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Part 4 of Episode 1 posted, January 3.

Winds of Providence
Episode 1, Part 1

It was early spring- new plant life was riotous in the gardens around the children’s crèche, the warming rays of the sun penetrated the morning mist. The hand of spring was omnipresent- new life rising golden out of the ground. The city rose on towers around the crèche- great buildings suspended in the sky, office workers flying to their jobs as if today was nothing special, simply one more revolution of a spinning green ball around a nuclear furnace. The towers were former trees, that had been stripped of their branches to create the buildings and edifices that sat atop their trunks. Where the city ended, the trees began immediately- the buildings rose out of the forest floor exactly where the trees had stood in life, so as to make a minimum impact on the natural ecosystem.

The children’s crèche itself was a simple, flat building on the ground, surrounded by farmers’ fields, homes for the aged or the sick (who could not fly reliably, and therefore would be at risk in the tall city above), and picturesque parks, pieces of the forest saved from progress. The crèche had large windows, to view the natural scenery around the little compound, and to better stimulate the children contained there within.

Today, however, under-stimulation was not a problem. The announcement had come on just after the day’s first of three nutrition breaks, the children had just come inside. “All students, report to the park for an unscheduled creative expression period. All scholars, please report to the Congregation Room immediately.” The younglings erupted into excited squeaks and squawks, and rushed out the door, wings flapping. For Scholar Arken, however, the news was less than joyous.

The Secessionists must have the results of the referendum, he mused, thinking of the only thing that could cause an unscheduled creative expression period in a school as prestigious s Lariat Academy. He was a professor of history, a subject reviled by the younglings, who had seen only 12 or less cycles each, but one very important to the Bohii race as a whole.

The Bohii were a sort of avian race, in that they had wings, and wide beaks. However, they also held many mammalian features- two legs, hands at the ends of their wings, each with an opposable thumb, eyes set in the front of their heads, ears, a chin, and many others. In fact, with the exception of the plumed wings and orange beaks, they looked remarkably similar to those creatures from the Federation that had been touring Bohii space for the last 12 months, the ones called ‘humans’. It was an amusing thought to Scholar Arken, that two species developing in isolation forty thousand light years away from each other could look so similar. Such is the universe, he mused, as he entered the Congregation Room.

It was much less grandiose than its name suggested- a series of plush stools to sit on, a box of seed bells on a shelf, and a flatscreen in the corner. The other scholars were filing in, some taking cups of hot water, others seed bells to snack on, but all attention was riveted on the flatscreen in the corner. Arken nudged his way forwards through the crowd, and regarded the scene on the screen.

A young Bohii, with black feathers, fair skin, and hair pulled back into a sharp knot, wearing the uniform of the Secessionist militia, was reading a prepared statement.

“Earlier this morning, the final results of the Referendum on Separation from the Confederacy were tallied. The result came out as we expected it would- 63% of citizens in the Outer Lands wished to separate from the Inner Lands, and therefore we have a mandate to move forwards in the peaceful process of secession. However, the government this morning announced that as a two-thirds majority did not win the Referendum, its results were invalid.

“We do not accept the conclusions of the government. There is a clear desire by you, the people of the Outer Lands to leave the corrupt government that would sell us into the hands of the Federation without our voice. And while it is true that we hold a mere 30% of the population of the Bohii Confederacy, we control nearly 70% of its natural resources- therefore, we will not abide by the tyranny of the majority. I call all Bohii in the Outer Lands, the worlds of Siutris, Nomar, Kwall, and all the others, to rise up against the government. We will be repressed no longer.

“The day has come for all Outsider Bohii to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, to protect our homes, our livelihoods, and out children against the threat posed by corruption and slavery. We will stand united, and we will stand firmly. The day of our independence is at hand, and we will reach out with both talons and grasp it! Long live the Bohii!” With that, the transmission ended, a different Bohii appeared on the screen, a regular newscaster. The Congregation Room was silent save for the ruffling of feathers.

They were mentioned in that speech. The world of Siutris, where flew 412 million Bohii, where stood some of the greatest and oldest cities in the Bohii Confederacy, including Lariat Academy, where stood Scholar Arken at this very moment, was soon to be involved in a war. Its first war in a century. Arken shivered. He had voted for separation, voted in favour of dividing the Confederacy, of more rights for his family, of avoiding the Federation- and here was his legacy. War.

The head of the academy announced to all the Scholars to return to their classes, and they moved mindlessly, retracing their steps to the rooms in which they instructed younglings. The younglings. What will I tell them? He had no time to think, as soon as he entered the class, twenty five energetic younglings flapped into the room and took their seats, still talking excitedly to their friends.

There was, however, a buzz in the classroom, an edge to the conversation. Arken pondered a possible explanation, but his curiosity was answered a moment later. “Scholar Arken, what’s wrong?” One of the students in the front sat upright to answer his question, and the class went absolutely silent.

Of course, younglings are more perceptive than we think. However, he had to maintain his act, put on a brave face. “What do you mean?”

The youngling snorted. Arik, was his name, a bright student, but with a predisposition towards attitude. He even had the audacity to correct Scholars during lessons- what was more unnerving was that he was usually incorrect. There had been a few meetings about him over the years, how to temper his rebellious spirit to make him into a productive member of the crèche, but work was slow. “We don’t get an unscheduled creative expression period for nothing, neither do all the Scholars get called down to meet. Did someone fall out of the city?”

One of the bigger disasters the community of Lariat ever faced was a Bohii losing the ability to fly and falling from the city of above, usually a drop of a hundred metres or more, from even the lowest levels. It was why all the schools were built on the ground, and why the aged and infirm were not allowed into the city above- for their own safety. It was a credit to Bohii culture that the most horrific disaster a child could think of offhand was a fall from a high place.

“You’re cleverer than I thought,” said Arken, with a raising of his eyebrows- a Bohii smile. “You’re all how old, 12, 13 cycles?” The class nodded in response to the Scholar’s question. “Old enough for me to be honest with. Right, some history review- how old is the Bohii race?”

A child raised her wing, and began to speak immediately. “20 000 cycles.”

“Excellent, and how do we know this?”

Another youngling. “The Precursors made us.”

“Exactly right,” said Arken, pleased his students were remembering his lessons. “Arik, tell me about the Precursors.”

