The Rift

[Xon]

You Do know that without a Dark Protoss to use their own flavour of psionic energy, the Cerebrate will regenerate from preyy much anything?
The campaign has one of the weaker Cerebrates regrow from a few chunks and restart a colony [You're called about it after you killed it].

They dont regrow if you reduce all the Zerg bio-matter in direct communication range(not much more than a plantary diameter has been shown) to atomic particles and it doesnt have a link to the Overmind.

[The Grim Squeaker]

They dont regrow if you reduce all the Zerg bio-matter in direct communication range(not much more than a plantary diameter has been shown) to atomic particles and it doesnt have a link to the Overmind.

So when did a Cerebrate not regenerate while the Overmind was in existence? [without Dark templar/Tassadar being involved].

The Overmind was apparently a psionic being , only manifesting on Aiur due to the Khaibur crystals allowing him to.

[Noble Ire]

So when did a Cerebrate not regenerate while the Overmind was in existence? [without Dark templar/Tassadar being involved].

At risk of saying too much, I tried make it clear that the Overmind isn't in existence at this point, hence all mentions of Kerrigan. More on that later, of course.

[JointStrikeFighter]

DAMN YOU! I thought there was an update!

[Anomie]

Friggin' Sweet!

Not only were the Star Trek ships trounced by a half dead cruiser,

“How many weapons do I actually have left?”

“Two medium turbolasers, two light, one of the forward ion cannons, and eleven anti-fighter turrets. Hessun thinks his teams might be able to scrape together another turbolaser battery, but he’s doubtful.

but by one that has almost no weapons left.

[l33telboi]

Having read alot of Star Trek and Starwars fanfics i'm hoping to see more of the Koprulu Sector. What's going on with the Terrans and Protoss now that Kerrigan seems to have moved her powerbase to the Star Trek verse.

[Edward Yee]

Anomie, that's not by far "almost no weapons left." While I don't know the schematics of the Republica, it actually sounds respectable enough and may have a heckuva lot of field-of-fire coverage. (I distinctly remember the subject of omnidirectionality in regards to Darth Wong's page analyzing phasers.)

[Anomie]

In comparison to a Star Destroyer, which AFAIK, has sixty turbolasers and sixty ion cannons? Now I realize that the Republica is a cruiser as compared to a Star Destroyer, but if the listed amount isn't less than a quarter of the Republica's original armament, that seems like a big firepower gap. As a cruiser, shouldn't she at least have some heavy turbolasers as well?

Unless I'm wrong about how many weapons a Star Destroyer has, in which my comparison base would natrually be off. Or if Noble Ire, as is his author's perogative, is using his own specs. for the story.

[Edward Yee]

If I recall, Star Destroyers were somewhat special in their day?

Noble Ire, can you link me to where you posted some technical info on the Republica such as class, or is "cruiser" meant a little generically?

[Noble Ire]

Since I couldn't locate a canon vessel that exactly fit my meeds, I created one, to which the Republica belongs. I haven't given many specifics on it as of yet, although I suppose I can now:

Liberation-class Light Cruiser

Length: 500 meters long
Armament: 14 Turbolasers (equiv. to Imperial medium), 10 Light Turbolasers, 4 Ion Cannons, 24 Anti-Fighter Laser Batteries
Fighter complement: 2 squadrons (4 B-Wings, 8 Y-Wings, 12 X-Wings in the Republica's case), 6 A-Wing Interceptors

Retrofitted from a line of Mon Calamari long-range merchant vessels, the Liberation-class was designed as a support ship for the far heavier and better armed Star Cruisers that made up the bulk of the Mon Calamari fleet. It is faster, both at Sublight and Hyper speeds, than most others cruisers its size, and sports an array of weaponry designed for tackling Imperial TIE squadrons and support ships, although it sacrifices system redundancy and shield strength to do so. Because these vessels were among the few frequented by non-Calamari before their modification for combat, the control systems and duty stations are generally better suited to human usage than those of most other classes, and as such are often captained by human or near-human command officers.

[Edward Yee]

Noble Ire, is the flavor text supposed to remind of the Lancer class?

*then winces* So the Republica's down to nearly 50% of its anti-fighter weapons (batteries or turrets?), 25% of its ion cannons, 20% of its light turbolasers and 1/7 of its medium turbolasers, and I don't remember how much if any of its (30?) fighters attrited...

[Anomie]

It's like I said, nearly dead and almost out of guns and still owned the Star Trek universes ships. Sweet as hell man, sweet as hell!

[Edward Yee]

Even that doesn't sound to me like almost out, although a clusterfuck away... then again, my threshold is something like 10%. Point taken though on the heavier weapons.

My reason for reacting at all, Anomie -- your pleasure derived from this looks a little excessive... having accepted Darth Wong's numbers, such as the comparison between the Slave I and the Enterprise-D, I just found this almost mundane in 'being expected'.

I must wonder though, Noble Ire, how much fighter attrition was there? If only because my brain's including them amongst the Republica's armament. (Or as my brain's rationalized it, the heavy weapons are out, but the anti-fighter lasers have almost-half left and thus that looks like enough, while the actual fighters -- or should I call them "mobile weapons platforms"? -- may or may not be still there...?)

[Noble Ire]

Noble Ire, is the flavor text supposed to remind of the Lancer class?

Well, both ships do focus more an anti-fighter capabilities, so they are comparable, although I didn't have the Lancer exactly in mind when I wrote it.

I must wonder though, Noble Ire, how much fighter attrition was there? If only because my brain's including them amongst the Republica's armament. (Or as my brain's rationalized it, the heavy weapons are out, but the anti-fighter lasers have almost-half left and thus that looks like enough, while the actual fighters -- or should I call them "mobile weapons platforms"? -- may or may not be still there...?)

The majority of it's fighter complement is still intact, although it did lose 3 B-Wings and 1 X-Wing during the Battle of Sullust (it also lost three of its A-Wings, but they were replaced during its time berthed at the Rebel Redoubt).

*then winces* So the Republica's down to nearly 50% of its anti-fighter weapons (batteries or turrets?), 25% of its ion cannons, 20% of its light turbolasers and 1/7 of its medium turbolasers,

That's about right; its taken quite a beating, and some of its other systems (like shields and sublights) are also damaged, although not to such a major extent. And the anti-fighter weaponry is of the standard quad variety (a slightly scaled down and streamlined version of the batteries seen on the TPM TF Control ship), each battery being one set of them.

[Anomie]

My reason for reacting at all, Anomie -- your pleasure derived from this looks a little excessive... having accepted Darth Wong's numbers, such as the comparison between the Slave I and the Enterprise-D, I just found this almost mundane in 'being expected'.

I don't mean for it to look excessive, but I love how it's portrayed that even a damaged Star Wars ship can take on and defeat a Star Trek fleet and come out victorious. Even though it's expected, its not something I've seen in fic's that often. In fact the only other fic I can think of off the top of my head that has wounded SW ships casually trouncing ST ships is Stravos Starcrossed.

Noble Ire, amazing job. Can't wait till the next chapter comes out!

[Noble Ire]

Chapter Fifty


Uneasy, confused dreams shattered by a sudden sound, Reginald Barclay awoke from his fitful slumber with a violent start.

It took him a moment to clear away the cobwebs of sleep and fully adapt to his surroundings and remember the unfortunate circumstances that had heralded them, but even before his eyes readjusted to the light in the chamber beyond his eyelids, the man was struck by an all too familiar feeling. Intense, unshakable nervousness.

He had messed something important up. Badly.

Motivated by sudden dread, Barclay quickly focused on his immediate situation; he was propped up against the smooth, gently-contoured wall in the assembly area which the Arbiter had managed to capture, his limbs arrayed lazily around him as if he had dozed off and flopped down where he stood. Considering what he had been through those last few hours, it was not an unlikely possibility.

He, along with the whole interior of the vessel, was bathed in a low, hazy light, just strong enough so that he could make out the circular form of the cargo chamber beyond, which was further illuminated by the silvery sheer of several energy fields, which blocked off, Barclay remembered, makeshift alcove holding cells for the ship’s crew. He couldn’t make out any movement beyond the screen that was in his line of sight; perhaps they were all still unconscious.

Or perhaps they’re just waiting.

Shivering at the thought, Barclay turned his attention back to the small assembly hall… and immediately jerked backward, fumbling at the deck plate around him in a panic. Just across the narrow corridor, and one shallow recess to the left, Flitch, Imperial Infiltrator and originator of Barclay’s current plight, sat hunched, and very much awake. His slightly sunken, cold eyes trained on his supposed warden, Flitch gently cradled his right hand in his other, the tips of a few of its fingers a livid, unnatural red. Directly below them, clapping his legs to the deck plate via a hastily inserted bolt, a pair of large, very solid cuffs wrapped around his ankles, joined by a bright arc of bluish light. Evidently, his attempt to remove the binds had been met with a rather unwelcome and unpleasant deterrent.

At last laying hold of the claw-like plasma rifle that was propped up next to him, Barclay shakily took the weapon in both hands and raised it at his prisoner unsteadily, fingers positioned rather near its firing stud. Flitch’s eyes flickered to the weapon momentarily, but he turned his attention just as quickly back to the face of its wielder, suppressing any hint of concern that might weaken his, sharp, bitter expression.

After a long, tenuous silence, the Imperial at last let out a sigh of disgust. “So are you going to shoot me, or just hold that thing there until your twitching fingers do it for you?”

Barclay gritted his teeth, and tried to think over the thunderous beating of his heart. It’s alright, Reginald. You didn’t doze off for too long. He’s still restrained. Besides, you’ve got the gun; you’re the one in control.

Still staring at his captive in anxiety, Barclay lowered the rifle as smoothly as he could, both because of his own attempts to sooth himself were beginning to calm his frazzled nerves, and because his arms were beginning to whine with stress at their extended, weight-bearing posture. When the weapon, still clasped firmly in the Federation officer’s white-knuckled hands, reached floor level, Barclay finally summoned enough courage to clear his throat of phlegm and form words with his dry tongue.

“How long have you been awake?” The question did not sound as commanding as he hoped it would, but it was a start.

Flitch let out a humorless snicker. “Quite a keeper that brute set for me. Can’t even handle a simple guard job without nodding off.”

Barclay recognized the evasive nature of Flitch’s reply, but he didn’t really feel like pressing further; obviously, the spy had not been awake for long, as the burns on his fingers and the low sound that had awoken the other (an utterance of pain, Barclay presumed) suggested that he had just begun to try the plasma binders the Arbiter had placed on him before departing for weaknesses. He was still bolted to the floor and well out of reach of his former hostage, no harm had been done. Besides, Barclay didn’t particularly feel like lingering over the topic of his sudden exhaustion any longer than necessary; he had been little more than worry to his comrades since their whole dangerous and confused voyage had begun, and the whole affair was completely beyond his experience. If he was barely in his element on a peaceful day in the Enterprise’s Main Engineering, how could he be expected to cope with being captured, shot at, forced to shoot, shoved in and out of battles, and kidnapped, over and over again with very little rest between each new occurrence. And now his bewilderment had nearly gotten himself killed. Again.

Noting that Flitch was still sneering at him definitely, Barclay cast about once more for something authoritative to say. “Um… don’t try to get out of those cuffs again. After what you did to me and those officers in the docking bay, I wouldn't hesitate to shoot you.”

Flitch snorted in contempt. “I doubt if you have what it takes to kill a man, at all. You and your Federation friends always struck me as mewling, Caamasi-babe weaklings.”

“You’d be surprised,” Barclay replied softly, rather bewildered by his own words. But yes, he remembered all too clearly, the fingers that clutched his weapon were not clean of Imperial blood.

The infiltrator raised an eyebrow at the comment, but did not reply, shaking his head and lying back against his bulkhead instead. Still anxious, but feeling more in control than he had a minute before, Barclay mimicked the movement, keeping his weapon close at his side.

“Actually, I’m rather surprised that I’m alive right now at all,” Flitch remarked at length, his head now leaning on the palms of his hands as he lay back, staring at the low glow of the illumination panels above. “After our last encounter, I would have figured that alien would have killed as soon as he had the opportunity. His species seemed like a rather savage one.”

Flitch craned his neck slightly and glanced around. “Where is that xeno anyways? And where are we? I would have figured you and your brutish friend would have been all too eager to return to your Rebel conspirators with your prize.”

