Ships of the Fleet Anthology
The Silent Shadow
by John Scott
(johnnymoonuk@yahoo.co.uk)

2265.

System Alpha-19/004.

It never had a name, not even in the twenty-fourth century, just a numerical/alphabetical designation. Three lifeless rocks orbited a dying sun, only a millennium or so away from going supernova, and then perhaps it would turn into a black hole. He would never forget that system, not in a million years.

How could he? It was the first thing he could remember.

Space was... let's face it, space was black with little white dots splattered over it, like a toddler playing with paint. Var was getting bloody sick of it. His view was only of the damn stars. You would have thought someone could have been a little bit more exciting, say having blue dots, or red, or multi-coloured dots; anything but bloody white!

The ticking chronometer strapped to his wrist told him he'd been sitting in that seat for three hours. He paused in his boredom. How did he know what a chronometer was? Or what the colours were called? Or even what the hell an hour was?

He wasn't even sure of his own damn name. It was stitched into the left breast of the black jacket he was wearing. He could understand the strange characters; which in itself was weird since he couldn't remember anything beyond three hours ago. He could, of course, be wearing someone else's clothes; who knew when you had no memory?

He had simply opened his eyes three hours ago, and not known his name, his home, if he had one, or even if he had a family. He had awakened in a small vessel -of that he was sure; blank screens, blank consoles, and blank lights surrounded him, only the starfield outside was lighting the cockpit around him. There wasn't a decent enough light to see his reflection in the transparent canopy. Pity, he wanted to know what he looked like.

The air was getting thinner, his breathing getting harder and harder. He realised he was shaking; it was getting cold. No life support? There had to be only a limited amount of air.

He stopped himself for a second. How could he know all this, and yet not know his name? He felt his bottom lip tremble, and then tears began to form in his eyes. He plunged his tearful face into his open palms. Then he ran his wet hands through his long matted hair. The length and bad condition seemed at odds with the military-esque clothes he was wearing.

He gave up trying to understand how he could remember some things, and not others.

When he looked up through the elongated canopy above him, he saw something move out in space. It was white, or was it grey? Yes, definitely grey. As it came toward him, he realised it was a fast-moving streak. An object moving at abnormally fast speeds.

In fact, it was moving very fast.

A loud sonic boom smacked the small craft around. The object came closer at a terrifying speed, and then the blurred streak slammed to a stop in front of the canopy, resolving into a massive image.

"Holy mother of -"

The massive object was in fact a starship, the front end a perfect sphere attached to a long, horizontal neck, itself attached to a thick tube of a secondary hull, with two nacelles attached to struts at forty-five degree angles from the hull. The ship began to pass underneath, manoeuvring itself to tractor the smaller ship into its shuttlebay.

Printed on the hull of the great ship were the characters USS HORIZON. Var didn't know what it meant, but it was a completely alien language, and it intrigued him nonetheless.

Spots began to appear in his vision. Everything became red, his eyes trying to see in the airless atmosphere of the cockpit.

Then the black of unconsciousness took him into nothingness.

* * * * *

"Captain's Log. Stardate 4932.5. USS Horizon, Captain Christian Starkey commanding.

It's been two days since our skirmish with the unidentified Klingon battlecruiser. Crewman Montague, and Lieutenant Avishaye died earlier this morning from their wounds. That puts the total fatalities at twenty-nine. It's distressing enough that they're dead, but their bodies are still laid out in body bags, in cargo bay two. Doctor Jones has informed me that his twelve remaining patients will make full recoveries; though they may be emotionally scarred by recent events.

What concerns me most is that Doctor Jones herself lost her husband in a fire on Deck Four. So far, she's buried herself in her work, tending to her patients.

Our new visitor seems to have caught the good doctor's attention. His vessel was adrift in the Alpha-19/004 star system. Lieutenant Commander Warren identified the ship he was found in as a starfighter; it's not a common type of vessel in this day and age, though that's not to say it isn't common in other parts of our galaxy. Unfortunately, the starfighter began to self-destruct as we were towing it into the shuttlebay. I've already sent our entire sensor and imaging logs to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers.

The pilot calls himself Var. Red characters stitched into his the chest of his jacket apparently confirms this name, though we have only his word, as the symbols are unlike anything we have previously seen before.

Var himself is unlike any being I have seen before. He appears to be human, though his naturally white hair, and red eyes aren't a genetic defect or the result of a disease; he was born that way. He's certainly had some of the nurses all-aflutter -or so Jones claims. He seems to be learning our language quickly, which is astonishing without the universal translator, and considering he's only been on the ship for a day.

Var claims to have no memory of anything beyond three hours before being discovered. I don't think he's lying; Jones has been running tests on him, and has already reported that she has the results waiting for me, down in sickbay..."

* * * * *

"Okay, Jonesy, what've you got?" Captain Starkey drawled in his harsh Texan accent. He was tall, only a couple of inches away from banging his head on the door frame as he entered sickbay. His desert-yellow hair was cropped close to his skull, not unlike a buzz cut. Crow's feet wrinkled at the corners of his eyes, giving him a wizened appearance that came with age. He was the captain; he should really look like he knew what he was doing, even if he didn't always believe he could being only thirty-nine years of age.

"Captain," the petite young auburn-haired doctor said, sending a solitary nod of greeting his way. He missed the old Jonesy, the one who would make a wisecrack every five minutes, even if no-one wanted to hear it. Now, with her spouse lying in a morgue locker, her personality had become as cold as her husband's body.

They were standing in her office, just off the main sickbay. She was wearing her white lab coat over her blue medical uniform. He wasn't sure if that was regulation uniform, but he couldn't care, it was comforting for a doctor to wear something familiar like that. But he still preferred his own gold command shirt, though whenever he looked down, his belly still stuck out a little.

"Jonesy, you look like you've seen a ghost," Starkey smiled, folding his wiry arms over his chest.

She didn't rise to the bait.

"Captain, I think you should know that although our visitor looks human, he is far from it."

Starkey frowned, as his chief medical officer brought up a collection of medical diagrams and charts on the nearest computer console. He frowned again.

"This is all Klingon to me," he said, somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of undecipherable information.

