Daniel Faulkner moved slowly and quietly through the dark forest; it had taken him days to lose the agents that Director Fontain had assigned to follow him and then cross the continent to Dahlgren’s home here in the Shenandoah Valley. He paused at the edge of the wood-line and crouched low as he considered the empty house before him.
Starfleet Security, the FBI, the Foreign Service Investigation Division, the local law enforcers; all of the myriad services investigating the brutal deaths within the home (and the disappearance of Dahlgren’s family!) were long gone. But the security seals were intact on the house itself; breaking one of them would alert the services to an intrusion . . . and would see a very quick reaction in the form of teams of heavily armed agents beaming directly in.
Daniel smiled as he stood and walked across the lawn, overgrown with weeks of neglect. After all, he wouldn’t be breaking the seals . . . merely bypassing them. And in a way that wouldn’t alert Security. He moved quickly across the unkempt open law and sheltered in the shadows cast by the half-moon above, and he drew out a small kit—not unlike a tricorder in appearance—from his belt. Working quickly, he attached several leads to the seals and then closed the device. Taking a deep breath, he slowly raised one window and glanced down at a second device he wore on his wrist. The lights were all green—no alarms were screaming.
Carefully, he stepped inside the home and then he drew and activated a pocket flash-light. Then he began to methodically search the crime scene, taking care not to disturb the broken glass or the stains of blood on the dusty—once polished—oak floor. He paused at the fireplace, noting the slightly bent steel poker that lay on the ground (with a blood stain of its very own adorning it) and looked over the photographs of Dahlgren, his wife, their three children.
Security had been over this home with every scanner they had; Daniel knew that. But he hadn’t been allowed in here. And he wanted—he needed—to see this place with his own eyes. Scanners and sensors were wonderful devices . . . but some members of the various security services relied far too heavily upon them. In doing so, they tended to miss subtle clues and evidence visible to the naked eye.
Still, even though the bypass was in place, he knew better than to tarry overlong. Quickly, he searched through the ground floor, and then he turned to the stairs and descended to the basement. He stepped over the outline of a short-barreled shotgun on the floor-boards (the actual weapon having been confiscated and held in evidence, of course) and made his way carefully down to the cellar below.
And he froze as he reached the stone floor and felt the snout of a phaser press against the back of his head.
“I have no problem with stunning you,” a calm voice said quietly. “Search him,” it ordered.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” another answered—and a fit young man dressed in civilian clothes intended for an afternoon hike in the woods began to (rather thoroughly) pat him down. The man took his tools and his tricorder, and Daniel sighed as he found the concealed (and quite illegal) cricket within the special agent’s leather belt.
“Stunning me would be the worst thing you could do—security would here in thirty seconds,” Daniel said.
There was a laugh and then the cold voice behind him spoke again. “True—if I use a phaser, that is.”
An older man walked up to Daniel and he squinted—the face was vaguely familiar; it nagged at him that he could not (yet) place it. And the man drew out a hypospray from a kit on his belt, and then sighed.
“This will put you to sleep, son—you will be out for a few hours, but wake up none the worse for wear.”
And then it clicked. “Talbot. Dahlgren’s CMO from Republic—you’re Talbot,” he whispered. “But that means . . .,” and his voice trailed off, as Quincy scowled.
“Great. Now they know who we are, Captain. And that we are here.”
“Easy, Quincy,” Matt Dahlgren said as he lowered his phaser from the agent’s head. “I’m Matthew Dahlgren, young man—and you are?”
“Special Agent Daniel Faulkner, Starfleet Criminal Investigative Service,” Daniel answered.
“Weren’t you relieved of duty, Special Agent?” a third man growled.
“Commodore Maxwell?” Daniel gasped.
“He’s alone,” a fourth voice whispered from the top of the stairs above. “Bypassed security as slick and clean as I’ve ever seen, Skipper.”
“What the hell is going on?” Daniel blurted. “Most of you are supposed to be on Republic—not on Earth!”
“Keep him covered, Mister Roberts,” Matt ordered as he walked back over to the stone walls of the cellar and began to count the asymmetrical shaped stones. He stopped at one and he nodded, then he pressed his hand against it; it hissed and clicked open to reveal a small resting space. Matt grinned. “I knew that mono-refracting plating I managed to . . . acquire,” he said with a broad smile, “from the Ferengi would come in handy one day.”
He drew out a communicator—an old-fashioned design—and clipped it to his belt, and then he withdrew a memory core from a sensor recorder. Daniel looked at the core, and then at the Captain, who nodded.
“Ben?”
“Fontain pulled him off the investigation of your family’s disappearance, Matt. He knows good guys from the bad. Besides,” the Commodore said with a sigh, “it’s either trust him, kidnap him, or kill him—and I didn’t sign up to kill someone like Dan Faulkner.”
“Agreed,” Matt said and he nodded. “Corporal, the Special Agent is free to go.”
“Just like that?” asked Daniel.
“Not quite,” answered Matt as he held the memory module and then made a decision. He pulled out a tricorder and quickly viewed it; his expression getting colder and colder as it played out. Then he copied into the tricorder memory. The recording complete, he extracted the original module and tossed it across to Daniel, who grabbed it in mid-air.
“That is a copy of the house sensor logs—a full recording of what went down that night. Fontain must have the copy from the domestic computer core . . . but if so, why is still considering my family as fugitives with a warrant out from them on charges of murder?”
Matt paused, and the fifth man descended the stairs to where Ben Maxwell was opening a hidden door in the cellar wall—revealing a long tunnel beyond.
“You take that module, Mister Faulkner—and you pay close attention to what you find on it,” he said as he motioned for the others to enter the sensor-shielded tunnel. “And you find out why my family is still wanted for murder when they were defending themselves.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“Getting my family back, Mister Faulkner—and probably killing at least one member of the Federation Council in the process,” Daniel blinked and his jaw dropped at the blunt statement, and Matt smiled grimly and nodded. “I expect in that case, you will soon enough be after me in earnest, Special Agent. Good night.”
And with that, Matt entered the tunnel and pulled the door shut. Daniel looked down at the module in his hand and he carefully put it inside his pocket. Time to get the hell out of here, he thought. And maybe—just maybe—find out what the hell was really going on.
Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Moderator: LadyTevar
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Cassie cringed as the possessed Vulcan screamed in rage and threw the dead body of his latest mind meld victim across the room. It was the fifth failure that Ordan/Sepak had attempted to convert—and then the enraged being gathered himself and glared at her.
“Sepak fights on,” Cassie whispered defiantly . . . and Ordan’s eyes blazed with anger. He took two steps towards where she sat on the bed and he swung the back of his hand against her cheek.
CRACK! The young woman was lifted from the bed and she flew through the air to slam into the far wall, knocking down a shelf of glasses and ceramic mugs that shattered beneath her weight. Cassandra Dahlgren gasped in pain at the impact and the sharp edges of the broken utensils that cut through her pants and shirt . . . and her hands bound behind her back.
“I grow weary of this, child,” Ordan spat. “Perhaps it is time that I melded with you—if Sepak wishes to fight me then he will cause your death,” the Vulcan snarled as he stepped forward, with Cassie trying to squirm away, her stocking feet slipping on the tiled floor slick with blood from Ordan’s victims—and her own wounds. “I had thought to present you as my thrall to your father . . . but if instead you must die, then die you shall.”
Cassie whimpered as the Vulcan knelt beside her and placed his hands on her cheek . . . and then Ordan paused and he smiled. “Sepak has ceased to fight me,” he said in a surprised voice. He stood and turned back to the sixth man tied and gagged on the warehouse floor. And his smile widened.
“Let us test his willingness to cooperate one last time,” Ordan whispered as he walked back across the room and took his final victim in his grasp. “Our minds are one,” he intoned as his eyes closed and the man began to struggle—and then stiffened.
The young woman, ignored now on the floor amid the pile of shattered glass, used her fingertips—swollen and numb from her bonds—to dig through the shards for a fragment large enough to cut through the ropes. Tears leaked through her eyes as the glass and ceramic cut her fingers—but then she found a sharp-edged fragment large enough for her purpose and she began to saw at the ropes . . . and her own flesh.
Deep in his meld-trance, Ordan took no notice . . . not until Cassie felt the ropes part and she pulled her hands free and stood. Then the Vulcan turned his head towards her.
“Run, Cassandra Dahlgren,” Sepak said in an exhausted voice. “Ordan cannot see or hear you now—I am blocking her as she works to rape this man’s mind. RUN, CHILD—I cannot hold her at bay for long.”
And Cassie ran. She left the warehouse office and rushed to the main door—but it was security locked, and the emergency fire release had been disabled. The young woman took a moment to catch her breath and she looked around the silent warehouse—piles of crates and boxes were stacked against the walls, but there were no windows. Not on the street level, at least. But there were some up high. She spotted a ladder and she nodded to herself. Heading off at a run, she rushed over to it and began to climb towards the high, narrow windows thirty feet from the ground, taking care not to slip on her own leaking blood as she ascended.
“Sepak fights on,” Cassie whispered defiantly . . . and Ordan’s eyes blazed with anger. He took two steps towards where she sat on the bed and he swung the back of his hand against her cheek.
CRACK! The young woman was lifted from the bed and she flew through the air to slam into the far wall, knocking down a shelf of glasses and ceramic mugs that shattered beneath her weight. Cassandra Dahlgren gasped in pain at the impact and the sharp edges of the broken utensils that cut through her pants and shirt . . . and her hands bound behind her back.
“I grow weary of this, child,” Ordan spat. “Perhaps it is time that I melded with you—if Sepak wishes to fight me then he will cause your death,” the Vulcan snarled as he stepped forward, with Cassie trying to squirm away, her stocking feet slipping on the tiled floor slick with blood from Ordan’s victims—and her own wounds. “I had thought to present you as my thrall to your father . . . but if instead you must die, then die you shall.”
Cassie whimpered as the Vulcan knelt beside her and placed his hands on her cheek . . . and then Ordan paused and he smiled. “Sepak has ceased to fight me,” he said in a surprised voice. He stood and turned back to the sixth man tied and gagged on the warehouse floor. And his smile widened.