Flitch didn’t strike Barclay as the particularly talkative type, especially not in his situation, but as long as he was talking, he couldn’t actively be trying to get free. Hopefully.

“The navigation systems of the shuttle you stole were destroyed during the struggle, and we were stranded in the middle of the battle between those alien ships and the Star Destroyer. I can only guess that the Republica fled through the wormhole when it had an opportunity. After that…”

Flitch sat up abruptly, a sudden, dark emotion playing across his face. “What do you mean, ‘fled through the wormhole’?” he demanded. “The Rebel ship couldn’t have gotten past the intercept coordinates to the anomaly. I saw the blockading destroyer myself.”

Barclay frowned. “Of course were reached it. How else would we be stranded in this galaxy, and come into contact with that Covenant… those alien warships?”

It hit the infiltrator all in an instant; the strange, distorted mental lapse while he had been making the final preparations for his escape, the tension of the crew… How could he have been so focused on the deception to have let that that was so obvious escape him? And now, he was…

“This… this is one of the alien ships?” he managed.

Barclay nodded slowly. “The Arbiter managed to commandeer one of their scouts and bring us onboard to hide. Apparently, the natives of this galaxy don’t particular like humans. He’s off somewhere now trying to arrange out escape from the fleet, I think.”

His mouth drawn into a half-sneer, Flitch turned away, grappling with what he had heard. Stranded? Here? With this cowardly Rebel sympathizer and the alien brute, trapped in a galaxy far removed from civilization, real human civilization. Surely, if the Empire still held force in this place, they would have discovered him by now. Perhaps it would have been better to have died from that blow that had laid him low before.

With Flitch still coming to grips with the situation he had forced himself into, the tedious conversation came to abrupt end, and Barclay was left once more to combat a mixture of tiredness, fear and boredom. Feeling the tendrils of unbidden sleep return to the edge of his mind, the Federation officer rose slowly, weapon still in hand, and paced out into the larger holding chamber, thinking that he might at least stretch his legs while he waited for word from the Arbiter.

It was then that Barclay realized his nap had not been nearly as harmless as he had first hoped. Rather than sealed shut, as it had set itself automatically after the alien warrior’s departure, the access iris in the middle of the chamber was open once more, revealing the soft glow of the anti-gravity beam that the ship still projected upon to its far larger host craft, a light that had been barely noticeable from where Barclay had been sitting before.

Now too in full view were the two cargo alcoves that flanked the whole, converted to serve as cells. One, still obscured by a curtain of shimmering light, still held within two prone figures, large and small, the Sangheili and Kig-Yar, the Arbiter had called them. But the other…

The other was completely vacant. No immaterial sheen blocked its entry point, and the two squat Unggoy that it was supposed to house were equally absent. In their place, a scattering of electronic circuits and wires, piled on top of a small metal plate, lay near a similarly-shaped hole in the smooth bulkhead, within which a few broken cords sizzled with intermittent light.

Flustered, Barclay glanced back at Flitch, who sat where he had been bolted before, still brooding in silence. The spy could not have done this; the aliens had done it themselves while the humans slept.

A small voice in the back of Barclay’s mind spoke up; Well, at least they didn’t kill you while you slept.

The sentiment would have been more comforting if he didn’t suspect it was a mere stay of execution.
------------------------------------------------------

Without breaking his stride, the Arbiter attempted to adjust the large, golden poltroon of armor that rested on his left shoulder, no easy feat considering its size and weight. A swift tug and shove pushed it into more appropriate alignment with the rest of his equally radiant outfit, but its weight still felt alien upon the Sangheili’s back. Indeed, the entire costume, a jet-black bodysuit overlaid by plate after plate of reflective gold armor, topped with a tri-finned helm, felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Even when he had still served with honor in the ranks of the Covenant Armada as a shipmaster, he had preferred only to wear the garb of his station when it was required of him; the dark armor of a special operation soldier was far more comfortable and functional. Unfortunately, on this occasion, such a display would most certainly be required, especially since the spare dress had been explicitly offered to him on the ship commander’s orders.

Flanked by a pair of Sangheili troopers, impressive specimens decked out in black and dark gray raiment, the garb of a shipmaster’s personal guard, the Arbiter marched down the wide, axial corridor that connected the core of the carrier August Judgment to the outer levels of the warship, moving with the overwhelming presence and refined grace expected of one of his station. As the small procession passed, lesser Sangheili and any other soldier within view paused to offer their respects to the visiting master, nodding or bowing, depending on their rank and race. There was a time when he had been exhilarated by this sort of reverence; now it disturbed him. He had lived life, albeit for only a short time, amongst the lowest, most expendable levels of society, and he had experienced all too harshly the tribulations the rank and file had to endure. Nevertheless, it would be unwise to try and stop such behavior now; appearances were essential, all of this was mere pretense.

Arriving at the set of double, rectangular doors that heralded the entry into the very heart of the vessel, the two escorts each moved to one side of one of the doors, unspeaking and at perfect attention, energy swords proudly displayed upon their hip notches and plasma rifles in their hands. One of them nodded to the Arbiter, and he approached the wide, reddish door, which slid open silently in anticipation of his entry.

The chamber beyond was significantly smaller than the one the warrior was used to in his old flagship, natural for a ship that was only half the size, and as such the required attendants were far more densely packed. Red and black armored soldiers stood at even intervals along the softly-glowing walls, while others patrolled the narrow crew pit below the room’s characteristic, raised command dais. Above this area, where several Huragok and even a few insectoid Yanme’e worked under heavy observation, the ship’s commander and his highest officers, dressed in gold and silver respectively, waited, oblivious for the moment to the holographic displays that hung in the air all around them.

Directed by an unusually tall major, the Arbiter crossed the chamber with the same refinement and authority he had displayed in the exterior hall, mounting the steep ramp that lead up to the command platform in a few easy strides. The sight awaiting him at the top was an expected, though not pleasant one.

Galo ‘Nefaaleme, adorned in a manner almost identical to his guest, offered him a deep nodding bow, one which the Arbiter returned, careful not to dip quite as far as the first had. Technically, as the executor of a major expeditionary task force (even if it had been largely annihilated), he outranked the head shipmaster of this carrier group and its escort, but the distinction was minimal, at least officially, and ‘Nefaaleme more than made up for his lower rank with an infamously disarming presence, and more importantly, with his connections amongst the higher tiers of the Sangheili hierarchy, more than likely all the way up to the Sangheili ranks of the High Council. The Arbiter had worked with him before, when both were still mid-level ship’s adjuncts, and hated every moment of the experience. He suspected the feeling was mutual.

“My greetings, Shipmaster Teno ‘Falanamee,” he said smoothly, carefully raising his arched neck and leveling his eyes with the other warrior. “I am gratified to find you still within this realm, as are, I’m sure, the Hierarchs. I hear that you are among their favored instruments; no doubt they would have been frustrated by your death.”

“My life is for Prophets and their way, Shipmaster Galo ‘Nefaaleme,” the Arbiter replied, carefully returning the greeting. “You have sent word, then?”

‘Nefaaleme made a sweeping gesture towards a nearby holo-panel. “A priority probe was dispatched to High Charity as soon as the medical observes confirmed your identity and condition.”

“And the local armada executor?”

The carrier’s master pursed his upper mandibles slightly into a frown. “As the Blessed Fire and your own flagship were destroyed during the battle, with their masters, as far as was known at the time, of course, slain in combat, along with the highest ranking Prophet in observation of the subjugation of this system, there was some dispute as to whom would assume control of the forces in this area. As of this moment, all fleets have been instructed to hold position around the human world; the Hierarchs have dispatched another of their observers to re-delegate command, as well as to oversee some matter pertaining to the subjugated planet.”

The Arbiter listened impassively. Normally, as the ranking local officer he would have been able to reassume command of all the warships in the area immediately, but as he had lost his vessel and had been noted as killed in action, his status would have to be reaffirmed by a Prophet or member of the Council before he again could exercise command powers or assume control of a vessel like ‘Nefaaleme’s, barring the emergence of an imminent threat to the armada. No doubt the other shipmaster would remind him of this if he tried, and for the moment at least, the Arbiter was willing to play guest.

Noting the inquisitive stare now fixed upon him, the Arbiter spoke up once more. “Yes, our forces must have been thrown into disarray by the appearance of the hostile intruders, but I trust that the remaining humans in this system have been eliminated, and the second attack repelled.” Not giving the second time to respond, the Arbiter pushed easily past him and his attending officers, as to get a better view of the main holographic display, which was currently mimicking the star system and the Covenant fleet elements therein. “I wish casualty statistics from my command, the Fleet of Particular Justice, as well as figures on the readiness of the invasion force as a whole. We must be prepared for another incursion, especially if more holy Prophets are to arrive here soon.”

‘Nefaaleme remained where he stood, following his superior carefully with his gaze, perhaps a bit too carefully. No doubt he was eager to learn the specifics of what had transpired near the wormhole; what the hostile ships were, why the observing Prophet’s ship had been so close to the battle, and what had become of the warships that had been sent into the strange spatial rift after the invaders after they had been beaten back. Of course, the Arbiter had to avoid such inquiries as long as possible; although he had supposedly been commanding the vessel at the forefront of the incident, the version now standing on the August Judgment’s overbridge had been elsewhere engaged during that period. What little he knew of what had happened had been extrapolated from snippets of broadband communications amongst the recovery fleet during his time onboard the captured salvage ship.

“At once, shipmaster.” The reply to the request was overtly calm and dutiful, but the Arbiter could tell that ‘Nefaaleme’s curiosity was beginning to overcome his interest in the current status of the surrounding battle fleet.

Once an attendant had been dispatched to call up the required information, the carrier’s master turned his attention back to the other gold-draped commander, moving up alongside him as he continued to inspect the positioning of each individual task force in the planetary system. Allowing the Arbiter only a moment’s further contemplation, he raised his throaty voice once more. “I must admit a certain curiosity to the circumstances surrounding your arrival onboard my vessel, shipmaster. If you would permit me a few questions?”

It was not the inquiry the Arbiter had feared, fortunately, but there was still something in the other’s tone that he found somewhat unsettling, a timber that spoke of motive beyond mere curiosity. Nevertheless, he motioned for the warrior to continue, attention still fixed upon the floating images above.

“How did you escape the Ascendant Justice before its destruction?” The question was straight-forward and expected, but the shipmaster’s tone still wore on the Arbiter’s mind. “Surely, you did not abandon your flagship while it still was capable of combat?”

So that was it; Galo ‘Nefaaleme suspected him of cowardice. For any soldier, especially the commander of a battleship, to flee from his post unordered, even in the face of insurmountable odds, was an ultimate act of dishonor, and beyond that, heresy. And heresy was punishable by death, something the Arbiter knew all too well. Still, he had faced such a fate before, and feared it little; however, there were more lives at stake now than his own, and he would not fail either Barclay or his people. Not again.

His fabrication had to be both impressive and unimpeachable.

Turning his head fractionally towards ‘Nefaaleme, although not enough to fully reveal the distinct stiffening of his expression, the Arbiter delievered his answer as easily as he could manage. “After the intruder’s largest warship began to breach my flagship’s defensive fields and hull, I quickly lost contact with most weapons and propulsion control. A few moments later, an uncontrolled hull breach on the same level as the Ascendant Justice’s overbridge placed my command crew and me in immanent danger of decompression. As such, I issued the order for those warriors with more ceremonial armor equipped to don atmosphere-sealed gear, as I did myself. It was quite clear that our strike force was outmatched, and reinforcement would not be able to lend aid in time to save my flagship and its crew, but nevertheless I issued orders for all stations to remain active and at battle readiness; were it the will of the god’s that we die in combat there, I would not deny them. To order a retreat would have sullied the memory of the noble Prophet who died at the enemy’s hand. And indeed, most of my warriors did embark upon the Great Journey, fighting and dying for the word of the gods.”

“But you did not. How?”

“I cannot say. When the bridge chamber was finally breached, I must have been knocked unconscious, and when I awoke, I found myself lodged in one of the bridge’s ancillary evacuation pods, my atmosphere suit suffering from a breach.” He inclined his sloped forehead slightly, bringing more clearly into the view the large, raw gash across his upper jaw and scalp that still marred and accentuated his predatory features. “I can only cite divine influence in this salvation; it would have been my wish to perish in battle with my ship, but it seems the Forerunners have designs for me yet. I bear this scar as a mark of duty, and a reminder of their grace.”