Jones made an uncharacteristic harrumph of annoyance. She pointed to the chart on top. "This is human DNA," she said, pointing to the double-helix image to the right; it was a standard image that he'd seen plenty of times. "This," she continued, pointing to the image on the left, "is Var's DNA. It has much more redundant genetic material, plus more DNA strands than any known being, sentient or otherwise. Not only that, but he appears to have twenty-five pairs of chromosomes, as opposed to humans having twenty-three."

Starkey threw her a blank look.

"His body is designed to fight just about anything. The redundant genetic material is used to combat diseases and viruses, anything microscopic. Humans don't have anything like this. It's almost like he was designed that way."

"You said there were more DNA strands," he pointed out.

She nodded, almost eagerly. "Our genes control what we look like, what size we are, and how our body works. Most of our genes are inactive, or simply dormant."

"But not Var."

"No," she said, her lips tugging very gently at the corners of her mouth. "He's more advanced, like an evolved version of a human. But there are key elements of his DNA that separate him from humans."

"I'll take your word for it." Starkey walked to the door of the inner room, looking through the open doors, to see Var reading something off the bio-bed's library display at warp speeds.

"He seems to have a grasp on rudimentary skills," Jones explained from his shoulder, "even some advanced skills, but they seem to be instinctual rather than something he can remember."

"Any signs of trauma, something that could explain his memory loss?" the captain asked. Jones shook her head sadly.

"There are some irregularities in his brain patterns, but for all intents and purposes he is healthier than you or me. It's almost like someone completely wiped any memory of his past, selectively, almost like someone went in and deleted each memory one at a time."

Starkey visibly winced at Jones' use of computer metaphor in regards to a sentient being. The pair walked over beside Var's biobed, his abnormal heart rate making a strange, but almost comforting set of bleeps and whistles that rose and fell at random intervals. Starkey was amazed to see that Var was reading from a computer console, probably a novel.

He was right as it turned out; Var was halfway through the first chapter of a novel called Rainbow Six, by Tom Clancy. He hadn't realised it had been in the ship's archive; it wasn't exactly appropriate reading material for Starfleet officers, or people trying to understand the English language.

"Good. Morning. Captain," Var said slowly, still trying to get around the words. He looked up, and Starkey was still amazed at the sight of him, with his sculpted cheeks and chin, but more notably, his tattoo. It was a simple symbol: two thick black vertical lines, one running through Var's left eye, with the other just touching the outer corner of the same eye, and a much smaller line running diagonally down to end on the corner of his jaw.

"Good morning, Var," Starkey smiled. Var smiled back. He seemed to be taking everything in his stride. He was more adaptable than any sentient being he could think of. Though now that he thought about it, Starkey couldn't keep calling him Var all the time.

"Captain. I. Have been. Wondering. About. Why. Humans. Have more. Than one name."

The starship captain offered up a quizzical eyebrow, slightly taken aback by the question. It was rather an odd one. He thought it through for second, wondering how to answer, when Jones answered for him.

"In most societies, people use a surname, or family name, to distinguish families, to show who they belong to, or such like. A first name is more personal; it gives you an identity, and separates you from the next person; some names have a special meaning in its native language; some people even name their children after famous people, or legends, or even characters from a novel." She gently deactivated the console, and looked into those incredibly vivid red eyes. She saw something ancient in those eyes, though she couldn't explain just what it was exactly, just a sense of immense age.

"I would. Like you to. Choose a name. For me," Var said, looking intently at Jones, and then over at Starkey. He snorted, but there was only an ironic humour in his voice, "You two. Are the only. Family I know. You are like. My..." he struggled for the right word -it was a primitive language after all. "My parents."

"It isn't something to take lightly," the Horizon's captain pointed out. Though he did seem to be a little proud that someone referred to him as their parent.

"I know."

They stood there, totally silent, the two Starfleet officers trying to think of a name.

Starkey suddenly clicked his fingers with inspiration. "How about Gabriel?"

Var looked at him, totally confused. "Gay-bree-ull?"

"Christianity was the biggest religion on Earth," Starkey began, "and one of the few to survive into our century. In that religion, Gabriel was the Archangel, the leader of all Angels, and God's right-hand man."

"Gabriel," Var replied, rolling it around in his mouth.

"It is quite appropriate, since you're just as old as your namesake," Jones frowned. The two men mimicked the frown, though more from confusion than anything else. She brought up the charts from the DNA scans. "Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, doctors can now determine a person's age from their genetic makeup."

"News to me," Starkey admitted, folding his arms again.

"It's a recent development from Vulcan. Doctor McCoy was field-testing the equipment on the Enterprise only last month, and approved it for Starfleet Medical. It's not completely accurate," she admitted, not looking ashamed or, well...anything.

"Okay..." Starkey replied.

"According to the results I got from... Gabriel, here, he could be millions of years old."

"What?" Starkey and Var shouted at the same time, incredulity written over their faces.

"The equipment essentially looks for microscopic signs of aging within the genetic strands. I can narrow it down to within a year. So according to the results, Gabriel, you are close to several billion years old!" Var was slightly taken aback by her sudden outburst.

And then utter confusion set in. How could he be so old? Even without any memory, Var was sure that that was not normal. The look on Starkey's face confirmed his suspicion.

"How?" Starkey asked, a little too quickly.

"Presumably it's common among his race," Jones replied. "What ever that might be."

"Considering how we found him," Starkey reminded them, "and factoring in his memory loss, I shouldn't be too surprised."

That was when the red alert sirens blared horrendously loud. Jones and Starkey flinched at the sudden noise. Var seemed unperturbed, as if he hadn't heard the noise, or seen the emergency lights on the bulkheads, blinking red.

Starkey headed to the nearest wall comms panel, calling the bridge.

"What's going on?"

"Captain," the disembodied voice came through from the bridge, "a Klingon vessel just dropped out of warp, and is on intercept course. It's the same ship we fought before, sir."

"Dammit," Starkey cursed.

"Klingons?" Var asked, starting to get out of bed, his interest piqued.

"You need to stay in bed," Jones warned, placing a hand on his arm. He looked over at Starkey, who was standing in the doorway.

"Captain, since you found me in a dying starfighter, dressed in combat fatigues, it think it's safe to assume I was once a soldier. Even if I don't remember, I could still be of some help in some form." Even Var was amazed that he had completed that little speech without any problems.

