Special Investigations Division
Uprising
Parts 3, 4 & 5
by Travis Anderson
(michelluthien@hotmail.com)

Uprising

Part 3

The Odyssey sailed trough warp space effortlessly. Macen had slowly elevated speeds while testing the modifications to his satisfaction. Planetia Utopia had given the ship a certification before their departure, but Macen also knew a commander never took a dockyard's word for it. The true shakedown occurred when the ship's crew returned and put her through her paces.

As Macen glanced across the bridge, he realised how odd that thought was now. Beside himself, only T'Kir had spent any significant amount of time aboard. Even then, T'Kir manned a combined Ops/Helm console. Now Ops was separated from Helm and was coupled with Science instead.

T'Kir had been a fair pilot, but nowhere near Grace's calibre. He was sorry he'd missed her stint at the helm while battling Section 31's dupes in orbit above Earth. He'd been on the ground trying to present evidence of their illegal gulag. The prison had been shut down and its inhabitants repatriated. While many Starfleet and Federation officials had been tried, not one Section 31 operative had been captured.

Macen had crossed Section 31's path twice that he knew of. Undoubtedly it had happened far more often than that during his eighty year career with Starfleet Intelligence. They'd remained virtually undetected for almost 300 years. There was no way of knowing how many times he'd orbited their sphere of influence. It was a thought that both depressed and enraged Macen.

Macen was intimately familiar with both emotions. He'd lost an entire civilisation and a quadrant to the Borg. His entire family and most of his friends had died or been scattered across the galaxy after the assimilation of the El-Aurian Commonwealth. He'd replaced his lost family and society with the Maquis only to lose them to the Dominion. He'd faced two of the most efficient and ruthless species in the galaxy. Section 31 paled in comparison.

Maven glanced towards the Science/Ops station. T'Kir's mouth was twisted up in reaction to something. He laughed inwardly at her display. Although her impulsiveness was occasionally difficult to manage at times, T'Kir's stark honesty had always been refreshing.

Lisea Danan had been Macen's first long-term romance since arriving in the Alpha Quadrant. His lifespan was several times that of most Federation species. Even a Vulcan or a Gideonite's 300+ years was slightly under the average El-Aurian's. Danan's symbiot had at least provided a chance of a continuing relationship even if it would have been altered by the change of Trill host bodies.

Although the El-Aurians in the Alpha Quadrant had agreed not to share the secrets of their anti-ageing techniques, Macen sometimes wondered if that was not born out of a desire to remain unique. The Gideonites employed similar methods as well. They'd gone further and had been forced to re-introduce disease to their biosphere in order to curb their rampant over-population crisis.

As a member of the Expeditionary Survey Forces, Macen had been given the latest and most powerful series of treatments during his early training. A naturally long-lived race, the El-Aurians had long ago decided to give the most powerful treatments to their scientists and those that had indebted society to them. The typical treatments extended the normal centennial life expectancy by a factor of three. The more advanced treatments employed a factor of ten.

Macen could easily expect to reach an age of 1200. He was already over a quarter of the way there. His biology's chronological age roughly approximated that of a 30-year-old human. His advantage lay in the fact that he had over 400 years worth of experience behind that apparent youth.

That had been a driving force behind his romance with Danan. Outwardly, she was nearly the same age but she carried a centuries old soul within her symbiot. That sense of experience outweighing outward form had been what drove them together. It had also been what drove them apart. Lisea had wanted Danan to pass on life experiences different from the wartime experiences and gritty revelations Macen's intelligence career entailed.

A sense of anticipation also rang through the crew. Still flushed with the Federation's victory over the Dominion, they felt invincible and eagerly awaited their opportunity to reshape the universe. Drake had assembled a strong group with combat experience. Macen wondered how well they'd fare at investigation.

Although not an adherent of the pacifism taught by his people, Macen didn't quite hold with the upswing of interventionist fervour spreading across the Federation. The utopian dreams of non-interference preached by Federation officials had been shattered by the Dominion. The Founder's policies of cultural manipulation had almost toppled an alliance of the three strongest powers in the Alpha Quadrant. Most of the Federation's social theoreticians were now scrambling to revise their opinions of regulated societies.

The trend disturbed Macen. It stank of assimilation. No survivor of Borg aggression could ever view such things the same. The bitterest pill was that the Federation itself had repelled the Borg twice and chose not to recognise the similarities of such policies.

Whereas Starfleet previously would have held back before leaping into a fray between two sovereign stellar nations, now they tended to barge in and demand to mediate negotiations. Whether or either side wanted to negotiate was beside the point. The Federation, saviour of the Alpha Quadrant had declared that negotiations should begin, and begin they would. Macen seriously doubted how such decisions were beginning to appear to the Romulans and various non-aligned powers.

The Klingons were faithfully supporting the Federation's actions. This was due in part to their crippling losses during the war and also due to their echoes to former Imperial policies. Macen knew that although domestically the Romulans were facing the defection of entire segments of their society, like the Rhihansu, they were gaining interstellar prestige as the prophets of the Federation's arrogance and hypocrisy. It was a rather ironic vindication for a race that viewed itself as being physically and morally superior to all others.

Macen shrugged these concerns aside as he asked T'Kir for a report. The Vulcan's eyes flicked lightly across the displays. Macen had run several drills over the last few days and she perused her equipment before answering in case of a sudden change in her readings. Macen managed not to smile as she replied.

"Nothing out there." her voice rang confidently, almost defiantly. T'Kir always reminded Macen of Ro Laren in many ways. She was quirky, stubborn, wilful, and impulsive. She was also caring and loyal. Even though she'd tried to kill him in a fit of telepathically induced insanity, he trusted unlike anyone else aboard.

Macen heard T'Kir mutter a curse under her breath, "What is it T'Kir?"

"I'm detecting a glitch in our sensor array." T'Kir replied, annoyance permeated her words.

Macen straightened up, "Can you resolve it?"

"Already on it. I've engaged the back-ups and widened the radius of the other sensors."

"I take it you've isolated the problem?" Macen asked.

"Yes." T'Kir replied glumly, "One of our port sensors was displaying an echo of its neighbouring unit. The differential was so slight, I hadn't noticed it."