The young Bohii didn’t miss a beat. “The Precursors lived all through Bohii space. They were enlightened, had transcended war, hunger, poverty, and needed someone to do the hard work of their civilization. So, they created the Bohii. They took the best parts of other species- mammals, avians, and others, and combined them to create us. We farmed, hunted, worked in factories, and on starships for the precursors for thousands of cycles. Then the Precursors all died.”

“And how did they die?”

The room was quiet, no-one seemed to have the answer. “Disease,” said the scholar. “A disease they could not fight, but one were immune to. Of course, as the Precursors died off, there was nothing we could do- they had never taught us the secrets of how or why their machines worked. And so we settled on the planets, and went our own separate ways for thousands of cycles.”

Arik spoke up. “And then we learned their secrets on our own. We build spaceships, and found each other, and formed the Confederacy a hundred years ago, in the Last Battle.” Too perturbed to chastise the youngling for speaking out of turn, Scholar Arken nodded.

“For a hundred years, al fifteen worlds inhabited by the Bohii have been governed by the Confederact. Until now. Have you all heard of the Referendum?” The younglings nodded, most of them had heard it mentioned. “Who knows what it means?”

A hand shot up. “It’s a question, asked of all the Bohii in the Outer Lands. Asking if they want to stay in the Confederacy or leave and make their own government.”

Arken nodded. “Exactly right. You guys are really impressing me with your memories.”

The children began to speak all together.

“My parents voted against Secession!”

“Why would anyone want to leave the Confederacy?”

“Can we have another unscheduled break?”

“I’m hungry!”

Arken waved his hands, and the room quieted. “Younglings, you asked me a question. You asked what happened.” The room quieted, the children looked on in anticipation- their question was about to be answered.

“The referendum said that 63% of everyone living in the Outer Lands wanted to Secede- leave the Confederacy. But, there’s a problem. The Confederate government won’t let them, because they didn’t have 67%, or two thirds. Historically, that is what has always been needed to declare a majority- in other words, to say the people want something. The Secessionist government say that they only need half- if more people want Secession than staying together, then they should be allowed to Secede.”

The room was silent. “Why would they want to leave anyway?” A quiet voice, a youngling girl, looking shell-shocked.

“There are a few reasons. The Secessionists don’t think us Outlanders have enough say in decisions made by the government. They think we should be able to use our resources how we want to. They oppose an entry into the federation- the alien government from the other side of the wormhole.”

Arik spoke up. “I wouldn’t want to join the Federation either- they’re creepy.”

Scholar Arken waved his finger at the youngling. “They might think the same about you- don’t ever judge someone before you know them. Now, you asked what comes next? Well- the short answer is that nobody knows. If the Secessionists are serious about leaving, we may just go to war, for the first time in 100 years. No-one knows who will win, who will lose, and how many will die. These are dangerous times, children, and we must all stick together. The most important thing to remember, children, is that no war can harm you if you truly love and value all Bohii- all living creatures. Because when you love all living creatures, there can be no war. Now- history datapads open, section 35a, please.”

*****
Independent Star Ship Grasping Talon, in orbit around the planet Nomar, in the Outer Lands.

“Excellent address, General.” The Bohii advisor looked like a household pet, desperate for attention, as the Secessionist General Yeth stepped off the broadcasting platform. He stretched his wings, and regarded the young man carefully.

“The people have spoken already- I’m merely repeating what they have already told us. We do not rise against a government without cause,” snapped Yeth. The advisor stepped backwards, allowing the General to pass. He wore a sheer black uniform, with a talon emblem pinned to the chest, and yellow stripes indicating rank pinned below it. He was the General of the Secessionist militia, a body formed only five months ago, when the confederacy granted self-rule to the Outer Lands military.

It was not officially known as the Secessionist military, of course. It was a name applied to it by the news media, and the radical elements of the militia itself. It was officially the “Second Bohii Fleet”, a move to free up Confederate resources to integration with the Federation. It had been the Confederacy’s greatest mistake, in Yeth’s opinion, to give a full military division to a piece of territory that wanted self-government.

They have given us the tools, said Yeth, inwardly. It is time to build the village. he marched through the cramped confines of the Secessionist flagship- a large, squat cylinder perhaps five hundred metres in diameter, and a hundred metres in height. It had a large central atrium- ‘an open space closed to space’ it was called by the crew. It was where the main reactor was held, around which the vessel spun to generate gravity. It also allowed space for Bohii to stretch their wings, literally speaking- a way for officers to fly from deck to deck for both exercise and morale purposes, once they got the hang of the tricky gravity. The weapons were mounted on the top and bottom on the cylinder, whose sides were slightly convex, with the bridge at the top. Yeth did not head for this central command hub, however- he entered a conference room near the centre of the vessel, leaving his entourage outside. Within the room were four other Bohii- the Secessionist Leadership Council.

“So, here we are. We have the mandate,” said Yeth, “and the Confederacy still won’t let us go. We have no recourse. It’s war.” The other Bohii looked at Yeth, and nodded, regret evident in their eyes. They had no choice- they had to liberate the people from the Confederacy- from the Federation.

A Bohii with light brown feathers and a yellow beak looked at Yeth. He was called Redel, and he was the political expert of the group. He had read the writing on the wall as soon as the Confederacy announced it was to enter this alien “Federation”, a government based on the other side of the galaxy. It sent shivers through Redel’s body, to be under the heel of a government separated from them by tens of thousands of kilometres. “We have to stop the threat from the federation first- their technology is far in advance of ours. They have weapons that could turn our fleet into molten slag with one shot. If a whole fleet got through the wormhole, we would be eliminated in hours. Our first step must be to close the wormhole.”

“It can be done,” said another of the Leaders, a red-feathered, orange-beaked Bohii, the science expert. “It resonates at the precise frequency of a fission torpedo, we could fire a single shot and close it permanently. Then there would be only one federation vessel, that ‘Aeolus’, to deal with. It can be done.”

The room was quiet. No Bohii had fired a weapon in a hundred years in anything except self-defence- it would be the first attack in two generations. But then, reflected Yeth, it is self-defence in a way. It is defence of our lifestyle, of our rights to self-determination. It is defence of our children. And, with that thought, and a bright image of his three younglings back on Siutris, he made the decision.