Starkey sighed heavily, and then nodded reluctantly. He didn't particularly want a liability on the bridge, but ultimately, having a billion-year-old soldier nearby -albeit with no memory- could prove to be a help. Especially on the Horizon.

USS Horizon, NCC-892 was a Daedalus-class starship. The majority of the ships of that class were retired in 2196, fully seventy years ago. Unfortunately, battles with the Klingons, and rogue Xindi, as well as rising tensions with races like the Gorn, and the Romulans, had called for older starships to be kept in service for longer than normal. Horizon herself was sixty-nine years old, and nine days from permanent retirement; she was the second to carry the name, with the original destroyed in 2196. Starkey hoped his next assignment was something a bit different.

"Grab something to wear, and find your way to the bridge," Starkey nodded again.

* * * * *

Having slipped into a black long-sleeved turtleneck shirt, under a set of short-sleeved medical overalls, Var managed to finally find the bridge at the top of the ship. He walked right into a panic-stricken officer, who was babbling something about marauding Klingons.

The bridge itself had been refitted five years ago to the specifications of the mighty new, Constitution-class starships, with the helm and navigation consoles joined at the centre of the bridge, the captain behind them, and every other console facing inward, in a perfect circle.

He stood motionless in front of the turbolift doors, unsure as to whether he should approach Captain Starkey. The aforementioned captain was sat in his dais-like command chair, in deep thought. As far as Var could tell, the Klingons -whoever they were- had yet to make a move other than raise their shields, and ready their weapons.

Var stepped up beside the captain, arms folded across his chest, mimicking Starkey's earlier body language.

"Captain," the communications officer called out, "they're not responding to our hails."

It brought the starship's commander out of his reverie. "They're ignoring us?" Starkey asked, clearly unwilling to believe even the Klingons could be like that.

The comms officer simply nodded, but continued trying to hail the Klingon warship.

"Who are these Klingons?" Var asked.

Starkey sighed, collecting his thoughts. "The Klingons are a warp-capable species that live by their own code of what they call honour. They are a race of warriors, bred to fight. Starfleet, and the Federation itself, has been in a kind of cold war with the Klingon Empire since first contact was made by the Enterprise NX-01 over a hundred years ago. Every now and then there's a small skirmish, but nothing major so far."

"I take it their starship is more powerful," Var said, gesturing to the viewscreen image of the long-necked triangular warship.

"We only escaped last time thanks to a nearby nebula," Starkey said in response. Var wasn't sure what a nebula actually was, but didn't say it.

"Captain," the navigator called out, panic barely audible in his voice. "The Klingons are moving to attack speed."

"Shields up, weapons to maximum," Starkey ordered. "Helm, evasive manoeuvres. Navigation, how far to the nearest planet?"

"There's an uninhabited planet five minutes away at impulse, sir."

"Helm, set course for the planet's low orbit; full impulse."

* * * * *

The aging, fragile starship began to move off, away from the Klingon vessel.

Horizon was old, battle-damaged, outgunned, and outclassed by the D7 cruiser. The Klingon ship was faster, and more manoeuvrable, and ultimately built for war, whereas the Horizon was built as an explorer, in a time of peace. Essentially, as Starkey often put it, the Daedalus-class starship was well and truly screwed.

The Horizon pedalled toward the uninhabited planet, the Klingons pounding away at it.

Smoke, and something less wholesome, was leaking into the bridge from somewhere above. The decking shook violently, Var had to hold onto the back of Starkey's chair to steady himself. The communications console sparked, and then exploded in the face of the poor officer manning it. Blood streamed from the man's face, and there was a piece of debris lodged in his forehead that he'd never recover from.

Reports from the rest of the ship came in, detailing horrendous casualties.

"Shields are down," the tactical officer shouted over the shrieking deck plating. Metal tore and screamed somewhere on the ship, Starkey was sure it was a hull breach. Everyone on the bridge was too busy keeping the ship going, than worrying about a hull breach.

"Weapons are gone," the tactical officer reported. Then a feedback in one of the minor systems smacked through the circuits, and overloaded the weapons console, exploding, and taking the tactical officer with it. Flying debris scattered across the bridge, leaving everyone with dozens of small wounds, and the helmsman without a face.

Without thinking, Var rushed forward, and grabbed hold of the helmsman's body by his armpits. He hauled the dead officer out of the chair, and took the man's place. No-one questioned his actions, only grateful that he could help. Var was astonished that he knew what he was doing, even though he'd never touched a ship's helm -in his memory anyway.

"Helm," Starkey called, "get us as close to the planet as possible." He slapped the ship's intercom on the arm of his chair. "This is the captain; all hands prepare to abandon ship. All personnel report to their assigned evacuation points." He turned to the remainders of the bridge crew. "That means you lot as well."

The two bridge officers ran for the turbolift. Var didn't budge from his seat at the helm, not even noticing the others leaving.

"Gabriel, that means you as well."

Var just shook his head, and carried on piloting.

"The manoeuvring thrusters are only at twenty percent, Captain; we aren't going to make it unless someone stays here to make course corrections."

Starkey was about to ask how the alien knew that, but stopped himself, knowing that even Var wouldn't know the answer to that question. So he just sat in the navigator's seat. The console immediately began to bleep and blare at him.

"The planet's atmosphere is putting out some kind of electromagnetic pulse."

"What does that mean?" Var asked, confusion setting in once again.

"It means, when we enter that pulse, all our electronics are going to shut down."

"Oh, that sounds bad," Var replied nonchalantly.

* * * * *

Anyone watching would have been amazed to see the spindly Horizon slam into the atmosphere, the lights descending into pitch black. No one could do anything about it, not even Var at the helm. All power was lost, and yet the Klingons continued to pound the smaller vessel, disruptor fire tearing pieces of hull plating away.

As the Horizon hit the atmosphere, the warp nacelles were torn to shreds, leaving the stumps of the support struts, and warp plasma leaking out. The friction caused by the Horizon's re-entry ignited the plasma, which in turn backtracked into the ship. The back end of the engineering hull exploded, flames pushing chunks of bulkheads and hull plating outward. Three crewmen, still trying to get to their evacuation point, were incinerated in the blast.

The lower half of the spherical main hull, just below the connection to the engineering hull, blew out, throwing the ship's dying air into the re-entry fire.

