ACT 1
WEDNESDAY
DECK 2 CAPTAIN’S OFFICE, COMMAND YACHT, 08:01 HOURS
The main overhead and wall-mounted lights in Captain Christian’s Office were extinguished. Traditional lamps illuminated the informal seating area where the mission briefing was taking place. Tall standards with silk lampshades lined with gold rested at each corner of an Arabian rug at opposite corners of an informal seating arrangement. Two additional shorter lamps were placed on small, low side tables, between each sofa or chair, both pairs casting circles of light across the finely weaved carpet and soft dark leather furniture. Gathered apprehensively were the few individuals Christian had selected for the away mission: Commodore Jackson, Lt Commander Narli, Commander Lirik, Lieutenant O’Hara and his bright young fresh-faced tactical and security officer Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Souveson.
Along with the lusciously detailed rug of black, gold, scarlet, pink and amber thread and the Corinthian brass light fixtures, the delicately patterned leather seating and rectangular smoked glass coffee table were all recently installed items. The surface of the central low table provided both a focal point for the arrangement and served as a resting place for padds and refreshments (the Captain had moved the chez long he was so attached to into his quarters, replacing it with this informal seating arrangement, more appropriate for relaxed interaction with his staff than what Lirik referred to as his ‘coasting couch’).
True to his habit, only Lirik had opted to drink a beverage: although he restrained himself from his normal ritual with a coffee pot, choosing instead a ready-prepared coffee from the replicator, (his own specific recipe), and was careful to select a regulation Starfleet mug – white – to keep warm the foamy, creamy contents. The scent permeated the whole office, and was unpleasant just for Narli, who had never understood the Human love affair with hot bitter liquids. The rest of the group had merely filled clear tumblers from the pitcher of cool water the Captain had provided.
In the centre of the wood-panelled internal wall that ran port to starboard and provided a division between the Captain’s office and the forward sections of Deck 2, a wide holographic hearth crackled with glowing thick embers. Christian had selected a traditional Victorian wooden fascia and adorned the shelf with silver framed pictures of his parents and other old friends and colleagues from the personal holdall he’d kept with him. He had also selected several antique paintings from the booty room to hang here; four large portraits of famous sea-faring men of Earth’s history, two each flanking an even larger central scene set above the fireplace depicting the full rage of the Battle of Trafalgar.
The three women sat together on the longer sofa with their backs to the starboard hull, looking smart if a little stiff in their dark uniforms, each highlighted with crimson, tan and olive respectively. Narli, in black and grey, sat opposite them in the otherwise vacant two-seater. He looked uncomfortable in his clothes, fidgeting with the collar and cuffs. To Narli’s left, nearest to the faux flames, Lirik rested back in one of two deep wing-backed armchairs, legs crossed man-style with a relaxed, almost casual air – he in the crimson of Command, rather than the black of Purser’s department. To Narli’s right, opposite Lirik, sat the Captain in the other single chair. Beyond the pool of intimate down-light the team could make out, through the many wood framed square windows surrounding them, stars ambling past in short bright streaks of warp speed. An atmosphere of tension seemed enhanced by the simulated snap and pop of the fire and distant low hum of the ship’s systems as the group waited patiently for Christian to gather his thoughts and begin.
“I want you all to understand,” the Captain began forebodingly, “what I’m about to ask of you is dangerous. In simple terms, it’s a fact-finding mission into potentially hostile territory.” He noticed their immediate exchange of glances. “The situation there is precarious and unpredictable, so there is a risk that you won’t make it back.”
Stunned looks accompanied a change of seating positions and breathing patterns, but none passed comment, allowing the Captain to elaborate. “I need you to know the facts so that if you want to opt out at this stage, you can. I can’t afford for people to go who aren’t prepared to face that possibility. So for the record, this away mission is purely voluntary.” He paused, and then added. “Although, while there are a number of other people who could take your place, I would prefer the five of you.”
The group continued their silence, digesting his words – although Souveson wondered if she should say something right away. She felt she had let the Captain down on a number of occasions since becoming part of his command crew, and was perhaps too much of a liability to be sent on evidently such a perilous but necessary assignment.
Jackson was looking pensively between O’Hara and Christian.
“Excuse me, Captain,” she said, unable to hold her tongue, “but are you saying that Lieutenant O’Hara is accompanying us on this mission?” If none could hear the contempt in her voice, they could surely see it expressed in her narrowing bespectacled eyes, although she made it clear to the others by her choice of words that she wasn’t opting out of the mission herself.
“I’ve considered the added risks involved, and if the Lieutenant is agreeable to go on the away mission, then I am happy for her to do so,” Christian said as smoothly and commandingly as possible.
“Forgive me, Captain,” the Commodore barely emphasised that last word to remind him once again of their relationship, “but you just said we might not return. Lieutenant O’Hara has another life to consider in this matter.” Jackson felt flushed from chagrin, despite her words. It went against every principle to question the command decision of a fellow officer more competent in such matters, let alone the fact that she’d agreed to act as XO to his Captaincy and so agree to follow his lead. And yet, she was nevertheless the grandmother of this unborn child, and instinctively she felt she had to do everything in her power to protect it, if only for its father (MIA).
However, as the words passed her lips, they also began to echo in her head with regret – the last thing she wanted was to have a personal argument with the Captain in front of the crew, especially the junior ranked Lieutenant. And she certainly didn’t relish the idea of Lirik and Narli observing her dirty laundry that they would no doubt debate and analyse at leisure during their soonest off-hours together. Jackson wondered why Christian hadn’t discussed this matter with her in private beforehand – he must have known what her position would be, surely?