Macen nodded. It was an easy mistake to make. Technically, the targeting sensors weren't her purview, but she took it upon herself to monitor all the sensor systems. The diagnostics hadn't detected it while Daggit used the systems. That meant the diagnostics might be faulty as well.

He nodded towards T'Kir, "Get ahold of Chief Dracas and tell him what you've got. I want to know how this happened."

T'Kir was already contacting the Chief. They were eleven hours out of Kresh territory. They would make a short layover at the station there before entering Andergani territory. Their lives and their investigation depended upon the sensors operating properly.

* * * * *

Hilde Edgars lifted her head off the floor. This was no easy task considering that her arms were bound behind her. The bruises and broken ribs also worked against her. She managed to twist her knees underneath her by leveraging herself on her head.

Her head swung up only to nearly come crashing back down. The galaxy spun like a wheel in the universe and Edgars was suddenly intimately aware of it.

She took deep, even breaths and forced her vision to clear. She tried to clear the mental cobwebs in order to remember why she'd received the latest beating.

The Horta had been ambushed. They'd followed the trail left behind the raiders that had looted that freighter. What they'd found...Oh God, what they'd found. The Horta had been disabled within minutes.

Edgars had signalled her surrender but it had been to no avail. The pirates couldn't afford witnesses. Edgars had ordered her crew to abandon ship in a desperate hope that some of them would escape destruction. The only pod that had been spared was the one containing her, Alicia Witt, and her Chief Tactical Officer.

Chief Hadlin had been executed immediately upon their being beamed aboard the lead pirate ship. There was no other term to describe it. The moment they materialised, a high power phaser beam disintegrated him. Edgars had not been surprised. She no longer had the capacity for surprise.

They'd tracked the Hornblower's destroyers down only to discover they were Starfleet. Three starships to be exact. They had escaped destruction during the Dominion campaign that captured Betazed. The battered and weary crews accepted the Andergani offer of protection in exchange for technology "infusions".

They augmented their ranks with displaced mercenaries from across the Alpha Quadrant. Some of them were former Maquis, Bajoran Resistance, and Symmetrists that found themselves in Andergani territory while fleeing capture. Their philosophical and political views twisted beyond recognition, poisoned by hate. The transition into piracy merely serving to fulfil impulses no longer satisfied while in pursuit of a "noble" cause.

The appearance of three starships had greatly changed the nature of Andergani piracy. Led by a former Lt. Commander, the Starfleet ships quickly decimated their rivals. The privateers that survived, survived at the sufferance of Herbert Spencer. With two Miranda-class and a New Orleans-class, they were unrivalled within the Andergani domain. They swiftly pinioned themselves into a virtual fiefdom of a solar system in exchange for the upsurge of bounty they produced.

Edgars had met Spencer's gaze levelly. His career had stalled years before. The spark that ignited in his eyes as he stared into her impassionate gaze had been his mind converting her into the imagined source of his life's failures. He saw the chance of breaking her as his chance to overcome the obstacles of his past.

She and Alicia were taken to junior officer's quarters and tied to the beds.

Spencer had several of his "officers", male and female alike, rape them repetitively over a period of two days. Whenever one was being raped, the other was forced to watch. Edgars had then subjected to witnessing Alicia being beaten.

No questions were ever asked of her or Alicia. They transferred her to the brig and left her in isolation. She'd been alone for three weeks when they'd piped a visual signal into her cell. Alicia had been nursed back into a semblance of health so that the cycle of rape could resume.

It was during the long weeks alone that Hilde realised what Spencer wanted. She begged to see him after receiving the signal showing Witt's fate. She thrown herself to the deck before him and pleaded for Alicia and herself. Rather than pleasing Spencer, it had enraged him.

He'd claimed his victory had come too cheaply. That was when he personally attacked her. The only satisfaction she had was that he'd brought Alicia's limp form to the brig and left her on a cell. She was safe from her tormentors now.

Edgars shifted her jaw. It was swollen but unbroken. Her left eye was swollen half shut, but she could still see. Compared to the brutality Alicia had endured thus far, Edgars had escaped virtually unscathed. Her first duty was to survive. She had to survive. If she didn't, there would be no way for her to help Alicia. As long as they survived, there was a chance she could obtain justice for her First Officer.

Even in the fires of the Dominion War, Edgars had never felt the cold embrace of hatred. She felt it now. She now understood that feeling now. She now knew what could drive a man like Spencer into the pits of depravity. She refused to plunge there herself. She would remain unbroken and would find a way to see Spencer brought to heel. Her focus enabled her to ignore her own sense of violation.

* * * * *

Macen stepped into the mess to find it nearly deserted. He supposed it was due to the fact that the day watch had stood down almost two hours ago. He'd discussed the nature of their sensor failure with T'Kir and then quietly driven Dracas insane by standing by in the Science lab while the Chief and T'Kir worked on replacing the faulty unit. He almost wished he'd left the Chief to T'Kir's alone to tender mercies, then he really would have been driven insane.

Macen didn't truly understand why he'd taken T'Kir under his wing. Ro Laren had foisted her off on him to be spared her increasing instability. It had taken Macen years to discover her problem stemmed from not being trained to deal with her heightened telepathic abilities. Her bouts of insanity stemming from her inability to quell the mental assaults she endured every waking moment.

Of course, there was also the matter of her trying to kill him. During their time together in the Maquis, he'd never realised her visceral attraction to him. He assumed it derived from his people's natural resistance to telepathic probes. As the person that didn't invade her mind, he'd seemed unbearably attractive.

Lisea's thoughts, however, had been an open book. T'Kir had gleaned the details of their experiences together from her mind. During their final withdrawal from the Dominion assault on the Maquis strongholds, T'Kir had snapped. The overwhelming tension in the air combined with her own jealousy had been too much to deal with and she'd tried to stab him.

Macen shrugged that memory aside as he ordered his meal from the replicator. He took a taste and sighed. Living with the Maquis had been a hard life but at least the food had been fresh. Starfleet's self-imposed dependence upon replicated foodstuffs cut down on the need for frequent supply stops, but the fare was frightfully bland, no matter what had been ordered. He sat down at a table and ate quietly alone. When he was done he returned the dishes to the replicator for recycling. He then deposited himself down at the nearest entertainment unit and called up a favourite strategy game of his. He had just finished selecting which scenario to play when Nerrit entered.