From the surface, the burning Horizon looked like a smoking asteroid, plummeting through the air, toward the ground.

Horizon hit the ground at tremendous speeds, the underbelly scraping noisily along a grassy plateau. It dug into the ground, churning the ground up like a plough in a field until it stopped. The sudden stop of motion threw Var and Starkey up and out of their seats, over the consoles, to smash into the viewscreen on the opposite side of the bridge.

When they came to, they found that the ruins of the ship had tilted to one side. Half a million metric tonnes, the Horizon was still creaking from the heat of the re-entry. There was a fire under one of the consoles. Starkey found it unsettling that there were no noises other than the creaks and shivers of the dead starship. He was so used to hearing the beeps and whistles of the consoles, the chatter of the crew, the underlying noise of the massive engines. He had taken them all for granted for so many years. And now they, and half the crew, were gone. He hoped someone else had survived; though considering the state of the ship, he wouldn't be surprised if nobody had.

"C'mon, Gabriel," he said, looking around for an emergency hatch. "We gotta get out of the ship." He found the emergency hatch buckled and bent, but intact. Opening it, they found that the emergency ladder well was crumpled, and caved in.

There was only one way out now.

He turned to look up at the cracked ceiling of the bridge itself.

"We'll have to climb up there, and smash our way out."

* * * * *

As it turned out, there were four-dozen survivors; some of them were crewmen who had been in sickbay from the previous attack; others were crew that had made it to their evacuation points, and then had made it to the outside. Doctor Jones led the sickbay survivors out onto the surface of the planet. There were three security guards among the evacuation point party, who quickly set up a small perimeter, whilst five engineers, including Commander Warren, began to comb the area for shelter.

Having staunched a bleeding leg, from one of the sickbay patients, she looked around their surroundings. The ship had smashed into a large grassy plain, and then slid along it, leaving a canyon of wrecked ground. It had then come to a stop among a massive clump of trees. It hadn't hit any trees, but instead had stopped in a clearing.

There was wreckage everywhere, some of it still smoking, some of it even red with the heat of the extreme descent. To the sides of the clearing, Jones saw groups of wreckage that were cold, corroding, and even covered in moss, and vines. She frowned. That could only be possible if the wreckage had been there for years.

This was a graveyard -a starship graveyard.

Ensign Vasquez's observations about the rest of the area confirmed that suspicion, when the big security guard returned from his perimeter sweep, shouldering a defunct phaser rifle. Nothing electronic would work on this planet, but the guards seemed to feel at ease with at least some form of weapon in their hands.

Horizon's buried carcass was the smallest crash 'victim' any of the Starfleet survivors could see. To the north stood a tri-wedge craft, buried nose-first like a flamingo searching water for food. To the south, a vaguely Klingon warship lay over a spike of rock, its back broken. There were more starships here, though none recognisable, and none from any current civilisation; like the massive black cube in the distance, or the scarab-like warship lying in pieces near the Horizon's landing trail.

A clanging noise came from nearby, from on top of the Horizon's wreckage. It sounded like someone banging on a hull plate. Then there was a tearing sound, like something punching through metal. The end of a cable unfolded down the length of what remained of the spherical forward section of the dead starship.

Two figures descended down it: Var and Starkey, both with bruises and bleeding wounds on their faces and bodies. They were a bit beaten up, but none the worse for wear.

The two tall, imposing men strode over to Jones, Starkey limping slightly. Standing up, walking side-by-side they couldn't be more different; Starkey had the weight of twenty-five years as a responsible starship officer on his shoulders in his stride, whereas Var was tall, muscled, and extremely imposing, like a soldier of old times. Jones even entertained the possibility that he looked like a knight of her native England.

"Jonesy," Starkey greeted with a sad smile. He seemed almost unable to look at the remains of his ship. She always did find it curious how captains formed marriage-like bonds to their starships. "How are you holdin' up?" the captain asked, placing comforting hands on her shoulders.

"I'll live," she smiled, the first real emotion showing on her face for the first time since her husband's death. She smiled even more, when she saw that Var had made it out in one piece.

"How is everyone?" Starkey asked, turning to the rest of the survivors. The all nodded silently, sadly. He sat in the centre of the group. Var stood at the outside of the group, hands in pockets, looking worriedly at the wreckage of the Horizon.

"Alright," Starkey began. "Warren, is there any way we can beat this EMP field?"

The engineer shrugged, "Without knowing what the source is, I can't begin to know how to defeat it. No technology beyond mechanical objects works here, not even a tricorder or a phaser. We can make up some sort of projectile weapon, but I don't see how that could be of any use against the Klingons, if they ever decide to come down here."

"We may have no choice in that matter," one of the red-shirted security guards exclaimed, joining the group. He had just returned from a sweep of a nearby canyon. "The Klingons have had their own taster of the EMP."

"I'm sorry?" Starkey looked at him questioningly.

The security guard pointed in the direction of the canyon. "Their ship crashed over in the canyon, four kilometres in that direction. I don't know how many survived, but their General did."

"General?" Var asked, frowning at the word.

"General Gorel is very recognisable, what with the fur cloak he wears."

"How do you know his name?" Jones asked, tending to one of her patients. The sickbay survivors were all laid out on blankets, most of them asleep.

"Starfleet Intelligence has a whole file just for him," Starkey replied. "He was a close friend of Duras -another Klingon, killed by Jonathan Archer of the NX-01. Gorel's had it in for Starfleet ever since."

"And he just happens to be here, on this planet, now," Jones snorted.

It was a rather strange coincidence that a sworn enemy of the Federation, and a memory-wiped soldier, were stuck on the same planet as the remains of a Starfleet crew.

"Have they made a move toward us?" Var asked. Everyone was surprised by the question, though no one said anything; it wasn't the place or the time for that sort of thing.

The security guard shook his head, "No, but it's only a matter of time. They can probably see our own wreckage, probably have scouts watching us right now."

"Where?" Var asked, looking around.

"If I were them," Vasquez spoke up, "I would put someone over there." He pointed over toward the treeline, at a spot not too far away. "And over there, and there," he said, pointing to two more points at the clearing's edge. Var was gone in an instant, as if he had just vanished. When he returned, ten minutes later, there were pink spatters of blood on his overalls, and a bundle of Klingon disruptors, and blades in his hands.

"You were right, Ensign Vasquez," Var pointed out.