“Let us test his willingness to cooperate one last time,” Ordan whispered as he walked back across the room and took his final victim in his grasp. “Our minds are one,” he intoned as his eyes closed and the man began to struggle—and then stiffened.
The young woman, ignored now on the floor amid the pile of shattered glass, used her fingertips—swollen and numb from her bonds—to dig through the shards for a fragment large enough to cut through the ropes. Tears leaked through her eyes as the glass and ceramic cut her fingers—but then she found a sharp-edged fragment large enough for her purpose and she began to saw at the ropes . . . and her own flesh.
Deep in his meld-trance, Ordan took no notice . . . not until Cassie felt the ropes part and she pulled her hands free and stood. Then the Vulcan turned his head towards her.
“Run, Cassandra Dahlgren,” Sepak said in an exhausted voice. “Ordan cannot see or hear you now—I am blocking her as she works to rape this man’s mind. RUN, CHILD—I cannot hold her at bay for long.”
And Cassie ran. She left the warehouse office and rushed to the main door—but it was security locked, and the emergency fire release had been disabled. The young woman took a moment to catch her breath and she looked around the silent warehouse—piles of crates and boxes were stacked against the walls, but there were no windows. Not on the street level, at least. But there were some up high. She spotted a ladder and she nodded to herself. Heading off at a run, she rushed over to it and began to climb towards the high, narrow windows thirty feet from the ground, taking care not to slip on her own leaking blood as she ascended.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2013-09-17 09:33pm, edited 1 time in total.
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FaxModem1
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Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Go Sepak, go. The man probably can't be saved, but he's going down like a champ.
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masterarminas
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Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
“Blessed be Ordan,” the captive whispered in a voice of pure rapture as the creature inhabiting Sepak’s body removed her fingertips from his cheeks, ending the mind-meld. And Ordan smiled broadly. “My life is yours, holy one,” the man finished bowing as low as his bonds allowed.
“Yes, it is, thrall,” Ordan answered with a laugh as she released the binders that held the new convert. “And now, Cassandra Dahlgren,” Ordan continued as he stood and turned towards the captive woman, “you shall join as one of my Ho- . . .,” her voice trailed off as she noted the empty bed-cot, the severed ropes that had bound Cassie, the shattered and blood-stained glass shards, and the splatter of droplets of blood leading towards the door of the warehouse office.
“Clever girl,” Ordan muttered, the smile on the possessed Vulcan body fading away. “I sense your glee at this most minor of victories, Sepak—you aided her, did you? Waiting until I was deep in the meld and then you diverted my sight and hearing—no matter. Thrall,” she commanded. “You know the face of my captive—retrieve her . . . alive.”
“As you command, holy one,” the thrall said as he sprang to his feet and hurried from the office. “There is window open on the catwalk!” his voice called out to Ordan—and Ordan cursed.
“Pursue her! Return her to me,” the would-be God spoke as she unlocked the safe and pull out a phaser—well, a weapon that had begun life as a phaser before Ordan had modified the device. And a tricorder, which Ordan flipped open and began to scan. She smiled once more as the tracking beacon she hidden on Cassandra Dahlgren showed up clearly . . . and then Ordan began to jog towards the security door at the front of the warehouse. The girl had a clear lead—but she was injured, the blood made that clear. And famished, for Ordan had not fed her in days. Her lead was sizeable, the entity thought, but not insurmountable. Not against a thrall in full devotion and certainly not against Ordan herself.
Ordan reached the door and punched in a security code; and it opened. And she stepped out onto the night-time streets of New York City and began to track the child of her enemy.
***********************************************************
Cassie staggered in pain as one of her feet—covered only with thin stockings—smashed down upon a loose rock on the sidewalk. She stumbled and she fell, and for a moment she just lay there panting. But then she pushed herself back up and began to limp down the street again—turning at the next corner to try and evade the eventual pursuit.
It was cold out, and the sun had already set—how long ago, she didn’t know. But it must have been late for the streets were nearly empty, even for this section of the city that housed mostly empty and abandoned warehouses. She looked back, and winced as she saw the bloody footprints she was leaving behind her—a trail that would lead Ordan straight to her.
She shivered in the cold—but did not slow her pace despite the pain in her feet and the rumbling of her empty stomach . . . and then Cassie muttered a breathless whisper, “Oh, thank god,” as a delivery truck turned onto the street and headed in her direction.
The young woman ran out in the middle of the roadway and waved her hands—and the ground truck screeched to a sliding halt not four feet away from her, the driver’s side and passenger doors of the cab opening and two men—a human and an Efrosian—rushed out.
“What the hell?” asked the human. “You asking to be hit in the face by a truck, girl? Running right out in front of us like that?"
“Wait, Tom,” the Efrosian interjected as he got his first good look at Cassie in the head-lights of the vehicle. “Look at her—someone’s beat her rather severely.”
“I’ll get the med-kit,” Tom said with a sharp nod after a moment to really look at her. “You got your comm?”
“Yes, I will call the Patrollers as soon as I help her to the cab,” he answered. “Here you go,” he said gently to Cassie, “you’re safe now.”
“No, don’t call the Patrollers,” Cassie stammered. “Just drive—drive away from here.”
“I think she’s in shock, Tom—where’s that med-kit?”
“I-I’m not in shock—just drive, please drive,” Cassie begged.
The Efrosian frowned and he lifted his portable communicator and flipped it open; he pressed a button and a moment later there was a voice emerging from the unit.
“Civil Enforcement Division—what is your emergency?”
The white-haired alien opened his mouth to speak—and then he was slammed against the side of the truck from behind.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Tom as he dropped the medkit and rushed around the cab to try and pull the man who had appeared from nowhere off of his friend and co-worker. And he was rewarded with two bone-cracking punches in return.
Cassie pulled her feet into the cab and slid across the seat—Tom had left the engine running, and she slammed the truck into gear and floored the accelerator.
“CED—what is your emergency?” the comm unit repeated from where it lay on the floor board. Cassie began to reach down to grab the unit, but then she saw the thrall chasing after her—but too slow to catch her, she thought. And then . . .
“OH SHIT!” she screamed as she saw Sepak/Ordan step out onto a nearby sidewalk and raise a phaser. She twisted the wheel and the truck spun around nearly tearing itself out of her control—and a phaser beam lit the darkness and exploded one of her rear tires.
Now she really lost control and Cassie pulled the seat belt tight, snapping it into place just before the truck rolled over on its side and slammed into a building.
“CED—we have phaser fire from the same location as this call . . . can anyone respond?” the comm-unit broadcast, as Cassie coughed from the smoke and dust and shattered glass. She reached down and felt around for the comm . . . her fingers touched it, and then she lifted it up and close the cover, ending the call. She reopened it and punched in a connection channel that her father had made her memorize what seemed a life-time ago.
“Imperial Klingon Embassy—you had best not be wasting my time,” a voice growled.
“This is Cassandra Dahlgren of the House of Koram!” she screamed into the comm. “I need help! Please help,” she finished in a softer voice as she spotted Ordan/Sepak approaching the truck through one of the surviving mirrors . . . and the thrall racing past the entity possessing the Vulcan body.
“Wha-,” the Klingon on the far end began to say, but then another stern voice interrupted the first. “Locking on your signal, Cassandra Dahlgren.” it barked. “Jol ylchu!”
Ordan ripped away the door to the truck as his thrall kicked in the remaining glass of the front wind-shield—and then Cassie felt the hum of a transporter beam and saw the fury in the Ordan/Sepak’s face as the column of light dematerialized her and stole her away.
“Yes, it is, thrall,” Ordan answered with a laugh as she released the binders that held the new convert. “And now, Cassandra Dahlgren,” Ordan continued as he stood and turned towards the captive woman, “you shall join as one of my Ho- . . .,” her voice trailed off as she noted the empty bed-cot, the severed ropes that had bound Cassie, the shattered and blood-stained glass shards, and the splatter of droplets of blood leading towards the door of the warehouse office.
“Clever girl,” Ordan muttered, the smile on the possessed Vulcan body fading away. “I sense your glee at this most minor of victories, Sepak—you aided her, did you? Waiting until I was deep in the meld and then you diverted my sight and hearing—no matter. Thrall,” she commanded. “You know the face of my captive—retrieve her . . . alive.”
“As you command, holy one,” the thrall said as he sprang to his feet and hurried from the office. “There is window open on the catwalk!” his voice called out to Ordan—and Ordan cursed.
“Pursue her! Return her to me,” the would-be God spoke as she unlocked the safe and pull out a phaser—well, a weapon that had begun life as a phaser before Ordan had modified the device. And a tricorder, which Ordan flipped open and began to scan. She smiled once more as the tracking beacon she hidden on Cassandra Dahlgren showed up clearly . . . and then Ordan began to jog towards the security door at the front of the warehouse. The girl had a clear lead—but she was injured, the blood made that clear. And famished, for Ordan had not fed her in days. Her lead was sizeable, the entity thought, but not insurmountable. Not against a thrall in full devotion and certainly not against Ordan herself.
Ordan reached the door and punched in a security code; and it opened. And she stepped out onto the night-time streets of New York City and began to track the child of her enemy.
***********************************************************
Cassie staggered in pain as one of her feet—covered only with thin stockings—smashed down upon a loose rock on the sidewalk. She stumbled and she fell, and for a moment she just lay there panting. But then she pushed herself back up and began to limp down the street again—turning at the next corner to try and evade the eventual pursuit.
It was cold out, and the sun had already set—how long ago, she didn’t know. But it must have been late for the streets were nearly empty, even for this section of the city that housed mostly empty and abandoned warehouses. She looked back, and winced as she saw the bloody footprints she was leaving behind her—a trail that would lead Ordan straight to her.
She shivered in the cold—but did not slow her pace despite the pain in her feet and the rumbling of her empty stomach . . . and then Cassie muttered a breathless whisper, “Oh, thank god,” as a delivery truck turned onto the street and headed in her direction.