She nodded on her way to the replicator. After receiving a steaming mug of tea, she promptly sat down across from Macen. Her eyes quickly surveyed the game. Her lips curled up in a smile of delight. "You play Telldright?" she asked.

Macen grinned, "I learned about during my time with the Maquis. It was a favourite among the former Resistance members." Nerrit nodded. The motion caused the loops dangling from her traditional earring to sway. He noticed the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. The bone ridges on the bridge of her nose almost imperceptibly descended down its length, disappearing millimetres above the rounded nub that tipped its end.

She had a high forehead that descended into a pointed jaw. Her thin lips, upturned nose, and large eyes balanced her "long" face. Her hair blonde hair was pulled into a long braid coiled around the back of her head. Macen studied the lively eyes that peered back at him through her bangs. The intelligence he'd first detected there was grinding away at lightening speed. She was assessing him. He grinned wickedly, Well, if she wants a contest.

"Do you play?" he asked.

"Not as often as I'd like." she answered simply, revealing nothing.

"Would you like to assume the computer's role?" he offered.

Her smile widened, it had a feline quality to it, "I'd love to."

* * * * *

Macen had saved the games. She trounced him, not once but three times. At least the third round hadn't been a complete rout like the first two. Macen had been beaten at the game before but never that soundly or consistently. After the third game she'd gracefully given him an out by claiming weariness. He'd gratefully accepted and they had ordered drinks instead and began discussing their relative paths to their current assignment. He'd been surprised to learn she'd made a study of his exploits among the Maquis. He was more interested in learning more about her than in discussing himself. She'd enlisted in the Militia at 22 right on the heels of the Cardassian withdrawal. Macen asked her about it.

"The family had been allowed to visit out familial village upon the death of my grandmother. She'd been the leader of the village and fairly important in the politics of the Southern islands. While I was there, a local Resistance leader talked me into helping them."

She shrugged diffidently, "I was asked to deliver a package to a Cardassian sentry post. As I was walking away, it exploded. I returned to see what'd happened."

Her eyes clouded as old memories came to the fore of her mind, "Only one glinn remained alive. He was missing his right arm. He just stood there in shock."

Her lips pursed as she remembered her reaction, "I stood there as well. I saw all the blood and the bits of flesh everywhere. I understood that I was responsible by bringing that package."

She shrugged, "The glinn saw me and recognised me as the messenger that had left the package. He tried to grab the phaser on his right hip with his left hand. As he fumbled about, he noticed a rifle laying in the debris and picked it up and killed him."

She gave him a wan smile, "After that, my family returned to the mining camps in Shakuur Province. I joined the Resistance cell there and scouted potential targets for them. I was considered too young by the Cardassians to pose a threat. I also wrote estimates on Cardassian movements based upon changing patrols and local shipping reports."

"And there lies the interest in Intelligence work?" Macen inquired. She shrugged, "More of a talent than an interest. I'm good at it. I wanted to help my people rebuild after the occupation and it seemed the best way to utilise my talents, such as they are."

Macen smirked at her qualifier. He suspected she knew exactly how skilled she truly was. Her earring held several pendants. Each one indicated a higher level of schooling the Bajoran faith mastered.

"I have no doubts about your abilities." Macen told her earnestly, "Not after facing you at Telldright." That was certainly true. The game was waged on several levels. Many of them centred on ways of discovering clues as to the enemy's plans and reacting accordingly. Her instincts were amazing.

"Thanks." she replied with a rueful smile, "The occupation ended a few years after my joining the Resistance. After returning to Bajor, I finished school. I even went to the Academy at B'rehla. I graduated on an accelerated course and was recalled to active duty after the Dominion took over Tarok..."

She smiled at the reference and corrected herself, "After the Dominion took over Deep Space 9."

"It must have been rough to see the Cardassians return." Macen's expression hinted at his own experience with the Cardassians and the Dominion.

She nodded, the movement more a reflexive spasm than a conscious effort, "You'll never know the relief we felt at having the Federation return."

He saw the clouds in her eyes, "But?"

She flinched slightly, "What?"

"There was something about the Cardassians return that bothered you. Something you haven't mentioned."

Her eyes narrowed, "How?"

It was Macen's turn to shrug, "It's a gift my people have. We listen, not only to what's been said but also what's been left out."

"It would have served us right if the Federation had abandoned us." she replied slowly.

"Why?" Macen asked in honest perplexion.

"We signed a non-aggression treaty with the Dominion." she replied bitterly,

"We handed ourselves over to them trusting them to hold to the treaty's stipulation of sovereignty. We prayed that we'd be left alone, but we knew that we were occupied once again."

"The Provisional Government signed that treaty because they knew that Bajor could never repel the Dominion. They did what they thought was best for Bajor."

She gave him a disdainful glare, "They did it because they didn't believe that the Prophets would aid us."

"Do you believe in the Prophets?" Macen asked suddenly.

The question hit Nerrit like a physical blow, "What? What kind of question is that? Of course I believe in the Prophets!"

"But do you believe in them because you have faith they are shepherding Bajor, or because the belief is a cultural legacy?" He asked quietly Her expression was a blend of outrage and shock, "Do you believe in the Prophets?"

"Yes, I do." Macen replied with a smile and a wave of his hand, "And not in the way that Starfleet does. I don't consider them mere 'wormhole aliens'. I've studied Bajoran history and their positive influences every facet of your culture. Whether or not that influence is technological or supernatural in nature does not concern me. The simple fact is that they have impacted your world for thousands of years."

"It also stems from the fact I can feel their presence." The last statement made Nerrit's eyes widen a bit, "You can feel them? I thought only the Emissary could commune with the Prophets." Macen chuckled, "I didn't say I was in communication with them. El-Aurians can feel time-space fluctuations. The Prophets produce an eddy of disturbances."

He shrugged, "I believe, but I believe in a different fashion than you. In ancient times that would have made us enemies."

She frowned, "Why do you say that?"

Macen grinned, "Bajor hit a cultural and technological zenith centuries ago. They were warping about this part of the Quadrant while the Cardassians were still employing chemically propelled weapons upon each other. Why did such an advanced society fall prey to the Cardassians later?"