No one asked how he had retrieved the weapons, no one wanted to know, though it seemed as though a barrier had been thrown up between the Starfleet crew, and Var. Except Starkey didn't seem bothered by it, in fact he even seemed somewhat pleased that Starfleet personnel weren't the ones doing... whatever it was Var had done.

"I don't suppose anyone has something darker than these," Var grimaced, looking down at the bright blue overalls. Vasquez nodded, his face slightly pale despite his dark complexion. He was young, idealistic, and now a stranger with no memory had just slaughtered three Klingons without so much as his bare hands.

Vasquez went back into the ship, and found some black overalls. He came back minutes later, and threw the overalls at Var. He nodded to Vasquez, and then threw a grim look over at Starkey. Their eyes met for a brief second, in which more was said than could be used with words.

Var turned away, and jogged to the treeline, carrying one of the Klingon swords, the black overalls, and a small dagger recovered from the third of the Klingon scouts.

Starkey watched Var go.

"How does he know what he's doing, if he's got no memory?" Vasquez asked.

"I think that he was a soldier before we found him," Starkey answered, "a good one by the looks of it; he's four billion years old. After that amount of time, he could probably do it in his sleep. His body contains the physical memory, even if his mind doesn't.

"Considering what he probably did to those scouts, I almost feel sorry for Gorel."

Vasquez shook his head, and then returned to spreading the Klingon weapons out to his men.

* * * * *

Gorel cursed the planet again, as he stood, watching his crew try and make repairs on the wreckage that was once his warship. The Federation petaQ had obviously built some kind of weapon that could conceivably be used to defeat the Klingon Empire.

This Kahless-forsaken planet was enough to make the hardiest Klingon warrior long for the cityscape of the Klingon capital. There was nothing here, no technology other than the starship graveyards. There were hundreds of rotting ships, of all manner of shapes and sizes. He'd even spotted a Klingon warship that was corroded through, not a hundred metres from the wreckage of his own ship.

There was a small breeze picking up, rustling some of the trees. His throat suddenly felt dry, and he felt the sudden urge to have a tankard of blood wine. He cursed the planet again.

The setting sun began to spray harsh yellow and red rays across the canyon, creating hard shadows among the rocks of the canyon walls. Where the light hit the starship wreckages, the contrast between shadow and light gave it an eerie sense of aliveness that gave even Gorel a shiver down his hardened spine. His massive fur cloak, and long matted hair, began to move with the sudden breeze.

Something in the air was beginning to irritate his forehead ridges. The sooner they were off this rock, the better.

"General," his second-in-command called. The Klingon warrior approached up the outcropping Gorel was situated on. Gorel had been watching down to the end of the canyon, trying to identify the dozens of other wrecks along the canyon walls. He had thought that maybe there would be something to salvage, but no such luck.

There was, of course, still the problem of the Starfleet vessel that Gorel had ordered destroyed. That wreck was currently being scouted by three of his best men.

"What is it, Colonel?" Gorel growled.

"Our scouts have not returned on schedule."

"How long are they overdue?"

"An hour, General," the Colonel replied. When the General didn't say anything, the Colonel continued, practically talking to himself. "I'll send someone to find them then."

* * * * *

Two warriors, armed with bat'leths, stumbled upon the body of one of the scouts, purely by accident. Searching for the missing scouts, one of the armoured Klingons tripped on the body of one of his own.

Unfortunately, when he turned around his friend was no longer there, only the silent forest. He hadn't heard the other move, yet there was no one there. The branches above him suddenly crashed, and a black figure descended from the treetops.

And then there was a blade at the Klingon's throat. A Klingon mek'leth blade.

"Who are you?" the Klingon shouted, dredging up his knowledge of the humans' main language, English, or so it was called. Di'qar had heard that the humans had dozens of completely different languages and cultures.

"My name is Var, and apparently, you are a Klingon warrior."

"What do you want?"

"Your people fired upon a damaged vessel, one that was no threat to begin with. Why? Where was the honour in beating a helpless opponent?"

"There is no greater honour than victory," the Klingon quoted from the texts of Kahless, though his words sounded hollow.

"What is your name?" the figure asked, his face still behind the Klingon.

"Di'qar, son of Gorel," the Klingon spat. Silence. The figure obviously knew who Gorel was, because he was stunned into silence. Di'qar briefly wondered if the stranger knew of his public hatred for his own father.

"Your father was dishonourable in his actions," the figure said. Di'qar spat something unintelligible, and then twisted to see the figure, encompassed in the shadows, and silhouetted by the light from the clearing ahead.

Whoever he was, the man was as tall as a Klingon,

Di'qar charged, trying to catch him off-guard. The Klingon didn't know what hit him. His bat'leth went flying in one direction, whilst his legs were swept out from under him. He landed on his back with a heavy crunch. His shoulder and spine armour protected his fall, though he'd have a nice bruise later.

"Di'qar, son of Gorel," the figure said, leaning closer. Though he'd never admit it, the human sent a chill down his spine. There was no emotion in those bright red eyes, his long matted white hair giving him a feral look, something even Klingons couldn't manage. The tattoo only added more to the feral look; if he'd been wearing a loincloth, he could have been the resurrected Kahless himself.

"You will return to your people," Var growled, his voice low and very threatening. "You will tell your people to surrender, or-". Var left the silent threat hanging in the air, leaving it to Di'qar's imagination to fill in the blanks.

Di'qar sighed heavily, agonising over what he should do. He did not want to betray his people, but he could clearly see that what they had done to the Horizon's crew to be wrong.

"Fine," he growled, reluctantly. "I will return to my people."

With that, he stalked off through the undergrowth, heading for his father.

* * * * *

Gorel was less than amused when his idiot son burst from the treeline, unarmed, and bruised. He ran straight at the General, a look of panic on his young face. The young warrior ignored any attempts from his comrades to question him. He even punched one subordinate in the face as he ran past.

"General," Di'qar called, close to running out of breath. Gorel didn't chastise the boy for using his rank rather than his parental obligation. Despite being the boy's legitimate father, Gorel wanted nothing to do with him; Di'qar followed the teachings of Kahless and Lukara, and was all about honour, and battle. Gorel, on the other hand, was a pragmatist -not always willing to revert to violence all the time, and unwilling to follow the codes of honour that Klingons in general lived by.