He pulled a communicator to his beak. “Commander Char, this is the General.”

The reply was swift. “Yes, general.”

“Prepare a task force, three cruisers. Report to the Devus sector.” The Commander’s apprehension was palpable- Devus was a heavily populated world near the core of the Confederacy. He was clearly hoping he would not be summoned to do anything… untoward. The General resumed speaking. “Fire one torpedo, collapse the wormhole, and leave immediately. Do not fire on any Bohii vessel, and engage the federation only if they are directly in the way of your escape. We are going to protect the Outer Lands, not start a war, understood?”

The Commander’s relief was palpable. “Yes, General. We’ll be ready to leave in three hours.”

The comlink closed, and Yeth looked at the Leadership Council. “May the Precursors forgive us,” he intoned, and the room nodded with him.

Episode 1, Part 2

It was 0756h Earth Standard Time aboard the USS Aeolus; four minutes left to go before the end of Gamma Shift and the start of Alpha Shift aboard the Nova-class vessel. Deran Bel, sitting in Science Lab 3, accessed the vessel’s navigational scanners, and began scanning the Milky Way. Without difficulty, he found the Aeolus to be on heading 175 mark 3 relative to Bajor, and accessed the ship’s map. The lab, his nominal office as Chief of Science, was oriented 90 degrees to starboard of the ship’s prow, and he added those figures into his calculation. He turned his chair around, and, certain he was now facing the celestial Temple, the wormhole linking Bajor to the Gamma Quadrant, he fell to his knees.

“Great Prophets, at the dawn of this new day, I dedicate to you all I think, say and do, so that it further amplifies Your Glory and furthers Your plan for this Universe. I will endeavour to be mindful in all that I do, and to act for peace, justice, and love of all creatures.” The Bajoran prayer he recited was as old as the Temple itself- generations of Bajorans spoke it, passed it onto their children, and did their best to live by its tenets.

Deran was one of the more pious Bajorans still around. He had even considered becoming a vedek before his career in Starfleet- such was his connection to the prophets. He had been dismayed as a child by the turn of Bajor away from the prophets and into the secular Federation; he felt it was turning their back on a way of life that had seen them through five thousand years of relative prosperity, and one that had held their people together through the darkest days of the Occupation.

Not that he would know, of course- he had been born three years after the Occupation’s end. He had grown up in a period of relative safety, during the Dominion War- his family fairly well protected, the threat of summary execution present only some of the time. And then, when Bajor had entered the Federation, things had seemed to get even better for the little blue world. However, in Deran’s opinion, that sort of comfort led to spiritual complacency for the people. They had no desire to seek the truth in the Ohalu prophecies, no interest in Kai Opaka’s return from exile- they turned to the Federation to answer their questions, not the Prophets.

And so Deran left his world. He enrolled in the Academy, became a scientist, to better understand how the prophets worked their magic. To become closer to them- to fill a void that had been missing in his life, but present in those around them- the need to struggle. Bajorans during the Occupation struggled, and it strengthened them, made them spiritually powerful. During the Dominion War, Bajorans struggled, and it brought them together. Now, however, there was no struggle, and Deran needed to address that himself.

He added to his prayer. “Prophets, this day, guide my hand in mind in pursuit of your truth. Permit me to search for you in every atom of the universe, and better understand your mysteries. Those who See, Hear, and Do- help me in my struggle. Prophets be praised. Rasa.” The traditional end to a Bajoran prayer spilled out, and Deran checked his chronometer.

Time for work, he mused.

*****

It was 0756h. In his expansive room, Captain Thomas Collins rolled around in his sleep. He had four minutes to get to work, but that fact did not penetrate his subconscious- he was talking to a woman on the other side of the galaxy.

“Thom, I don’t understand why you need to leave,” said Lelia, looking directly at him. They were in the small kitchen of their farmhouse in what used to be known as Montana, on Earth. Collins had just returned from a day at the Academy by transporter, and he had held in his hand a PADD. It now rested on the tabletop between Thomas and his wife, Lelia, and its contents had shattered the calm of their small house.

Children long since moved away, Thomas long since retired from active duty, they thought this small former ranch house would bring them serenity, wrapped in by ageless mountains and expansive sky. Today, however, it brought no such thing, it was a lens through which household strife was magnified.

“I’ve been called for a mission. It’s only a year and a half, I’ll be back before Stephen graduates the Academy.” Their son was a third-year honours engineering student at the San Francisco Starfleet Academy, hoping to join Starfleet himself one day.

“A year and a half? The last time you were gone for a year and a half you missed his birth, first words, first steps, and teething. What are you going to miss this time?”

Thom was stung by the words. “I don’t know! Nothing! Everything! I… I just have to!”

“No, Thom, you don’t have to do anything! You promised me you would stay here, you would be with me. That’s why we’re here, to escape all that! You’re not active duty anymore, you retired. That means no more missions, no more leaving me and the kids, no more gallivanting around the galaxy.”

‘The Dominion War was not gallivanting around the galaxy! My friends died fighting the Dominion!”

“And my husband left me. And now he wants to do it again. Why?”

He sat down heavily in a chair. “Because it falls to me. I have the experience- we need to bring the Bohii into the Federation.”

“Why not the Diplomatic Corps? That’s what they’re there for!”

“Lelia, you’re not being fair.” The calm tone defused his wife, she too sat. “I’m an expert in First Contact situations. We need them.”

“More than I need you?”

The words hung in the air, and Thomas looked out the window. Cows were grazing in the fields, the expansive Montana sun was just beginning to set behind the mountains. “I was watching the Holonet this morning, Lelia. On Widemos, there’s a plague killing 90% of the infected, and more than half the colony has been infected. They’re dying, bleeding out of every orifice, in horrific pain. And there’s nothing we can do. The federation has been spread too thin since the Dominion War, countering the Romulans, the Breen, expanding and colonizing more worlds as buffer zones- the nearest ship to Widemos is four weeks away. In that time, Starfleet medical estimates 89% of the colonists will have died.

“I want to bring the Bohii into the federation because even one extra medical transport, one extra doctor, one extra bar of latinum could save a colonist on some world I’ve never heard of. If Starfleet thinks I have the best chance of doing that, then I want to go.”