‘Nefaaleme bowed slightly in solidarity with the religious affirmation. He seemed impressed with his superior’s piety; hopefully, that perceived common faith would cloud whatever doubts he yet held.

“After repairing the helm of my survival armor, I interfaced with the pod’s maneuvering systems and managed to guide it out of the heavier area of debris from my vessel, and upon locating a derelict transport vessel that had also been blown free, I transferred over and flew it to one of the August Judgment’s landing decks amid one of the returning salvage squadrons. I then reported to a duty major, submitted to a DNA scan and medical analysis, and reported here.” The Arbiter carefully glossed over the details of this last portion of his tale, especially those related to the medical assessment; he had merely allowed the attending orderly to confirm his identify with a DNA sample and sterilize the wound on his head, but had slipped away before any further tests could be undertaken. Though he was biologically and officially Teno ‘Falanamee, divergent experiences and his rebirth in heresy and betrayal had left very physical remnants; the brand of the Heretic that was burned onto his chest could not be seen by anyone, or the lie and all the lives that likely lay upon it might very well fall upon doom in an instant.

The second shipmaster had listened to the remainder of the Arbiter’s report with his features impassive, although his tensed posture showed clear interest. “A remarkable tale and one I’m sure the Council will be quite eager to hear from you in person.”

He inclined his jaw in agreement. As the commanding officer during the later part of the invasion, it would fall upon him to detail the subjugation of the human world Reach, as well as the bizarre and unheralded battle that had occurred on the system’s outskirts. And indeed, a journey to the capitol city of the Covenant featured prominently within his still-fermenting plans for the future of his race, if it were to have one at all.

Suspicions evidently satiated for the moment, ‘Nefaaleme turned his focus to the fleet diagrams around them, and the two had begun to assess the status of the armada in earnest when the aide that had been dispatched to retrieve the tactical information the Arbiter had requested returned, offering a respectful bow to both of his superiors.

“You have the data?” the carrier’s master demanded half-hazardly.

“Yes, Shipmaster,” the Sangheili replied, rising. “You can now access it at your digression from the main terminal.”

‘Nefaaleme motioned for the attendant to return to his other duties, but he did not budge. “What else is there?”

“Excellency, the ventral guard commander has issued a report stating that his forces have located and captured a pair of…” he paused for a fraction of a second, unsure. “…humans.”

‘Nefaaleme fixed again up his attendant, this time with rapt attention, as did the Arbiter. “Humans? On my ship?”

“Yes, Excellency. He reported that they apparently commandeered one of our salvage craft, disabled its crew, and then attached it to a sensor-null spot on the August Judgment’s hull. Several of the crewers managed to escape and reported the intrusion.”

“Are they still alive?”

The Arbiter’s question earned him a glance from the other shipmaster, but apparently it had crossed his mind as well. “Well?”

“They are, Excellencies. There was evidently little resistance when they were discovered, and the guard commander had them taken to the primary holding deck. He said that he would have had them summarily executed, as is customary, but that the unusual circumstances of this intrusion warranted your attention before any further action was taken.”

The shipmaster considered. “His prudence is noted. Nevertheless, have the commander continue with his proper duties; terminate and dispose of the mongrels. I will not have them sully this warship with their presence any longer than in necessary.”

“Wait.”

The Arbiter step forward, away from the holographic grid display, his focus now clearly on the attendant’s message. ‘Nefaaleme looked at him again, this time nearly glaring.

“Shipmaster, surely you don’t intend on allowing these beings to live? It is the will of the Prophets that all of their kind be eradicated on sight.”

“I have reason to believe that humans may have been involved with the vessels that assaulted and destroyed my flagship. If these humans hold any knowledge on the builders and intent of the interlopers, then I intend to tear it from them before they meet their rightful termination, in the interest of the Covenant.” As he spoke, the Arbiter assumed his full, impressive height and locked feline eyes with ‘Nefaaleme, causing him to fall back almost imperceptivity. “If I must answer for my decision, I will do so later, before the Council and the Hierarchs. The real authorities.”

It was clear the other shipmaster still held strong misgivings on allowing his prisoners to live, but he knew enough to realize that the procedure was technically allowed within fleet law, and wise enough to know not to defy the direct order of his superior, and moreover, a warrior of this ‘Falanamee’s renown. Slowly, he confirmed acknowledged the countermand to his officer.

“Very well. Come, let us begin immediately. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of their kind still drawing breath.”

[DesertFly]

Wow, no one's replied to this. Well, I'm still reading it. I don't know if it's because I didn't watch enough TNG, but I really couldn't give a crap if Barclay is turned into space dust. Also, a minor nitpick:

After what you did to me and those officers in the docking bay, I would hesitate to shoot you.”

Probably should be wouldn't.

[Singular Quartet]

Well... The Arbiter knows to torture the imperial first, so that saves Barclay for a little while longer.

[Noble Ire]

Wow, no one's replied to this. Well, I'm still reading it. I don't know if it's because I didn't watch enough TNG, but I really couldn't give a crap if Barclay is turned into space dust. Also, a minor nitpick:

After what you did to me and those officers in the docking bay, I would hesitate to shoot you.”

Probably should be wouldn't.

I've noted that I seem to be one of the few people who actually liked Barclay, so your not alone.

And thanks for the catch; fixed.

[Noble Ire]

Sorry this update took so long; school just ended, and most of my time was used up on finals. The next few updates should be more frequent. Anyways, enjoy.
--------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Fifty One


“I’ve got a seal,” the Alliance pilot called back over his shoulder. “It’s a rough fit, but it should hold atmosphere.”

Acknowledging the information with a nod, Major Truul, decked out in full body armor and a reinforced blast helmet, turned to the other occupants of the shuttle’s passenger cabin. “All right, you all know what to do. We breach the airlock grid, secure the holding area beyond, and wait for reinforcements. Simple, no heroics. Got it?”

Response came in the form of seven silent nods from the squad of similarly dressed Alliance troopers who were packed into the space, their hands resting tentatively on the stocks of a variety of blaster rifles and flechette casters. Though each was serving as a security marine aboard the Republica, and as such saw little direct combat, most were veterans of innumerable insurgent actions and sabotage campaigns, just as ready for combat as the most seasoned Imperial Stormtrooper. Nevertheless, there was obvious tension in their eyes; most barely understood just how far from home the Republica’s newest assignment had taken them, and the prospect of charging into this new galaxy to confront any enemy they had never even heard of before their rushed and truncated mission briefing was none too appealing. Truul knew how they felt, but he also knew they had to job to do, and he would rather face the Dark Lord of the Sith himself than fail at it. Failure still hung heavily on the man’s mind.

“Are your soldiers ready, Major?” Lt. Commander Worf asked from the small ship’s main hatch, voice tinged with anticipation. He, and Aleen Jossa, sole remained of the Enterprise’s security force, stood at the ready, both equipped with borrowed gear and armament identical to Alliance detachment’s own. E-11 blaster rifle hooked to her waist, the latter was scanning the docking bulkhead beyond the shuttle’s hatch with her tricorder and attempting to find the frequency with which she could simulate a docked Federation ship and trigger the sealed compartment to open.

Truul looked towards the final two members of the boarding team, conspicuous in the crowd of white and tan uniforms. The Master Chief gave a nod to the implied question and shouldered his own requisitioned weapon. “Ready.”

Beside him, dressed as ever in a long, dark cloak which concealed bulky plates of armor beneath, the high templar Tassadar rose slowly, attempting to conceal his own overwhelming weariness. “I cannot feel any minds beyond that door. We had best enter before the marauders find their way to this part of the station.”

Satisfied, Truul readjusted his thick helm and turned back to the waiting Klingon. “Ready when you are.”

The operation had been flung together on the spur of the moment; almost immediately after the Zerg mind overseeing their attack had fallen, Tassadar had declared that somehow, an unknown number of marauders had managed to board the heart of the Bajor system’s modest interplanetary network, Deep Space Nine, and were now roaming through it, mindless beast with no object other than to feed. After establishing contact with the Federation Admiral in charge of the allied fleets, and offering a hasty explanation as to whys and how’s of the Republica’s unexpected appearance, captains Picard, Ryceed, and Gehirn had convinced Nechayev to turn her attention away from the floundering Zerg war machines and towards the distant station. Unexplained comm silence and a handful of large, ragged holes in the station’s perimeter hull were all that were needed to convince her to something was amiss.

Recognizing that every act of good will on the Alliance’s part would help in any future negotiations that might occur between the ambassadors and the Federation, whatever was left of it at least, and that said talks were unlikely to even be considered as long as the main base in the system was still in enemy hands, Councilor Organa had almost immediately proposed that her security attaché and a select group of Alliance soldiers assist in whatever recovery operation the admiral had in mind. Tassadar and the Master Chief had volunteered to come along, and Picard had assigned his remaining security personnel to Major Truul’s group as liaisons with whatever Federation force they would rendezvous with. Twenty minutes later, they were all crammed into one of the Republica’s shuttlecraft, tasked with clearing a beachhead for crew from the surrounding warships.

With a dull rumble, the airlock at last accepted Jossa’s tricorder code and rolled away into thick walls beyond view. Truul and his troopers poured out into the short, vacant hallway beyond a moment later in two precise rows, weapons at the ready and scanning every square centimeter of the new chamber for hostile contacts. When it was established that the room was indeed empty, the squad moved forward once again, taking positions just behind the next set of blast doors, which lead into the main disembarkation area. With a signal from Truul, Worf and Jossa moved quickly up from the entry hatch and set to work on the barrier, Tassadar and the Master Chief close behind. Another few swipes of the scanner, and the blockage again faded away, this time revealing a larger chamber, with hallways leading away to either side. The area, again completely vacant, was lit only by a single dull, flickering emergency light set in the metallic ceiling.

Quickly swiping shadowed recesses with glow lamps, Truul’s team fanned out across the chamber, finally forming two groups, each one guarding an entry points into the area. Though deeply shadowed, both adjoining hallwas were also vacant as far as the eye could see. “Room is secure, Major,” one of the troopers reported at last.

Nodding, Truul pulled a cylindrical comlink from a flap of his chest armor. “Pilot, the boarding area is clear. Detach to allow vessels from the fleet to disembark their own troops. Stick close though; if things fall apart in here, I want a way out, and quick.”

The reply did not come immediately. “Major,” the pilot said over the line at last, “I’m not picking up any other vessels converging on this location. There are a few larger ships close by, but they’re just sitting there.”

Puzzled, Truul glanced at Worf. “Didn’t the Captain say some your friends would be joining us on this little operation?”

“Of course,” the Klingon replied. “However, since the station’s shielding systems were disabled when the Zerg boarded, there will be no need for any others to arrive here on shuttlecraft.”

The major stared at him, clearly nonplused.

Grunting in mild annoyance, Worf slapped the combadge affixed to his broad chest. “Lt. Commander Worf to Versailles. Docking port two is clear. You may begin transport.”

“Affirmative, insertion team.”

“Transport…?”

Truul’s question was answered seconds later as a low hum of ambiguous origin filled the room and several indistinct columns of bluish light appeared from the empty air that hung over an empty section of deck plate. Startled, the Alliance marines snapped their weapons into firing positions and trained them on the bizarre anomalies. Their commander also reached for his sidearm, but noticing that neither the Federation officers nor the other members of his team seemed particularly agitated, he faltered. A moment later, the shimmering had vanished, and in place each column stood a man or woman in a loose black bodysuit, each with a blocky phaser rifle or hand device in hand.

It took a moment for Truul to overcome his shock at their seemingly magical appearance, although only a moment. In his time wandering the galaxy before he had joined up with the resistance, the Corellian had seen a great many strange and impossible things, and it took a great deal to impress him. At least outwardly.

“I’ve never been able to understand how that is supposed to work,” the Master Chief commented quietly over his internal com line, watching the arrivals from a corner, his oversized repeater rifle resting easily in gauntleted hands.

Hidden somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Cortana sighed half-hazardly. “Don’t bother trying. While we were still on the Enterprise, I downloaded the technical specifications for their personnel transporters and I’ve been looking them over off and on ever since. As far as I can tell, they are designed to convert the mass of whomever steps on a transporter pad into a mass of infinitesimal particles, record their former body structure, then fling it across space using some sort of carrier wave, which puts the pieces back together at the end of the line. Of course, I can’t understand why it works, but it obviously does.”

“Comforting.”