"Di'qar, you incompetent fool, what is wrong?" he shouted impatiently.

Di'qar stopped in front of his father, looking up as he tried to catch a laboured breath.

"The scouts are dead, as is G'Roq."

When Gorel looked blankly at the mention of the name G'Roq, his son began to explain that G'Roq had been the warrior sent with him into the trees. But he was interrupted by a gurgled cry of surprise far off. Gorel and Di'qar both spun round to see a pair of armoured Klingon legs disappear at head height behind a large rock formation. A rock formation sat in the shadow of the canyon wall itself, and directly in front of an ancient Klingon wreckage.

Di'qar knew what it meant, but hadn't realised Var would be so impatient as to not let Di'qar warn his people. Though he did see the logic in not warning ruthless enemies, he was still somewhat surprised. And still unarmed.

* * * * *

Var sapped the Klingon warrior unconscious with a rock. He was sure that the blow should have killed the ugly-looking soldier. He surmised that the Klingons had bodies evolved to combat: thick skulls and bones to prevent serious damage, fangs, and thick ridges on the foreheads. He briefly wondered what they looked like on the inside, though that nauseous thought went away very quickly.

The Klingon was unconscious; Captain Starkey would be pleased that he hadn't entirely had to resort to lethal force -though the scouts in the forest left him with no choice. He didn't know why he wanted to please Starkey so much. Then again, the generous crew of the Horizon had discovered him, given him a name. But he needed a purpose. Could he join Starfleet? He needed his memories back, but if Doctor Jones had been right, there was the possibility he may never regain his memories.

For now he had the Klingons to deal with.

And two more were headed his way, swords held low, trying to look intimidating with their long hair, broad shoulders, and boasting growls of encouragement to each other.

They cautiously rounded the corner of the rock formation, unaware of what to expect. Var's roundhouse kick lashed out, and slapped both in the face, in one smooth motion. Both were knocked to the stony ground, pink blood streaming from their noses. They were out like a light, their heads hitting the rocks on the ground hard enough to stun them.

Not wanting to kill them, nor wanting them to wake up and attack him again, Var found some cable from the nearby wreckage to tie them up, along with the first warrior he had taken.

The same trick wouldn't work again; he'd taken the first warrior from behind in a chokehold, with surprise on his side. To maximise the surprise, he would need to change his position, move somewhere they weren't expecting. It wasn't difficult; the canyon floor was littered with rocks, and wreckages, so much so, that there wasn't one place in the area that had a total view over the entire canyon.

It took him a few precarious moments to navigate a path away from the three bound Klingons, and further toward the canyon centre.

Another Klingon approached the position he had just vacated, and cried out an alarm. The others came rushing toward the same position. Var was crouched in a rocky nook above them, waiting to pounce.

* * * * *

Gorel watched his warriors race toward the Klingon wreck, and the rock in front of it. He had no desire to die in 'glorious' battle. As the warriors drew nearer, they slowed, than came to a halt. They all looked around them in a comical display of confusion.

Something in the corner of his vision caught his attention, but all he saw were shadows created by the system's star beating against the rocks.

His men began to look around them, looking for a sign of the assailant.

Gorel jumped in astonishment. One of the shadows he had dismissed as harmless, detached itself from the rocks, and landed among the warriors. Shouting and hideous swearing reverberated off the canyon walls.

Gorel caught a glimpse of white hair, and the flashes of sunlight off metal blades.

Warriors stumbled back, blood pouring out of head wounds. A Klingon limb went flying, in the complete opposite direction to its unconscious owner. He could see a figure at the centre, moving faster than Gorel could keep up with. He was like a ghost of the old legends of Kahless; untouched, the figure kept on hammering the Klingons with a whirlwind of punches and kicks, occasionally slicing an arm or leg to incapacitate them.

All this took only seconds.

When it was finished, the white-haired figure was standing among the unconscious warriors, brandishing a blooded mek'leth, doubtless taken from one of the scouts. He stalked forward, his red eyes burning like the volcanic fires of Mount K'boc on Qo'nos.

It chilled Gorel to his old bones just to look at him.

Un-warrior-like, his hands began to shake as the human came closer and closer, striding across the canyon floor, a grim expression on his face.

"General Gorel," the human growled menacingly, using the human's primary language. The old general didn't think it was possible for a Klingon to feel so intimidated than he did right now. "You will desist in your attempts to destroy the Federation, as will your Empire."

Gorel gobbed on the ground in front of the human's feet.

"Go back to the afterlife, from whence you came, human," Gorel growled in return. His knowledge of the language known as English was better than most Klingons; one must study their enemy in order to defeat them after all.

The human frowned, and stopped.

"I am not human, nor do I come from the afterlife." The human seemed to be slightly insulted, which made him look all the more frightening. Gorel fumbled for the dk'tahg knife at his hip. It fell from his old, shaking hands, clattering to the ground.

The white-haired being stepped forward.

Gorel was on the floor before he could even see, or feel, the punch. A warm sensation tickled his beard, and when he probed the hair with his fingers, he found his own pink blood flowing freely.

"W-What do you want?" Gorel strained, though the pain from his nose was becoming worse. He suspected the cartilage was close to his brain. He hoped the white-haired one would hurry up and get it over with. He didn't want it to be drawn out; a quick death, despite knowing he deserved worse.

"Surrender."

"Never." Gorel saw the man hesitate, obviously thinking Gorel would have surrendered unequivocally. He took a brave opportunity, and charged at the man.

An armoured fist took him in the side of the face, smashing his fangs, and opening up some blood vessels in his mouth. He fell to the floor again, and turned to see Di'qar glaring at his father. If looks could kill, Gorel would have been dead hundreds of times over.

"I knew you were a fool," Gorel spat, blood dribbling from his mouth.

The white-haired man's knee came up into Gorel's face, and threw him backwards across the ground. Gorel groggily picked himself up, and stumbled toward his son. He threw his head back, and screamed out a hideous battlecry; being killed in combat would not dishonour him.

* * * * *

Both Di'qar and Var were astonished at Gorel's sudden reversal. Clearly the General was desperate. Before Var could move, Di'qar bellowed a matching warcry, and body-slammed his father. They both fell to the ground, grappling with the other. They rolled around the ground, Var unwilling to get involved despite his previous actions. This was a family matter after all.