“I’m well aware of the Lieutenant’s condition, Commodore,” Christian said – a little patronising, but equal to her own slight at his decision.
O’Hara turned to the Commodore, remarkably composed. It suddenly occurred to Jackson that the nurse and the Captain had prepared for her probable reaction in advance.
“I am less than two months pregnant, Sir. I don’t need to remind you that is well inside the window for pregnant Terrans to be assigned away missions, dangerous or otherwise.” They locked eyes, sizing each other up.
To the others, O’Hara’s insolent tone toward the Commodore felt deserving of an appropriate reprimand, but rather the veteran fixed her jaw and stared straight ahead. Jackson swallowed hard, conscious of the others seeing her indignant attitude manifested in her physical reactions.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “I apologise.” The regulations were indeed crystal clear. All parents knew the risks either upon entering Starfleet, or when serving and considering starting a family. Just because she was related to this unplanned foetus, she had no right to break regulations.
“You’ll need O’Hara with you,” Christian affirmed his stance to Jackson, his tone softening. “No one else would do. In fact, each one of you has been selected accordingly.” The Commodore remained tight-lipped at her embarrassment, but trying her hardest to be gracious about it. She had been in the wrong, after all.
Souveson glanced at the others, now completely dumbfounded as to why the Captain had chosen her. Aside from her forays on the space port Erowoon and the USS Craybourne, she had no other away mission experience in her short career since leaving the Academy. In the former she had nearly got the Captain killed, and in the latter she had run the risk of blowing him and the rest of the away team up on the coolant-saturated vessel.
“Where exactly are we going?” Lirik asked, matching Christian’s solemnity and conveniently changing the subject for all concerned.
“Well, for that, I defer to the expert,” Christian said with an unforced, crooked smile and turned his head.
From out of the shadows – seemingly from out of nowhere – a figure walked toward the group. Jackson could smell her distinctive perfume before she recognised the familiar silhouette. “Captain Bel?”
Bel, dressed in an all-in-one activity jumpsuit of figure-hugging blue satin and pencil heeled boots to match stepped into the lamplight and perched on the arm of Christian’s chair, crossing her legs gracefully, lady-style. Sitting beside the frizzy haired merchant captain, Christian looked smug, though his grin faded as he noticed neither Lirik nor Narli were impressed.
“I didn’t know you were on board,” O’Hara said, shocked at seeing the woman again so soon. By now Bel’s ship should have been dozens of light years into a four year absence, (or so she’d learned from the Captain’s ship-wide address shortly after they’d parted company), on a strange and, to her mind, ridiculous mission to a place called Astrelia to try and call upon powerful reinforcements to take on the might of the K’Tani. So what was she doing back here?
“You didn’t go with your ship, then?” Jackson interjected eagerly – as much to move on from her feeling of having made a fool of herself. Then she added with more disbelief than surprise at this latest revelation. “You came with us in secret?” How had Bel remained hidden for the past 10 days? And why had the Captain not informed her – a second oversight?
“In a way, yes,” Bel nodded with a cheeky grin. “Tell them how I got here, Captain,” she giggled.
“Yesterday morning I received a private communication from Bel,” he said, noticing Narli shift in his seat.
“You did?!” Narli leaned forward. “I received no such message on the Bridge.” (The Ambassador had been covering for Commander Struckchev on the bridge while the Kosovan assisted in some crash-course training for command department volunteers).
“You didn’t tell me about any signal,” Jackson stated instinctively – three things he hadn’t informed her about, this was too much. She wondered if there could be a divide opening between them. The Captain patiently waved them down.
“I know, I know. The message didn’t come to me conventionally. Rather it came via that… thing over there,” he pointed into the darkened room toward a large bronze bust on a corner table, the facial features of the Grecian God Hermes picked out by starlight. “Bel sneakily had it installed during the repairs, and I didn’t even notice it among all the other objects that had been brought in here. I assumed it was just another antique destined for the Federation Archives.” He had to admit, he liked the cosier, lived-in feeling of his office – some of the objects he’d chosen from the vast hoard Lirik’s staff had discovered so far, the rest had been placed by others in an attempt to make it feel more in keeping with a commanding officer’s place of work. The overall effect was masculine, neat, slightly eclectic and overwhelmingly traditional in the formal naval style.
“It’s a secure subspace communicator,” Bel explained. “And it’s the only way you can talk to me and I can talk to you. Each device is unique. Only certain members of the resistance have them, and they only work for as long as you and your associates ping in authorisation signals and receive verification from others. If you don’t, they cease to function.”
“How many of them are there, exactly?” Commodore Jackson asked, picking up a padd ready to record details. “Is it possible that we could use this one to contact other members of-“
“Sorry, Commodore,” Christian sat forward, gently cutting her off. “What you are saying is important, but will have to wait for now as time is of the essence. Suffice it to say that the device we have is designed as a link between our vessel and that of Captain Bel, although it may be possible to access other devices in the future.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous, Sir?” Souveson asked, risk assessing the unit from her tactical point of view. “Surely if one of them falls into the hands of the K’Tani-“
“Please,” Christian reiterated, “we don’t have time to discuss this now.”
