news stories with unconfirmed reports of 'strange goings on' in the depths of space. As yet, however, there was no evidence of this.

Qovakians, Jackson had determined, although shrewd were almost religiously superstitious. Decades of occupation had made them submissive and paranoid - even cowardly some would say - but Jackson saw the strength of character they had when faced with many, some more powerful, races descending upon them.

Her arrival on Helub, some three days after First Contact, was a whirlwind of events that seemed to keep going until just a few days ago. Before the cargo ships and passenger-carrying vessels arrived, the native Vekarians had been overwhelmingly generous and welcoming. It was only when wave after wave of ships carrying thousands of fortune and adventure seekers began to arrive and the administrative nightmare of coping with such a huge, needy influx set in that she and her colleagues saw the other side to their warm personalities.

Getting hold of reliable information had been the worst problem. Jackson had gone for days on end without being able to speak to a single Qovakian in authority when Helub had a growing accommodationless population made up of the opportunists pouring in through the wormhole. One of the last details to be ironed out was provision of adequate medical facilities and access to the Qovakian medical database - the Qovakian government it seemed was cautious about giving even such important data as this.

So a makeshift hospital had been adapted into the upper decks of one of the oldest parts of Helub only a few days ago. Medical staff were working flat out with engineers to make the place sterile and workable, while at the same time dealing with a host of medical ailments from the tens of thousands of civilians from the Alpha Quadrant. The latest problem had been an outbreak of a particularly nasty flu virus among the Visitors.

"In addition to which," the Commodore added, "Doctor Beintz, Starfleet's recently arrived CMO in the Outer Zone, is trying to get on top of an outbreak of Vekarian Flu which we currently have no natural immunity to."

"Excuse me," Street had turned to someone off-viewer. She turned back to Jackson, frowning. "We've lost contact with another two of our ships."

"Magnetic radiation increasing exponentially," the Captain shouted from the rear bridge station, "a cloud is forming in the Vekarian system."

"Got to go, Commodore. We'll keep HQ Operations informed," Street said and cancelled the communication - her face was instantly replaced by Inaami, not surprising Jackson who knew her associate monitored all important calls to the Commodore.

"Sir, I recommend the base goes to Yellow Alert status," the Troyian never held back an opinion from her long-time colleague.

Jackson thought for a moment, biting a finger. "Give me the low-down on today's incidents around the port again."

Inaami recited from memory: "There were 342 reports of near-misses, 53 minor collisions and 4 pretty bad accidents as traffic leaving Helub stepped up a pace. The Port Authority pride themselves in a one fatal crash per decade record, their trafficking system is so reliable, so they ordered a very limited scheduled-only departure roster at 1300 hours. Unfortunately, this seems to have been understood by the native Qovakians as an unofficial confirmation of an ensuing attack?" Inaami broke off, noticing Jackson's shaking head, "... you know how paranoid they are. Consequently, literally thousands of requests for departure windows poured into Traffic Control, and simultaneously hundreds of thousands of people took to the corridors and transit tubes, most trying to get passage on any departing ship. Docking areas A, B, D, G, S and V are still overrun and Vekarian police officially reported 96 incidents of crowd violence and disorder."

"I think that says enough," Jackson said. "There's no way we could cope if word got out of a Yellow Alert. It'll be difficult keeping the Fleet's alert status quiet as it is."

"And if there is an impending attack?" Inaami was almost Vulcan-like in her analysis.

Jackson didn't buy into it. Not with so many Alpha Quadrant ships in the sector. And with the Qovakian fleet, such that it was, along side them, Jackson reckoned their combined force could even repel the Dominion. Her thoughts turned briefly to Brian, her eldest son, fighting in the skirmishes around Bajoran and Cardassian space that made up the gathering war with the Gamma Quadrant inhabitants.

"Let's just pray there isn't," Jackson said and signed off for the night. She noticed Inaami's slight eyebrow movement before the link was severed, clearly her old friend was not in agreement with her. Jackson had kept her tight-knit administration team together since her first command of an outpost on Ferengi. Inaami, Jackson, Petri and Djanksy had been the top team for assignment to new territories and allies over the last fifteen years.

Jackson knew that Inaami would inform her the moment the situation changed, and rather than be troubled with worrying thoughts, she was able to switch off from responsibility and sleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

STARFLEET H.Q., OPERATIONS CONTROL, HELUB, 22:55 hours

Inaami hovered by the communications console debating in her mind what could follow. A raised German accent caused her to look over at Leonard. He looked exhausted, his uniform dishevelled, but appeared excitedly coherent as he tried to convey his sense of urgency to the security guard assisting him at the reception counter.

"Commander!" Leonard had caught Inaami's look. "I must see the Commodore immediately, or speak to Admiral Street." Inaami didn't immediately respond.

"Sir," Lieutenant Commander Petri called to Inaami from the records interface station, glancing over at Leonard in a disapproving way, "the USS Draco recalled all officers an hour ago." She stared at Leonard who shifted from side to side as he listened. "Mister Leonard did not respond, so they left without him."

"It ... it must have been the interference from the structure I was in," Leonard tried to justify himself to the command officer, half-smiling to himself at the magnitude of the situation he was beginning to find himself in. In a better light, he may have remembered with irony the many old 20th Century movies he had endured with Winston Winston where the main protagonist was disbelieved at every turn, and seemed to do nothing but get himself into deeper trouble until, usually single-handedly, he could turn the plot around to a gratifying denouement.

"Where's the Draco now?" Inaami was distracted by a crowd of off-duty and unbusy officers gathering around the Operations security monitors.