"We fell from the path." Nerrit answered without much conviction, "They were a punishment sent by the Prophets."

"You may be right." Macen agreed, startling Nerrit even more, "Most vedicks would agree with you. What they won't agree on is how the Bajorans fell from the path."

"And you have the answer?" she asked dubiously.

"I have a theory, just like everybody else." Macen replied simply, "Bajor was fine as long as there was a general consensus of belief. Different factions and sects arose, but they all agreed upon the right to disagree. It wasn't until a few of them decided their interpretation was the only one that things got ugly. Same scriptures and same prophecies but different subjective interpretations that people were willing to kill for. The religious wars lasted for two centuries and Bajoran society was shattered. Because each side had employed advanced weaponry produced by technology, the survivors banned most innovations and returned to a more primitive technology base."

"They decided the way to return to the path of the Prophets was to return to the tech base that existed when the Prophets first appeared. It was because of this decision that Bajor was easy prey to the Cardassians later on."

"You're saying the Occupation was our own fault?" She asked angrily.

"Only the Cardassians themselves are responsible for invading Bajor and the brutalities of the Occupation." Macen corrected, "I contend that the decision to abandon the previous tech base was in error. The fault lay in the interpretation of events. Technology didn't create the strife. The inability to respect differing viewpoints produced the religious wars."

"I can't say the situation's changed much." Nerrit admitted slowly, "Bajor's plagued by the same struggle."

"Every planet's plagued by the same struggle." Macen retorted dryly, "Even the Vulcans have a hard time seeing another Vulcan's perspective."

She watched him for several more moments before she spoke, "I underestimated you."

He smirked, "Most do. That's the secret of my success."

An intriguing glint shone from her eyes, "Somehow I thing its more than just that."

Macen shrugged. His comm badge chirped. He gave a Nerrit a wry expression as he tapped it.

"Macen here."

"Captain." Daggit's voice came over, "The computer said you were still up."

"That's true." he said dryly

"We'll be arriving in two hours." Daggit informed him, "Do you still wish to take the bridge for our docking?"

Macen sighed. He and Nerrit had spent the last six hours together either playing games or in conversation. He gave her a weary look. She nodded and moved towards the replicator.

"I'll be there." he informed Daggit. He turned towards Nerrit as she awaited his request, "Coffee, with vanilla creamer."

She brought the mug over and handed it to him. He took a sip. The system couldn't produce a decent a decent Algerian tigerfrond barbecue, but it could make good coffee. He grinned appreciatively.

"Thanks."

Her grin was crooked and conveyed mischief, "Gladly, especially since it means I have you captive for another few hours which can be spent discussing philosophy and faith."

He broke into a lop-sided grin of his own, "I'd love to, especially if it means finding out how you got posted to this team."

Part 4

Herbert Spencer sat in the command chair of his New Orleans-class starship as though he were mounting a throne. The ship, once named the USS Manticore, had been rechristened the Royalty. With this ship and its two siblings, Spencer had carved out a private empire within the Andergani Oligarchy.

Spencer was a reedy fellow that had maintained his rank of Lt. Commander for nearly ten years. He'd been a department head, Chief of Environmental Systems, but answered to a Lieutenant that had made Chief Engineer. Spencer had seen that development as the climax of an unfulfilling career. When the senior officers of the ship had died in combat against the Jem'Hadar, he'd been more than willing to assume command.

Having served aboard the same starship for twenty years had given Spencer plenty of time to create his own covert ring of influence. Over the last ten years, Spencer had manipulated a web of profiteers and black marketeers that would have made a Ferengi blush orange. With the senior staff out off the way, it had been a simple matter to assume command and convince other ships containing cohorts to join him.

Their mad dash to escape the Dominion forces had been directed towards the Andergani from the outset. Spencer had dealt with the Andergani for years. He knew that three starships would go far in purchasing him a position of affluence. He had not been mistaken.

The fist tests of his strength had come when officers loyal to Starfleet learned of his plans and launched a mutiny. They'd nearly lost one of the Mirandas over that, the former USS Nelson. Reinforcements provided by mercenaries in the employ of the Andergani had tipped the odds to Spencer's favour. They now comprised the bulk of his crews.

The mercenaries were largely drawn from disaffected paramilitary groups that had arisen over the last half century. These were ones that could not reintegrate into their originating societies. They had grown accustomed to warfare. They had found new causes to fight for, either personal profit or personal satisfaction.

Spencer knew these people had skills that his Starfleet trained personnel had not developed yet. Their suppression of the mutiny had galvanised them. Death had united them in a common goal.

That goal basically translated into avoiding prosecution. It was better to be thought dead in battle against the Dominion than be dragged home in disgrace. Spencer smiled coldly. Every new atrocity bound his crew closer to him. This had led to his decision of leaving no witnesses.

Prisoners could be taken to serve as slave labour or entertainment. Once his crew had accepted their actions, they'd taken to his orders with a vengeance. Their enthusiasm occasionally frightened Spencer. He'd decided that it was better to know his crewmates' depravities rather than remain unawares. It would make it easier to control their deviant urges if they were dependent upon him for their satisfaction.

It wasn't a standard means for establishing authority, but you made do with what you had. Spencer knew he was not a charismatic man, but he was devious.

Spencer was a master manipulator. If he hadn't been, Starfleet Internal Affairs would have arrested him years ago. Employing his native skills he had managed to allude investigators and shift the blame to others.

Now, as Baron Herbert Spencer of the Andergani Oligarchy, he exercised authority over thousands. Every raiding party brought new "colonists" to his world. His contacts among the Orion Confederacy also brought him new subjects. Soon it would be time to capture a new ship. He smile would have chilled a supernova.

* * * * *

Macen was still smiling when he reached the lift. T'Kir and Grace were waiting to board it as well. T'Kir flashed him a disgusted glare at leaving her to help repair the sensors while he'd stolen off. Macen ignored T'Kir's obvious unhappiness. He promised himself they'd have their little talk as soon as time permitted.

Daggit shifted uncomfortably in the command chair. He could face a platoon of Jem'Hadar without a thought of fear. He hadn't expected to be made team XO, much less be given command duties of a ship, even if it was only a scoutship. He was grateful when the lift doors swooshed open, signalling the end of his watch.