Bel placed a hand on his arm. “From this mission’s perspective the little young lady has a pertinent point, Captain. I can assure you, Lieutenant, that these devices are built with many safety features. If it was ever compromised or thought to be compromised, it would be possible to deactivate it remotely. Moreover, they cannot be replicated or simulated in any way. No K’Tani could ever hope to operate one, hence for the latter part of the resistance movement they became a cornerstone to our success.”
“So if you sent us a message yesterday,” O’Hara steered the conversation back to Christian’s original point, “how did you get here this quickly? Have you been following us?”
Bel smiled. “Well, technically I’m not really here at all.”
“She’s a hologram,” Narli revealed – he able to distinguish between natural and simulated light with his antennae. Lirik knew as much with his own ability to sense electromagnetic energy, and her’s was concurrent with that of a hologram.
“Actually, she’s part of a massive database downloaded by Bel during the repairs,” the Captain explained and noted Jackson’s frown. “Lieutenant Hedrik was unaware of the self-encrypting data – even Lieutenant Karnak didn’t spot it among the many and myriad files we have onboard although it is encrypted and deeply embedded, and would be nigh impossible to access from off-ship. Bel added this holocharacter element for crew interaction – she can be used as a reference on all matters concerning the K’Tani military and the Resistance, advise us on potential allies and known hostiles, as well as being familiar with this region of the Outer Zone and an outstanding engineer and pilot.”
“I’m also a great cook,” Bel added.
“A hologram..,” Souveson muttered disdainfully.
O’Hara shifted in her seat, feeling a little uncomfortable; she had clear opinions about holograms and had always regarded them purely as clever and complex computer programmes. Although this one clearly carried a lot of intel – and that worried her.
“Not meaning to be rude, Captain,” O’Hara didn’t look at Bel, “but this program could make us more of a target. I thought one of the main reasons why Bel had chosen to go on the mission that would take her far away from here was because she was too much of a security risk to the resistance if caught and interrogated.”
Bel huffed mockingly. “You’ve already been tracked and pursued by the K’Tani,” she snapped, speaking up for her particle and light manifested self. “They even went to the trouble of installing a Rogue on board posing as one of your people. So I have no doubt they’ll keep looking for you, for whatever reason that may be. Well, one reason could be because of this protective coating substance that shields your vessel from all but those within eyeballing distance. And as I’ve pointed out before, that reason also makes this ship the safest place in the Outer Zone.”
”Not to mention that we’re going to need Bel and her generous resources on our way,” Christian added, causing a cheeky nudge from his cohort for his double entendre, much to the amusement of Lirik. “But if we do get compromised, Bel has made sure that her programme can be self-terminated or wiped on the say so of a command officer.”
Narli and Lirik raised an eyebrow at this.
“So could you please tell us where we are going?” Commodore Jackson’s tone had changed slightly – another who didn’t get on well with the idea of sentient holograms that controlled their own actions (she made a note on her padd to talk about the extent of Bel’s programming with Christian at the first opportunity). In fact, looking around at the reactions to Bel, it seemed to the Commodore that only the Captain and Lirik enjoyed the IDIC ideals of holographic entertainment.
Bel nodded. “You are going to one of the key strategic locations in the whole of the Outer Zone. The Home World of the B’Det.”
Each of the away team recalled details about the B’Det, some from the official Starfleet orientation lecture on arrival in OZ, others from the summary files that the Hudson and Severn had downloaded to the Fantasy computer.
B’Det was a large territory, spanning almost four dozen star systems, and its people were advanced technologically. They were probably the most widespread and successful trading nation in the Outer Zone and their technology was everywhere, as the crew had discovered. Although peaceful, they specialised in manufacturing and trading weapons and defence and had a vast fleet with which to test and market their wares. Perhaps because of their conservatism – that bordered xenophobia in the inner planets – they had used their independent status to take a neutral position during the previous K’Tani occupation of Qovakia that had lasted for well over half a century.
The B’Det could be loosely divided into two main social and political groups – the outgoing, flamboyant, mercurial, younger civilisations in the border and outlying regions, and the older more traditional Home World and its immediate surrounding systems. Needless to say there are a smattering of each in the others’ regions, and most of the larger cities and more commercial worlds throughout their territory are generally more liberal.
“Your mission requires a little background information,” Christian nodded to Bel who puffed herself up to her full seated height.
“A short while ago we received a ‘ping’ from the main B’Det Resistance Cell on their Home World. Normally that wouldn’t be unusual, only we were contacted nearly a month ago by the same group telling us that they were disbanding with immediate effect, mainly because they had reason to believe a Gene Clone was tracking them down.”
“Sorry, a ‘Gene Clone’?” O’Hara asked – although she’d managed to read a substantial amount of data provided by Bel and other Qovakians, her main priority had been the treatment and rehabilitation of many passengers and crew, not to mention organising the medical centres, training her volunteers and conducting medicals on the ship’s complement.
“Although far superior and more complex in design, in essence they have the same agenda as the Rogues. The difference is a Gene Clone is a fully biological life form created by K’Tani – though the technology to achieve it came from the B’Det. They look, sound and feel humanoid, with emotions and humour, creativity and great intelligence. But they are something more: they have enhanced senses, they have a photographic memory and instant recall, they are cunning and charming, and they are physically very strong and agile. Sometimes they have implanted cybernetic technology specific to their task. At the very least they are adept spies and proficient killers programmed to serve the K’Tani to the last. They blend in very easily and are near-impossible to identify without extensive analysis. Often they are cloned from existing individuals and put through accelerated growth to take the original’s place, some as sleepers only to be activated when they are required – however their longevity is dubious, as a number have recently developed a terrible blood condition and died.”