Lelia was silent. She crossed around the table, and rested her cheek on Thom’s shoulder. “Promise you’ll come back.”

Collins sat upright in bed, pulse pounding through his ears- he could smell Lelia in the air around him… but she was light years away. He looked at the chronometer and swore- he had one minute to be on the bridge for his shift.

*****

It was 0756h. The air was dry, almost salty. The sun beat down on the flat desert plain, no signs of life present as far as the eye could see. It was baking hot, the air mutating into the refractive lens typical of extreme heat, bending and distorting the world as if the bright sunshine could melt the atmosphere itself. And, in the middle of it all, dressed in the typical Starfleet workout uniform of solid black, stood Nura Morgan.

Stood was imprecise, she was not precisely standing. Her lithe body was moving through a complicated set of exercises, sweat rolling off her dark skin and onto the ground. As the Aeolus’ Tactical officer, she took her job seriously, hence the early morning workout in one of the most hostile environments the holodeck could offer. She was petite, standing no more than five feet tall, and weighing perhaps a hundred and ten pounds. However, the grace with which she moved evidenced her abilities, hinted at years of training.

She stopped still, and began to speak to the air. “Computer, two sparring partners. Difficulty level five.” Her voice was throaty, with a rich Caribbean accent. Level five opponents were difficult, she knew, but nothing she couldn’t handle on the holodeck. The figures materialized, and she cleared her mind of all distractions, feeling only the battle.

She was one of six living masters of shrk’lehar, an Andorian martial art passed down in its present form for thousands of years. It was not a style of brute strength or supernatural precognition- it merely taught awareness. By giving oneself to a battle, by watching body movements, facial expressions, weight distribution, a smaller opponent could always defeat a larger one. It was a matter of knowing where to strike, and when.

The opponents, one on her right, and one on her left, lumbered in. They were reptilian, with two strong back legs, abounding with vicious claws, two short arms, teeth like broadswords, and a powerful, sinuous tail. She closed her eyes, and listened, felt the vibrations in the ground. Too quickly to see, she stepped backwards, kicking at one of the reptiles’ legs as it passed, the blow landing just before it stepped down. The ankle angled, and on impact with the ground, shattered- holographic blood splattering in all directions. The other reptile deftly stepped around its wounded comrade, and made a fierce bite at her- she rolled out of the way and struck upwards into its stomach with her right arm. It paused, looked down, and in that time she landed a side kick directly to its knee. It buckled under the force of the assault, just in time for the other reptile to strike its killing claw into its comrade.

The holodeck froze, an alarm sounded. Alpha shift was beginning, Nura needed to be on the bridge.

“Computer, end program.”

The desert evaporated, the air cooled, and Nura threw on her uniform, heading for the bridge.

*****

It was 0756h. The moments of calm before dawn were always the best for Commander Staralfur Byrjun, Executive Officer of the Aeolus. It was quiet, the sounds of the day not yet reverberating through the shift. And for her, a Loftarasan, that was vital. She was tall, over two meters, with pale green skin, completely without hair. She had no discernable ears, large, luminescent grey eyes, and a thin frame.

However, her most foreign features (to a human, at least) were deep inside her, in her throat. She had four windpipes, which allowed her to produce up to four whole tones simultaneously. Taken with the sensitive nerves throughout her large skull, she was able to hear sounds in the air, and manipulate them- amplifying, changing pitch, enriching tone. On her homeworld, the language spoken was entirely musical- intervals between tones and time values forming words and phrases.

Here, aboard the Aeolus, she was damned to use a language that had but one tone at a time, inherently guttural and non-musical. And so, before each time she had to use the language called ‘English’ in public, she meditated. A former Counsellor, she knew the importance of a clear mind, and the ability to manipulate sound to form ideas, thoughts, and feelings was cathartic for her.

She began to hum. She listened carefully to the reverberations in the room around her- a glass began to shake. She had hit its magic tone, the frequency at which it vibrated. She extended her thoughts that way, completely trusting in her aural sense to manipulate the cup. She heard the glass begin to crack, and she amplified the hum. It began to shake more and more, and she changed the tone of the note subtly.

The glass exploded, and, in the musical ‘toonk’ it made, she felt all her anxieties, fears, and insecurities evaporate just like the shattered cup. It would be a god day.

*****

It was 0756h. Sickbay was not quiet. It was the one place on the Aeolus that was virtually guaranteed to be busy at any time of the day, as accidents and illnesses had no schedule built into them. Doctor Haar sat in his office, reading over reports. To someone who had never been in this Sickbay before, it would have seemed as if a horse had slipped into a Starfleet uniform and sat down in the office. Haar was around a meter tall when standing on all four legs, but when he reared into the upright configuration preferred by most humanoids, he was easily seven feet. His fur was brown, his lips barely held in a contagious smile.

He was a Neiha, from the planet Neihar. Discovered by a Ferengi trader near the close of the Occupation, it had been pillaged by the Cardassians for its rich natural resources. They had not figured on eth Neiha being intelligent, however- they reasoned that without hands they would never have developed civilization. Their preconceptions had turned out to be mistaken, however- the Neiha were some of the galaxy’s finest theoretical physicists, by necessity. Without the ability to build anything to test their hypotheses, a valid thought experiment was considered incontrovertible proof of a theory, and with that, they had got to working out Warp Field Theory, even though they had no way to test it. When the Cardassians learned their true nature, they massacred the animals, so as to leave no witnesses- some high-ranking officials taking the Neiha as pets and servants.

After the Dominion War, however, they were rescued by the federation off ravaged Cardassia- all five thousand remaining members of the species, from an original pool of twelve million. They had been resettled on a world just within the federation border with the Romulans, and had been offered anything they could ask for. For Haar’s parents, it was an education for their only son.

And so Haar found himself as the first Neiha at Starfleet Academy. With a brain adapted over the centuries for logical deduction, he found himself immediately ruled out of Security, Operations, and Engineering, based on the huge amount of practical work they entailed. However, Starfleet medical took him in immediately as a pharmacologist- and within weeks Haar had learned virtually everything on the subject. And so, barred from performing surgery, or even bandaging wounds by his hooves that couldn’t manipulate the finest of tools, he worked in chemicals, cells, and chromosomes. Twelve years later, he had found himself Chief Medical Officer aboard the Aeolus.