The young woman ran out in the middle of the roadway and waved her hands—and the ground truck screeched to a sliding halt not four feet away from her, the driver’s side and passenger doors of the cab opening and two men—a human and an Efrosian—rushed out.
“What the hell?” asked the human. “You asking to be hit in the face by a truck, girl? Running right out in front of us like that?"
“Wait, Tom,” the Efrosian interjected as he got his first good look at Cassie in the head-lights of the vehicle. “Look at her—someone’s beat her rather severely.”
“I’ll get the med-kit,” Tom said with a sharp nod after a moment to really look at her. “You got your comm?”
“Yes, I will call the Patrollers as soon as I help her to the cab,” he answered. “Here you go,” he said gently to Cassie, “you’re safe now.”
“No, don’t call the Patrollers,” Cassie stammered. “Just drive—drive away from here.”
“I think she’s in shock, Tom—where’s that med-kit?”
“I-I’m not in shock—just drive, please drive,” Cassie begged.
The Efrosian frowned and he lifted his portable communicator and flipped it open; he pressed a button and a moment later there was a voice emerging from the unit.
“Civil Enforcement Division—what is your emergency?”
The white-haired alien opened his mouth to speak—and then he was slammed against the side of the truck from behind.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Tom as he dropped the medkit and rushed around the cab to try and pull the man who had appeared from nowhere off of his friend and co-worker. And he was rewarded with two bone-cracking punches in return.
Cassie pulled her feet into the cab and slid across the seat—Tom had left the engine running, and she slammed the truck into gear and floored the accelerator.
“CED—what is your emergency?” the comm unit repeated from where it lay on the floor board. Cassie began to reach down to grab the unit, but then she saw the thrall chasing after her—but too slow to catch her, she thought. And then . . .
“OH SHIT!” she screamed as she saw Sepak/Ordan step out onto a nearby sidewalk and raise a phaser. She twisted the wheel and the truck spun around nearly tearing itself out of her control—and a phaser beam lit the darkness and exploded one of her rear tires.
Now she really lost control and Cassie pulled the seat belt tight, snapping it into place just before the truck rolled over on its side and slammed into a building.
“CED—we have phaser fire from the same location as this call . . . can anyone respond?” the comm-unit broadcast, as Cassie coughed from the smoke and dust and shattered glass. She reached down and felt around for the comm . . . her fingers touched it, and then she lifted it up and close the cover, ending the call. She reopened it and punched in a connection channel that her father had made her memorize what seemed a life-time ago.
“Imperial Klingon Embassy—you had best not be wasting my time,” a voice growled.
“This is Cassandra Dahlgren of the House of Koram!” she screamed into the comm. “I need help! Please help,” she finished in a softer voice as she spotted Ordan/Sepak approaching the truck through one of the surviving mirrors . . . and the thrall racing past the entity possessing the Vulcan body.
“Wha-,” the Klingon on the far end began to say, but then another stern voice interrupted the first. “Locking on your signal, Cassandra Dahlgren.” it barked. “Jol ylchu!”
Ordan ripped away the door to the truck as his thrall kicked in the remaining glass of the front wind-shield—and then Cassie felt the hum of a transporter beam and saw the fury in the Ordan/Sepak’s face as the column of light dematerialized her and stole her away.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
The smooth walls of the tunnel, lined with illicit mono-refracting plating, came to an end, replaced with natural stone and protruding roots from above as the five men passed through a hatch and sealed it behind them once more. The cavern was shallow and in just a few moments the men emerged deep in the woods of western Virginia.
Matt unfolded the communicator and began to power it up . . . then he paused. He looked over the men who had accompanied him—Corporal Alvin Thiesman, Lieutenant Christopher Roberts, Doctor Quincy Talbot, and Commodore Ben Maxwell.
“So far, we have managed to avoid all but the most minor of legal violations, gentlemen—the most serious of which is the failure to register our arrival on-world with the Federation authorities. A misdemeanor. But once I make this call, that will no longer be true.”
He paused again and looked over his companions. “I cannot ask that any of you accompany me any further—Commodore Maxwell will make certain that you are protected from retaliation.”
“Like hell, Matt—both Cha’shin and Sarah were injured,” Quincy said quickly. “You need me.”
“We’re wasting time, Captain,” Chris added, and Thiesman nodded as he pulled out his phaser and locked it on heavy stun. “If Turovik was here instead of piloting Banner to Vulcan, he’d say it would be illogical to come this far and turn back now,” the Marine said calmly.
Matt nodded. “Ben?”
“Stop now? When this is the most fun I’ve had in years?” Ben asked with a wide grin. “Let’s get your family safe, Matt.”
Matt nodded again and he flicked open the out-dated antique communicator and pressed the transmit key.
“Teddy Bear to Songbird. Come in Songbird.”
“Teddy Bear?” Quincy asked quietly while wearing a wide grin.
“Teddy Bear to Songbird. Respond,” Matt repeated with a stern glare towards the grinning doctor.
And then the communicator crackled with static. “DADDY?”
***********************************************************
“Director!” one of the Security analysts announced loudly. “I have a 99% match on Matthew Dahlgren’s voice-print—and a 95% match on his daughter Amanda!”
Maurice Fontain spit out a mouthful of scalding hot coffee. Dahlgren! He wasn’t supposed to be on Earth! Not yet, anyway. “Location?”
“Western Virginia—the comm relay just picked up a transmission; we are zeroing in on the area . . . GOT IT! Two kilometers north-east of the Holder Residence.”
“Lock on transporters and beam EVERYONE in the area directly to the holding cells,” Fontain ordered.
Lock-. . . DAMNIT!” the analyst cursed. “Someone has beamed them out!”
“TRACE IT!” Fontain shouted.
As the technicians worked their consoles, one at last looked up. “Sir. The transport beam originated from the Klingon cruiser in orbit.”
“Get me Starfleet Command,” growled Maurice. “I want that Klingon vessel boarded and searched!”
And with those words absolute silence hung over the Federation Bureau of Investigation’s Crisis Command Center.
“Sir, we have no jurisdiction on that vessel under treaty,” one senior agent volunteered.
“They are harboring fugitives—and have repeatedly violated Earth security protocols. Order Starfleet to board them AT ONCE . . . and they WILL take Matthew Dahlgren and any other fugitive found aboard into custody—that includes the Klingon Ambassador himself!” Fontain turned towards the door of his office, but he stopped after three steps, noting that the normal bustle of activity was still stilled. “DO IT!” he bellowed, and then once the agents and techs began to resume their duties, he stormed into his office. And pulled out an encrypted, secure communicator of his own.
“Mar, Fontain. We have a problem.”
Matt unfolded the communicator and began to power it up . . . then he paused. He looked over the men who had accompanied him—Corporal Alvin Thiesman, Lieutenant Christopher Roberts, Doctor Quincy Talbot, and Commodore Ben Maxwell.
“So far, we have managed to avoid all but the most minor of legal violations, gentlemen—the most serious of which is the failure to register our arrival on-world with the Federation authorities. A misdemeanor. But once I make this call, that will no longer be true.”
He paused again and looked over his companions. “I cannot ask that any of you accompany me any further—Commodore Maxwell will make certain that you are protected from retaliation.”
“Like hell, Matt—both Cha’shin and Sarah were injured,” Quincy said quickly. “You need me.”
“We’re wasting time, Captain,” Chris added, and Thiesman nodded as he pulled out his phaser and locked it on heavy stun. “If Turovik was here instead of piloting Banner to Vulcan, he’d say it would be illogical to come this far and turn back now,” the Marine said calmly.
Matt nodded. “Ben?”
“Stop now? When this is the most fun I’ve had in years?” Ben asked with a wide grin. “Let’s get your family safe, Matt.”
Matt nodded again and he flicked open the out-dated antique communicator and pressed the transmit key.
“Teddy Bear to Songbird. Come in Songbird.”
“Teddy Bear?” Quincy asked quietly while wearing a wide grin.
“Teddy Bear to Songbird. Respond,” Matt repeated with a stern glare towards the grinning doctor.
And then the communicator crackled with static. “DADDY?”
***********************************************************
“Director!” one of the Security analysts announced loudly. “I have a 99% match on Matthew Dahlgren’s voice-print—and a 95% match on his daughter Amanda!”
Maurice Fontain spit out a mouthful of scalding hot coffee. Dahlgren! He wasn’t supposed to be on Earth! Not yet, anyway. “Location?”
“Western Virginia—the comm relay just picked up a transmission; we are zeroing in on the area . . . GOT IT! Two kilometers north-east of the Holder Residence.”
“Lock on transporters and beam EVERYONE in the area directly to the holding cells,” Fontain ordered.
Lock-. . . DAMNIT!” the analyst cursed. “Someone has beamed them out!”
“TRACE IT!” Fontain shouted.
As the technicians worked their consoles, one at last looked up. “Sir. The transport beam originated from the Klingon cruiser in orbit.”
“Get me Starfleet Command,” growled Maurice. “I want that Klingon vessel boarded and searched!”
And with those words absolute silence hung over the Federation Bureau of Investigation’s Crisis Command Center.
“Sir, we have no jurisdiction on that vessel under treaty,” one senior agent volunteered.
“They are harboring fugitives—and have repeatedly violated Earth security protocols. Order Starfleet to board them AT ONCE . . . and they WILL take Matthew Dahlgren and any other fugitive found aboard into custody—that includes the Klingon Ambassador himself!” Fontain turned towards the door of his office, but he stopped after three steps, noting that the normal bustle of activity was still stilled. “DO IT!” he bellowed, and then once the agents and techs began to resume their duties, he stormed into his office. And pulled out an encrypted, secure communicator of his own.
“Mar, Fontain. We have a problem.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Ordan snarled in fury as Cassie was enveloped in a transporter beam and vanished into the night. But she did not waste time in useless recriminations. “THRALL!” she bellowed. “Take this,” she held out the phaser, “and kill any security personnel who arrive. I am Sepak, Vulcan Ambassador to the Federation, and you have held me hostage—UNDRSTOOD?”