“If they’re so hard to spot, how did your operatives on B’Det know of the existence of one on, then?” Narli asked, intrigued.
“As I said, the B’Det were key in providing the genetic manipulating technology used to create the clones in the first place,” Bel said, shaking her head with disappointment. “Presumably they have developed a technique to identify them, something impossible for the Resistance to have achieved to date – during or since the war.”
“Sounds familiar,” Commodore Jackson commented, referring to the shapeshifting Dominion. The others murmured in agreement.
“Do you think we may have one on board?” Souveson asked her Captain.
Christian’s face fell, he sat up, but Bel shook her head before he could quiz her. “It’s doubtful. The Rogues don’t exactly get along with the Gene Clones, and there wouldn’t have been time to replace any of your passengers or crew.”
“Nevertheless, it would be prudent to guard against them in future,” Christian said to the group. “Procuring the technology that identifies them needs adding to our priority list.”
Lirik nodded, and entered the details onto his personal padd – noting that Narli’s auto-updated simultaneously.
“If indeed there is a Gene Clone on the Home World of the B’Det, then it could have been dormant for many years – perhaps activated shortly after this most recent K’Tani invasion,” Bel warned.
“Surely it is also as possible that it might have only just arrived?” Christian added.
“Possibly. Let’s hope so,” Bel acceded. “For otherwise it could be a great danger to our former Cell members. They may have remained anonymous to all but their closest and most trusted family members, but if I’m right, the clone may well have observed activities before the K’Tani fell from grace the first time around and identified key individuals, or at least key suspects who may be associated with the Resistance Cell.”
“Well, let’s just hope that I’m right, then,” Christian retorted, though his hope sounded fainthearted.
“Captain,” Narli addressed the alien woman rather than Christian. “Why did the network of Resistance Cells crumble so fast in the face of the K’Tani’s return?”
Bel got up and walked to sit beside Narli, looking a little hurt. Odd that a hologram would decide to move to a more comfortable seating position, the Andorian thought. “The reality is that times had changed since the last occupation. In the five years or so following the K’Tani’s fall from power, a number of our more egotistical Resistance members went public, proud of their efforts and becoming local heroes. Through the media and interstellar gossip, others were named or at least hinted at having a role – many of whom ironically had nothing to do with us whatsoever. So the sad fact is that since word of the K’Tani return had begun to filter through, most of these individuals realised that they – and their families – would become targets.”
“I see,” Narli concluded, “how unfortunate.” He sounded almost Human to Christian’s ears – probably years spent mixing in diplomatic circles.
“Thankfully, right throughout the former occupation, all of our Resistance Cells knew that if they were badly compromised they could pose a significant threat to the rest of the movement,” Bel looked at each of them as she spoke. “So each Cell member was fully prepared to disappear in the wink of an eye, or take alternative appropriate action. Following the recent K’Tani invasion those who can have therefore gone to ground – taking with them many of those who had also been falsely identified. Those that simply couldn’t disappear, either because of great responsibilities – such as those in high positions in society – or those who just didn’t want to leave were…‘treated’ for their situation instead.”
“’Treated’?” O’Hara was shocked – was Captain Bel suggesting something underhand?
“A simple procedure of memory fragmentation,” Bel said, much to O’Hara’s relief, although she wondered if procedures were as risky here as they were back home. “Every Cell had such technology, although I admit that it is a little crude. It’s not an extensive memory wipe, just key details – enough to render their knowledge of the Resistance as next to useless. Unfortunately, it does have a habit of wiping other peripheral memories also.”
“So why didn’t you yourself opt to use it-?” Souveson’s question to Bel was cut short by the most rapid of movements, the woman’s expression daring her to finish the question. Clearly, Souveson thought, she believes her role in the Resistance too important to give up; and probably why she chose to take the long away mission to Astrelia – to put herself out of the way until it’s safer for her to return.
“Of course, in time we hope those that are able to will start up their activities again independently, and slowly group together – just as we did the first time around,” Bel softened her tone and paused. Before she resumed the briefing she reached into a thigh pocket, pulling out a slim cigarette case, removing a thin white stick and lighting it with a tiny trinket that hung around her neck.
“Er…?!” Jackson balked, haughtily, brandishing a wagging finger toward the stick, now glowing at the end as Bel inhaled.
Bel puffed a long plume of smoke into the air and watched it dissipate. “It’s okay Commodore, keep your pips on. I adjusted the programme so that there’s no real smoke – no smell, no toxins, it’s all just an illusion.” O’Hara and Lirik smiled silently at Bel’s turn of phrase. Souveson glanced at Captain Christian, worried that this hologram could adapt her program with ease.
“Then why do it at all?” the Commodore replied.
“Because,” Bell shrugged and crossed her legs, her supported foot wagging up and down in agitation, “it’s what I do.”
“Computer! Deactivate the Bel programme!” Jackson flared, suddenly angry – she could put up with a rookie Starfleet Captain pushing his luck, but not a hologram.
“Er…” Christian flashed his eyes over to the enraged hologram then across to his XO. “She can’t be deactivated unless the ship’s situation is critical, Commodore – or unless she’s in agreement.”
“What?!” the Commodore was appalled.
“Oh, if it’ll make you stop whining!” Bel took the cigarette out of her mouth and blew on it. As if like an adept magician, the white stick and smoke effect decompiled to nothing.
“I see that smoking isn’t the only modification she made to her programme,” Narli raised a white eyebrow, half impressed, half concerned. Bel winked at him.