He checked his chronometer- it was now officially Alpha Shift. He decided to go for a walk.

*****

It was 0756h. The bridge was winding down from Gamma Shift- the motley collection of cadets finishing their practical studies board a Starship, non-commissioned officers, and Ensigns as green as Risa left their duty stations in preparation for the Department heads to take their places. At Operations, Lieutenant Commander Laura Meyer was already at her duty station, four minutes early. And, as she saw the communication from Nomar, one of the Outer Land planets, she was very glad of the fact.

It was a Bohii figure, prominent in the Secession movement… General Yeth, he was called. His words chilled Meyer to the core. He was speaking forcefully- meyer had wished she had seen the beginning of the address. “The day of our independence is at hand, and we will reach out with both talons and grasp it! Long live the Bohii!”

She gasped. That made it wound like… well, like a war was coming. But the Bohii haven’t warred for 100 years- they’ve never had worse than border skirmishes. She shuddered, as images of her family home on the planet Tirrel- set alight by Jem’hadar troops in the Dominion War. No child should go through what I went through, seeing my parents’ bodies burned beyond recognition, the farmers’ fileds catching fire as I was smuggled off the planet by my uncle, watching the fire spread over the globe…

She hit the commpanel. “Captain Collins, this is Commander Meyer on the bridge. You need to get up here, now.”

It was 0802h. Dawn had come, and no-one had seen it. It was go time.

good start! keep it going!

Episode 1, Part 3

The three Secessionist ships snuck stealthily through space at Warp Five, their maximum sustainable velocity. They had been dispatched from Arbita, the closest Outer Land system to the wormhole, more than 12 hours ago, and had been travelling at maximum Warp for that entire time. They were now prepared to revert to sublight speeds, and deliver their lethal payload to the wormhole.

And lock up the Federation forever, thought Captain Farre to himself. He had never hoped to be involved in an actual military engagement against the Inner Lands, much less a priceless scientific phenomenon like the Wormhole, but he had to admit to himself that it would be a good thing for the Confederacy as a whole- and the Outer Lands in particular. We’re standing up for ourselves after a hundred years of servitude.

“Captain, we’re approaching the target.”

Farre acknowledged the young officer’s report with a nod, and leaned forwards in his seat. He was commanding the strongest battle group currently in the Sector, and the thought thrilled him- a sense of power he rarely felt in the Secessionist militia… or officially, the ‘Second Fleet’. His own vessel, the Free Spirit, was among the newest vessels in the Confederacy, with all the latest weapons and propulsion technology- it could, in theory, reach Warp Seven, the fastest speed ever reached by a Bohii. Like all Bohii ships, it was shaped like a squat cylinder, with a convex top and bottom, and weapons arrayed around the rims of the cylinder. The bridge sat right in the centre of the top face, allowing for a 360-degree field of vision when in action.

The other two ships, the Nightfield and the Starscape were somewhat older, but still powerful ships- General Yeth had not scrimped on vessels for this important mission. Farre watched the countdown to reversion on his small tactical screen, set into his chair’s armrest. Three, two, one… The stars snapped back into pinpricks from the elongated streaks of Warp, and sensors picked up readings on the small space station nearby.

He paled. The space station was bristling with weapons, and three vessels from the First Fleet, the ‘Confederate Navy’, as they were informally called among Outer Landers, hung off its side. They were more than a match for the three Secessionist vessels, but Farre held one advantage- surprise.

“Sir, they’re hailing us.”

“On screen,” said Farre, and one slice of the bridge’s 360 degree viewport morphed into a picture of an aging Bohii woman, with white feathers and pale skin. Her eyes looked sharply at Farre.

“State your business at the wormhole.”

Farre breathed deeply. His ships and the Confederate ships were technically on the same side, for the time being, despite the rhetoric coming from General Yeth. While they weren’t under the same commanders anymore, they were supposed to uphold the will of the Confederacy. And, despite the obvious hostility, she can’t have any warning that we’re planning to destroy the wormhole, we can bluff while we approach closer to it.

“We’re here conducting a scientific survey. We’ve had sensor disruptions back on Arbita, and we’re seeing if they’re coming from the wormhole.” Wow, that sounded lame even to myself, mused Farre.

“And this couldn’t be done without three heavily-armed warships?”

Well, in for the penny, in for the pound, mused Farre. “We live in turbulent times, and our mission is important. We didn’t want to risk being delayed.”

The Bohii woman stared at him, seemingly furious, but unsure of her next step. The comm field went dark. The bridge sprang to action.

“How long ‘till we’re at the wormhole?”

“Five minutes to firing range, sir.”

“Instruct Nightfield and Starscape to place themselves between us and the Confederate station. Instruct them to be ready to rotate through ninety degrees to port, to allow them to bring all their weapons to bear. They are not to fire unless fired on first, are we understood? We’re not starting a war here. They need to hold off the three Confederate ships until we make it close enough to fire the fission torpedoes.”

“Understood, sir,” called the comm officer from her post, and began relaying instructions to the other two vessels.

They were approaching the wormhole- it bloomed like a flower in deep space, roiling colours of purple, orange, and yellow whipped around the centre, forming into geometric patterns and then collapsing into chaos. It was beautiful. And it’s also the greatest threat to the Bohii in our history, he mused.

The ships closed quickly, and the Confederates made no move to stop them. As hesitant as I am about firing the first shot, said Farre inwardly. No sooner had he articulated the thought, however, than the Comm officer shouted that the Confederate woman was hailing again.

“Track her signal, I need to know if she’s on the station or the ships.” If she was on one of the ships, it would be easier to bluffing her into standing down. “If I wave my hand out of view of the camera, it means terminate the signal, but make it look like a computer glitch.”

“Aye,” said the comm officer, turning to her station.

“Put her through.”

The woman appeared again, looking furious. “Your ships are positioning themselves to protect you, and you are now approaching the wormhole. You are ordered to stand down.”

Farre smiled. “We don’t take orders from the First Fleet, ma’am.”

The woman mirrored Farre’s triumphant smile. “That’s true. You do, however, take orders from the President of the Confederacy.” The smile wiped itself off Farre’s face. “Put him through.” Farre was stunned- he had thought he had made good use of the two and a half minutes off the comm he had been given, but he could see that his opposite number among the Confederates had put a call directly through to the President. She’s big time, thought Farre, beginning to panic.