“Yes, holy one,” the thrall answered as he took the phaser.
Ordan knelt down and took a piece of shattered glass; she walked over to a light post and taking a deep breath slammed her head and cheek into the metal twice. She then carved deep into her skin, the green blood welling up as the jagged shard cut a ragged line.
She dropped the shard and collapsed to the ground, feigning injuries—just moments before a transporter beam hummed and a half-dozen Patrollers appeared.
“CIVIL ENFORCEMENT DIVISION—DROP THE WEA-. . .,” one began to shout as the thrall raised the phaser and fired a full-power beam into the chest of one of the Patrollers. The human didn’t even get an opportunity to scream as the beam struck him . . . and his chest literally exploded. The thrall switched to another target, but five phaser beams reached out in response and enveloped him in a nimbus of light; he fell to the ground unconscious.
“HANDS! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!” a Patroller ordered as they began to secure the perimeter, pointing his phaser at Sepak where he lay on the asphalt street. A second and third approached the thrall and kicked away the phaser before one applied restraints to the man.
Ordan held out her hands and she rolled over, and the Patroller saw her injuries and holster her phaser. “Medical assistance is on the way, Sir,” the woman said. “What happened?”
“I am Sepak of Vulcan—Ambassador Sepak,” she stammered, feigning shock and the effects of a concussion. “I-I cannot remember.” She tried to rise, but then made her arm muscles quiver and fell back down.
“Stay still—the medics are on their way,” the Patroller said and she began to whisper into the boom microphone mounted on her helmet.
As she turned away, Ordan smiled . . . but wiped the grin away as the Patroller stiffened and then turned back around; she drew her phaser again as well and held it pointed towards the ground.
“Your name is Sepak? Federation Ambassador Sepak?” she asked.
“Yes . . . is there a problem?”
“Sir, we have orders to detain you,” she answered.
“There must be some mistake,” Ordan said calmly, even though her Vulcan heart was racing.
“No mistake, Ambassador—the warrant come directly from the Bureau of Investigation. You are to be detained for questioning in the disappearance of Cassandra Dahlgren.”
“Patroller,” Ordan said in a calm voice as she stood.
“SIR . . . stay where you are.”
“Patroller, I am Vulcan. I am an accredited Ambassador for the Federation. There must be some mistake,” he said as he took a step towards her.
“SIR, please get back,” and she began to raise her phaser—but Ordan moved faster. One hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder; squeezing hard he pinched the nerves and she stiffened, then collapsed. The entity took two steps before phasers locked on stun struck her in the back and she collapsed to the ground—unfeigned this time.
“Our orders are to contact the Director directly when the Ambassador has been taken into custody.”
“That’s not standard procedure, Sergeant.”
“Nothing about this is standard, Jim. Make the call.”
That was the last words she heard before she lost consciousness completely.
“Yes, holy one,” the thrall answered as he took the phaser.
Ordan knelt down and took a piece of shattered glass; she walked over to a light post and taking a deep breath slammed her head and cheek into the metal twice. She then carved deep into her skin, the green blood welling up as the jagged shard cut a ragged line.
She dropped the shard and collapsed to the ground, feigning injuries—just moments before a transporter beam hummed and a half-dozen Patrollers appeared.
“CIVIL ENFORCEMENT DIVISION—DROP THE WEA-. . .,” one began to shout as the thrall raised the phaser and fired a full-power beam into the chest of one of the Patrollers. The human didn’t even get an opportunity to scream as the beam struck him . . . and his chest literally exploded. The thrall switched to another target, but five phaser beams reached out in response and enveloped him in a nimbus of light; he fell to the ground unconscious.
“HANDS! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!” a Patroller ordered as they began to secure the perimeter, pointing his phaser at Sepak where he lay on the asphalt street. A second and third approached the thrall and kicked away the phaser before one applied restraints to the man.
Ordan held out her hands and she rolled over, and the Patroller saw her injuries and holster her phaser. “Medical assistance is on the way, Sir,” the woman said. “What happened?”
“I am Sepak of Vulcan—Ambassador Sepak,” she stammered, feigning shock and the effects of a concussion. “I-I cannot remember.” She tried to rise, but then made her arm muscles quiver and fell back down.
“Stay still—the medics are on their way,” the Patroller said and she began to whisper into the boom microphone mounted on her helmet.
As she turned away, Ordan smiled . . . but wiped the grin away as the Patroller stiffened and then turned back around; she drew her phaser again as well and held it pointed towards the ground.
“Your name is Sepak? Federation Ambassador Sepak?” she asked.
“Yes . . . is there a problem?”
“Sir, we have orders to detain you,” she answered.
“There must be some mistake,” Ordan said calmly, even though her Vulcan heart was racing.
“No mistake, Ambassador—the warrant come directly from the Bureau of Investigation. You are to be detained for questioning in the disappearance of Cassandra Dahlgren.”
“Patroller,” Ordan said in a calm voice as she stood.
“SIR . . . stay where you are.”
“Patroller, I am Vulcan. I am an accredited Ambassador for the Federation. There must be some mistake,” he said as he took a step towards her.
“SIR, please get back,” and she began to raise her phaser—but Ordan moved faster. One hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder; squeezing hard he pinched the nerves and she stiffened, then collapsed. The entity took two steps before phasers locked on stun struck her in the back and she collapsed to the ground—unfeigned this time.
“Our orders are to contact the Director directly when the Ambassador has been taken into custody.”
“That’s not standard procedure, Sergeant.”
“Nothing about this is standard, Jim. Make the call.”
That was the last words she heard before she lost consciousness completely.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Jean-Luc Picard frowned at the question. “At the moment, Admiral Shran, Enterprise is the middle of a warp core refit—and we have only a skeleton crew aboard. Four-fifths of my people are on leave . . . while we can leave McKinley Station, we have only impulse power available.”
“I am aware of that, Captain Picard,” Shran answered with a scowl on his face. “However, with the exception of Enterprise and the Perimeter Defense Fleet, at the moment the cupboard is rather bare. Constellation is almost ready for deployment . . . but the ship and crew are completely untested. Lexington has just started a major refit and Ticonderoga," Shran winced, "she's just entered the dry-dock and had her hull opened." He shook his head. "Valkyrie is the only ship we have in Spacedock ready for deployment . . . and she is a Constellation-class."
Jean-Luc nodded grimly. What the Admiral hadn't said—because the Andorian hadn't needed to—was that the Earth Perimeter Fleet was below strength at the moment at well. Beside the Akira-class Thunderchild, the Excelsior-class Repulse, the Defiant-class McHale, and the Steamrunner-class Appalachia, only three Saber-class escorts remained as part of what had once been (just a year ago), the strongest Fleet strength of the entire Federation. With the end of the Dominion War and the necessity of picking up the pieces and healing the wounds, the remainder of the Earth Perimeter Fleet had been dispatched to worlds still suffering from the Invasion.
“What about Shokaku?” Jean-Luc asked.
“She’s six weeks from launching,” Shran answered with a shake of his head. “Saratoga and Ark Royal are not going to ready for months, before you ask.”
“Admiral,” Jean-Luc said after a momentary pause. “I agree that the . . .,” he paused again. “The arrest of Admiral Parker and the refusal of the government to allow him to see or speak with anyone is . . . worrisome. But even with Enterprise, Lexington, and Ticonderoga unavailable for deployment, we have enough Starfleet personnel in the system to ensure that the Federation government has not been infiltrated,” . . . the again, that went without saying.
Shran nodded and he sighed. “And if this . . . malfeasance . . . on the part of the government was the only problem at hand I would agree with you. We have a renegade Klingon Fleet heading directly for Earth, Jean-Luc . . . they will arrive within the next twenty-four hours if Admiral Hansen cannot stop them. And that is just the first problem we face.”
Jean-Luc jerked upright in his chair. “Martok? Martok wouldn’t launch an attack on the Federation!”
“The Fleet belongs to the House of Mak’vegh, although to be honest their motivation appears to be less an attack on the Federation than a desire to destroy Republic and her crew.”
The captain of the Federation flagship cocked his head in puzzlement, and Shran sighed. “You didn’t buy the cover story of an Ion Storm that destroyed the Klingon battle cruiser Val’quis and damaged Republic, I hope?”
“Not in the least,” Jean-Luc chuckled and Shran sat back. Then he slid a PADD across his desk.
“This is the real story, Jean-Luc—it doesn’t leave this office.”
Jean-Luc began to read and then he looked up; Shran only nodded, and he returned to reading, scrolling back up and re-reading a section a second time before he set down the PADD and turned it off.
“That explains a lot,” he mused. “I would have found a different solution—but Dahlgren has always been a cowboy.”
“We weren’t there, Jean-Luc—I won’t second guess an officer for decisions he makes in the heat.”
“No,” Jean-Luc agreed as he shook his head. “No, we weren’t. Parker was rehabilitating Republic, I take it?”
“That’s why he gave her to Matthew,” Shran said. “And a good thing too,” he said as he extracted two more PADDs. “You need to see these as well. That business out at New Columbia with the Nephkyrie—and what really happened at Camulus.”
Frowning, Jean-Luc began to read again and half-way through the first, he cocked an eye-brow. When he finished, he set it aside, and shook his head. “Cowboy. A real buckaroo, Admiral. Although I won’t argue with the results. And it is a far cry from that ship’s reputation, I will add.”
Then he picked up the second PADD and his eyes grew wide. “Her command codes?!?”
“Republics and Balaos both,” Shran confirmed. “Balao was lost with all hands in the attack—Republic was lucky.”
“Yes she was,” whispered Jean-Luc. And then he looked up. “And Dahlgren’s family was attacked here on Earth,” he said in a cold voice.
The Commander of Starfleet nodded, and his blue skin darkened slightly. “And Admiral Parker was arrested; the funny thing is, I received a package yesterday via courier—from Admiral Parker.”