“Can we please continue with the briefing?” Christian implored wearily – though most of the stress came from the thought of the conversation that would follow with Commodore Jackson; she sat back into her seat and crossed her arms. “Carry on, Captain,” he nodded.
Bel glanced over at Jackson then stuck her nose in the air before continuing. “Like I was saying, the B’Det Cell was…is of immense strategic importance to us. But they also run one of the highest risks. In part it’s due to the highly sensitive nature of the intel they peddle, but mostly it’s because of the very nature of their society. B’Det culture, particularly around the home world, is steeped in tradition and custom, and despite the modernist, liberal movement that has permeated communities over the last hundred years, the Cell needed to keep their identities totally secret.
“As I already inferred, despite outward appearances of peace and unity, the B’Det are a divided society. The governments of the Home World and inner planets – the star systems closest to the Home World – are all pretty conservative, old fashioned and rooted in the past, though the main population is slowly changing in attitude. Whereas the outlying regions and border systems that abut Qovakia and other neighbouring races are far more outgoing, more willing to embrace change, perhaps even a little too quick at making friends than the Home World would like.
“Over the last century these border regions have got away with their increasingly liberal and cavalier attitudes because they have turned the B’Det into a major power in the Sector via lucrative trade agreements. As I’m sure you’re aware from your briefings on Outer Zone powers,” Bel used their expression for her part of the Galaxy with an amused tone to her voice, “the B’Det’s prowess, especially in military fare, is second to none and has made many rich among its people. It’s just a shame they can’t pick and choose their friends more wisely.”
“You mean the K’Tani?” Souveson asked, not wanting to be chastised again, but all the same wanting to participate in the discussion – even if she was thinking seriously about pulling out of the mission.
Bel nodded. “The last time the K’Tani were in power and threatened the borders of B’Det space it was these frontier planets that used their business acumen and negotiating skills in forming a treaty. All B’Det space would retain its freedom – its neutrality – in exchange for advanced military technology. All B’Det traffic would be allowed to move freely in Qovakia, although they would be subject to random inspection. If any B’Det was found to be aiding in any kind of resistance against the K’Tani it would be met with serious punishment from their own people, as it could be deemed to be an act of war.”
“Why didn’t the K’Tani just invade, as they had everywhere else?” Souveson interrupted.
“The B’Det are superior to the K’Tani in weapons technology and their fleet is vast – albeit mostly ornamental. Besides, by the time the K’Tani reached their borders their own number was somewhat stretched. In addition, the B’Det are essentially a peaceful race, avoiding conflict wherever possible,” Bel explained. She smiled at the irony. “Although they were surprised when the K’Tani added a clause to the treaty in the form of a Trade Agreement.”
Narli was intrigued.
Bel continued. “When the K’Tani realised the potential of the new relationship, they offered substantial financial return if the B’Det would go one step further and agree to licence old technology exclusively to the K’Tani military. Thus it would give them right of approval to sell on equipment, usually old, out of date models, to other less developed races and private ventures, offsetting some of their own costs. The B’Det failed to realise it would further enhance the K’Tani grip on the entire Outer Zone.”
There were a few surprised looks at this.
“Oh yes,” Bel continued, “the K’Tani aren’t just an insatiable military might, they also have skills in business and trade – and just as much in engineering and medical research. Survival and expansion is their main objective, whatever the cost and whatever the means, so they have learned to adapt – fight battles in other ways.
“Needless to say the B’Det agreed to the deal, many would say purely based on the massive profit potential. But I suspect that it was also a prudent choice given the alternative of a bloody invasion and possibly heavy losses along with the risk of a protracted conflict. Hence the B’Det commenced providing the K’Tani with masses of arms, anything from harmonic shields to warp engines and synapse based command systems.
“Conversely, the people of the B’Det central nations were so wrapped up in their own lives, concentrating on money markets, intra-trading and issues of the Family, that the effects of the neighbouring K’Tani occupation were barely felt on the Home World and inner planets. They just blindly carried on supplying an ever increasing demand for ballistics and reaping the rewards of their cousins’ entrepreneurialism. Only those brave souls who ventured into Qovakia began to know snippets of the truth, and even then it was only what the K’Tani allowed them to see.
“Eventually, of course, word of who the K’Tani really were and what they were actually using the military technology for began to filter back to the Home World, and there followed a slow but steady rise in protest. Not so much out of any moral duty or sympathy for vulnerable neighbouring nations, but more because they felt they had been misled by their tearaway brethren in the border regions.
“That was how the Resistance gained a more permanent foothold on B’Det. At first, the planet had only provided a succession of short-lived informants, most of whom became too scared to carry on. But once the truth began to be generally known, independently a number of powerful B’Det families began to feed information to the resistance network. We smuggled them more efficient secure communication devices,” Bel gestured to the Hermes bust, “and so gained a permanent link straight to the heart of B’Det commerce itself. Very occasionally, these families would even provide us with technology of our own, but it was extremely risky – not least because the B’Det themselves have such extensive security systems in place – and many deliveries were indeed intercepted, although due to their overzealous caution none of the members of the Cell were ever compromised, having used third – or usually fourth or fifth parties.
“Eventually, years later, of course, the K’Tani were overthrown – thanks solely to the Ore. But despite the B’Det inner planets having become far more resolute in their attitude toward the wrongful activities of the border regions, it had never actually developed into anything substantial. And once the K’Tani were deposed, the B’Det’s alliance was annulled, so there was little point in continuing the disagreement. Things gradually returned to an even keel between Home World and border planets, but I think it was inevitable that a seed of rotten distrust had been planted.