“Captain Farre of the Free Spirit, you know who I am- President Wrae. I am here on a live link from Bohii proper, at the request of General Tern, who you have just met on wormhole station.” The President’s manner was easy, yet firm. His words sent shivers through Farre’s spine- brought home to him what he was about to do. But he had no choice- he had his orders. “Now, I am given to understand you are approaching the wormhole with three heavily armed vessels, almost certainly to enter it and engage the federation. This would be an enormous folly for both the Confederacy as a whole, and your Second Fleet in particular. Now, I understand that the Second Fleet is a separate branch of the Space Fleet than the First Fleet, but you are still under my direct command. Stand down, and return to base at Arbita, or you will be considered a hostile intruder.”

Farre chose his next words carefully. “Respectfully, sir, we are not under your command any more. We answer to General Yeth. Healthy day to you.”

The President nodded. “Very well.” The comm signal flickered off, and Farre turned to his Tactical Officer.

“Report!” The stress in his voice was evident in his order.

“The three vessels are approaching- trying to put themselves between us and the wormhole. They won’t make it in time, but they’ll be in weapons range in seventy-four seconds.”

“Where’s the General,” snapped Farre to the comm officer.

“The station.”

Farre swore internally. Safe on the station, he couldn’t get her to back down by threatening her vessel- he would have to destroy the station, and his ‘fleet’ was woefully inadequate to that task. He had only one choice- plough straight towards the wormhole, fire as much ordinance as he could inside it, and run like the dickens.

“Order Nightfield and Starscape to roll upwards, and focus their weapons on the enemy weapons systems. Instruct them to keep the Confederates out of our firing lane by positioning themselves, but not with weapons.”

“They acknowledge, sir,” said the comm officer, who punched the order in almost pre-emptively.

“They’re in firing range!”

Farre braced- nothing happened. No shots were exchanged. “Are their weapons charged?”

“Aye.”

“What are they waiting for?”

A second later, a bright caldera of light formed around one of the Confederate saucers. Its weapons had come to life, spraying explosive death at the Nightfield. The Secessionist vessel weathered the storm, and seemed somewhat intact from where Free Spirit was, sat directly behind the beleaguered Secessionist vessel. A moment later, however, the ship began to roll- and Farre saw the full extent of the damage.

“We’ve lost Nightfield on comm,” announced the comm officer, a note of panic evident in her voice. The entire side of the vessel, the one formerly facing the Confederate onslaught, had been burned away, gasses, bodies, and equipment spilling out of the ruptured hull. It looked as if someone had ground the ship against a planet’s surface and then slung it into an asteroid field to be pummelled- there was nothing left. It was travelling completely on momentum.

A plan struck Farre. “Tactical, get our tractor beams online, and position the Nightfield directly between ourselves and the enemy ships, use it as a shield.” The ship was already destroyed, and its crew could get off the ship using escape pods. “Make sure the escape pods are pointed towards us and not the Confederate ships,” he added, vocalizing his thought.

“Aye, sir,” said the tactical officer, and began manipulating pullswitches.

“Order Starscape to fire on the Confederate vessels at will.” Within seconds, bright yellow light began pouring from twelve places on the Starscape’s hull, channelled directly towards the lead Confederate vessel. The burst was super-concentrated staggered- the first three beams impacted on shields, the next three broke through one section of it, and the next six shredded through three separate engine coils on the exterior of the ship. Farre was impressed with the gunners’ accuracy- they had nailed three moving targets without missing a single shot. Within seconds, the confederate vessel began to list sideways, and spin, dropping further and further out of the chase. Before the Starscpe could fire a second salvo, however, the two remaining Confederate vessels began to fire.

“Thirty seconds to firing range,” announced the officer at Free Spirit’s helm.

“Ready fission torpedoes.”

“Aye,” confirmed Tactical.

The exchanges between Starscape and the Confederate vessels were heating up- Starscape’s incredible accuracy levelling the playing field. Their view blocked by Nightfield’s hull, they watched on sensors as a second Confederate vessel began to break off the attack, its weapons arrays reduced to junk metal.

“Ten seconds!”

Farre looked straight ahead, taking in the wormhole for the last time. He felt as if he was killing an endangered species.

“Three, two, one- fire,” he said. The five torpedoes lanced out from Free Spirit, crossing the gap in seconds. They wormhole bulged as it swallowed its new cargo, and three seconds later, exhaled hot, scalding entrails as the fission torpedoes detonated inside it. “Get us the hell out of here,” barked Farre, and the tractor beams released their hold on Nightfield. She served the Outer Lands well, reflected Farre. The Starscape came quickly up on side of Free Spirit, separated from the remaining Confederate vessel by a massive gout of flame.

“Lay in a course for Arbita, Warp Five,” said Farre, and the stars streaked forwards as the Secessionist ships vanished from the scene.

*****

USS Regal, Federation Side of the Wormhole.

The first indication that anything was wrong with the wormhole came with the jet of flame that reached a million kilometres out of the aperture.

“Admiral,” announced the young, clean shaved human at the Science console, “the wormhole is collapsing! The effect is consistent with those of Bohii fission torpedoes, between four and six of them!”

Admiral Davison sat up from the chair. He was an aging human, about seventy years old, and had seen a lot of strange things happening to the Bajoran wormhole during his tenure at Deep Space Nine, thirty years ago. It had made him a natural choice to head up operations on the Federation side of the Bohii Wormhole- but he had never seen anything like this.

“This is deliberate?”

“It would appear so,” replied Science.

“Has to be the work of the Secessionists, then.” He had seen the transmission broadcast by General Yeth two days ago, calling for the Outer Lands to rise up and dispense with the Federation. He sighed. “Send a text message to the USS Aeolus.” The small Nova-class vessel was the only Federation vessel in the Bohii Confederacy. It outclassed the Bohii ships by orders of magnitude- Federation scientists had estimated that the Bohii were roughly two hundred years behind the federation in virtually every technical aspect, but they had ample natural resources, something that had caused them to be fast-tracked towards federation membership.