He leaned back in his chair and pressed a button and on a monitor screen a video began to play. “Hawth, I am leaving this recording in case something happens to me. You are one of the few that I feel I can trust. Good hunting, my friend,” the image said. And then the video began to play the recording of the conversation between Josiah and Matt shortly after the attack on Republic. All emotion melted away from Jean-Luc’s face as he listened, and then the screen blanked and Josiah reappeared. “I have started digging into the First Contact of the Lorsham made by Hera—if I vanish, I believe you will find the information rather startling.”
And the recording ended.
Jean-Luc sat back. “And that information was?”
“Fascinating. And quite frightening. Of the seven hundred and forty-four officers and men aboard that starship when she visited Hak’ta’thor only five hundred and seventeen remain alive today.”
“What? That was just fifteen years ago!” Jean-Luc sputtered. “The natural death of two hundred and twenty-seven personnel in that time frame is . . . unbelievable.”
And Shran nodded. “And of those five hundred and seventeen every single survivor is a member of either the Federation government or Starfleet—most in critical positions.”
“I’ll recall every Enterprise crewman and officer on Earth immediately, Admiral,” Jean-Luc said with a wince. “This is more wide-spread than the blue-gill conspiracy.”
“And the Founders infiltration,” agreed Sharn in a sour voice. “I’ve already detained all forty-four of the former-Hera crew in Starfleet here on Earth—very quietly, I might add. Some of them didn’t want to go quietly, however.”
The Andorian paused. “Jean-Luc, we have to be cautious—but at the same time, we must be ready to step in if they make their move. Fontain was a member of that crew—and so was Ambassador Mar.”
“Understood,” the captain of Enterprise said “We will be standing by, Admiral,” he began, but the door burst open and Zak Jurood entered with a furious expression on his face.
“We’ve got a problem, Admiral,” he barked out. “Fontain has ordered Starfleet to board and search the Klingon cruiser Amar for fugitives—including Matthew Dahlgren, his family, and the Imperial Klingon Ambassador, Cha’shin.”
“WHAT?” bellowed Shran and Jean-Luc at the same time as the two stood.
“I refused, of course—and that idiot said he is going to use FBI personnel to do so. And threatened to have me arrested for defying orders of the Federation Council.”
Shran started to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth as Jean-Luc lowered his face into his palms.
“Dahlgren is still aboard Republic, isn’t he?” asked Jean-Luc. "Please tell me he is aboard Republic and not stoking the fires of this mess?"
“No,” answered Shran bleakly. “Ben Maxwell contacted me over an extremely secure channel a few days ago—Matthew Dahlgren has already returned to Earth and is attempting to find and keep his family safe. Chan Shrak is commanding Republic on her way back here.” Shran drew in a deep breath. “Captain Picard—I need you to return to Enterprise . . . and get your crew ready for anything. Commodore, place a call to the office of the President. Min Zife and I have much to discuss and little time in which to do so.”
“I am aware of that, Captain Picard,” Shran answered with a scowl on his face. “However, with the exception of Enterprise and the Perimeter Defense Fleet, at the moment the cupboard is rather bare. Constellation is almost ready for deployment . . . but the ship and crew are completely untested. Lexington has just started a major refit and Ticonderoga," Shran winced, "she's just entered the dry-dock and had her hull opened." He shook his head. "Valkyrie is the only ship we have in Spacedock ready for deployment . . . and she is a Constellation-class."
Jean-Luc nodded grimly. What the Admiral hadn't said—because the Andorian hadn't needed to—was that the Earth Perimeter Fleet was below strength at the moment at well. Beside the Akira-class Thunderchild, the Excelsior-class Repulse, the Defiant-class McHale, and the Steamrunner-class Appalachia, only three Saber-class escorts remained as part of what had once been (just a year ago), the strongest Fleet strength of the entire Federation. With the end of the Dominion War and the necessity of picking up the pieces and healing the wounds, the remainder of the Earth Perimeter Fleet had been dispatched to worlds still suffering from the Invasion.
“What about Shokaku?” Jean-Luc asked.
“She’s six weeks from launching,” Shran answered with a shake of his head. “Saratoga and Ark Royal are not going to ready for months, before you ask.”
“Admiral,” Jean-Luc said after a momentary pause. “I agree that the . . .,” he paused again. “The arrest of Admiral Parker and the refusal of the government to allow him to see or speak with anyone is . . . worrisome. But even with Enterprise, Lexington, and Ticonderoga unavailable for deployment, we have enough Starfleet personnel in the system to ensure that the Federation government has not been infiltrated,” . . . the again, that went without saying.
Shran nodded and he sighed. “And if this . . . malfeasance . . . on the part of the government was the only problem at hand I would agree with you. We have a renegade Klingon Fleet heading directly for Earth, Jean-Luc . . . they will arrive within the next twenty-four hours if Admiral Hansen cannot stop them. And that is just the first problem we face.”
Jean-Luc jerked upright in his chair. “Martok? Martok wouldn’t launch an attack on the Federation!”
“The Fleet belongs to the House of Mak’vegh, although to be honest their motivation appears to be less an attack on the Federation than a desire to destroy Republic and her crew.”
The captain of the Federation flagship cocked his head in puzzlement, and Shran sighed. “You didn’t buy the cover story of an Ion Storm that destroyed the Klingon battle cruiser Val’quis and damaged Republic, I hope?”
“Not in the least,” Jean-Luc chuckled and Shran sat back. Then he slid a PADD across his desk.
“This is the real story, Jean-Luc—it doesn’t leave this office.”
Jean-Luc began to read and then he looked up; Shran only nodded, and he returned to reading, scrolling back up and re-reading a section a second time before he set down the PADD and turned it off.
“That explains a lot,” he mused. “I would have found a different solution—but Dahlgren has always been a cowboy.”
“We weren’t there, Jean-Luc—I won’t second guess an officer for decisions he makes in the heat.”
“No,” Jean-Luc agreed as he shook his head. “No, we weren’t. Parker was rehabilitating Republic, I take it?”
“That’s why he gave her to Matthew,” Shran said. “And a good thing too,” he said as he extracted two more PADDs. “You need to see these as well. That business out at New Columbia with the Nephkyrie—and what really happened at Camulus.”
Frowning, Jean-Luc began to read again and half-way through the first, he cocked an eye-brow. When he finished, he set it aside, and shook his head. “Cowboy. A real buckaroo, Admiral. Although I won’t argue with the results. And it is a far cry from that ship’s reputation, I will add.”
Then he picked up the second PADD and his eyes grew wide. “Her command codes?!?”
“Republics and Balaos both,” Shran confirmed. “Balao was lost with all hands in the attack—Republic was lucky.”
“Yes she was,” whispered Jean-Luc. And then he looked up. “And Dahlgren’s family was attacked here on Earth,” he said in a cold voice.
The Commander of Starfleet nodded, and his blue skin darkened slightly. “And Admiral Parker was arrested; the funny thing is, I received a package yesterday via courier—from Admiral Parker.”
He leaned back in his chair and pressed a button and on a monitor screen a video began to play. “Hawth, I am leaving this recording in case something happens to me. You are one of the few that I feel I can trust. Good hunting, my friend,” the image said. And then the video began to play the recording of the conversation between Josiah and Matt shortly after the attack on Republic. All emotion melted away from Jean-Luc’s face as he listened, and then the screen blanked and Josiah reappeared. “I have started digging into the First Contact of the Lorsham made by Hera—if I vanish, I believe you will find the information rather startling.”
And the recording ended.
Jean-Luc sat back. “And that information was?”
“Fascinating. And quite frightening. Of the seven hundred and forty-four officers and men aboard that starship when she visited Hak’ta’thor only five hundred and seventeen remain alive today.”
“What? That was just fifteen years ago!” Jean-Luc sputtered. “The natural death of two hundred and twenty-seven personnel in that time frame is . . . unbelievable.”
And Shran nodded. “And of those five hundred and seventeen every single survivor is a member of either the Federation government or Starfleet—most in critical positions.”
“I’ll recall every Enterprise crewman and officer on Earth immediately, Admiral,” Jean-Luc said with a wince. “This is more wide-spread than the blue-gill conspiracy.”
“And the Founders infiltration,” agreed Sharn in a sour voice. “I’ve already detained all forty-four of the former-Hera crew in Starfleet here on Earth—very quietly, I might add. Some of them didn’t want to go quietly, however.”
The Andorian paused. “Jean-Luc, we have to be cautious—but at the same time, we must be ready to step in if they make their move. Fontain was a member of that crew—and so was Ambassador Mar.”
“Understood,” the captain of Enterprise said “We will be standing by, Admiral,” he began, but the door burst open and Zak Jurood entered with a furious expression on his face.
“We’ve got a problem, Admiral,” he barked out. “Fontain has ordered Starfleet to board and search the Klingon cruiser Amar for fugitives—including Matthew Dahlgren, his family, and the Imperial Klingon Ambassador, Cha’shin.”
“WHAT?” bellowed Shran and Jean-Luc at the same time as the two stood.
“I refused, of course—and that idiot said he is going to use FBI personnel to do so. And threatened to have me arrested for defying orders of the Federation Council.”
Shran started to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth as Jean-Luc lowered his face into his palms.
“Dahlgren is still aboard Republic, isn’t he?” asked Jean-Luc. "Please tell me he is aboard Republic and not stoking the fires of this mess?"
“No,” answered Shran bleakly. “Ben Maxwell contacted me over an extremely secure channel a few days ago—Matthew Dahlgren has already returned to Earth and is attempting to find and keep his family safe. Chan Shrak is commanding Republic on her way back here.” Shran drew in a deep breath. “Captain Picard—I need you to return to Enterprise . . . and get your crew ready for anything. Commodore, place a call to the office of the President. Min Zife and I have much to discuss and little time in which to do so.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Chapter Six
“Commander,” Grace announced from the Ops station, “Blackhawk is hailing us.”
“On screen,” Chan Shrak answered. The main viewer switched from the view of streaking stars to Admiral Hansen seated in his command chair aboard the Akira-class starship.