The other senior officers entered wearing the uniform designated for Outbound Ventures employees. It consisted of a blue coverall trimmed with black. It had an upraised, black collar that closed at the collarbone. A black strip followed the zipper seam to its conclusion. A black strip cut from underneath the right underarm over the left shoulder. The legs both possessed pinstriped cargo pockets.

A black utility belt and mid-calf boots were part of the ensemble. Each crewman wore a black phaser that resembled a blend between the Romulan disrupter and a Bajoran phaser. It was a design from Macen's native Delta Quadrant. Each wore a tricorder as well.

They wore a gold octagonal comm badge on the left breast. The right sleeve bore a "company" patch while the left carried a ship's patch. They all wore grey Henley style undershirts. Maven and Daggit both wore their coverall sleeves rolled up. The sleeves had their own clasps to secure them.

"Any problems?" Macen asked Daggit with a smile.

"Of course not." Daggit answered with a wan smile.

"See you after we dock." He said with a grin as he stepped out of the chair and began to depart. Daggit groaned inwardly. Damn the man! He was going to force him to do this again..

* * * * *

Deep Space 13 resembled two onion domes connected by a small cylinder. The centre connection and the end of each hub had several docking pylons extending outwards, beckoning enticingly towards ships to mate with them. Macen let T'Kir handle most of the station's operational requirements while Grace handled the navigational chores. He blearily studied the station's layout, envying T'Kir's Vulcan stamina.

Each onion served a different purpose. The upper module served Kresh and Federation military needs. The lower module was devoted to commercial, scientific, and cultural exchanges. Each could detach itself from the other and still function unimpaired.

They were assigned to the central pylon that linked the two modules. This was fitting for their assumed status as a commercial scout. It also placed them well within reach of Starfleet and the Kresh officials if they wanted to query them as to their progress. Only the station commander, Captain Ovid Petris, knew of their true mission and identity.

Macen pinched the bridge of his nose as he gathered his thoughts and rested his burning eyes. He wasn't as young as he'd been a century ago and staying up all night without an appropriate amount of adrenaline accompanying the experience was not as easy as it used to be. When he opened his eyes, he glanced T'Kir's way and caught her yawning.

He took an inordinate amount of glee from the fact she was as miserable as he was. Although he knew he was responsible for her current weariness, it would distract her from needling him on how he'd chosen to spend his evening. He reconsidered what her reaction would be once she discovered how he'd spent his evening and decided that he might prefer needling. Her jealous fits had faded, but she was still rather territorial regarding him especially with Danan gone. He understood her reaction, since they were the closest analogues to family either of them had.

Daggit rubbed his scalp wearily. That had been one of the longest duty shifts of his life. Several of the juniors had complimented him on it and he was relieved. They apparently had ignored his nervousness and concentrated instead on how he'd dealt with them. As a former grunt, he avoided squashing juniors whenever possible.

* * * * *

The Odyssey had docked and Daggit posted a shore leave rotation. T'Kir glared indiscriminately at anyone and everyone after learning she had the bridge for the rest of her watch. Dracas and the engineering crew would stay aboard to sound out the ship's equipment. Most of the juniors would get at least two hours aboard the station.

Kort would be picking up additional med supplies. The doctor had been irate upon discovering he only had an EMHm.2 for an assistant. He was determined to procure more emergency kits. He'd also muttered something about finding a programmer as he left.

Daggit and Nerrit would wander the station. Their goal was to obtain information from local traders on recent events in nearby sectors. Macen and Grace had the dubious honour of dealing with Customs. They had a conference with Petris afterwards supposedly to discuss local regulations regarding exploration.

Macen and Daggit appeared at Petris' office after a gruelling hour with Customs. Macen had discovered the advantages of being Starfleet. He'd never posed as a private ship captain before. He wondered how anyone dealt with myopic officials and terabytes of forms without becoming homicidal.

Petris recognised the weary expression upon their faces as they entered his office and smiled. He was a swarthy man. Short with a portly build, he'd that had spent his career in station and starbase administration. His dark hair was reduced to a few wispy strands atop his head and even these were shot through with silver. He wore a thick moustache that reminded Macen of pictures he'd seen of several Terran dictators of the 20th and 21st centuries.

"Come in." he said warmly, gesturing towards a couch facing his desk, "Do come in."

He pointed towards a porcelain carafe, "Do you desire coffee? This is the real thing. North African beans brought to the station and then personally ground fresh for brewing."

Macen smiled affably at the Commander's enthusiasm. The man's Mediterranean roots were being purposefully displayed in every decorative choice in the office. Although T'Kir in particular would have died before admitting it, she displayed similar behaviour regarding her own roots. It seemed to be a peculiarity of Federation members.

He stifled the impulse to chuckle dryly, It's not my fault they were born on the wrong side of the galaxy.

"Captain, you seem very amused." Petris commented, "Would you care to elaborate?"

Macen waved his hand in protest while adopting a wry expression, "I've just been awake far too long and the missions just begun."

Petris smiled appreciatively, "I've felt that way every day since my arrival. Take heart. At least the Kresh are sincere in their desire to develop closer ties with the Federation. They should provide almost any assistance you desire."

Grace shuddered at the memories his words dredged up. Her first assignment as a junior officer on a deep space assignment when her ship, the Robert April, had conducted a survey on the Kresh's borders. They'd definitely wanted to develop closer ties then. Her mind still twisted around the group sexual activity the Kresh envoys had suggested as a way of "breaking the ice". They'd described things even Bolians, Deltans, and Rigellians would have qualms about.

Petris noticed her reaction and hesitated, "Is there a problem, Ensign?"

Her posture became rigid and her face reddened, "Of course not."

"Then I'll assume it is safe to begin my briefing regarding local conditions and regulations." Petris announced grimly.

* * * * *

Daggit and Nerrit wandered about. The Bajoran was fast gaining respect for the Angosian's instincts. The same indoctrination techniques that made him a superior soldier were proving invaluable as an undercover agent. He had an incomparable ability to sense danger.

She'd seen the type on Bajor. The oldest Resistance fighters had survived to get old by developing similar talents. Those that had joined the Militia had proven to be formidable adversaries to malcontents trying to exploit Bajor's wounded society after the Cardassian withdrawal. Bajor's growing revitalisation owed a great deal to such people.