He couldn’t risk letting the Confederacy slip away- not when it seemed to provide one of the last hopes for the Federation retaining her border colonies. “Tell them- ‘Activate General Order One Hundred.” The comm officer looked puzzled, but faithfully transcribed the message. It shot into the wormhole, carried through invisible subspace, and appeared deep in the beta Quadrant just in time to watch the Bohii Wormhole fold up and vanish from the galaxy forever.

Author’s Note: Feedback, please! I know this part is a little bit slow, but it’ll turn into proper, regular sci-fi once all this backstory and exposition is out of the way, I promise

Episode 1, Part 4

“Today is a dark day for the Bohii Confederacy- we have witnessed wanton disrespect for democracy and the rule of law.” President Wrae’s voice was hard and cold. He sat in front of a flatcam in his office on the Capital world of Bohii. It was a lush planet, covered in cities that rose out of the wind-swept grasslands like trees. Wrae’s office was by far the most opulent room in Capital City, home to twelve million Bohii. The fine grain of the imported wood caught and reflected the light pouring in through the 360 degree windows, glowing golden in the dusk.

It was rare that an address was given directly from the President’s office, but it was equally rare that a confederate ship would fire on another. The story had broken less than an hour and a half on newsnets all over the Confederacy, and the President’s attention had been required immediately. So, for the first time in many cycles, he was making a direct address to the nation from his place of work.

“As many of you already know, two and a half hours ago, three vessels from the Second Fleet, under the direct command of the noted Secessionist General Yeth, ambushed a scientific research post at the Wormhole. Despite direct orders from myself to stand down, the three ships engaged the small defensive contingent present there, disabling two ships. With no choice but to fire back in self-defence, our vessels destroyed one of the Second Fleet vessels, but not before a salvo of fission torpedoes was launched into the wormhole, destroying it.” It was not the entire truth, of course- the Confederacy had fired first, so their actions were not in self-defense, and nor was the station a ‘scientific’ outpost, heavily armed as it was. However, he needed to win the masses onto his side, had said his advisers, and therefore a little bit of truth-stretching was in order.

“With the wormhole destroyed, our connection to the alien ‘Federation” has been severed. The possible technological and cultural advances that could have been gleaned from an alliance with this Federation have now been lost forever, with no discussion or debate by the democratically elected leaders of the Confederacy. A great blow has been struck against the future of the Confederacy by those who would see it torn apart, and we, and our children, and their children, have been left holding the tattered remains of a brighter future.”

His next words had been chosen carefully. “Therefore, we have little choice. We will not allow the enemies of democracy to make decisions for all Bohii without any consultation of the people. The Second Fleet is to report directly to me. All vessels who do not comply within 24 hours will be considered outside our protection, and subject to pacification efforts shortly.

“We live in turbulent times. The voices of those in the Outer Lands who wish for the right to self-determination and home rule have not been ignored. However, in an era where military actions can trump the decisions of those elected to speak for the people, the security of democracy must be preserved before we can move ahead with this bold plan. To all Bohii, I bring a message of hope and peace. We have not been to war in one hundred years, and if all sides involved can accept responsibility for their actions, and keep the common god of all Bohii in mind, we will come through these difficulties stronger and more united than ever. A healthy evening to you all.”

The red light above the flatcam winked out, and Wrae knew he was off the air. He ran a hand through his brown hair, pulled back into a professional ponytail. A few of the golden feathers fell from his wings onto the deep green carpet, he hastily gathered them and threw them in the garbage receptacle under his desk. He hoped his stress was not showing in more noticeable ways. “What did you think,” he asked of the professional, aloof-looking woman on his left.

“Fine.” Advisor Gref was not given to long answers, instead preferring to say her piece in three words or less.

“Did I say everything correctly? Give the right message?”

“Stop stressing.”

Her words hung in the air, Wrae looked dejectedly at his thinning plumage. “I may be sending the Confederacy to war for the first time this century. You wouldn’t be stressed?”

She shrugged. “Our cause is just.”

“Are we going about it the right way, though? Surely there has to be a diplomatic solution.” He was looking longingly out the window, down into the city below. Hundred of Bohii were flying from building to building, all set hundreds of metres off the ground on mammoth stilts. Most were coming home from a long day at the office, flying home to be with their families, to eat dinner. A hideous vision of the city in flames engulfed Wrae, and he closed his eyes, turning back to his desk.

“Diplomacy has cut us off from the Federation. They could have advanced us two hundred years in a decade. We voted to ally with them; the Secessionists had no right to destroy that relationship. They must be brought to heel.” With that, she spun on her heel and left the room. The camera crew had preceded her out, and now he was alone in his office. The last vestiges of dusk flitted from his room as the artificial lights of the city leapt up.

He rose from his seat, and crossed to the small glass door that led to the balcony. He felt the pure wind in his face, ruffling his feathers. Looking at the warm incandescence of the private residences around him, he stretched his wings, and flapped off the side of the building.

He needed to hold his wife, and kiss his children. Before this brewing war absorbed him. He needed a reminder of why he continued on.

*****
USS Aeolus

“So, we have a situation.” Captain Thomas Collins sat at the head of the long table in the Aeolus, surrounded by his senior staff. To his immediate right sat Commander Staralfur Byrjun, his tall, green, bald executive officer. Beside her sat the diminutive Lieutenant Commander Nura Morgan, and beside the Tactical Officer sat Doctor Haar, albeit awkwardly. The Neiha’s equine body was not terribly well-suited to the standard Starfleet chairs, but he did his best to mask his discomfort. Rounding out the senior staff present were Lieutenant Deran Bel, the pious Bajoran Science Officer, Lieutenant Commander Dezun ch’Zhaat, Chief Engineer, and Operations Officer Lieutenant Laura Meyer. The room was quiet, but not tense.

“The wormhole has been closed, and, from what Lieutenant Deran has told me, it’s likely to be permanent.”

Deran nodded, as if the Captain had given him the floor. “The fission torpedoes employed by the Bohii, while primitive by our standards, were more than sufficient to cause the subspace harmonics of the wormhole to alter, collapsing it. Short of high technology or magic, it’s not opening again.”

The room was quiet- the words ‘subspace harmonics’ meant absolutely nothing to the rest of the senior staff, except possibly Lieutenant Meyer, who nodded absently. The room was quite nicely decorated- a large window ran across the right wall, giving a gorgeous vista of the stars off the ship’s port side. There was a Cardassian zheg tree in the corner, and its pleasant, earthy smell made the room feel alive.