“It is time, Commander,” the Admiral said softly. “Republic and Denali will proceed to Earth while the remainder of this Task Force turns to engage the Klingons in pursuit.”
“Understood,” the Andorian said with a sigh. “Engineering has managed to restore our shields to 83%, Admiral—we can stand here with you.”
“Negative, Commander,” Hansen replied crisply. “Your ship is the reason that Mak’vegh has come so far—if you are present in our formation it would be waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“And if Mak’vegh decides to continue his pursuit?” Chan asked.
“He’s already had to decloak a number of his vessels in order to close the distance, Commander—if he tries to shoot past us, we will intercept him at warp,” Sig Hansen smiled coldly. “And neither he nor his crews will very much appreciate a torpedo barrage slamming home at warp speeds.”
The Admiral paused, looking off to one side and then he nodded before looking back at Chan on the viewer. “Just get Republic to Earth, Commander. I’ll be a few hours behind you, but the Earth Perimeter Fleet will take care of any leakers that get past me.” He paused again, and then his voice lowered. “And then we are going to get to the bottom of this mess—you have my word, Commander.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Chan responded with a sharp nod just before the image on the screen blanked.
“Blackhawk and the Task Force have dropped to impulse power and are coming about,” Grace announced. “Denali remains in tight formation off the starboard nacelle.”
“ETA to Earth?”
“Forty-three minutes, Sir.”
Chan nodded. “Miss Biddle— sound Red Alert and set General Quarters throughout the ship,” he ordered. “Raise shields and man all weapons; I want Republic ready for anything that happens in the next hour.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered as the klaxons began to sound and the alert lights began to flash.
***********************************************************
“Nej, Lieutenant Grissom,” Gustaf Vasa answered with a shake of his head, “the replicator is slitna . . ., ah, that is to say kaput. Broken. Non-functional. Beyond repair, no less.” The replicator specialist sighed. “We were already short on supplies to feed the replicator, but in the last engagement we took a direct hit on the saucer just aft of the compartment—the replicator was too badly damaged to restore. I cannot make these parts.”
“Damn,” the engineer whispered. “We need that regulator to restore the ventral phaser array . . . and Pok doesn’t have any more spares in storage!”
“Have we got a spare BFG-42C warp power regulator for the runabout?” a weak voice asked from the door to main engineering.
“Commander Malik?” Paul Grissom asked in surprise. “Sickbay said you were . . .,” he began, but the Trill didn’t let him finish the sentence.
“The Doc was planning on holding me—but I managed to make my escape,” he sat down, wincing with pain as he did so. “One of the nurses let me go without telling Woolsey, even though she’s making me wear this monitor. The BFG-42C . . . do we have one?” he repeated as he punched up the damage schematic on the monitor and winced again.
“Ja,” Gustaf answered after checking the manifest. “Mister Pok should have one remaining in the parts locker—if it hasn’t been damaged due to Klingon attacks, that is.”
“Sir, the phaser power relay and the BFG-42s aren’t compatible,” Paul Grissom said in a puzzled voice. “They can take the same amount of power, but the . . .,”
“The polarity is reversed and the connectors are not the same, Mister Grissom,” Natantael Malik (known to his ship-mates by his familiar name of Nat) interjected. “How long until we drop to impulse power in the Solar System?”
“Thirty-nine minutes, boss,” answered one of the engineering staff who placed a hot cup of coffee on the diagnostics table for the Chief Engineer. Nat grinned and he took a deep swallow and smacked his lips.
“Okay—Vasa get me that regulator from Pok. Grissom, I need a plasma cutter, a welder, two ISDN connectors—one male, one female—and a spare dilithium cradle. Not the crystals, just the cradle. And a hammer,” he finished with a smile. “Ladies, gentlemen, we are going to get this piece of equipment installed and operational in the next thirty minutes . . . or do you want to be the one who let down the Captain when he is depending on us?”
There was a moment of silence, and then the engineers began to scramble. Vasa tapped his communicator on the way to the door, “Vasa to Pok, I need the BFG-42C you have stashed away and no arguments! NOW!” he said as he trotted towards the turbolift. Paul Grissom just shook his head and smiled.
“It won’t last more than a dozen shots, Sir,” he whispered.
Nat nodded. “Mister Grissom, look at the condition of this ship—if we need more than a dozen shots from the ventral array we are screwed anyway.” He took another sip of coffee and sat back, wincing again at the pain in his side. “In the meantime, we have work to do, Paul. Get me the spare cradle.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Commander,” Grace announced from the Ops station, “Blackhawk is hailing us.”
“On screen,” Chan Shrak answered. The main viewer switched from the view of streaking stars to Admiral Hansen seated in his command chair aboard the Akira-class starship.
“It is time, Commander,” the Admiral said softly. “Republic and Denali will proceed to Earth while the remainder of this Task Force turns to engage the Klingons in pursuit.”
“Understood,” the Andorian said with a sigh. “Engineering has managed to restore our shields to 83%, Admiral—we can stand here with you.”
“Negative, Commander,” Hansen replied crisply. “Your ship is the reason that Mak’vegh has come so far—if you are present in our formation it would be waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“And if Mak’vegh decides to continue his pursuit?” Chan asked.
“He’s already had to decloak a number of his vessels in order to close the distance, Commander—if he tries to shoot past us, we will intercept him at warp,” Sig Hansen smiled coldly. “And neither he nor his crews will very much appreciate a torpedo barrage slamming home at warp speeds.”
The Admiral paused, looking off to one side and then he nodded before looking back at Chan on the viewer. “Just get Republic to Earth, Commander. I’ll be a few hours behind you, but the Earth Perimeter Fleet will take care of any leakers that get past me.” He paused again, and then his voice lowered. “And then we are going to get to the bottom of this mess—you have my word, Commander.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Chan responded with a sharp nod just before the image on the screen blanked.
“Blackhawk and the Task Force have dropped to impulse power and are coming about,” Grace announced. “Denali remains in tight formation off the starboard nacelle.”
“ETA to Earth?”
“Forty-three minutes, Sir.”
Chan nodded. “Miss Biddle— sound Red Alert and set General Quarters throughout the ship,” he ordered. “Raise shields and man all weapons; I want Republic ready for anything that happens in the next hour.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered as the klaxons began to sound and the alert lights began to flash.
***********************************************************
“Nej, Lieutenant Grissom,” Gustaf Vasa answered with a shake of his head, “the replicator is slitna . . ., ah, that is to say kaput. Broken. Non-functional. Beyond repair, no less.” The replicator specialist sighed. “We were already short on supplies to feed the replicator, but in the last engagement we took a direct hit on the saucer just aft of the compartment—the replicator was too badly damaged to restore. I cannot make these parts.”
“Damn,” the engineer whispered. “We need that regulator to restore the ventral phaser array . . . and Pok doesn’t have any more spares in storage!”
“Have we got a spare BFG-42C warp power regulator for the runabout?” a weak voice asked from the door to main engineering.
“Commander Malik?” Paul Grissom asked in surprise. “Sickbay said you were . . .,” he began, but the Trill didn’t let him finish the sentence.
“The Doc was planning on holding me—but I managed to make my escape,” he sat down, wincing with pain as he did so. “One of the nurses let me go without telling Woolsey, even though she’s making me wear this monitor. The BFG-42C . . . do we have one?” he repeated as he punched up the damage schematic on the monitor and winced again.
“Ja,” Gustaf answered after checking the manifest. “Mister Pok should have one remaining in the parts locker—if it hasn’t been damaged due to Klingon attacks, that is.”
“Sir, the phaser power relay and the BFG-42s aren’t compatible,” Paul Grissom said in a puzzled voice. “They can take the same amount of power, but the . . .,”
“The polarity is reversed and the connectors are not the same, Mister Grissom,” Natantael Malik (known to his ship-mates by his familiar name of Nat) interjected. “How long until we drop to impulse power in the Solar System?”
“Thirty-nine minutes, boss,” answered one of the engineering staff who placed a hot cup of coffee on the diagnostics table for the Chief Engineer. Nat grinned and he took a deep swallow and smacked his lips.
“Okay—Vasa get me that regulator from Pok. Grissom, I need a plasma cutter, a welder, two ISDN connectors—one male, one female—and a spare dilithium cradle. Not the crystals, just the cradle. And a hammer,” he finished with a smile. “Ladies, gentlemen, we are going to get this piece of equipment installed and operational in the next thirty minutes . . . or do you want to be the one who let down the Captain when he is depending on us?”
There was a moment of silence, and then the engineers began to scramble. Vasa tapped his communicator on the way to the door, “Vasa to Pok, I need the BFG-42C you have stashed away and no arguments! NOW!” he said as he trotted towards the turbolift. Paul Grissom just shook his head and smiled.
“It won’t last more than a dozen shots, Sir,” he whispered.
Nat nodded. “Mister Grissom, look at the condition of this ship—if we need more than a dozen shots from the ventral array we are screwed anyway.” He took another sip of coffee and sat back, wincing again at the pain in his side. “In the meantime, we have work to do, Paul. Get me the spare cradle.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
Shran sat back down into his chair, his jaw dropping open. “Would you repeat that, Commodore?”
Zak Jurood shook his head. “We have received word from Commodore Arouet aboard Paris—she commands the blockade of Hak’ta-thor . . . the Lorsham have detonated fusion weapons in every single one of their population centers,” he took a deep breath. “For all practical purposes, their race is all but extinct—only a handful of survivors have been rescued and treated for radiation poisoning.”
“Not that part, Zak,” the Commander of Star Fleet whispered. “The command for this-this . . . atrocity . . . it came from Earth?”
Zak nodded, not trusting his voice. There was silence for a moment and then he cleared his throat. “Paris confirms that the following was sent with authorization of the Federation Council—specifically those of Ambassador Palos of Edo.” The Andorian pressed a control and the recording began to play.
“Vorshun . . . know that this is the Voice of Ordan speaking unto you. Authentication code Seven Six Beta Gamma Four Two Sigma Tau Three Five One Nine Eight. Execute the Omega Directive.”