Daggit was nearly old enough to be Nerrit's father. His granite face was heavily lined. His right temple still bore the tattoo his people's engineer's had placed in their elite soldiers to designate who had received the "enhancements" thought necessary to win the war. He wore his hair cropped to a fine stubble.

His steel grey eyes searched every nook and cranny as they passed by. He noted the way people moved and how they reacted with one another. Nerrit had no doubts that every detail was burned into his memory just in case such data became useful for survival. Having faced dealt with Klingons and faced both the Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar, she could honestly say that none of them had rivalled the sheer sense of lethality that Daggit projected. She thanked the Prophets that she did not have to face him in combat. She had little doubts as to who would win such an encounter.

They'd spent the last two hours gaining a feel for the locals. Several of them had made suggestions to Nerrit that had made Wen's cheeks burn. Bajorans were a deeply spiritual people, as the Kresh were rumoured to be. However, the theological discussions that had been offered had little to do with any form of theology Nerrit knew of.

Daggit had dispersed the last gathering of the "faithful" that had made Nerrit cringe even though it was issued on her behalf. They had successfully learned the location of the local pub and eatery. Every station had one recreational site that was the hub of social life and trade aboard. On DS9, it had been Quark's. On DS13, it was Theron's.

Nerrit had actually set foot in Quark's once during a six month tour aboard the station during the closing months of the war. She had found the Ferengi proprietor to be cheerful, if tiresome in his attempts to persuade her to buy unwanted trinkets or diversions. The only pleasant memory of her visit had been her conversation with a fellow patron named Morn. He'd regaled her for hours with tales of his trading runs through the quadrant.

She straightened her shoulders as she and Daggit prepared to enter Theron's. She reminded herself that the Kresh were a civilised race. She needed to be respectful of their cultural differences and beliefs. She saw children entering and leaving. How bad could it be?

* * * * *

A chime interrupted Petris' discussion with Macen and Grace. He stepped away from the wall display he was using for territorial charts. He excused himself, stepped behind his desk and proceeded to have a low conversation with someone on the built-in comm system. Macen and Danan occupied themselves by discussing the finer points of a few navigational anomalies.

Petris approached them with a wry expression on his face, "It seems your presence has been requested by the Constabulary, Captain."

"Trouble with my crew?" Macen asked ruefully.

Petris nodded gravely.

"Let me guess, Kort?" Petris shook his head.

"Daggit?" Macen asked with a tinge of irritation. Petris shook his head.

"One of my juniors?" Macen asked, growing confused. Petris shook his head.

Grace cleared her throat and tapped the bridge of her nose. Macen's jaw fell.

"Nerrit?" he asked in bewilderment.

Petris' cheshire grin was answer enough

Part 5

T'Kir read the traffic flash update on the padd she held. She'd swivelled the command chair sideways and had her legs draped over the console to the seat's right. She snickered as she read the request the Kresh constables had sent for Macen's presence. He thought that he'd make his life easier by leaving her aboard.

Well, shows him doesn't it? She thought with satisfaction, The little Bajoran princess is just as much trouble as the rest of us. T'Kir had queried the computer as to Macen's location last night to discover he was alone in the Mess with their new exchange officer. It had irked her that he'd made her work while he spent time with a stranger.

T'Kir's lips twisted at that thought. She knew she wasn't being fair. Macen had stuck his neck out for her since they'd first met. She could never repay him for the opportunities he'd provided for her.

She also realised that his current position had to be difficult for him. Macen wasn't exactly known for following Starfleet regulations. He'd joined in the last decade of the 23rd century and still reflected the operational mentality of that era. Riding herd on a group of individualistic rabble-rousers had to be hard on him since he was traditionally the chief rabble-rouser around.

Starfleet Intelligence had always been the most pragmatic branch of Starfleet. Undercover work demanded that they be willing to participate in activities that typical officers would condemn. Analytical work demanded a degree of objectivity that could alienate others outside Intelligence's private domain. They walked a tightrope while attempting to balance the ends and the means.

Starfleet's ideals had grown loftier over the course of the 24th century. Other service branches increasingly looked down upon Intelligence. The loyal agents continued to venture into harm's way with little or no support. They chalked up an enviable reputation among rival organisations and criminal cartels like the Orion Syndicate for their success rate. But they were looked down upon at home because duplicity was a weapon of choice.

That fact that starship captains commonly employed lies and false identities in the course of their duties mattered little to the critics. Starfleet was a paragon of the Federation's ideals, it was claimed, they had little use for falsehoods when they had the combined might of the Federation behind them. The arrival of the Borg, the crisis over the Maquis, and the war with the Dominion had opened a few eyes in political offices everywhere.

T'Kir knew that Starfleet Command still had no idea of what to do with Macen. He had too much credit with the Federation Council after discovering the Gulag crisis. Command had been ready to retire him for his involvement with the Maquis. They would have earlier if they hadn't needed him to participate in a suicide mission of gathering intelligence behind enemy lines.

She'd sat out the war in the Andes Mental Sciences Institute. Typically, the rare Vulcan mental patient was sent home. As a former "terrorist", Starfleet wasn't about to let her off Earth. They'd never counted on Macen breaking her out of there.

T'Kir had finally given up on any chance of fulfilling her more carnal fantasies about Macen just in time for Lisea Danan to resign Starfleet and leave Macen's life. She'd desired it for years, but the act carried a stinging sense of loss that T'Kir despised. T'Kir and Danan had never got along very well and it irked the Vulcan to feel saddened by her departure. The Vulcan hoped the Trill would take a few host bodies sorting out any mental anguish she'd caused.

T'Kir craned her neck to one side until she heard a satisfying "crack". Her lips pursed together as she contemplated a diagnostic she'd just run on the LCARS interfaces across the ship. Their performance times could be much faster. T'Kir had only a marginal grasp on Vulcan propriety, but she damn well knew starship systems.

One part of her mind began devising software changes to enhance performance as another part of her mind contemplated how to get Macen's attention. He had never responded to her blatant attempts. She wondered if he'd respond to subtlety. The problem was that she had no idea what the subtle approach consisted of.

Humans were easy. They found Vulcans exotic. The very notion of a Vulcan willing to display emotion and engage in recreational sex was enough to wrap one, or more, around her finger. El-Aurians were harder.