“As soon as word of the impending recent K’Tani invasion reached the B’Det central government, they were worried about a similar alliance being rekindled, perhaps even of the border planets leading a coupe of their own against the Home World should the K’Tani be successful.
“Because of this B’Det security forces were despatched in large numbers to the border – however in order to maintain diplomatic relations they were put under the control of a few trusted and loyal local leaders. Since the actual invasion took place, the situation has worsened. Those same leaders, offering an atmosphere of freedom and liberty that the men and women of the security forces had not known before, gained much influence over them. The government has grown nervous about its ability to maintain control. The border regions have continued to express a sense of calm to the Home World, insisting that the K’Tani would not threaten them because of their previous relationship. And although the situation on the surface appears as a status quo, it has sparked a major row throughout all B’Det space, and relations with the border regions have severely broken down in a matter of weeks.
“Personally, I think it’s only a matter of time before internal conflict ensues,” Bel was more serious now than she had ever been, and all the present sceptics were gripped by her explanation, imagining this until now stable race being on the verge of crumbling under K’Tani pressure.
“Do you think it will be possible for the B’Det central government to prevent the border regions from forming another K’Tani alliance?” Narli asked.
“I’m afraid they may already be too late for that, Commander,” Bel said with regret. “My analysts believe the K’Tani have already made contact – indeed, intelligence suggests that their influence has spread to key positions throughout the Border Regions. That last message we had from our Cell on the Home World talking about the gene clone speaks for itself.”
Narli looked at Lirik – they both frowned and looked over at the Captain. Neither could work out what their role would be in all this.
Bel shook her head. “No information has come out of the inner planets or from the Home World since their final message,” Bel said, then sat forward, looking around at the group. “But when we got this ping – well, we believe it could have been an attempt at a signal for help.”
“Or presumably it could have been from this gene clone you speak of, trying to lure you into a trap?” Lirik replied, gauging what their mission would be based on Bel’s last statement.
“Or maybe it was directly from the K’Tani themselves,” Narli suggested. “Perhaps they found a way to operate your communication device, although not entirely successfully.”
Bel shrugged – a gesture of frustration rather than despair. “Well, whoever it was,” Bel chimed in, “they couldn’t have operated the transmitter without being one of the former Resistance Cell members. The device only recognises a select few in each group, and would have rendered itself inoperative had anyone else attempted to use it. But even so, just sending us a ping – it’s highly irregular. Each ping is a remarkably complex transmission. Although most of the elements were there, the few key markers known only to the operatives themselves were incomplete.”
“Then please tell us, Captain Bel, what is our role to be in this?” Souveson asked boldly, immediately wanting to know what the details of this dangerous mission were exactly.
“It is of the utmost importance,” Bel looked into the shadows and out into space, as if remembering the horrors of what had been, and what could so easily be again. “Knowing what’s happening on B’Det is vital to our survival.”
“Your mission,” Christian sat forward, “will be to travel to the B’Det Home World and establish the fate of the resistance Cell.”
There was a pause, punctuated only by Jackson mouthing the word ‘what’.
The others were equally reticent. Lirik uncrossed his legs, his gait more concerned and prickly than before. “We’re a bit green to the Outer Zone for this kind of assignment, surely?”
“Even if we do go,” Jackson interjected, glancing at O’Hara and hinting to the fact that there was a possibility they might not go – she was still the senior officer here, despite her agreement with Christian to behave as his 1st Officer. “If the Cell has been compromised, it’s likely we will be too.”
“That is a risk, yes,” Christian admitted, but before he could continue Bel had cut across him.
“The K’Tani occupation of Qovakia lasted just over fifty years; they’ve only been gone for five. So the members of the Cell served us for most of their lives,” Bel said, clearly trying to reason with the Commodore, make her appreciate that the mission could be a success. “I know they told us they were disbanding and going to ground, but given the nature of their society they wouldn’t probably be able to ‘disappear’. Even if the gene clone were a clear and present danger, with the exception of communicating with us they would continue their lives as before. Personally, I believe they would still talk to each other, determine if there were ways they could assist us but without communicating directly, even if it were only a few of them. But whatever it takes, we must try to re-establish regular contact as soon as possible.”
“It’s critical that we do this,” Christian said soberly. “As I mentioned, the B’Det lead the known field of weapons development in the Outer Zone. Assuming the worst and they start supplying the K’Tani again, the Resistance will need to know what technology is going to be used against them… against us. If possible, we will be able to arm ourselves with the same, or at least develop effective defences. And we need to act now – we can’t wait for the Cell to reform at its own pace.”
“Moreover,” Bel added, “we may be able to help them with their own conflict. Tactically, the K’Tani might well want a civil war between border regions and the Home World – divide and conquer and all that. The Cell on the Home World may find it too dangerous or logistically impossible to act against this, but outsiders may be able to lend a hand, apply pressure where necessary.”
“And to fully answer your question, Commodore,” Christian concluded, “if you do find that the Resistance Cell is gone, then you will need to try and set one up from scratch.”
Jackson shook her head – she didn’t see how that would be possible. Normally this kind of covert work was carried out by specialists, probably natives; it would be extremely difficult for aliens to just steam in and organise such a thing. It would take an enormous amount of time, months even – and what then of O’Hara’s unborn?!