"She left the Vekarian system at 22:30 hours. Current location ... unknown"

"Communications status?" Inaami looked over her shoulder to Djanksy.

"Getting worse. There's interference on all subspace frequencies going off world. Signal range is currently down to within the Vekarian star system only, but according to the data that will also deteriorate." Commander Djansky looked almost white with tiredness. The oldest of the group of friends, she was a systems specialist and invaluable in keeping the communications and information relay systems operational.

Due for retirement several months ago, Djansky had been granted an extension by Starfleet Command at Commodore Jackson's request. As soon as the Outer Zone headquarters were secured she would be going home to her family in Gdansk in Poland. There was just enough time for one more adventure with her old friends.

But pulling a double shift was clearly taking its toll, and she doubted she could last till midnight. "With the Commander's permission..?" Djansky smiled.

"Of course, Sara, you're relieved."

"Excuse me, Commander," The German accent at such close proximity caused Inaami to whirl around. Leonard was standing immediately behind her, frowning urgently. "I realise you're very busy, but I think this is very urgent."

Inaami stepped back a pace. "It's the Commodore you need to see, and that will have to wait until the morning." She was becoming increasingly concerned about the murmuring crowd gathered around the security monitors - must be more trouble in the spaceport, she thought. Leonard was rooted to the spot making Inaami feel a little uncomfortable.

"I was in a disused K'Tani storage facility earlier today, just outside the main port," Leonard held up his tricorder for the Commander's perusal, but she didn't look at it. Instead she looked into his eyes trying to read his emotional state. Leonard continued regardless; "I found many ships there, some Federation, only..."

Leonard was distracted by the security displays barely visible through the Starfleet spectators - there seemed to be throngs of people filling the main transit tubes. "We put down on the hanger deck-"

"We?!" Inaami interrupted.

"I was accompanied by Minister Re Lorken," Leonard couldn't help thinking about where she had disappeared to so quickly once they reached the outskirts of the spaceport, deep beneath the cityscape above. The journey had been long and arduous gliding along the ridged floor of the transit tube - an endless, too warm and poorly lit conduit that had stretched for many kilometres. "We set down in the main hangar area and left the runabout for a visual reconnaissance, but.. the runabout.. it disappeared."

"'Disappeared'?!" Inaami had read his feelings all wrong - initially she thought he was a logical, reasonable man, but what he was saying... perhaps there was more to his current state of mind than was immediately apparent.

"I scanned for it, hailed it - it had just vanished. The Minister and I had to journey back to the space port through a transport conduit - it's taken us all afternoon and evening to get here." Leonard smelled of an acrid, sweet aroma, Inaami noted.

"Where is the Minister now? Is she alright?" Inaami looked around, just in case, concerned for the older statesperson who had been one of the few accommodating Qovakians they had dealt with.

"She's fine. She was picked up by Vekarian Security and taken away as soon as we reached the outskirts of the port. I was just ... well I was just left there."

"And you came straight here?"

Leonard nodded; "I tried to raise you by communicator but it didn't work. But Commander - that's not all." Leonard frantically stabbed at the unviewed tricorder and called up the image of the spear and flag on its tiny screen, dangling it in Inaami's line of sight. The tiny image did not seem impressive on the tricorder's display. "We found this on the floor of the storage facility. According to the Minister it has a great significance, perhaps one that's relevant to our current situation."

As if on cue, the security officers called over to Inaami. She frowned at Leonard. "Wait here."

The security guard watching over Leonard folded his arms and regarded his charge with renewed contempt - clearly he didn't think much of Leonard's version of events, particularly the "disappeared" runabout bit.

Inaami wasn't about to lose her sense of priority. A missing runabout was a serious matter, of course, but what was happening in the port right now meant that many Federation - and Starfleet - people could get hurt. The Vekarian authorities weren't blessed with the best of crowd control tactics, and the numerous broadcasts on Qovakian entertainment channels throughout the day had fuelled its population into a frenzy of speculation.

A warning alarm sounded around the complex and Lieutenant Commander Corrigan at the Security Monitor board called out: "The Vekarian Port Authority has just ordered its police to a state of emergency."

Inaami walked through the parting crowd to look closer at the monitors and read the directive communications. Corridor after corridor around the now sealed departure gates were packed solid with people. Traffic had come to a standstill in overcrowded transport tunnels. Outside the Federation/Starfleet complex, many of its own citizens were gathering to seek protection or a safe transport off world. One woman even carried a placard that read 'Save Our Souls'. It seemed they were just as gripped by the belief of an invasion as their new Qovakian neighbours.

"Commander, please!" surprisingly, Leonard had followed Inaami again, his breath hot on her sensitive neck, he was so close. This time she would sort him out once and for all. She took a step forward and spun to face him. The gathered crowd of officers and crew flanked him.

"Don't you people have quarters to go to?!" she bellowed to the observers and hangers-on. They immediately dispersed. Leonard's face was almost contorted with frustration, which Inaami mistook for a look of disdain. She lowered her voice and stared hard at the engineer. "Mister, technically speaking you're already AWOL, missing your ship's hail and departure. I can't imagine Captain Stockport would be happy losing his deputy chief engineer at a time like this."

She was right about that, Leonard thought. Stockport wasn't his biggest fan - nor indeed were the rest of the senior officers, which was part of the reason Leonard had taken shore leave so far removed from his shipmates. The discovery of the Alpha Quadrant ships like the liner had at first been a convenient distraction, yet quickly turned into an obsession.

Inaami looked as if she were about to brush past Leonard, but instead took him firmly by the arm and led him toward the exit. In the circular, marble-floored reception area she st