While Truul was evidently ready to wait for an explanation as to the methods behind the sudden arrival of his reinforcements until the mission’s completion, he did see it fit to voice another, more pressing question on the subject of their new comrades.

“Worf, I thought they were sending us soldiers, not…”

“They look techs just pulled off maintenance rounds,” one of the Alliance troopers put in tactlessly. Truul shot him a biting look, but he couldn’t really disagree. Compared to the heavy gear and armor of his own squad, the flimsy bodysuits and sparse belt clips of the Federation personnel seemed woefully insufficient.

Worf made a growling sound that might have been a sigh. “There are certain… cultural differences that I should have informed you and your men of before the beginning of this operation.”

Truul raised an eyebrow. “Looks like it.”

Her patience at last exhausted, one of the newly-arrived Federation personnel, a tall woman bearing a red band on the shoulders of her black jumpsuit, stepped forward to gain the attention of Truul’s squad. “I am Commander Anna Slovach of the Federation Starship Versailles. Who is in command here?”

Sizing her up with a critical eye, Truul stepped forward as well. “That’d be me.” Ignoring the fact that she was significantly taller than he was, and had him caught in a hard, humorless stare, the Alliance soldier immediately turned his attention away again, instead focusing on Slovach’s unit, which consisted of eleven other men and women of various humanoid species. Some bore grim, war-weary glares similar to their commander’s, although the others, invigorated by recent victory or simply by the chance to face their foes on open ground, were looking over the rebel soldiers and their towering companions with nervous curiosity. “So, this is all you’ve brought to clear the station?”

“Two more teams are still preparing to beam over,” Slovach replied. “When the key areas of Deep Space Nine have been retaken, the admiral will send over more away teams to clear the remained of the station.”

“It does not seem wise to attempt an operation like this with so few personnel,” Worf ventured, stepping forward to join the two leaders.

Upon seeing him, Slovach seemed to loosen up slightly. “Lt. Commander Worf, I presume? I was told you’d be here to liaise with our new… allies.” She frowned. “I’m afraid Admiral Nechayev can’t spare anymore security units right now. Retaking the derelict enemy warships in the system before they destroy each other takes priority over reclaiming this station. We’re just here to establish a foothold and search for survivors of the incursion, if there are any.”

Truul grumbled something about getting more troops from the Republica, but shook his head, and at last turned his full attention to the commander. “So, what is your plan? I’ve been instructed to follow your orders, as long as they don’t place my men at unneeded risk.” He placed special emphasis, matching Slovach’s hard look with his own suspicious glare. Obviously, neither was particularly comfortable placing the lives of their soldiers in the hands of the other.

As the two continued their stare-down, the Federation commander’s combadge chirped. “The second wave is ready for transport, Commander.”

Grudgingly breaking away from Truul’s glare, the woman slapped the pendant on her chest and issued a brief acknowledgement. A moment later, an empty section of the entry chamber showed bright with the radiance of ten immaterial transport columns, these ones crimson rather than the last wave’s blue. When the smolder had cleared, an equal number of broad-shouldered aliens with rough, ridged foreheads and frayed manes of black hair stood on the deck, each poised for sudden combat. Klingons.

“At least they have armor,” Cortana commented quietly.

Sure that no clawed beasts were amassed to spring upon him as he appeared, the foremost Klingon holstered his angled disruptor pistol and marched forward proudly. “Slovach! I am heartened to see you again, especially on a day such as this. You must send my regards to Nechayev; her fleets fought with skill befitting of Klingon warriors!” Without waiting for a response, he turned toward Truul and his company. “And these are heroes of the day, I presume. My comrades and I were all prepared to die gloriously in battle around this world today, and herald the end of our Empire with the blood of a thousand of those vermin and their stolen ships, but I don’t begrudge you for the victory. We live to fight another day!”

Catching sight of Worf, the alien’s toothy grin broadened. “Ah! I should have known that there was a Klingon amongst such great warriors! I am Torgor, Son of Grawgesh, Captain of the Vol’Racha, and last of my great line.”

“I am Worf, Son of Mogh,” the security chief replied with vigor. “I am glad to see that the warriors of the Empire fight on, even in this dark time.” Though he had had lived most of his life away from his own people, news that the Zerg expansion had lain waste to the Klingon Empire had struck at him deeply.

Torgor’s smile faltered. “Son of Mogh? You are of Kurn’s family?”

“Kurn is my brother.”

“He told me that his brother was dead, vanished in the line of duty on a Starfleet vessel.”

Worf nodded slowly. “It is a long story, but I am alive, and I have returned. Tell me, what has become of him.”

“He was commanding the first wing of the Homeworld Defensive Squadron when Qo’nos fell. I hear that his ship was one of the last to be destroyed by the invaders, and when all of its weapons were burned away, Kurn dove straight into the heart of an enemy battleship rather than flee or be taken alive. He died gloriously, along with so many other great warriors.”

Worf’s normally focused and collected visage wavered. Kurn had been one of the last of his family line, and a vital connection to their long dead father. Now…

“Kurn was a skilled warrior and am unforgettable ally, Worf. I, and all who fought alongside him, will bear his memory to death and the Gates of Sto-Vo-Kor. He has brought great honor, to you, and his nephew.”

Remorse suddenly replaced with a new hope, Worf stared hard into the unflinching Klingon Captain’s eyes. “My son? He is still alive?”

Suddenly, from a corner of the room, Tassadar straightened and rose to his full height, causing the Klingon soldiers to reach for their weapons in alarm and their Starfleet counterparts to look on in awe at the Templar’s true, impressive scale. “The Zerg have sensed our presence. We must move quickly, or be trapped here and overwhelmed.”

“The Zerg?” Torgor demanded, wincing slightly at the alien’s penetrating, telepathic voice.

Truul swept up the rifle he had kept cradled on his hip during the brief summit, and the rest of the Alliance team followed suit. “You know, the nasty critters we’re here to kill. All right, there’s time for introductions later. Let’s have your plan, Slovach, and quick. I didn’t come here to stand around and chat.”
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Barely conscious and so badly beaten that neither could even open their eyes with any degree of control, Barclay and Flitch were shoved roughly up against a smooth, cold wall and shackled in place by heavy bolts that enveloped the better part of their forearms. Blurry, but nonetheless distinctly hostile figures crowded around them, testing the restraints and violently shaking already bruised limbs to ensure that they could not be removed without outside assistance. When the tormentors were satisfied, they withdrew from the abbreviated perimeter of vision that swelled eye lids afforded, their passage capped by the flickering into existence of a pale, shimmering field that further obscured all forward sight. Dimly, Barclay realized the wall was a force field of the same sort that he had used to confine the Covenant crew of their commandeered transport.

Of course, more pressing matters quickly pushed the realization from his mind; namely, the raging torrent of pain that engulfed nearly his entire body. When the Covenant unit had at last located and stormed the human’s hiding place, Barclay had been too overwhelmed by the sight of a fully armored and mobile Sangheili warrior bearing down upon him to resist capture, and Flitch, still bound, had not been in any state to fight back. Now, however, a part of Barclay’s mind was screaming at him through the pain, the familiar voice of shame and could-have-been’s. If he had had the will to fight back, at all, perhaps the alien soldiers would have just killed him outright, quickly and painlessly; as it was, their captors had not taken great care to ensure the comfort of their charges, and even the slightest shove from a titan of Sangheili stature, or a slap from one of the wiry, bird-like Kig-Yar, caused tender human flesh to abrade and distend quite painfully.

No. Though the pain was great, greater indeed than any he could remember ever experiencing, he would not give in. Not yet. This place, this alien ship, so far from the galaxy he had been born in and the people he knew, would not become his grave. He just had to have faith; things always seemed to work out somehow, no matter how badly he managed to aggravate the situation in the process.

Barclay’s unwilling companion didn’t seem to be taking their circumstances quite as well. Locking onto the sound of his haggard breathing and heaving his mind from the throbbing mire that had nearly consumed it, Barclay attempted to turn towards the other human, and promptly suspended the effort, a welt on his neck sending a jolt up and down his spine. Gritting his teeth, at least one of which was missing, the prisoner ventured another avenue of communication.

“Are you…?” The short syllables were quickly followed by a series of sharp gasps; even speaking required surprising effort.

In response, Flitch spat onto the polished floor, a significant amount of blood suspended in his phlegm.

Unsure what the wordless retort implied, Barclay slowed his breathing and attempted to form words once more, but before he could speak, Flitch’s body jerked violently, and the infiltrator wrenched his head up. “Blast you, damned fool! Can’t you keep silent?”

The engineer swallowed his weak attempt at communication and shrank back into the shell of solitary anguish the Covenant soldiers had so graciously provided. Comfort from adversity certainly could be found in sharing the burden with another, but Flitch again seemed to flat out refuse the potential benefits of anything that smacked of alliance with his former captive, any shred of pragmatism engulfed by self-centered anguish, or regret. Perhaps the ultimate failure of his mission had hurt the Imperial far more personally than any beating ever could.

Neither had an opportunity to reflect too deeply on their personal laminations, however. After a brief, silent period which could not have persisted for more than ten minutes, though it seemed an eternity longer to Barclay, both men perceived noise and movement from beyond the shimmering barrier, now more distinct and vibrant. A moment later, the field vanished, leaving two figures in its place, backlit and impossible to discern clearly.

“How pitiful they are,” one of them growled. “It is easy to see why the Gods hold theses humans in such contempt. Weak, primitive, purposeless creatures.”

He turned to the other. “I assume you can speak their tongue?”

It shrugged, causing angular head and long neck to bob slightly; a Sangheili nod.

“I loathe the sound of it; animalistic, as they are. Even the squeals of the Unggoy at least bear the traces of enlightenment.” The speaker seemed to shudder. “Nevertheless, it is the edict of the Prophets that their chief servants know the language of the enemy. Their infinite wisdom reveals itself once more.”

The other remained silent.

With a single long stride, the first of the figures brought itself into full view, a towering mass of gray sinew encased in a shell of polished, angled gold. It’s tiny, feline eyes, almost invisible under the yoke of its large skullcap, stared down on the human prisoners with unrestrained malice, and it’s each breath, emanating from an exposed maw flanked by toothy jaws, blasted them with hot air and the lingering stench of concentrated sweat.

“Human!” it bellowed, grabbing Flitch’s tattered tunic with a four-fingered hand and jerking him forward on his restraints. “Where did your kind get those vile warships from? What sacred relic did they desecrate and plunder?”

Flitch glared at the interrogator and grimaced as he was wrenched up against his bonds, but said nothing.

After waiting only a moment for a response, the Sangheili growled again and slammed Flitch back against the bulkhead, then turned his attention to Barclay. “Answer me! Those vessels were well beyond the scope of your primitive designs. Tell me where you stole them from!”

Slowly-clearing vision engulfed by the alien warrior’s snarling visage, Barclay tried to gulp away the bile of fear and injury rising in his throat, but the obstruction remained. Weakly, he mouthed something, but no sound emerged; even if the man was in a state to reply coherently, he would not have known what to say. Self preservation, duty, blind fear, and simple of ignorance of the situation he had been cast muddled his thoughts hopelessly.

Recognizing that this human was equally unwilling or unable to cooperate, the Sangheili contracted its jaws together in anger and, with a lightening motion, brought the backside of one hand across the man’s jaw. Though the assault was relatively restrained, a backhand to the face from a being capable of pulverizing bone with a single squeeze was nevertheless quite overwhelming. Barclay’s world exploded into a coruscating rainbow of impossible colors and virtually unbearable anguish. However, as a testament to the warrior’s experience as a tormentor, he remained unmercifully conscious.

Increasingly irritated with his victims, the Sangheili stepped back. “Pitiful, but hardly unexpected,” he said, flexing broad shoulders pensively. “I have dealt with humans of this sort before; though their flesh is weak and their bodies frail, they do seem to possess a surprising ability to keep secrets to themselves… for a time, at least. Their minds fair far worse under more focused assault.”

He turned once more to the silent companion. “Is there any other need you have for these creatures now? I can ensure that they survive a more proper interrogation; though the electrodes the processors use are typically fatal to their kind, I’m sure they can be modified temporarily. I apologize for the necessary delay, but I assure you, when we question them again, extracting the information you seek will be all too easy. I’ve seen it all before; no human manages to summon the dignity of a warrior in the face of death. They will speak, if only to end their own suffering with the death that so justly awaits them.”

“No.”