“I have a question,” Lirik stalled the Commodore’s train of thought. “Why doesn’t Bel herself, or others in the Resistance go on this mission? Why us?” He looked the hologram in the eyes. “We’re sure to stick out a mile.”
“Aside from your personal experience of undercover missions in alien territory, Commander,” Christian said, revealing something of the Chief Purser’s past to the other officers present, “there is each of your individual and unique abilities. Besides that, the USS Fantasy is nearest, and because of its unique cloaking coating, our ship has the best chance of approaching B’Det space undetected for a rapid away team insertion than any other.”
“We need to make contact quickly,” Bel insisted. “Besides that, no-one has ever met any of the B’Det Cell in the flesh, so we would be as much strangers to them as you.”
“And how do we go about finding them?” Souveson asked.
“We have several likely names along with a list of possible locations of sympathisers,” Bel said. “We also have the names of a few vessels that the Resistance has encountered when receiving contraband or intel. It won’t be easy, I grant you. The Cell kept their identities secret from everyone, some even from their own Family members. However, regardless of what their government may say on the matter, with the state of the region as it is, I’m sure you will find people on the whole against a K’Tani alliance, so there may well be talk of resistance and dissent openly.”
“You’ll all need slight surgical alteration,” Christian noticed Narli’s jaw drop open at this. “It’s okay, Ambassador, you’re role is as pilot and to remain aboard your ship, ready to pull out if necessary. I need Reb here, and you’re the next best pilot we have.”
“Hmf!” Lirik balked. Then he spoke up: “I don’t exactly mingle in crowds that well, Captain.”
“Many B’Det wear energy shields for all manner of purposes,” Bel explained “Some are for personal protection, some for warmth or medical conditions, and some even emit a field that feels very pleasant, or automatically hones in on the shields of others that are programmed as compatible to their own. Your personal shield is very similar in energy output.”
“And,” Christian added with a hint of mischief, ”you’re good with people and an all rounder. I can’t think of a better person to accompany the Commodore as her Concubine.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lirik said dead-pan.
“Case in point,” Jackson said, also feeling inadequate and missing the joke about Lirik. “Why me? I’m no intelligence operative or soldier.”
“Oh,” Bel grinned sarcastically. “There’s a very good reason for choosing you as team leader.”
Jackson flushed with warmth at the gall of the woman – clearly she had been discussed by this hologram and the Captain with an air of churlish impudence.
“We’re due to rendezvous with a contact of Bel’s in fifteen hours,” Christian stated, skirting across Bel’s tone. “He’ll supply a ship, clothing and all the accoutrement you’ll need for your cover. Here are your orders, study them carefully,” Christian passed each of them an isolated padd (more secure than a conventional padd) and watched their faces drop as they scrolled down their cover identities and took in the intricacies of fitting in to B’Det society.
“Aren’t they a picture,” Bel smiled, though this time it was more out of affection.
* * *
FRIDAY MORNING, ABOUT 9AM
LOCATION: B’DET TERRITORY AP/REF 8/8K98U34J22PT00334 (basically just off the edge of the Druvani Proprietary, renowned for its famous musical cow – a bovine with holes in its mostly hollow tail that wails in the wind, or indeed when it swishes it to and fro. Jackson had made note of this in her personal log, saying a prayer to her old and dear-departed friend who collected bovine-related paraphernalia. She had also added humorously: ‘it was widely speculated that the original cow’s owner had done this to her himself in order to attract attention and publicity – and’, she ended, ‘it did indeed do so, and profitably, the cow’s milk fetching four times its retail value in the years that followed.’ In fact, unbeknown to Jackson the trait was bred into a special herd, and the descendants of the original dairy farmer now market the milk in a range of strong brands priced at extortionate rates. The original cow is a popular tourist spot in the central foyer of the Druvani Central Museum, where children can press a button to watch the preserved cow’s tale mechanically swish to and fro and create the familiar haunting sounds – Ed)
A conical shaped vessel effortlessly coursed through subspace at warp 6. Approximately fifteen metres in diameter at its widest, it comprised four decks in the upper slanted section, and a further two decks in the deep, dish-shaped underbelly that made up the warp generator and engine/power plant, landing gear, cargo rooms and evac ramps. Known as the G’vorn Spring, she was a registered personal transport belonging to a Jessil Mayathropp, registered Pilot.
The pilot for hire was Narli’s cover and a special covert morphing programme had been added to communications to make Narli’s face and voice appear as that of the said pilot should they need to respond to a hail. His passengers’ navigational documents disclosed that they were on a Family business trip to the Home World – one of 4 billion such journeys that typically took place each quarter on the busy planet.
“Mission Log, Stardate 53892.2, Commodore Jackson recording. We are seventeen hours away from the B’Det Home World, which they call Apniania. Already we are many light years within B’Det space, and have passed by dozens of inhabited star systems, space stations and innumerable vessels.
“Our identity remains a secret and we do not appear to have aroused suspicion thus far.”
Jackson studied her reflection in the small bathroom’s even smaller mirror. The only cosmetic alteration required to make them look B’Det was a small fleshy protrusion between the eyes, and a flexible subcutaneous ‘quill’ in the side of each palm. Although the B’Det also had two belly buttons, they had decided it unlikely that such a feature would need to be revealed during their mission (crop tops and bikinis were unheard of here – Ed). However, as O’Hara was accompanying the away team on the mission, she could still adequately perform any cosmetic changes required with a few specialist medical supplies that Bel’s contact had provided – for a small additional fee, of course.