The father-and-son fight came to a halt. The two Klingons were lying still, motionless. Var was sure they were dead. He bounded over, and turned Di'qar over onto his back. There didn't appear to be any wounds on the Klingon warrior, other than bruising on his face.

When he turned the grizzled general over, he found a dk'tahg in his stomach; the old man's eyes were wide open with shock.

"He's dead," Di'qar croaked, a bruise on his throat softening his voice.

"I'm sorry you had to kill your father," Var said, sincerity evident in his face. He took Di'qar's hand in his, and pulled the wiry Klingon to his feet.

"His dishonour, and cowardice, could not be left unpunished," Di'qar said matter-of-factly, though Var saw the tinge of regret in the other's eyes. Di'qar would never again be able to repair his relationship with his father. Perhaps that was how Klingons dealt with this sort of thing.

Di'qar stood and retained the grip of Var's hand.

"You have honoured my house, Var, and the Klingon Empire, this day. I would be honoured to call you a friend, and ally."

Taking a leaf from Di'qar's book, Var smiled, "I would be honoured to accept that friendship."

* * * * *

At that exact point, Christian Starkey burst from the trees, to see Var smiling, and shaking the hand of a bruised Klingon warrior. He shook his head in amusement; Gabriel was making friends every few minutes.

Starkey had seen the bodies of the Klingon scouts, and the third warrior in the undergrowth. He knew Var had done that, and that it had been necessary. The starship captain looked over toward a fallen body wrapped in a thick animal fur cloak. Gorel.

Had Gabriel done that? Or had his new friend?

He wondered if Var's actions would have harsh consequences among the Klingon Empire. It was probably a given that the Klingon Chancellor would demand some kind of recompense from the Federation. That was a concern for another time though. They needed to find a way around the electromagnetic field surrounding the planet, and then get the hell back to Starfleet.

He'd sent his remaining security guards off to cover the area in case any Klingons had escaped Var's merciless attention. Which led him to wonder what would happen to Var. The alien had been discovered floating in space, in a battered starfighter, with no memory of who he was, or what he was, or where he was from. He had then been told his DNA confirmed his age at four billion years old; he could pilot a starship, fight Klingons like the galaxy's greatest assassin, and read a language that was not in the Starfleet database. And yet none of his abilities were anything but instinct, so old that his body could do them without the brain knowing.

"Wait," Var said, stopping everyone in his or her tracks. "Where's Gorel's second-in-command?" He was annoyed that he had let one slip by him. But where was the Klingon? He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and knew what it was.

* * * * *

Starkey let out a shocked cry as Var tackled him to the ground.

Var grunted as something heavy and sharp thunked messily into his back.

When the starship captain managed to gain some semblance of dignity, he pulled Var off him. Despite having a fragment of green hull plating lodged in his back, Var seemed none the worse for wear. He did wince though when he stood up.

They turned to see Di'qar decking the Klingon Colonel, until the warrior fell unconscious, with Di'qar standing over him.

"Captain," Ensign Vasquez shouted from further down the canyon. He was standing beside a cube of technology, with busted pipes hanging out, and what looked to be cybernetic lifeforms that had been long since dead. Vasquez had found it odd that a starship would be cube-shaped -even in space, ships needed to be streamline to be truly effective because of the amount of nebulae, and other phenomena.

He waved the captain and the rest of the party over, motioning to a cave behind the cube vessel.

The darkness of the cave was filled with silence as Starkey led the way between the spacious rocky walls, with Var right behind him. The old, damp air filled the survivors' nostrils; Starkey didn't want to know what they were really breathing in. They pushed on through the cave. Occasionally, someone would lose his or her footing on the slippery rocks.

Starkey felt something brush against his leg in the dark. When he stopped to see what it was, he heard a ticking noise emanating from further in the cave. The air suddenly changed, and he could smell some kind of gas. A light flickered on, further in.

"Is that a gaslight?" Vasquez commented.

Starkey confirmed it when the cave opened out into a larger cave, except this one had smoother sides with gas lamps lined along the walls. It had been constructed, carved out of the rock by something artificial. At the centre of the cave stood a perfect circular platform, on which stood a chest-high unit. The unit seemed to be a computer console.

Symbols decorated the edges of the console, though there were similar symbols collected in a group on the slanted topside.

Starkey realised that he'd seen similar symbols before: tattooed on Gabriel Var.

Gabriel obviously believed the same thing.

The alien was staring wide-eyed at the console.

Starkey wondered if Gabriel could actually read the symbols. When he saw the alien's face, his bright red eyes were flicking from left to right, reading what was written. His eyes widened with surprise.

"You know what it says," Starkey stated.

Var nodded, then looked around at the group crowded into the cave, looking into each individual's eyes: Ensign Vasquez, Ensign McDonald, Di'qar, and Captain Starkey.

"I need you all to keep a massive secret. I need you all to trust me, and, in turn, be trusted." They all nodded enthusiastically one at a time. When Starkey nodded, he still had a confused look on his face.

Var took in a deep breath, and then sighed heavily, thinking it through.

"You can tell no-one. I think this goes beyond the Federation or the Klingon Empire..."

* * * * *

They were standing round an alien plinth in a cave, with the memory-wiped Var standing on a small platform surrounding the plinth. The plinth itself was a copper-green, a thin layer of dust on everything. Patterns of black geometric shapes ringed the platform's edge, with more dotted around the base of the plinth. They were similar to the symbols tattooed on Var's body and face.

Starkey saw that one symbol at the base of the plinth was identical to the one on Var's face. Could this place be a clue to Var's existence? Or was it just an amazing coincidence that Var had been found in the same star system as this EM pulse?

Vasquez was standing next to Captain Starkey, with the Klingon -a Lieutenant called Di'qar- next to the security officer. The Klingon seemed to exude menace, and quiet calm at the same time. It worried Starkey, though not as much as the saddened look on Var's face.

"What is it, Gabriel?" he asked politely.

"I know what all these symbols represent," the alien replied. "And what this... facility does."

"That's the secret?" Vasquez asked, incredulity on his face evident. The redshirt turned to see the fierce Klingon just as confused as he was.