The sudden reply caught the interrogator off guard, as made obvious by the contraction of his eyes into piercing slits. The word captured the attention of the humans as well, although neither could identify exactly why. Though the accented, alien voice was very much like that of the first to their ears, there was nonetheless something distinct about it, something familiar.

“What?”

The other Sangheili, dressed in the same armor as his comrade, stepped closer to the prisoners, as if to inspect them better. “No. These creatures are too valuable and fragile to risk in such an interrogation. We cannot allow the information they hold to be lost through overeager examination. When I travel to High Charity to address the Hierarchs, I shall take them with me. The facilities there are better designed for delicate extraction.”

The first stared at him, no doubt furious. To challenge the competency of any component of a warrior’s command was to insult that warrior himself. “Ship master, my warriors have a great deal of experience with humans, and just how little it takes to kill them. I assure you, they’re skills are more than adequate. Certainly, you do not wish to befoul the blessed air of our holy capitol with their stench unnecessarily?”

The second glared back, unflinching. “This is my judgment. You will not defy it.”

Provoked by the abrupt dismissal, the interrogator balled his massive hands into fists and stepped closer to the commander, clearly seething with self-righteous anger. “I will not be cowed this way, not on my own warship! I may have graciously taken you aboard, honored your exemplary record, and given you a place at my side, but you have no real authority over me now, and no right to countermand my orders so! These humans live now because I chose to entertain your request to maintain them, and for no other reason!”

Casting off the air of quiet interest he had borne before, the other rose to his full, impressive stature, amplified all the more by his ostentatious garb. “Do not think just because my command has been lost in battle that I lack teeth, or the will to use them, ‘Nefaaleme. My station may need reaffirmation and divine sanction, but my judgment still holds sway with the High Council, and I know that they will agree with me on this matter. Challenge me on this there, if you think it in the best interest of the Covenant, but do not stand against me here and now.”

Normally, such an ultimatum, especially intoned as darkly as the speaker had managed, would have given even a ship master pause, but ‘Nefaaleme did not seem diffused at all; indeed, the retort seemed to have increased his rage further. There was more to his temper than mere indignation at a perceived subversion of his authority, as serious as the infraction was.

“But this is not the thinking of a warrior! By all that is holy, these vermin should already be dead! How do you know that they even possess anything of value, or that that value outweighs the shame I must bear for each moment they remain alive upon my vessel? I had heard that you had become a warrior of great decisiveness and valor since our training together, but I fear now that there is still some weakness within your heart. I do not see how the Prophets could have missed it! They could not have; perhaps you lost your nerve when you saw your flagship in flames, and your thinking is still clouded by that lapse. Indeed, perhaps that is how you yet live. How you survived such a failure had puzzled me, but now I think I may know. Tell me, ‘Falanamee, did you abandon the fight before the battle was truly done? Does your cowardice still haunt your thoughts?”

The sword hilt at Falanamee’s side ignited and slicing through the air before ‘Nefaaleme’s last word had even escaped his exposed maw, but the other ship master was expecting the assault, and deftly unhooked his own weapon to counter the blow. He had know that impugning a Sangheili warrior’s courage could be met only with an act of physical retribution, a duel to maintain the honor of the attacker, and yet he had persisted anyways. Truly, his unease with ‘Falanamee ran deep.

Impacting one another, the two triangles of blue energy discharged a nova of heat and convulsing plasma, a beacon that cut through the haze that still clouded the eyesight of the prisoners. They could now see the chamber beyond their cell; a long, high rectangle flanked by numerous other imprisoning alcoves, each vacant. At one end of the room, opposite a raise computer control terminal, two tall warriors flanked the only exit, each transfixed by the confrontation before them. Neither one moved to interfere, however; honor duels were an indelible and crucial part of Sangheili society, and in any event, both combatants were among the elite of their race. To stand between them was to invite the removal of any number of body parts.

The two blades did not remain locked for long. Quickly determining that he could not withstand his larger opponent with strength alone, ‘Nefaaleme disengaged and ducked to ‘Falanamee’s left, swapping his hilt from hand to hand and angling it up to strike under the warrior’s extended arms. Sensing the threat, the other warrior spun to the left, leaving ‘Nefaaleme to stubble to a halt and pivot himself back towards the threat on open ground. However, the ship master had no time to attempt another feign; ‘Falanamee was on top of him, blade swooping to decapitate its prey.

A swift duck left the plasma sword swinging through empty space, but ‘Nefaaleme could not escape the powerful kick that the blow had distracted from. Golden armor clanging against golden armor, he fell back, smacking into smooth bulkhead with a loud grunt. His opponent off-balance, ‘Falanamee pushed forward once more, this time angling his raised weapon down for a slash across the chest. Seeing the flash of the blade, ‘Nefaaleme wrenched his own weapon upward with a wrenching motion, trusting that the deadly field would stop the impending strike. It did, but only barely; though they were nearly as tough as temper metal, the bones in the ship master’s blade hand began to creak under the strain of the blow.

Knowing he could not remain on the defensive for long, ‘Nefaaleme lurched forward, focusing all his strength into his huge, muscular legs. Though ‘Falanamee was more brawny than his opponent, the difference was not great, and he knew that his stance had become untenable. Kneeling slightly first to help deflect the force of the other warrior’s lunge, he jump backward, but this time, ‘Nefaaleme was faster. With his free hand, he latched onto the other Sangheili’s thigh plate and pulled himself forward, using his enemy’s own mass as an anchor for another attack with his sword, this time aimed at ‘Falanamee’s exposed legs.

Breaking free of the other’s grasp, ‘Falanamee jerked away to the side, nearly falling to the deck plate in an attempt to avoid the blow. He was nearly successful; the quick evasion had preserved his legs, but a small section of armor and bodysuit was gone, replaced by a frayed and smoking gash that revealed dark skin beneath. Growling in frustration, the warrior ignored the near-miss, lunging forward again, this time with his weapon pointed straight at ‘Nefaaleme’s center mass.

Swapping his sword back into his right hand with lightening speed, the other ship master met the attack expertly, deflecting the attack with a swift parry. Hissing, ‘Falanamee’s blade gashed the deck viciously, but its owner brought it up again immediately, orienting it to block ‘Nefaaleme’s counterattack. As he diffused the force of the blow, the Sangheili caught sight of another threat on the periphery of his vision. Twisting away from his opponent’s blade, he jerked his burning scythe to the left and up in a single, fluid motion.

‘Nefaaleme desperately swung his left arm out of its original course, intended to deliver a hammer blow to the side of ‘Falanamee’s skull, and managed to escape losing the limb, but the maneuver had once again thrown his off-balance. Recognizing the opening, ‘Falanamee launched himself forward, smacking headlong into his opponent and driving him back against the cell block wall. With his free arm, he pinned ‘Nefaaleme’s weapon hand to the hard surface and then pushed. The other let out a cry of pain and rage, and pushed back with his whole body, but ‘Falanamee’s superior strength and footing overwhelmed the offensive force. Realizing that the effort was in vain, the ship master switched tactics, trying instead to slide to the side and escape the other’s press that way. Feeling his prey begin to slip away, ‘Falanamee compressed his jaws tightly and slammed his angular head into the side of ‘Nefaaleme’s outstretched neck. Gasping, the latter both was forced to halt his evasive struggle and released the hilt still clutched in his battered fist, sending it clattering uselessly to the deck below. A smash with an armored forearm sent the rest of him to the ground.

‘Falanamee drew back, breathing heavily but otherwise un injured, and glared down at his opponent as he struggled to shove his back up against the smooth bulkhead. Bringing the twin, flaming tips of his blade within centimeters of ‘Nefaaleme’s neck, ‘Falanamee kicked the ship master’s deactivated weapon away from his limp grasp.

Broad chest heaving, the defeated warrior weakly raised his head and glowered at the victor defiantly. “Run me through, then,” he managed. “It is our way.”

The muscles in ‘Falanamee’s sword arm tensed and it drew back marginally, but nevertheless the soldier hesitated, staring back at the rebellious officer. As they exchanged deathly, battle-tinted looks, the prison chamber’s heavy door dilated into the surrounding walls and a lightly armored intendant stepped inwards. The Sangheili immediately froze, caught off guard by the scene before him, but said nothing, noting that the flanking guards were not interfering.

“Report,” ‘Falanamee commanded, without breaking his gaze with the defeated combatant.

Shaking off his bewilderment, the intendant straightened his shoulders decorously. “Excellency, the overbridge reports that the unidentified interlopers that destroyed the Ascendant Justice have returned, in great numbers. The group commanders are awaiting Ship Master ‘Nefaaleme’s orders.”

‘Falanamee did not acknowledge the information, but he did, after a moment’s thought, step back from the prone warrior lying before him and lower his weapon. “You are correct, ‘Nefaaleme, it is my right to slay you for your insolence and your failure. However, unlike you, I will not allow my own desires to interfere with what is best for the Covenant and its warriors. We shall return to the command chamber, and you shall lead your soldiers, whether you are worthy of the honor or not. Only when the intruders are vanquished will we resolve this, not before.”

‘Nefaaleme began to snarl, but, thinking better of it, decided instead to heave himself onto sore feet, and lope slowly towards the open doorway. ‘Falanamee moved to follow him, but not before sparing one last glance towards the captives, who yet looked on in confusion. His vision mostly recovered now, Barclay’s eyes caught sight of something beneath the rim of the warrior’s skull cap, a scar, bold and fresh, etched across the side of his visage. He gasped, hit by a sudden realization, and the greater confusion it entailed.

“Remove the humans from those bonds and keep them confined in that cell. I shall return, and until I do, make sure no harm comes to them.” The guards acknowledged the command with a salute, and the Arbiter was gone.

[Anomie]

So, the Arbiter's time among the Federation has changed him in more ways than one.

Very good story, very good indeed.

[fusion]

Noble Ire this is the best story in the entire forum since the part where Republica destroyed the star trek fleet. You the first I have seen to able to incorporate near realist energy figures into their fanfic.
PS: What class/size is the Republica?

[Noble Ire]

Noble Ire this is the best story in the entire forum since the part where Republica destroyed the star trek fleet. You the first I have seen to able to incorporate near realist energy figures into their fanfic.
PS: What class/size is the Republica?

Thanks. I did try (although, admittedly, my figures for the Covenant may be a bit exaggerated, but they are less certain in the first place).

As to the Republica, its of a class of my own invention:

Liberation-class Light Cruiser

Length: 500 meters long
Armament: 14 Turbolasers (equiv. to Imperial medium), 10 Light Turbolasers, 4 Ion Cannons, 24 Anti-Fighter Laser Batteries
Fighter complement: 2 squadrons (4 B-Wings, 8 B-Wings, 12 X-Wings in the Republica's case), 6 A-Wing Interceptors

Retrofitted from a line of Mon Calamari long-range merchant vessels, the Liberation-class was designed as a support ship for the far heavier and better armed Star Cruisers that made up the bulk of the Mon Calamari fleet. It is faster, both at Sublight and Hyper speeds, than most others cruisers its size, and sports an array of weaponry designed for tackling Imperial TIE squadrons and support ships, although it sacrifices system redundancy and shield strength to do so. Because these vessels were among the few frequented by non-Calamari before their modification for combat, the control systems and duty stations are generally better suited to human usage than those of most other classes, and as such are often captained by human or near-human command officers.

[Noble Ire]

Chapter Fifty Two


With a guttural grunt, the creature bent its stocky rear legs and leapt, scrabbled for purchase on the smooth, polished with vicious claws, and began to pace slowly along the narrow walkway it made. Swinging its toothy head from side to side, the beast scoured the recycled air for scent of prey, every sinewy tendon in the predator’s body tightening each time a new smell crossed its path. A meter below, still confined to the hard deck plate, two of its kin followed along, the chitinous plates on their backs creaking with each step. Like the canine beings their breed had been spawned from so long ago, each bore the gaunt frame and highly tuned sense of a pack hunter, and as the leader above followed an errant strand of sensation one way or the other, those below turned their skull-like visage in syncopation, slavering at the possibility of a new kill.

Spying an object that its primitive brain could not readily identify, the lead creature perked up. It hefted its meter-long frame onto its back legs again, and probed at the thing with a stubby, clawed foreleg. The small, shiny item did not attempt to flee or attack as the predator approached. The lack of response would have normally caused the beast to disregard it and move on, but there was an odd aura about it, some faint odor that impelled it move closer.