And he sighed again. “The problem is that Palos isn’t on Earth—he was recalled to Edo two weeks ago and hasn’t been here since. Someone else used his codes to transmit this message and commit this act of genocide.”
“Ordan again,” Shran whispered. “Commodore,” he said in a stronger voice as he stood—and his antennae straightened reflecting his utter fury at the news. “I have a meeting with the President in ten minutes—you and this recording are coming with me.” Shran paused and then he nodded to himself. “Order all Starfleet assets in system to execute Case Praetorian—I want every last member of Hera’s former crew in custody immediately. Regardless of whatever rank or office they might hold. And,” Shran sighed, “put the remainder of the government into protective custody. If these barbarians are willing to commit genocide against the Lorsham, who knows what they might have in plan for Earth.”
Zak winced, but he nodded agreement. Case Praetorian was an emergency plan put into place very quietly after the infiltration of the government by the Founders. It was the worst case scenario to be used only if the government itself was working against the Federation—and it called for the detaining of every member civilian leadership . . . both for their own safety and to ensure that those civilians were indeed who they claimed to be, and acting in their right mind. “There will be hell to pay, Sir. Starfleet personnel arresting and detaining civilian members of the government? The journalists will call it a coup.”
Shran’s eyes grew even colder and his antennae lowered slightly—almost to the point of resembling horns. “Enough is enough, Commodore—we are ending this now.” He snorted. “And send a team to the facility where they are holding Josiah . . . I need him back in this office as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. And if the Bureau or local security challenges us?”
“That’s why phasers have stun settings,” Shran answered in a clipped voice.
Zak Jurood shook his head. “We have received word from Commodore Arouet aboard Paris—she commands the blockade of Hak’ta-thor . . . the Lorsham have detonated fusion weapons in every single one of their population centers,” he took a deep breath. “For all practical purposes, their race is all but extinct—only a handful of survivors have been rescued and treated for radiation poisoning.”
“Not that part, Zak,” the Commander of Star Fleet whispered. “The command for this-this . . . atrocity . . . it came from Earth?”
Zak nodded, not trusting his voice. There was silence for a moment and then he cleared his throat. “Paris confirms that the following was sent with authorization of the Federation Council—specifically those of Ambassador Palos of Edo.” The Andorian pressed a control and the recording began to play.
“Vorshun . . . know that this is the Voice of Ordan speaking unto you. Authentication code Seven Six Beta Gamma Four Two Sigma Tau Three Five One Nine Eight. Execute the Omega Directive.”
And he sighed again. “The problem is that Palos isn’t on Earth—he was recalled to Edo two weeks ago and hasn’t been here since. Someone else used his codes to transmit this message and commit this act of genocide.”
“Ordan again,” Shran whispered. “Commodore,” he said in a stronger voice as he stood—and his antennae straightened reflecting his utter fury at the news. “I have a meeting with the President in ten minutes—you and this recording are coming with me.” Shran paused and then he nodded to himself. “Order all Starfleet assets in system to execute Case Praetorian—I want every last member of Hera’s former crew in custody immediately. Regardless of whatever rank or office they might hold. And,” Shran sighed, “put the remainder of the government into protective custody. If these barbarians are willing to commit genocide against the Lorsham, who knows what they might have in plan for Earth.”
Zak winced, but he nodded agreement. Case Praetorian was an emergency plan put into place very quietly after the infiltration of the government by the Founders. It was the worst case scenario to be used only if the government itself was working against the Federation—and it called for the detaining of every member civilian leadership . . . both for their own safety and to ensure that those civilians were indeed who they claimed to be, and acting in their right mind. “There will be hell to pay, Sir. Starfleet personnel arresting and detaining civilian members of the government? The journalists will call it a coup.”
Shran’s eyes grew even colder and his antennae lowered slightly—almost to the point of resembling horns. “Enough is enough, Commodore—we are ending this now.” He snorted. “And send a team to the facility where they are holding Josiah . . . I need him back in this office as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. And if the Bureau or local security challenges us?”
“That’s why phasers have stun settings,” Shran answered in a clipped voice.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
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Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
I was wondering when the annihilation of the Lorsham would be noticed.
Also, Praetorian sounds like really bad news. I have a suspicion that Republic, Blackhawk and co will wind up facing down Constellation.
Incidentally, I really like the ship names you're using. I'm sensing an aircraft-carrier theme for the Sovereigns (Enterprise, Independence, Constellation and so on..)
Also, Praetorian sounds like really bad news. I have a suspicion that Republic, Blackhawk and co will wind up facing down Constellation.
Incidentally, I really like the ship names you're using. I'm sensing an aircraft-carrier theme for the Sovereigns (Enterprise, Independence, Constellation and so on..)
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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Forgothrax
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 255
- Joined: 2011-10-01 10:38pm
- Location: Michigan, USA, Terra (sometimes)
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
I'm almost expecting a bait-and-switch... Shran enacts Praetorian, but turns out to have already been subverted and uses it to remove those who would oppose Ordan from power.
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Crayz9000
- Sith Apprentice
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- Contact:
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
It sounds like knowledge of Case Praetorian is very limited, which is not surprising given the circumstances surrounding it and the explicit mention that it was "quietly" put into place. I'm not sure any of Ordan's thralls are even aware of it.
A Tribute to Stupidity: The Robert Scott Anderson Archive (currently offline)
John Hansen - Slightly Insane Bounty Hunter - ASVS Vets' Assoc. Class of 2000
HAB Cryptanalyst | WG - Intergalactic Alliance and Spoof Author | BotM | Cybertron | SCEF
John Hansen - Slightly Insane Bounty Hunter - ASVS Vets' Assoc. Class of 2000
HAB Cryptanalyst | WG - Intergalactic Alliance and Spoof Author | BotM | Cybertron | SCEF
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book II: Ties of Blood)
“Amy?” Matt whispered in relief, and then he paused as his emotions caught up with him and he gasped, unshed tears glistening in his eyes.
“MATT!” a second voice emerged—that of Matt’s ex-wife. “Sarah is hurt,” she snapped. And then sighed. “So is your friend Cha’shin,” there was another pause. “And I don’t know where Cassie is.”
“Where are you, Mel?” he asked quietly.
“In one of the Klingon safe-houses—Cha’shin won’t even call the embassy for help. He says it is too dangerous.”
“Indeed it is, Madame Dahlgren,” a guttural voice broke into the conversation.
“I swear, I will rip the next being who calls me Madame Dahlgren a new as- . . .,” Melody began before Matt cut her off.
“Koram?”
“None other, ‘Teddy Bear’,” the Klingon laughed as he answered. “Federation Security is monitoring this conversation—stand by for transport!” There was a pause, and then Koram barked an order in Klingon. “Jol ylchu!”
Matt and his companions heard a hum and then they were surrounded by the red flash of a Klingon transporter—the Virginia woods of the Shenandoah Valley vanished from around them and was replaced with the harsh bulkheads and decks of the mist filled Klingon cruiser.
“Lock onto my family and the Ambassador!” Matt commanded as he stepped down from the platform—followed by Ben Maxwell, Quincy Talbot, Chris Roberts, and Alvin Thiesman. “Beam them aboard NO-. . .,” he began, but he stumbled and the barked order stopped before resuming as a whisper. “Cassie?”
His eldest daughter nodded as she stood beside the transporter and then Matt was there, his arms around her as he lifted her up and held her tight. After a moment, he set her down and stepped back . . . and the joy of seeing his daughter alive faded as he noticed the bruises on her face and the haunted look in her eyes.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she whispered before he could ask, one of her hands reaching out and taking his hand. “I’ll be fine,” she repeated.
“Transporter locked on Ambassador Cha’shin and his companions—three human females, two juveniles, one adult,” reported the Klingon manning the console.
“Beam them aboard!” snapped Lord Koram as he marched into the transporter room. He grinned at Matt and pointed his hand at Cassandra. “It would appear that she has spoiled my surprise, Matthew—we recovered the Lady Cassandra a short while ago.” He laughed out loud and set his hands on his hips. “The embassy was rather taken aback when she called them and requested aid as a member of the House of Koram. She thinks fast on her feet—and she honored me and the crew with an aria from Qul Tuq—the House of Fire,” Koram nodded his appreciation. “Such pitch, such power—Matthew, your child is an artist exemplar.”
The transporter hummed again and the pads began to glow. Matt swallowed as four forms slowly—oh, so slowly—began to materialize. He took a step forward, but Koram grabbed his shoulder and held him. “Let the medics do their job, Matthew,” he said quietly as a Klingon medical officer and Quincy both raced for the platform.
Cha’shin was lying down, his side bandaged in bloody clothes, but he waved away the Klingon. “I am a Warrior—this is nothing. See to the child,” he commanded in a weak voice as Koram nodded in pleasure at his nephew’s willingness to bear pain.
Quincy already had his medical tricorder out and he frowned as he ran a scan over the little girl cradled unconscious in her mother’s arms. “She’s hasn’t regained consciousness since the attack?” he asked Melody, and Matt’s face grew hard as Cassie squeezed his hand.
“No—not fully,” Melody answered as Amy ran to Matt and he held her and Cassie both tight, but his eyes never left his youngest daughter limp in her mother’s arms.
The doctor turned to look first at Matt and then at Melody. “She’s got a skull fracture,” and he sighed. “Along with a sizeable subdural hematoma,” he continued. “There is a tear in a vein—a small one, thank god. But I need to get her to surgery right now,” Quincy scowled and glared at the Klingon doctor. “If you have anything more than advanced than a bone-saw and a bottle of high-proof bloodwine, that is.”
The Klingon began to snarl, but he stopped at a curt bark from Koram. “Doctor, Amar is fully equipped with a ‘sick-bay’ that would not be out of place on a Federation vessel. I do not waste the lives of my Warriors who can be saved—GO. Treat the girl, K’mjar,” he said to the ship’s medic, “assist the human. And then treat Cha’shin even if he protests. GO.”