"It's more involved than that," Gabriel answered. He pointed to the plinth, where a collection of more symbols seemed to represent a computer console, with a single, large, glowing white button at the centre. "This machine once protected a small community, though that community was probably crushed by a falling starship. I don't know the specifics, but the machine shuts down advanced technology, like starship engines, weapons, and so on."

He paused, reading the symbols on the top of the plinth. Vasquez realised they weren't buttons, but simply alien symbols.

"My people call themselves 'Preservers', though I don't think that's their real name." He sighed, as if sad that he still hadn't truly found who he was, or where he came from. "This single button activates, and de-activates, the machine.

"But you must swear you to secrecy, even you, Di'qar. From what I've seen of Starfleet and Klingon technology, this machine is centuries ahead of either culture. Neither the Federation, nor the Klingon Empire, should possess this machine, or its technology."

"But we can simulate these effects even with our old technology," Starkey complained.

"Not on a planetary scale," Di'qar growled.

"There is more technology deep below the surface, if I am reading these symbols right," Var replied. "Technology that isn't specified here, but is waiting for my people to be taken away."

Var sighed. "I need you all to swear never to reveal this secret to anyone, though I will tell Doctor Jones about this."

Starkey didn't even hesitate. "I swear."

Vasquez nodded, though slightly reluctantly. "I swear never to reveal this."

"It would be an honour to shoulder this burden," Di'qar practically shouted.

"Thankyou," Gabriel simply said, before slapping the white button on the plinth. Seconds later, Starkey's other surviving security guards appeared in the cave entrance.

"Captain, our communicators are working again," one of them shouted.

"Excellent," Starkey replied.

"The Enterprise is in orbit, waiting to beam us back up!"

Starkey looked at Var, hoping the alien might let him explain this to Starfleet, or at least to Jim Kirk. But Var shook his head.

"Tell them not to beam down; have them start beaming the crew up, along with the Klingon warriors. Myself, Di'qar, and Gabriel will be the last up."

"Aye, sir," the guard acknowledged crisply, turning to carry out his captain's orders.

"If you can read all these symbols," Starkey continued, "What does the one on your face mean?"

"Lost," Var said simply.

"And the repeated phrases around the platform, and plinth?" Di'qar asked; his warrior's instincts suddenly replaced by uncharacteristic human-like curiosity for knowledge. Starkey thought that maybe there was hope for the Klingon Empire yet.

"I think it's a prophecy, but I can't be sure."

"What does it say?" Captain Christian Starkey damn near demanded.

Var told him.

* * * * *

USS Frontier.

Five years later...

Sylvia Jones looked over at her captain, Christian Starkey. They were both dressed in their new duty uniforms, standing at ease, opposite the door to the main airlock.

"I know," Starkey smiled, "You can't wait to see him."

The Frontier was the latest Constitution-class out of the San Francisco shipyards. State-of-the-art, it followed the same design as the newly refitted Enterprise. Starkey had been given command four years ago, months after the Enterprise itself had rescued the Horizon's survivors, and the Klingons prisoners.

The Klingons, along with Di'qar and the bodies of the slain, had been returned to the Klingon Empire as gesture of good faith. Starkey was still waiting for the Chancellor of the High Council to demand something; he hadn't.

Var had made the survivors swear that they would not tell anyone how the EMP field had been disabled and then activated again after the Enterprise left the system. It would remain a secret for years to come, or someone else made it public.

Jones had not seen the cave or the console, or much of the 'battle'. But Var had returned to her position next to the Horizon's wreckage, and told her the secret he had shared with the others. She felt proud Var had that kind of trust in him, yet wholly scared about the subject. She would take the secret to her grave.

"Shuttlepod at twenty metres distance from airlock," the computer announced.

Sylvia found that the butterflies in her stomach were getting worse, the closer the shuttlepod got to the airlock. It had been two months since the shuttlepod's passenger had visited the ship. Though both she and Captain Starkey had received letters every week, neither had actually seen him. Now their visitor would be taking over the helm of the great ship, fresh out of Starfleet Academy.

A clunk noise alerted the two officers to the shuttlepod docking, and clamping onto the latching system.

The hydraulics hissed, and the circular doors irised open. There stood a Starfleet Ensign, dressed in a command tunic, holding a large brown satchel in one hand.

"Welcome aboard the Starship Frontier, Ensign Var."

Gabriel Var grinned, and stepped from the airlock. He had his hair tied back, with several new braids. Jones was the first to hug him, almost barrelling him over onto the deck, and encompassing him in a bear hug, despite only coming up to his collarbone.

"Hello, Gabriel," she smiled, lingering in the hug perhaps a little too long. When the Horizon had rescued Var, she had been grieving for the loss of her husband, and was in the mindset that she would never find someone as good and as pure as him. But five years was a long time, and Gabriel Var was so attractive, and he had an almost childlike perspective of the world.

Four years ago, Var had joined Starfleet, and become a pilot, with the potential to be a starship captain, much like his mentor, Christian Starkey. And in that time, Sylvia Jones -a doctor and chief medical officer- had grown closer and closer to him. She had last seen him at his graduation ceremony, but he had gone off on a working holiday to an archaeological dig to the Denobulan homeworld.

Wrapped up as he was in Sylvia's arms, he almost forgot about Captain Starkey. He cleared his throat, and nearly failed in prying Sylvia's vice-like hug away from him.

"Ensign Gabriel Var, reporting as ordered, Captain," he said stiffly, snapping to attention. Starkey nodded with approval, and beamed a massive smile. He too embraced Var in a hug, though somewhat uncomfortably; it wasn't very proper for a captain to hug a junior officer.

"How was Denobula?"

"Interesting," Var smiled. "We found evidence that Denobulans are the second sentient race to have evolved on that planet." Var had even written a paper theorising just that, during his third year at the Academy, though he left that part out.

Starkey gestured Var to follow him.

"Sounds like you're in the wrong field of expertise," Starkey grinned.

Var snorted. "Perhaps, when I become first officer, I can devote more attention toward archaeology."

"First officer?" Sylvia smiled, "What makes you think you'll get that far?"

As they neared Var's new quarters, the tall, muscled alien answered.

"Well, I've gotta be first officer to get to the best position."

"And what position is that?" Sylvia queried, looping her arm through Var's free arm.

Var looked at her, a mock look of shock in his face, as if there were no other answer to be had. "The captain."