She couldn't read his cursed mind very easily. It had been difficult even when her telepathy hadn't been tapered by medicinal means to a manageable background hum. Unlike a human, whose every fantasy was hers for the reading, she knew very little about what intrigued him. She also knew that by couching her fascination with him in purely sexual terms she could avoid the true cause of her feelings for him.

She'd fallen in love with him the moment she'd met him. The universe had dealt Macen one tragedy after another and he refused to surrender. He always came back and struck the universe harder than it had him. She did know that other Vulcans would undoubtedly frown upon her seemingly futile quest. She shrugged that thought aside.

When didn't the average Vulcan frown upon her life? She wondered to herself.

* * * * *

Petris led the way to Theron's Place. On the outside, it appeared very calm. The truth was revealed upon entering. Macen assumed that it had been an inviting establishment, once. That had changed decidedly. Now every shop window was shattered and several pieces of furniture lay strewn across the Promenade in front of the establishment.

A half dozen Kresh were gathered in the wreckage of several tables and chairs. Debris from shattered decanters and glasses littered the floor. The Kresh typically stood at a height of at least 140cm. They were bipedal with six multi-jointed limbs.

They walked upon two powerful double-kneed legs and were renowned for their leaping ability. It made sense to Grace, since the Kresh were related to an amphibian reminiscent of Terran frogs. They also had a triangular head with thick lips and upraised nostrils. Their primary limbs were double-jointed as well, with three long fingers and an opposable thumb. Their other set of limbs extended out from their mid-section and were a quarter of the length of the primaries, with tiny fingers.

They wore simple loincloths at their waist as well as elaborate turbans atop their heads. They were wider than they were tall. The stout bodies of the Kresh were almost entirely composed of muscle. Only a masochist ever truly desired an opportunity to engage a Kresh in unarmed combat.

Two of the Kresh were aiming weapons of native manufacture at Daggit. Daggit sat atop a table looking nonchalant. Macen knew how deceiving appearances could be regarding an Angosian. Daggit could, and would, launch himself into lethal motion with little or no warning.

Three more Kresh stood watch over Nerrit while the last took statements from witnesses. Wen looked miserable. Macen was glad to see the remorse in her eyes. He was also disturbed to see weapons aimed at his people.

"I don't think there'll be trouble." He spoke up, "You can stop pointing your weapons at my people."

The Kresh taking statements was the only one that moved. The others remained as they were. The Chief Constable's eyes briefly passed over Macen. After a moment, he made a croaking chirp and his officers lowered their weapons.

"You are their commanding officer?"

"I'm the captain of the ship they work on." Macen answered.

"The proprietor is willing to forgo charges if they compensate him for damages."

"Certainly." Macen agreed, "Have him send a bill to my ship."

"Easily done." the Constable replied.

Macen's face grew grim, "How did it start?"

The Constable shook his head sadly, "Many of our people have heard of the deep spirituality of the Bajorans. Several worshippers gathered here invited your Nerrit Wen to join them in their practices. She did not respond well."

Macen took another cursory glance at the wreckage around him, "I'd say she didn't."

Macen turned back to the Constable, "Are they free to go."

"Yes." the Constable answered, "Provided they proceed directly to your vessel and stay aboard. Their dockside privileges have been rescinded."

Macen gave the Constable a wry smile, "I don't think that will pose a problem."

"That is good." the Constable continued amiably before adding, "Two of my agents will accompany your crew to your berth."

Macen's eyes flickered darkly. The Kresh's colour shifted slightly, a sign of his discomfort. A muscle in Macen's cheek pulsed slightly as he bit down his anger. He broke into a rueful grin when he'd mastered his reaction.

"I can see your point. When will they be ready?"

"As soon as you are."

Macen nodded. He turned and met Daggit's eyes for a moment. Daggit's expression remained impassive but his eyes projected a dry appreciation for the situation. Nerrit's face was a frozen mask, revealing nothing.

Macen led the way back to the ship. Daggit, Grace and Nerrit followed closely on his heels. The two Kresh security officers brought up the rear. Macen stopped at the docking collar as his crew proceeded onto the ship.

"If I can have my officer's comm badges?" he asked with an outstretched hand.

The Kresh returned the badges without comment. They strode off without further comment. Macen studied them as they left. He stifled a sigh as he turned to board the ship.

* * * * *

Macen sat alone in the Briefing Room. He'd just finished discussing the day's events with Daggit. Having heard his account, Macen wanted to discuss matters with Nerrit alone. This was going to be an informal test of both the woman's character and training.

She entered the room and immediately put herself at attention. Macen was halfway sitting on the conference table and was amused by the contrast in their posture. He stood up and began to circle her. He could see the muscles in her cheek and throat clenching.

"Do you have any testimony to offer in defence before I render a verdict?" he asked.

"Has the Captain been informed off what the Kresh asked... what they wanted... of what they wanted me to participate in?" she asked with revulsion in her voice.

"Welcome to the wider world of the Alpha Quadrant." Macen replied dryly.

Her head snapped around and her jaw hung open until she caught herself and returned to her stoic pose. Macen chuckled softly.

"You're not on Bajor any more Lieutenant." his voice was low but firm, "Your beliefs are very important to you. That does not give you permission to attack others that do not share them."

"Sir, they asked me to mate with them!" her voice was frantic, "With all of them!"

Macen unsuccessfully tried to hide a grin, "In ancient times, the Kresh were hunted by a larger predator species. Until they developed tools and weapons capable of fending off the predators, their only defence was their rapid reproductive cycle. They celebrated every birth and held it in reverence, for it guaranteed the survival of their species in a very tangible and personal way. Even though they no longer face immediate extinction, the cultural emphasis remains."

"They said it was worship!" Nerrit protested, "Reproduction is not worship!"

"Not on Bajor." Macen corrected, "The Kresh see the universe as a literal extension of the Pond their society ascended from. Every facet of life is an act of worship as they swim the Great Pond."

"That's fine for them." Nerrit growled in exasperation, "Why ask me to join in? And why indulge in the middle of a restaurant?"

"Their native language has no words for modesty or for sex." Macen replied, "These concepts are foreign to them. Since constant reproduction is no longer required for survival, they now see it as a conduit for sociability. They view the experience as a sharing of mind, body and soul. They want to share themselves and their culture freely with others."