Then, as it shoved its spiky snout right up to the object, a blurry image appeared on the curiosity’s surface; a toothy face, staring back menacingly. Startled, the beast drew back with a high-pitched yelp and smacked the offending image with the heel of its outstretched claws. The object gave way immediately, tipping over the side of the raised platform and falling to the deck below, where it shattered into dozen of reflective pieces and unleashed a small wave of dark, acrid liquid. Surprised by the ease of its victory, but again attracted by the aroma the kill had produced, the hunter leapt down after it, the pair of followers in tow.

“Tellarite ale,” the late bottle’s owner whispered mournfully as he watched the trio of creatures sticking their snouts into the sticky puddle that was beginning to seep into the grooves between the deck plates. “You can’t get it anywhere anymore. Nineteen bars of gold-pressed Latinum when I bought it, and worth ever slip, too. Its Probably worth twice that now.”

From a shadowy alcove behind the low staircase under which the reminiscing bartender was now sheltered, a pair of arms appeared and clamped onto him. Finding purchase over his mouth and around his chest, they jerked back, dragging the little man further into the ink blackness, away from the dim lights of the bar and the marauding predators within. Responding badly, as was his custom, he began to flail about in the dark and even considered biting own on the hand that now covered his set of yellowed, beetle teeth, before the movement ceased.

“Calm down, Quark!” a female voice hissed from somewhere behind him. “And keep quiet!” she added as an afterthought.

Although his heart still raced, the diminutive Ferengi stopped moving, and as he did so, the hands restraining him relaxed.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Quark twisted around in the narrow alcove he had been dragged into and attempted to make out his new companion, to little avail. However, where his eyes failed him, the sensitive, fan-like ears that adorned his bald, orange head did not. “Dax? Ezri, is that you?”

“Who else would I be?” she replied, an unusual bite in her tone. Deep Space Nine’s counselor and science officer, she was typically easy-going, but in stressful situations, the Trill swiftly adopted an abrupt and even nervous personality. “Why are you even still here? I thought all the civilians on the station had been evacuated.”

Quark adopted a disarming, pointy grin, a course of habit that was not dissuaded by the darkness that enveloped them both. “Oh, were they? I must have missed the announcement.” He could tell that Ezri was not convinced. “Uh… listen, I’ve owned this bar through a Cardassian occupation, three invasions, more bizarre phenomena and malfunctions than I can count, and a plague of tribbles. I wouldn’t be worth the Latinum I intend to sell my remains for if I abandoned it to a few bugs. I don’t intend to give Odo the satisfaction of being right about the spineless cowardice he always oh so loudly, and fallaciously I might add, attributed to me.” The Ferengi gulped, surprised at his own words. “Um, I would appreciate it if you didn’t spread that last part around. Being perceived as a spineless coward is good for business.”

“My lips are sealed,” Ezri replied quietly, her mood softened somewhat by Quark’s banter.

Settling against one of the alcove’s slanted walls, Quark crossed his arms pensively. “Although, I didn’t really count on the bugs managing to make it onto the station, at least not yet. What happened?”

“As we were evacuating the last of the transports, a few enemy ships broke through the defensive fleet’s line and made a suicide run on the station. The shuttle was recalled to safety under our shield, and the Commander managed to destroy the attacking ships, but apparently there were some sort of pods onboard that burst out when their carriers exploded. A few managed to make it through the shield while the shuttle was in transit, and latched onto the hull. Those ‘bugs’ were inside. I was with a detachment sent to secure the transport when it docked again, but we were attacked before we reached the docking ring. A few of us managed to escape into maintenance conduits, but the creatures were already breaching those too. I managed to lose the ones that were tailing me, but I’ve been unable to established contact with Ops.”

“They must have knocked out all of the internal communications somehow,” Quark speculated. “I overheard the security team that was down here saying that their communicators had stopped working just before they were overrun by those things.”

“What happened to them?” Ezri asked earnestly. “Did you see Julian with them?” Doctor Bashir, whose office was on the other side of the station’s central promenade from Quark’s bar, disliked leaving his medical facilities when battle promised an influx of patients.

“Yeah, he was there. The security officers held off the first wave of those things, and the Doctor was helping one of the wounded to the sickbay when more of them attacked, bigger ones that slithered down from the upper level. A lot of the officers were cut down pretty quickly, but I think a few made it back to the medbay with Bashir. They’re probably still holed up there, although I’m not sure of that. I only managed to hide back here before those things began overturning my establishment, looking for more victims.

Ezri frowned. “I had heard that their sense of smell is very acute. Why haven’t they noticed you? Or me for that matter?”

Quark grinned once again. “Most of the people who have lived on the station for a long time seem to get used to it, but to newcomers, the aroma of my establishment and its wares can be somewhat… distracting. How else do you think I make such a profit at the gambling tables? Few are lucky while properly intoxicated.”

“I always thought you just rigged the games.”

The Ferengi straightened his back in indignation. “Such an accusation! I’ll have you know that…”

Before Quark could complete his defense, however, he found Ezri’s hand once more over his mouth.

“Quiet!” she hissed fervently, now a visible silhouette in the darkness.

Complying without comment, Quark’s sensitive ears immediately picked up what the Federation officer must have heard. Claws. The scrabbling echo of serrated chitin and bone on metal, echoing from the deeper darkness from which Ezri must have emerged. The reverberation sounded as though it was coming across a great distance, but in the complex maintenance crawlspaces that crisscrossed the space station, such perceptions could be deceptive.

As the hidden pair listened, the sound began to fade, then abruptly grew stronger again, then ceased entirely. Placing the expansive lobs of one ear against a bulkhead, Quark scanned intently for any inkling of the sound. After more than a minute of utter silence, he withdrew and turned back to Ezri, an uneasy grin barely visible in the dark. “False alarm.”

Immediately, the sound returned, now far louder and more distinct than before, and clearly emanating from somewhere beyond the Trill officer. Not bothering to even shoot the Ferengi and enraged glare, Ezri Dax drew a hand phaser from her hip and pivoted to face the hidden access way. “Do you have a phaser?”

Nervously, Quark patted his vest, checking each of its secret pockets and purse loops in quick succession.

“I wondered where that pouch had gone…”

“Quark!”

He gulped, and continued his search, at last laying a hand on a smooth handle, buried in a padded underarm sleeve. “Ah yes, I knew I still had this on me. Uh, perhaps it’s best if you didn’t mention this to the commander. Strictly speaking, hold-out disruptors aren’t legal under Bajoran law.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Ezri replied through gritted teeth. As she spoke, the clattered of spike swelled and became even more discordant. “There’s more than one.”

Quark couldn’t disagree.

Glancing from the darkness before her, to the dim light of the bar, to her companion, and back, Ezri rose from her crouched position, and began to back towards the light. “We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t think we can hold more than one of those things in here.”

“Are you crazy?” Quark gaped, but backed away alongside her nonetheless. “There are more of them out in the open! If we leave this alcove, we’ll be cut into pieces before we reach the Dabo tables!”

She glanced at the man, fear evident in her own eyes. “It’s either that or die in here, right now. We don’t have many options.”

Above the clatter of hurried footfalls, a ravenous hissing sound filled the air like a miasma. Even though the blackness of the small access tunnel, an inkling of rapid movement began to emerge, a hurtling specter of knives and slavering jaws.

Biting a yellowing nail pensively, Quark at last pushed himself to his feet. “The access hatch should be right by the exit. I’m not sure if it’ll hold them, though.”

“It’s better than nothing. Come on.”

Squeezing out of the angular tube and into the sheltered area below the bar staircase, the two worked quickly, hefting the metallic hatch Quark had removed when first attempting to hide, and affixing it to the small portal. The thing was sturdy enough, but the Trill and the Ferengi had both heard enough of their hunters to know that it would not be enough. Escape was their only chance. And to do that, they would have to face the same threat they had just waylaid, if ever so briefly.

“Uh, Quark? Not that I’m complaining, but I thought you said that there were more of them out here?”

Making sure that the self-sealing bolts on the obstruction were as tight as they were going to get, the barkeeper turned with his disruptor drawn, ready to point out the foes Ezri has somehow missed, but to his surprise, the bar seemed to be empty. There was the ruined remains of that expensive flask of ale, and another row of shattered bottles the creatures had evidently also seen fit to inspect, but, at least from their hidden vantage point, the perpetrators were no where to be seen.

“I don’t like this,” Ezri whispered, phaser clutched tightly in one fist.

Quark had similar misgivings, but he knew better than to pass up an opportunity such as this over a vague feeling. After all, that was one of the sacrosanct Ferengi Rules of Acquisition: Never let intuition interfere when profit is staring you right in the face. Or was it the other way around? It didn’t really matter; they were probably both in there somewhere.

“As you said, we don’t have many options right now, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer the one whose teeth are not immediately apparent.” Hearing no descent from the counselor, he glance up, between the narrow slots of the stairway. “We should make for the second level. There’s a hidden panel in the rear wall of holo-suite two that connects with an unused maintenance conduit. We might be able to make it to one of the escape pods that way.”

Ezri raised an eyebrow.

“What? I like to approach my line of work well prepared, and my clientele isn’t always of the most diplomatic breed,” Quark said dismissively, rising to his feet. “Now, if you don’t have any objections…”

A muffled scratching from the other side of the access hatch ensured that she didn’t.

Weapons at the ready, the two slowly emerged from the stairway’s shadow, and worked their way around to its mouth as quietly as they could, scanning every visible centimeter of the establishment for a potential threat. Reaching the front of the stair without incident, and spying no movement on the open deck above, they ascended with all due haste, unconsciously vying to be the first off the compromised level as they ran. Quark managed to come out first, but as he flew up the last handful of bare steps and came within sight of the upper floor, the Ferengi suddenly wished had been slightly slower.

With a sharp inhalation of breath, he tumbled backwards down the stairs, falling a meter before impacting Ezri, a collision that nearly sent both tumbling to the floor below. Steadying herself and pushing Quark back firmly onto a metal step, the Federation officer started to demand why he had fallen back, but her question died before the syllable even formed in her throat. On the deck plate above, fully blocking the stairway’s exit, lay the gaping maw of one of the creatures that had been prowling through bar a few minutes previous. Raising her weapon instinctively, Ezri almost squeezed off a shot, but something about the vacant look in the vacant, beady eyes that framed the beast’s toothy sneer of a mouth gave her pause. They were too vacant. The thing was dead.

“What are you…?” Quark managed squeakily, but the Trill pushed past him, mounting the last few steps so as to get a better view of the beast. It was one of the smaller hunters, as most of the boarders had been, lacking the armor and bulk that some of its cousins bore, but nonetheless highly dangerous. They were weak, usually felled by a few phaser blasts, but the things also had claws sharper than the best Klingon Bat’leth, and where one was, a hundred more were likely close behind. Ezri had only encountered them in person once before, in the ambush only an hour previous, but that, and the stories that had filtered to the station each time a Federation world fell, were more than enough to convince her of the danger that they posed. And these were among the lowliest of minions the unknown enemy wielded.

“Well, it’s dead all right.” Seeing that his companion had not been torn into shreds when she pushed past him, Quark had at last summoned the courage to follow. “That’s a pretty impressive wound.” He referred to the blackened and gory hole that dominated most of the dead creature’s upturned flank. “Most weapons that powerful would have just disintegrated the thing. I wonder what killed it.”

“Quark!”

Startled by Ezri’s sudden shout, the Ferengi spun away from the corpse, and came face to face with a massive figure, emerging from an archway that opened onto the central Promenade’s upper level. It was a mass of drab green and black, marred by an occasional patch of charring or a splotch of yellowy gore. In its hands was clutched a huge, angular weapon that smelled of burning ozone. The creature’s head was masked by an opaque faceplate, which cast a reflection of Quark’s orange face back at him, distorting and shadowing it.

Seized by an urgent fear, the Ferengi fell on his back, nearly tumbling again down the staircase, and brought his tiny disruptor to bear on the sudden target. A gnarled finger depressed the trigger.

The weapon whirred, coughed, sputtered, and died, the glowing power cell visible in its grip dulling noticeably. Quark only had a moment to gape in horror at the malfunctioning article and breathe a short curse on the Tzenkenthi merchant he had purchased it from before the intruder loped across the room, deftly removed the weapon from his outstretched hand, and kneeled across his chest, effectively immobilizing the man. In the same motion, the armored humanoid brought its sizeable weapon to its waist and trained it on Ezri’s chest, a mere meter away.