“Quincy . . .,” Melody asked the older man, and he put his hand on her arm.
“We caught it in time—she’ll be fine. You have my word on it,” he said as two Klingons entered with a stretcher and loaded Sarah on it; they departed at a trot trailed by the two surgeons.
“Mom?” Cassandra called out as she cried tears of so many different emotions and Melody nearly collapsed as she saw her daughter—she rushed over and all four of the Dahlgrens (including a Holder who insisted she wasn’t a Dahlgren anymore!), held each other tight.
Until Melody sobbed and she stepped back, they all stepped back for a moment, and then she slapped Matt on the check.
“DON’T YOU EVER DO THIS TO US AGAIN!” she snapped; then she began to cry.
Matt didn’t answer, he just took his ex-wife in his arms—his strong arms—and held her tight against his chest as she sobbed and shook. He held her and he cried as well.
“Come children,” Koram said softly. “And the rest of you humans,” he waved his arm at Ben, Chris, and Alvin. “Let us give the two of them some time alone. Come. They will have precious little time as it is,” he finished with a scowl.
“What do you mean? Sir,” asked Chris. Koram stopped and he turned to the young officer and he nodded to himself.
“Your Federation has sent shuttles to intercept us—they are demanding to board Amar and take all of you into their custody as prisoners. I have refused, of course,” and Koram grinned. “Surrendering you, that is. I told the p’tahk commanding them that they were welcome to board—and I requested where he wanted their remains sent afterwards. He was quite taken aback.”
Ben Maxwell stopped in the corridor. “Starfleet is trying to board?” he asked in an incredulous voice.
“No. Your Bureau of Investigation,” Koram answered.
“Oh, hell,” Ben cursed. “I need a comm—I have to speak with Starfleet Command.”
“Matthew Dahlgren trusts you,” Koram said after a moment and then he nodded. “Very well. Know this Benjamin Maxwell, if you betray my brother or his family, I will cut out your heart myself.”
Ben just nodded, and Koram smiled. Few words were the ideal Klingon way, after all. “The replicator is programmed for human fare,” Koram said as he led them into the small stateroom. “I will instruct the crew to establish a link for yo-. . . ,” he was interrupted as alarms began to blare.
“REPORT!” Koram snapped as he hit a wall-mounted comm.
“My lord,” a voice answered. “We are being hailed by the Federation Starship Constellation—we are ordered to lower our shields and surrender your guests.” There was a pause. “She threatens to fire into us if we refuse.”
“Range? Class?” barked the Klingon ship commander.
“Leaving Mars orbit at point nine five light-speed,” the bridge officer reported. “She will be here in ten minutes . . .,” there was a pause, and another voice interrupted.
Ben Maxwell sighed and cursed under his breath. “She’s a Sovereign-class,” he said very quietly.
Koram stared at him for a moment and then he too let out a Klingon invective and spat on the deck plates. “Perhaps it is a good day to die,” he growled before he turned and began to race to the bridge.
Ben turned and he pointed to the two girls. “Stay with them!” he ordered and then he ran after Koram.
“MATT!” a second voice emerged—that of Matt’s ex-wife. “Sarah is hurt,” she snapped. And then sighed. “So is your friend Cha’shin,” there was another pause. “And I don’t know where Cassie is.”
“Where are you, Mel?” he asked quietly.
“In one of the Klingon safe-houses—Cha’shin won’t even call the embassy for help. He says it is too dangerous.”
“Indeed it is, Madame Dahlgren,” a guttural voice broke into the conversation.
“I swear, I will rip the next being who calls me Madame Dahlgren a new as- . . .,” Melody began before Matt cut her off.
“Koram?”
“None other, ‘Teddy Bear’,” the Klingon laughed as he answered. “Federation Security is monitoring this conversation—stand by for transport!” There was a pause, and then Koram barked an order in Klingon. “Jol ylchu!”
Matt and his companions heard a hum and then they were surrounded by the red flash of a Klingon transporter—the Virginia woods of the Shenandoah Valley vanished from around them and was replaced with the harsh bulkheads and decks of the mist filled Klingon cruiser.
“Lock onto my family and the Ambassador!” Matt commanded as he stepped down from the platform—followed by Ben Maxwell, Quincy Talbot, Chris Roberts, and Alvin Thiesman. “Beam them aboard NO-. . .,” he began, but he stumbled and the barked order stopped before resuming as a whisper. “Cassie?”
His eldest daughter nodded as she stood beside the transporter and then Matt was there, his arms around her as he lifted her up and held her tight. After a moment, he set her down and stepped back . . . and the joy of seeing his daughter alive faded as he noticed the bruises on her face and the haunted look in her eyes.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she whispered before he could ask, one of her hands reaching out and taking his hand. “I’ll be fine,” she repeated.
“Transporter locked on Ambassador Cha’shin and his companions—three human females, two juveniles, one adult,” reported the Klingon manning the console.
“Beam them aboard!” snapped Lord Koram as he marched into the transporter room. He grinned at Matt and pointed his hand at Cassandra. “It would appear that she has spoiled my surprise, Matthew—we recovered the Lady Cassandra a short while ago.” He laughed out loud and set his hands on his hips. “The embassy was rather taken aback when she called them and requested aid as a member of the House of Koram. She thinks fast on her feet—and she honored me and the crew with an aria from Qul Tuq—the House of Fire,” Koram nodded his appreciation. “Such pitch, such power—Matthew, your child is an artist exemplar.”
The transporter hummed again and the pads began to glow. Matt swallowed as four forms slowly—oh, so slowly—began to materialize. He took a step forward, but Koram grabbed his shoulder and held him. “Let the medics do their job, Matthew,” he said quietly as a Klingon medical officer and Quincy both raced for the platform.
Cha’shin was lying down, his side bandaged in bloody clothes, but he waved away the Klingon. “I am a Warrior—this is nothing. See to the child,” he commanded in a weak voice as Koram nodded in pleasure at his nephew’s willingness to bear pain.
Quincy already had his medical tricorder out and he frowned as he ran a scan over the little girl cradled unconscious in her mother’s arms. “She’s hasn’t regained consciousness since the attack?” he asked Melody, and Matt’s face grew hard as Cassie squeezed his hand.
“No—not fully,” Melody answered as Amy ran to Matt and he held her and Cassie both tight, but his eyes never left his youngest daughter limp in her mother’s arms.
The doctor turned to look first at Matt and then at Melody. “She’s got a skull fracture,” and he sighed. “Along with a sizeable subdural hematoma,” he continued. “There is a tear in a vein—a small one, thank god. But I need to get her to surgery right now,” Quincy scowled and glared at the Klingon doctor. “If you have anything more than advanced than a bone-saw and a bottle of high-proof bloodwine, that is.”
The Klingon began to snarl, but he stopped at a curt bark from Koram. “Doctor, Amar is fully equipped with a ‘sick-bay’ that would not be out of place on a Federation vessel. I do not waste the lives of my Warriors who can be saved—GO. Treat the girl, K’mjar,” he said to the ship’s medic, “assist the human. And then treat Cha’shin even if he protests. GO.”
“Quincy . . .,” Melody asked the older man, and he put his hand on her arm.
“We caught it in time—she’ll be fine. You have my word on it,” he said as two Klingons entered with a stretcher and loaded Sarah on it; they departed at a trot trailed by the two surgeons.
“Mom?” Cassandra called out as she cried tears of so many different emotions and Melody nearly collapsed as she saw her daughter—she rushed over and all four of the Dahlgrens (including a Holder who insisted she wasn’t a Dahlgren anymore!), held each other tight.
Until Melody sobbed and she stepped back, they all stepped back for a moment, and then she slapped Matt on the check.
“DON’T YOU EVER DO THIS TO US AGAIN!” she snapped; then she began to cry.
Matt didn’t answer, he just took his ex-wife in his arms—his strong arms—and held her tight against his chest as she sobbed and shook. He held her and he cried as well.
“Come children,” Koram said softly. “And the rest of you humans,” he waved his arm at Ben, Chris, and Alvin. “Let us give the two of them some time alone. Come. They will have precious little time as it is,” he finished with a scowl.
“What do you mean? Sir,” asked Chris. Koram stopped and he turned to the young officer and he nodded to himself.
“Your Federation has sent shuttles to intercept us—they are demanding to board Amar and take all of you into their custody as prisoners. I have refused, of course,” and Koram grinned. “Surrendering you, that is. I told the p’tahk commanding them that they were welcome to board—and I requested where he wanted their remains sent afterwards. He was quite taken aback.”
Ben Maxwell stopped in the corridor. “Starfleet is trying to board?” he asked in an incredulous voice.
“No. Your Bureau of Investigation,” Koram answered.
“Oh, hell,” Ben cursed. “I need a comm—I have to speak with Starfleet Command.”
“Matthew Dahlgren trusts you,” Koram said after a moment and then he nodded. “Very well. Know this Benjamin Maxwell, if you betray my brother or his family, I will cut out your heart myself.”
Ben just nodded, and Koram smiled. Few words were the ideal Klingon way, after all. “The replicator is programmed for human fare,” Koram said as he led them into the small stateroom. “I will instruct the crew to establish a link for yo-. . . ,” he was interrupted as alarms began to blare.
“REPORT!” Koram snapped as he hit a wall-mounted comm.
“My lord,” a voice answered. “We are being hailed by the Federation Starship Constellation—we are ordered to lower our shields and surrender your guests.” There was a pause. “She threatens to fire into us if we refuse.”
“Range? Class?” barked the Klingon ship commander.
“Leaving Mars orbit at point nine five light-speed,” the bridge officer reported. “She will be here in ten minutes . . .,” there was a pause, and another voice interrupted.
Ben Maxwell sighed and cursed under his breath. “She’s a Sovereign-class,” he said very quietly.
Koram stared at him for a moment and then he too let out a Klingon invective and spat on the deck plates. “Perhaps it is a good day to die,” he growled before he turned and began to race to the bridge.
Ben turned and he pointed to the two girls. “Stay with them!” he ordered and then he ran after Koram.