"Yeah, they like to share." Nerrit retorted sourly.

"And you can say 'no' without resorting to violence." Macen admonished, "You can respect another races' cultures, beliefs, and opinions without subscribing to them."

A hint of a smirk played at Nerrit's lips, "A bit like helping rebuild Cardassia without becoming a Cardassian."

Macen grinned at that. It was one of the cosmos' greater ironies that the Cardassians were utterly dependent upon the Bajorans as the funnel for the reconstruction effort. The race they had ground under their heel now held the future of the entire Cardassian race in their hands. Although the Bajorans had been woefully tempted to close their borders to slowly choke the Cardassians to death, they had chosen to rebuild the relations between the two races at the same time the Cardassians rebuilt their ruined worlds.

"Something like that." Macen agreed, "The question is, why didn't you know any of this?"

That startled her, "What?"

"Why didn't you familiarise yourself with Kresh customs?"

"I just never..." her voice drifted off.

"That's right." Macen replied sternly, "You didn't think. That's something we can't afford. You have to be smarter. Our lives depend upon it. You have to keep an open mind. Narrow thinking and close-mindeness will get you killed.

"You must be able to think like both your enemies and your allies." his voice was hard and inflexible, "This enables you to outwit your opponent and draws you closer to your ally."

Nerrit nodded, "I understand."

"No." he snapped, stepping in close, "Its not enough to understand it here." he pointed at his skull, "You have to understand here." He pointed at her breast and smiled, "It must become instinct and instinct is born in the heart." Nerrit swallowed and met his eyes.

"You can go now." he said softly.

She hesitated, then started out the door.

"Just stay out of any more trouble." He called after her before the doors closed behind her.

* * * * *

Daggit handled the undocking procedures. His crew needed the experience and it was their rotation. Macen monitored their progress from the Briefing Room. T'Kir and Grace watched as well.

Kort was busy amusing himself in Sickbay. Macen hoped he'd stay sober enough to be able to treat an injury without inflicting more damage. He shook his head. Kort couldn't manage that sober. Being drunk might improve his bedside manner.

Daggit murmured approval to himself as he watched the relief Tactical officer on the bridge. Macen pitied Ensign Simms more than the rest. Daggit was a Strategic and Tactical Specialist. With both the ship's XO and immediate superior riding herd atop her, she didn't have much margin for error.

T'Kir chortled to herself as Ensign Chadwick pressed the wrong button at Ops and re-engaged the docking clamps. Macen gave her stern glance but his heart wasn't really in it. The systems were designed to prevent that kind of mishap. Chadwick had to get his act together or he might inadvertently blow up the ship.

Chadwick's mistake was the last. Departures from a station were always highly regulated. Surprisingly enough, in contrast to the general flow of history, civilian craft in the Federation were under stricter traffic controls then their military counterparts. These controls were in place to protect civilian pilots that may have little or no training.

Macen switched off the monitor when it became apparent that the rest of the departure would run smoothly. Grace left, shaking her head and chuckling softly. T'Kir started to follow with a grin that Macen knew all too well. She was about to cause trouble.

"T'Kir." he growled a warning.

Her shoulders slumped, "What?"

"Don't say anything to Chadwick concerning his mistakes."

She spun to face him, "C'mon, the man's completely dim!"

"He's also young and inexperienced." Macen defended.

"That wasn't an excuse used in the Maquis." she retorted.

To her surprise, Macen laughed, "Yes, it was. Inexperience was blamed for every operation gone sour. We were just damn lucky that more people weren't killed by their own stupidity. We lost too many that way as it was."

Her eyes narrowed, "It still bothers you that we lost."

She saw a flicker of fire in his eyes as he answered, "Yes, it does. If that had been the end of it, that would be fine. Now, we're facing the same battle again."

"You're talking about against the Federation?" she asked in surprise.

He nodded, "The war has changed Starfleet. It opened their eyes to a lot of things, but it also frightened them. Fear is driving them to make changes that make Cardassian appeasement look downright benign."

Her head shifted slightly to the side, "You think they'll nurture the Dominion back to health?"

His laugh was bitter, "The Dominion has never been unhealthy. If the Prophets hadn't sealed the Wormhole, we'd have been overwhelmed by the Jem'Hadar. I think we're safe from the Dominion for now. That virus, and Odo's return to the Great Link, will keep the Founder's in check for awhile."

"Then what are you worried about?"

"I've noticed that Starfleet is starting to throw its weight around more." he said slowly, "They've seen their own mortality. They're trying to gather allies as fast as they can, regardless of cultural or technological differences. Races that would have only been eligible for First Contact before are now instantly admitted as a protectorate or signed as an ally. They're moving too fast."

"Like the Kresh?" her eyebrow arched.

"Like the Kresh." he admitted with a rueful smile, "We barely understand them. Rather than establish a cultural mission, we base a large military presence here."

"The Andergani are next door, figuratively speaking." T'Kir reminded dryly.

"But they're a known quantity." Macen replied, "They've never warranted this kind of presence before, and I doubt they warrant it now."

She shook her head, "And we're in Starfleet because...?"

"To keep these damn fools from destroying themselves." he snorted.

"Good luck." she replied sourly, "Chadwick's performance seems to be the rule rather than the exception."

"Which is why we need to help him bring his performance up without humiliating him." Macen said with a grin, "He'll never learn if he's hiding in his room, afraid to come out for fear of being mocked."

She gave him a wry smirk, "You're a sneaky bastard."

He just stared at her. She shrugged, "Okay, I'll leave him alone."

"Thanks." he said with a lop-sided smirk. Now if he could what Grace's smirk had been about. She'd been a relatively junior officer on board for his last mission to investigate the Gulag. He'd never spent much time learning much about her. He knew she'd been both startled and pleased to assist him with the Customs paperwork and then to accompany him to Petris' office. T'Kir seemed to get along with her well enough. He'd have to ask her more about their Chief helmsman.

* * * * *

Daggit was pleased with the crew's performance, despite Chadwick's less than stellar performance. The rest of Beta shift was shaping up nicely. Life was looking good, and then the distress call came. The rest of the day was about to go to hell.