“Drop it,” it demanded clearly, in a deep, masculine voice. Now looking down the barrel of the attacker’s weapon, Ezri had no choice but to comply. Her hand phaser clattered uselessly to the deck.

“Wait!” From the Promenade, a pair of Klingons and a human woman appeared, with them a handful of other Klingon warriors and oddly-unformed soldiers visible at the archway, their weapons drawn. One, dressed in an off-white combat suit moved to intercept the towering mass of armor. “They’re Starfleet officers… at least, she is.” Catching sight of Quark, still reeling and pinned to the deck, the Klingon frowned in distaste.

“Ferengi,” the other warrior spat. “What are you still doing here?”

“Suffocating, at the moment,” Quark replied, trying to push away the knee that still lay on his chest to no avail. “Now, would you mind ordering this beast off of me?”

“He’s with me,” Ezri put in as calmly as she could manage.

Slowly, the armored humanoid rose, shouldering his firearm and allowing the Ferengi space to pick himself up. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to pull a gun on my again, and if you do, at least try to find one that works.”

As Quark muttered something unintelligible under his breath, the woman approached Ezri. “Sorry about this. We’re part of the team Admiral Nechayev dispatched to secure the station and rescue any survivors. I’m Aleen Jossa, they’re Lt. Commander Worf and Captain Torgor. And the big one’s called the Master Chief. I don’t think he’s ever told anyone his real name, if he even has one.”

Ezri nodded, gratefully accepting her fallen sidearm. “I’m Lieutenant Ezri Dax. “I was separated from a security team when the station was boarded, and I’ve been trying to evade them in the maintenance conduits ever since. I ran into Quark, the owner of this establishment, hiding on the lower floor, and we were making for a potential escape route when you ran into us.”

Gaze attracted by movement in the hall beyond, Ezri watched as armored soldiers materialized and began to file onto Quark’s balcony level. “I recognize the Klingons, but I’ve never seen any Starfleet combat uniforms like that. And I haven’t seen armor like his since Military History in the Academy.” She gestured to the Master Chief, who, along with the lead Klingons, was listening to a report from one of Torgor’s subordinates. “New reinforcements?”

Jossa smiled faintly. “In a manner of speaking. It’s a very long story, but I’ll be very glad to fill you in when we get out of here. I’m just glad to see a familiar face; there aren’t very many Trill where we’ve been.”

Ezri was puzzled by the comment, but didn’t have time to question the woman any further, as the others had just completed their short briefing.

“The upper level of this section is secure for the moment,” Worf said, approaching Ezri once more. “Are there any other survivors you know of nearby?”

She nodded. “Yes. Quark thinks a few personnel managed to get to Sickbay, on the lower level of the Promenade. If they did, they should still be barricaded inside.”

Worf shot a suspicious glance in the Ferengi’s direction, but apparently accepted the information, and turned to the rest of his squad. “Let’s move then. We should have the Engineering section secured before Major Truul and Commander Slovach reach Ops. Medbay should be on the way to the core access block.”

“I’ll take point,” the Master Chief offered, moving towards the stairs back down to the main deck. “Tabren, Obra, Decid. You’re with me.”

The trio of helmeted soldiers, presumably humans, moved to follow him, checking their weapons as they went.

“Come, my brothers!” Torgor roared with sudden exuberance. “Let us follow them into the depths, and trade the blood of our people for the ichor of the beasts!”

As Worf moved to join the rest of his squad as they pounded down the narrow metal access way, Ezri stopped him.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry, but have we met somewhere before?” she replied, almost timidly.

“Not that I can recall. Why, do you remember me?”

Ezri frowned. “No, not really. It’s just that… you seem familiar somehow.”

The two stared at one another for a long moment, alone together on the cold deck plate. Worf’s mouth tightened. There is something… her face…

Ezri felt her eyes suddenly begin to water, but she did not know why. It is as if I’ve heard his voice, simply felt his presence before. But how…
A Klingon bellow echoed up from below, a war cry. “Their warriors have come at last!” A jarring hiss and several fleshy pops followed, almost immediately drowned out by the chorus of a dozen different energy weapons firing in concert.

The moment cut short, the lonely pair reluctantly broke their gaze and piled off down the stairs, into the heart of battle.
--------------------------------------------------------

“Still no contacts, Major,” a voice crackled over Truul Besteen’s comlink. “There haven’t been any signs of movement since your teams left.”

“Keep your guard up. We’ve run into two groups of the things already, and they seem ta drop in out of nowhere. Most of ‘em aren’t too dangerous at a distance, but Commander Slovach already almost lost a man who let one of the little ones get too close. And tell the Starfleet man with you to not bother much with his tricorder. Something’s making ours give bad readings on them.”

The soldier on the other end of the line, one of two left to guard the shuttle’s docking hatch, gave his acknowledgement, and Truul signed off. “Still no sign of ‘em on the docking ring,” the major reported turning back to the rest of his team, camping for the moment in a sizeable hall intersection. “He all right?”

The officer nodded at the blue-skinned Andorian who was seated at the center of the group, cradling his left arm as another Starfleet officer placed a temporary seal on the large gash that still bled onto his black uniform. Checking with the attending officer, Commander Slovach nodded. “Crewman Shenar is ready to move out again. We should continue on to Ops before those… Zerg attack again.”

Truul nodded. “I’m with ya. Still, I don’t like moving through corridors like these with so many men, especially considering how good these things seem to be at jumping out of no where and picking us off.”

Under Slovach’s orders, the insertion team had been split into three, one to secure the Engineering section and try and restore power, one to reestablish contact with one of the station’s evacuation shuttles that was still docked and unresponsive to hails, and the last to make their way to Ops and retake systems that might aide in expelling any remaining boarders. Each was to pick up any survivors they found along the way and tag them for transport out. When the vital systems had been secured, the nearby fleet would begin to beam in all the armed officers they could spare to neutralize the Zerg intruders. It was a sound plan, but had been hampered by two unanticipated factors.

Firstly, the boarders had somehow managed to knock out power to most of the primary systems and even some of the core ones, among them lighting, which rendered ambient illumination an uncertain factor, varying from compartment to compartment and deck to deck. The tampering had also disrupted station-based communications and shutdown most of Deep Space Nine’s lifts. One of Slovach officers, familiar with the station’s layout, had suggested that they attempt to reach Ops, difficult to reach without functioning turbolifts, via the power and repair conduits that ran throughout the construct. However, prying off a maintenance hatch had given them their first encounter with the Zerg. There were only three; smallish, canine creatures, and they were easily eliminated, but the attack made it clear that they had already made their way into the tunnel network. That, combined with the fact that none of the lighting in the things seemed to be functional (the creatures seemed to have gone to great pains to smash every independently-powered fixture they came across), and their restrictive size, had invalidated the idea, and made locating a functioning lift, or one that could be jury-rigged to function, a priority.

The second impediment had been the almost total lack of life they encountered. Rather than a battlefield, as Slovach had expected, with the station’s crew holding the intruders back from critical systems and mounting their own counterattacks, they had found nothing, not even bodies, beyond the occasional trail of blood into a darkened compartment, and the attackers themselves. Certainly, most of the station had been evacuated during the battle, but there should still be more than one hundred Starfleet and Bajoran Militia onboard. The squad’s tricorders detected life in abundance throughout the station, but something of indeterminate origin was interfering with their accuracy, rending them unable to pinpoint life signs, or tell if what they picked up was humanoid or Zerg.

“Still, it strikes me as kinda odd that they only hit us twice so far,” Truul continued, hefting his rifle towards the long hallway down which another group had attacked out of a seemingly vacant living compartment, wounding the Starfleet crewman. We’re not exactly being stealthy, and if they really wanted, I bet these things could make us work for our creds.” The mannerism was lost on everyone save the Alliance marine Truul had assigned to the group, but his meaning was obvious.

“Their minds no longer possess the capacity for thought,” the imposing Tassadar rumbled, rising from a corner of the formation and pulling his dark cloak about him tighter. “Without their master, they are mere animals, incapable of strategy or coordination. They gather in small packs and act on their basest impulses without reservation. Kill, destroy, desecrate. Slaughter consumes their minds.” He paused, casting his hypnotic eyes to the ceiling pensively. “Nevertheless, there is something odd about the behavior of the creatures here. I have seen no evidence that any have turned on their own to feed their thirst for carnage, as they invariably without a will to drive them. More than that, I do not sense the primal confusion and terror that their abandonment should have set free. These Zerg lack coordination, and yet, there is something… focused about them.”

“We must be cautious. Something has altered this brood, and I know not what it is.”

Pulling back together in a tight formation, the squad continued on through the eerie, empty passageways, continuing their search. Following a station schematic in one of Slovach’s tricorders, they had nearly circumnavigated the central disk, checking each potential turbolift without success. It was a time-consuming process, but both Commander and Major agreed that it was the only safe course of action; the access conduits were paths of last resort only.

After a few more nervous minutes of silent navigation through endless dark corridors, they came upon one of the last unchecked lift banks, this one not far from the station’s central Promenade. A pair of Starfleet technicians popped the interface for one of the chambers open and began rooting through the mess of wire within, searching for active wires and enacted terminal jacks. After only a few moments of rewiring and a sweep with a device Truul did not recognize, the lights in their section of the hallway intensified to their maximum luminosity, and a nearby wall terminal flickered on, displaying a variety of polite supplications in numerous scripts, each indicating that it was offline.

“The power distribution node in this module still seems to still have access to a small amount of reserve power,” one of the technicians reported confidently. “If we can override the emergency lockout on this turbolift and recall one of its cabs from the Operations level, you should be able to get a few trips out of it.”

“Good work,” Slovach replied. “Do you have access to any other systems?”

Stepping aside to allow his comrade to continue their repairs, the tech shook his head. “No, sir. I have power here now, but without the main computer, everything has to be done manually, which pretty much limits us to this lift. I can’t even be sure what triggered the lockdown.”

The commander frowned. “Wouldn’t the commanding officer have initiated the lockdown after the station was breached?”

“It looks like she did, Commander, but the turbolift’s operational log indicates that the lockdown was rescinded about half an hour after it was ordered, and then reactivated a few minutes later. All those orders should have come from Ops, but I’m not sure about the last two? Why would the commander release the security lockdown during the middle of an incursion, and then reinitiate it again?”

Truul’s subordinate adjusted her blast helmet nervously. “I’ve got a bad…”

The Major’s comlink chirped suddenly, cutting the soldier off.

“Truul here.”

“Major, this is Lieutenant Elbran. We’ve reached the docked shuttle.”

“Status?”

“The ship appears to be functional, sir, but the crew and passengers…”

“Lieutenant?”

“They’re dead, sir. All of them. It looks like a few Zerg got in through the boarding hatch. They were packed in so tightly… We killed of the creatures that were inside. They were… eating the remains. Seven Hells…”

Somehow, the chilling silence that had been following the detachment since it set out seemed to deepen even further. “Keep yourself together, Elbran,” Truul ordered stonily. “See if you can lock down the ship, and then get back to the insertion shuttle. Tell the pilot to prep for departure. We’re getting out of here.”

Deactivating the device, he nodded in the female Alliance soldier’s direction. “See if you can raise Worf’s team. If they’re close to the Engineering section, tell them to reactivate the core if they can, seal the compartment, and then head back to the shuttle.”

“My orders were to hold that section, and the bridge, until the Admiral could dispatch more security forces to retake the station,” Slovach interjected.

Truul stared at her. “We don’t have enough manpower to hold this wreck, Commander. You counted on us reinforcing the station’s crew; it’s looking more and more like they’re all dead, and I’m not going to keep my soldiers here, on unknown ground, facing an enemy of unknown numbers and strength, any longer than I have to. You and your Klingon friends down there can stay in this graveyard if you want, but I suggest you transport, or whatever it is you all do, back to your ships until your Admiral decides she can commit more troops to this operation.”

“Sir,” the female soldier put in, holding the headset built into her helmet up to one ear. “Worf is reporting that they have located seven survivors in the medical section, and another two on the central Promenade. However, he reports that there appears to be a… resonator malfunction of some sort within the core interfering with their communications with the ships of the fleet. He’s left the survivors under guard in the Medbay until they can be transported, and is approaching the Engineering section.”

“Has he encountered any resistance?” Truul demanded.

“Yes, sir. Several contacts, but no friendly casualties so far.”