“Quite right. This leaves us with a situation- our primary mission here was the bring the Bohii into the Federation. For obvious reasons, that’s no longer applicable- even if the Bohii joined the Federation tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter, as we’re roughly… how far?”

Deran spoke up again. “Twenty-three years at Warp nine.”

Collins nodded. “Twenty-three years at Warp nine away from the nearest Starbase. Our mission is over.”

The room was silent. Each officer looked to the next, ch’Zhaat’s antennae flexed, Haar’s nostrils flared. “Now what?” Byrjun’s soft voice shattered the quiet, all heads turned to the Captain.

“Well,” he mused, “two options. First, we leave and try to get back to the Federation. Voyager did it, and maybe we’ll find some Borg to help us along.” The wisecrack set off chortles among some of the crew, a politely puzzled look from Haar, and an admonishing glare from Byrjun.

“Option two,” asked the First Officer, her tone frozen.

“Well, what any good Starfleet crew does. We explore. There are dozens of worlds in the vicinity of the Bohii Confederacy that have never been visited. The Bohii tell of an old race called the ‘Precursors’, we could look into substantiating those myths. We would be able to find shelter among the Bohii to restock when we needed to, and share the information we find with them.”

The room began to buzz with side conversations. Nura Morgan raised her hand to speak, ebony skin contrasting nicely with her goldenrod uniform collar. She ran her other hand around the back of her shaven head, three silver bracelets clinking with the motion.

“Commander Morgan,” said Collins, and the room fell silent.

“I think you’ve forgotten something very important.” Her rich accent deepened the tone of her voice, making it sound like everything she said was preface to a hearty laugh.

“Oh?” Collins’ eyebrow arched.

“There’s a war starting.”

The words killed the buzz of enthusiasm for exploration that had just been generated. Byrjun spoke up. “Not necessarily. The Bohii have not gone to war in a hundred years, there’s no reason to suspect they will now.”

“Except the destruction of the wormhole to keep more Federation ships from entering the confederacy. To be frank, Captain, the Secessionists want our ass- and they’ll attack their own government to get it. It’s a grave security risk to assume we can waltz around their territory without any ill effects.”

Collins nodded. “Lieutenant Meyer, what’s our position?”

The human Ops officer stood, her waist-length blond hair swaying behind her. She crossed the room and walked over to the large screen set into the wall behind Collins. The captain swung his seat around to view the large map of Bohii space that appeared. “We’re approximately here-“ she pointed to an environ quite close to the world labelled ‘Siutris’. “This is the edge of what could nominally be considered ‘Secessionist space’, the Outer Lands.”

“And not a safe place for an isolated starship during a war,” interjected Morgan, her rich voice conveying her displeasure at the situation.

Collins raised his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Now, there’s no reason to believe this conflict will escalate into a war. There have been border conflicts involving the Bohii numerous times in the last hundred years, which is why they even have a navy. However, I’m a professor of history. I’ve seen these signs before, on Earth’s past, in the Klingon Empire, and even more eclectic examples. When a group wants independence, and they don’t get it, things can turn nasty. I have no doubt that this will become a war. So, this opens up options three and four. Three, that we fight on behalf of the government to get them to crush the Secessionists and join the Federation. Four, that we fight for the Secessionists to support their right to democracy and self-rule.”

Harr clomped his hoof on the table. “Five- we assume the role of peacekeeper and humanitarian, preventing this conflict form getting out of hand.” The Neiha were known for their conflict-avoidance abilities, and, likely because of their herbivore nature, were likely to see a middle path where others saw only black or white.

Byrjun shook her head. “Options three through five have a major flaw- the Prime Directive. We can’t get involved in an internal war.”

Collins coughed awkwardly. “I’m going to have to confess to a bit of dirty laundry here,” said the Captain, red tingeing his cheeks. “We received a message from the USS Regal just before the wormhole collapsed, invoking general order 100.”

Morgan’s eyes went wide, but the rest of the senior staff looked puzzled. “What’s that,” asked Byrjun, plainly.

“It removes us from the Federation Command structure. From this point on, we are answerable only to ourselves, not Starfleet, until we return to communications range of the Federation. After the Voyager incident, Starfleet built in a protocol to allow a lost ship to take any steps necessary to return to Starfleet safely, or to complete her mission.”

“Not that that stopped Janeway,” cracked ch’Zhaat.

“Which is it,” asked Harr. “Which are we expected to do? Complete our mission and bring the Confederacy into the Federation? Or return home?”

The room went quiet again- each officer considering the implications of the question. After a few seconds, it was Collins that spoke. “The reason I took this assignment in the first place was because of the importance of the Bohii. We’ve all seen stories on the Holonet of Federation worlds falling to disease, or starvation, or foreign encroachment. Some of us have families affected by these events, and the maddening thing is that there’s nothing to be done. The Federation is overextended; we have neither the people nor the resources to defend against these threats. If we bring the Bohii into the Federation, we’ll have resources, personnel, and ships to defend ourselves, to keep all our citizens safe.

“There’s more, though. The Federation was built on the principle that sentient species had the right to work together, to live out their lives in a way that gives them dignity and lets them meet their potential. If we engage in a war to destroy the Secessionists, we are keeping those people, who we know wish to separate, from taking control of their own destiny. To save the Federation in this way, we’d need to kill it.”

Harr spoke first. “What do we do?”

“We do what we have always done, what Starfleet has always been known for- we explore. We scour the stars for their secrets, and we freely share our knowledge with both factions of Bohii. But, most importantly- we keep the peace as much as possible. We have a responsibility, with our technology and society, to prevent this war from getting out of hand. We have the chance to be a force for good in this conflict, and it’s an opportunity we have to take, to keep the Federation alive, at least in spirit.”

And, one by one, the officers of the USS Aeolus, separated from their families, their homes, and their people by thousands of light-years, trapped in a war zone with no way out began to applaud their Captain.

The Federation, beleaguered on all sides by disease, famine, and foreign powers, relived the moment of its creation in a crowded conference room deep in the Beta Quadrant.

A/N: One part left to go in the first episode- and then we start the actual story, the exploration, and the gunplay. Hurray for gunplay!