Slovach slapped the combadge on her chest. “Versailles, come in. Versailles!”

“If there is a resonator malfunction in the core, the interference it emits would probably be more intense closer to the center of the station, and would disrupt long-range communication,” the technician commented. “We should be able to reach the fleet from the docking ring or one of the outer pylons, but we would have to move out there to be transported safely.”

“All right, we can get out of here together.” Truul stepped towards the tech still elbow deep in the wall interface. “Lock that thing down again. We’re leaving.”

“We are not!” Commander Slovach interjected again, growing increasingly irritated. “These men are under my command, and they will stay until we complete our objective. I appreciate your assistance, Major, but I will not have you subverting my command! Retreat if you wish, but we’re staying.”

Abruptly, the blast doors to the lift opened into an empty shaft, and a loud whirr echoed down from several decks above. “Lockdown bypass complete,” the seconds tech declared with satisfaction, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging behind him.

All eyes now trained on the vacant space, conversation ceased and all below waited in nervous silence as the whirr increased in volume, foretelling the lift cab’s arrival. In a flash of motion and with a mechanical sigh, it locked into place.

Every inch, from floor to wall to handrail, was smeared with blood.

No one spoke, moved, or even breathed for a long moment. As the situation aboard the station had continually worsened, every one of them had had held a suspicion deep down that the command section might have been compromised, Deep Space Nine truly lost, but being confronted with an omen such as this wrenched the inkling to the surface and replaced it with the cold grip of fact. Even Truul, who had no attachment to the station and the people that it held, couldn’t help his heart jumping in his chest. He had served a long time with the Rebellion, and had seen some of the worst atrocities that the Imperial Moffs and bloodthirsty commanders could commit. He did not wish such brutality on any sentient, except, perhaps, those who bore the Imperial emblem with pride. And then, even they did not treat their victims with such animalistic cruelty.

“We’re moving out soldier. Now.” Truul shouldered his blaster rifle and began to walk back down the dark hallway, his subordinate in tow. “I suggest you all come with me, but I won’t force ya. Coming, Templar?”

“Something yet breathes up there,” the Protoss intoned, more to himself than any of the others.

Truul paused. “The creatures, you mean?”

“No, I sense a thinking being. The emanation is weak, strangled, but it is there nonetheless. But it is fading.”

“One of the crew?” Slovach asked hopefully.

“I do not know.”

The commander considered for a moment, and then stepped forward, delicately placing her feet on the slick, gory interior of the lift. “If there is a chance anyone is still alive up there, I’m going to try and find them. It is my duty as a Starfleet officer. And a human being,” she added, pointedly. “Duvor, grab your medical pack come with me. You too, Hill. The rest of you, guard this junction and await my orders. If I don’t report back in ten minutes, make your way back to the docking ring and transport out of here.”

Reluctant, but firm in their obligation to their superior, the two crewmen she had mentioned stepped in the turbolift cab. After them, to her surprise, stooped Tassadar, who took up a majority of the remained of the small space. “You don’t need to endanger yourself…”

“I have duties of my own, Commander,” the Protoss replied solemnly. “I am obligated to fight the Zerg wherever they reveal themselves, and save any from them who can be saved. And I feel that there is something up there that I must see. Someone I must save.”

He turned to Truul. “Do what you must, Major, but I cannot leave this place yet.”

Truul gritted his teeth in frustration. He owed the alien nothing personally; they had never fought alongside one another, had never conversed onboard the Republica. Tassadar was no soldier of the Rebellion, and likely did not hate the Empire has he did. And yet, Truul had heard reports and rumors, that the templar had fought the Dark Lord of the Sith himself to defend Admiral Ackbar and the Home One at Sullust. The thought of any one being standing up to Vader and winning, especially since the Jedi Purge was ridiculous, but of course, so were a great many of the things that had occurred since he happened across a hapless Starfleet engineer and his hover tank of a companion in the bowels of that Star Destroyer, but a week ago. And then there was his performance on the bridge of the Republica…

Of course, in the end, Tassadar’s value to the Rebellion or whatever respect he might warrant for his skill were irrelevant. Captain Ryceed had placed the alien, and all of his compatriots, under Truul’s care. And he wasn’t about to abandon that duty.

With a last weary expulsion of breath, the Major paced back to the rest of the squad and edged into the turbolift with the others. “Guard this area with the rest, soldier. We won’t be long. We’d better not be.”
----------------------------------------------------

Despite the macabre nature of their conveyance, the brief assent in the turbolift was surprisingly mundane. Its power restored, the platform worked smoothly and without undue noise, depositing it’s passengers at the rear of the large, circular Ops chamber in under a minute. Their destination, however, bore little resemblance to anything that could be considered normal.

The lack of corpses that Truul had noticed on the trip to the turbolift was more than rectified; every deck panel, every low step, every crew pit, every control terminal, was draped with a mangled form. Human, Bajoran, Vulcan, even Klingon. And there were Zerg, mountains of them. Most were of the same canine variety that they had encountered before, but others were larger, laid heavy with, thick, slimy carapaces and jutting claws. Others looked like monstrous, crested snakes, with huge bony jaws and meter long blades at the tip of each narrow arm. And handful were even more hideous, humanoids that looked like they had been grown rather than born, covered in purplish insectoid protrusions, muscled limbs by some foul liquid.

The stench of death was almost unbearable, and omnipresent. Nothing lived in there.

Slovach and her officers were apparently at a loss for words; one of them looked like he was only barely summoning the resolve not throw up. Truul took the sight, and the smell, better, but not by much; he had seen the sights of massacres and battlefields before, but few had looked like this. Blasters were messy weapons, but they generally allowed their targets the dignity of remaining intact. Claws and teeth afforded no such privilege.

“How…?” Slovach managed at last, stepping tentatively off the lift cab. “How could so many have gotten in here?”

“See for yourself.” Truul, already stepping gingerly into the heart of the bloody room, indicated to several points in the wall. There were three small squares onto emptiness, each with mangled fragments of bulkhead still hanging pitifully from them. “I guess they overestimated the ability of metal to hold ‘em back. The bigger ones probably came in through the lift when the lockout was released.”

Glancing down at what might have been a human, a fragment of claw still impaling his chest, Truul turned back to the others. “Make your search quick, Commander. If these things did this once, they’ll probably come back here again, and I doubt we have the numbers to hold them.”

Slovach and her men fanned out, scanning each corner of the room with their tricorders, trying to avoid staring at the carnage all around them. As they worked, Tassadar, drifted slowly across the chamber, finally halting at the main viewport, still sealed by a blast covering. Looking back over the battlefield, he head and lowered his issued a whispered incantation, passing the blessings of ancient Protoss heroes onto the dead. The words would mean little to one of another race, and few of his kind would have bothered, but Tassadar had seen too much war and death over his long life to care about the distinction. They died in battle, in defense of their beliefs and their kin. Nothing else mattered.

As he finished completed the quiet prayer and began to raise his head, one shimmering eye spied something at his feet. It was a humanoid corpse, ravaged and bloody like all the rest, and yet, there was something different about it. Pulling his cloak up, Tassadar bent a reverse knee and placed his own head next to that of the body. Closing each eye and summoning arcane energy from deep within, an imperceptible psionic aura radiated from him, intersecting the corpse with probing tendrils.

“What are you doing?” Major Truul inquired, kneeling down next to him, still keeping one eye on the open access conduits.

Tassadar was silent for a moment, and then raised his head once, more turning both eyes onto the human. They had reverted to their normal black, but gray shadows still flickered erratically under the glossy surface. “There is something about this being that is not right.”

Truul looked at the body again. “I don’t see anything.”

“There may be no visible mark. It is difficult to explain to one who does not have psionic energy flowing through their body and mind, as I do. You may not be sense it, but this soul has been defiled on more than just the physical plane. It is as if some dark energy tried in impose itself on this one’s mind. The method was a clumsy one, and it seems he died before the ritual could be completed, but that it could be attempted at all bodes ill. No Zerg sort of the Overmind, the foul master of these things, should possess the psionic presence to directly impose its will on one that is not of the Brood. And even he was never wholly successful, to my knowledge.”

Truul inspected to corpse even more closely. He still couldn’t see anything.

“For a time, when I was still amongst my own people, I sought the teachings of a Protoss sect long rejected by the majority of the Empire, banished into the cold blackness for their practices and abilities. They too harness and wield the base energies present within each of my kind, but their method is a subtler one, emphasizing the power of stealth and mental focus. Some of their greatest warriors, giving themselves wholly over to their arcane power and combining with another of similar focus and strength, can even use their psionic ability to dominate the minds of other thinking creatures, Protoss, Zerg, or Terran. Your kind. I feel the remnants of such an imposition on this dead mind.”

“Could there be other Protoss here, in this galaxy?” Truul ventured, oddly captivated by the Templar’s musings.

“No. I would have sensed some sign of their presence, especially if one had passed by this station. And none of my people would willingly work with these creatures, it violates our very purpose. The Protoss Empire exists to spread order, and these things breed only chaos. Or… that is at least how it once was.” Tassadar seemed to actually flinch, some distant memory momentarily disrupting his focus.

“But that is of no relevance. One of these twisted creatures was able to carry this dark energy within itself, and impose it on another, no matter how clumsily. But I do not know how such a thing is possible. For the Zerg to evolve so quickly, and to such an extent. If I am right, I fear that she may know possess a power and a swarm greater even than that of her old master. Greater than me, Greater than all of us.”

Truul was about to inquire as to who exactly “she” was when a shout rang across the chamber. “We’ve found someone!”

The broad stairway to the station commander’s ready room was littered with just as many bodies as the rest of the room, but once Tassadar and Truul entered the office, the carnage abruptly stopped.
“The doors were sealed from the inside, and we just managed to pry them open,” Slovach commented, guiding them towards a large desk at the rear of the spartan room, behind which the other two crewmen were crouched.

One of them looked up from his work. “She’s alive, sir, but in pretty bad shape. Massive internal injuries and blood loss. If we don’t get her to a medical facility soon, she’ll die.”

The other stepped closer, indicating to a small terminal set in the table. “It looks like she managed to reroute several of the primary functions to this computer, but I’m not sure what she was trying to do. The log indicates that she sent the core into standby mode and tried to cut secondary power from most of the critical systems, like the turbolifts and lighting systems. It also looks like she overloaded the resonator that’s disrupting our communications.”

Puzzling over the quandary for a moment, Slovach turned her attention to the unconscious form sprawled face-first on the floor, dressed one of the simple uniforms of the Bajoran Militia. Her limbs and back were covered in numerous gashes and puncture wounds, including one that was oozing with some sort of purplish puss. Delicately, the man with the medical tricorder moved her onto her back.

Commander Slovach’s expression softened slightly. “It is her. Commander Nerys survived.”

Truul looked at her war-weary yet still young, ridge-nosed face for a moment in concern, but his attention was quickly diverted. Standing next to him, Tassadar had suddenly reeled backward, one hand clutching his head as if to shield it from sudden assault. His eyes were clamped shut.

“What happened? What is it?” Truul ventured, moving to support the Protoss.

“It’s… I am drained. This expedition has been taxing, and I have not yet fully recovered from the slaying of the Celebrate. If you still wish to depart, I will go with you now.”

Unsatisfied with the reply, but unwilling to press the matter, Truul turned back to Slovach. “We’ve found your survivor. Me and my soldiers are heading back. Now. Do you still want to try and hold this graveyard?”

Taking another long look at the station commander, Slovach shook her head. “No, I think you were right. We can’t hold the station, or even Ops, right now, with these numbers. Duvor, can you shut down the resonator that’s interfering with communications?”

The crewman punched in a few commands. “I just did, sir.”

“All right. Truul, contact the other units and tell them to activate their subspace tracers and prepare for immediate beam-out.”

“Sir, I don’t think we can risk transporting Commander Nerys,” the attending crewman put in. “Her life signs are too weak.”

“So we’ll take her back on our insertion shuttle,” Truul said, strapping his weapon over a shoulder and pulling some emergency medical implements from his own gear. “Do what you want, but I’m not getting in one of the transporter things, and I doubt any of my men would particularly like the idea either. You there, help me raise her. Then see if you can finds something flat to put her on.”

Slovach glared at the Major as he pushed past her and carefully grabbed the limp form’s legs, but managed to shake off her annoyance at the man’s attitudes. “All right. We walk.”

[Comando293]

Yay! Updates! Seems shorter than usual though.