The clothes Jackson had been allocated were those of a Director Matriarch, that is a woman who both runs her own family business and heads her household. Normally such women were mature, full-figured, imposing, if a little haughty. They could carry themselves in any argument and lead with an iron hand, while at the same time appearing to be maternal, nurturing people. The Matriarchs were an old tradition, but were nevertheless only slightly less common in the border and outlying regions.
Jackson was to be accompanied, as tradition dictated for any number of journeys, by a trio of faithful assistants. As they’d discovered at the briefing, Lirik was curiously playing the part of Concubine (who also often acted as chief negotiator), Souveson her Personal Assistant, and O’Hara her ‘General’ – basically an all-round technical handyperson, able pilot, personal valet/butler and protector.
Following that briefing, Jackson had vehemently argued with Christian when alone in his office about his selecting O’Hara for the away team. They had been rudely interrupted by Bel, which prompted the Commodore to fly into a complete rage and deactivate all holographic interfaces on Deck Two, and after a brief discussion about said hologram personality – which the Captain partially conceded on – they had continued to discuss O’Hara. Jackson tried to emphasise that she was merely worried that her unborn grandchild would be unwittingly brought along on a potentially fatal mission. But Christian deemed that the Lieutenant’s training, both as a marine and as a Starfleet officer and medic would be vital, and despite his not wishing to lose his CMO, let alone harm the unborn child, he couldn’t come up with an alternative choice.
Seeing that Christian wouldn’t back down, she insisted on redressing him over his not informing her about Bel’s transmission. The Captain apologised and to partially make up for it, he gave his XO an abridged version of events:
The day before the briefing, Christian had been going through endless paperwork at his desk when the bust of Hermes had turned to him and whistled softly. At first he thought he was just imagining it, tired as he was from so much stress and never-ending administration while the myriad operations of the Fantasy were brought up to Starfleet standard. But then he’d heard a male voice with a thick Mediterranean accent whispering to him from the shadows near to the door.
‘Psst! Hey, buddy! Come over here!’ he’d heard. He’d walked over to the lacquered side table and watched as the bust looked up at him and said: ‘Hey, I got a message for you!’
The bust had then snapped back to its original, static state, and Bel’s voice had come through the unmoving mouth of the small statue, hissy and distant. Through the patchy static she explained that she had a vitally important mission to discuss with him and said that she’d explain it all when he saw her. Then there was nothing. He’d tried to pick up the bust, but it was fixed to the table. He examined it with his hands but found nothing – he’d even scanned it with a tricorder, and the results were that it was… a bronze bust. So he turned back to his desk and sat down to continue with his paperwork.
Shortly after, he’d sensed he was no longer alone in the room. He looked up and was surprised to spot a figure standing beside the fireplace – smoking and holding a glass tumbler containing an amber liquid. It was unmistakably Captain Bel, and she was wearing a mostly see-through, incredibly short item of bed wear and fluffy-strapped mules, hair mostly up, just a few strands falling about her in tight ringlets. She caught his eye and blew a plume of smoke toward him alluringly, but couldn’t maintain the façade and creased up with laughter on seeing Christian’s dumbfounded reaction, dematerialised, and then reappeared wearing more conventional and appropriate apparel.
She apologised for the small joke, explained what she was and how she was there, plus what the device was, and then went on to tell Christian all about the B’Det and the ‘ping’ that they’d received.
Christian failed to inform the Commodore, however, that Bel had recommended which of his crew should go on the mission, she having interfaced her programme with the recently amended Fantasy crew personnel files. He thought if Jackson knew he and Bel had discussed personnel assignment – usually the responsibility of the XO – then it would merely enrage her anew.
The only consolation the Captain could provide the Commodore in that respect was that at least the Lieutenant would be mostly where she could keep an eye on her.
Jackson turned sideways to study her profile reflection in the short, thin mirror to her side which she more than filled in both directions. The Matriarch’s garments were of deep crimson with purple geometric shapes – quite gaudy, although light-weight and cosy feeling. The frock was bound together in places by sashes of sheer material of peppermint pink. She wore the traditional headdress in a darker, dusky pink, covering her hair, ears, chin and neck, topped by the inner domed white ‘Szook’ or ‘skull tent’. It was very warm to wear and a little claustrophobic, but right up with current fashion by all accounts. Thankfully the climate of the ship was on the cool side – presumably for this very reason.
Souveson had been given a similar outfit (requiring significantly less material) but in shades of lime green and turquoise with canary yellow accents. Apparently the rookie had managed to grab a moment alone with Christian shortly after the Commodore had returned to the bridge, so he’d told her later. The Lieutenant had tried to request she be dropped from the team, but the Captain had launched into a series of sugary compliments and ego-boosting statements. In the end, she’d agreed enthusiastically to go ahead with the mission, but he had suspected it was mostly to not let him down – he asked the Commodore to give her no special treatment, but to nevertheless understand her own apparent lack of confidence in the field.
Lirik’s clothing was unpatterned, but crafted on the same principles – he resplendent in aqua marine, electric blue and papal purple. “I look like the King’s great grandmother,” he’d joked, in reference to the mostly redundant but still very much alive English Royal Family.
O’Hara, in keeping with her role as General, wore a distinctive tight uniform of black and brown, shiny, figure-hugging material that looked like patent leather. Lirik joked about her provocative appearance, but as she’d stood to her full pencil heel-enhanced height and raised a gloved fist mockingly, the diplomat piped down. Jackson had barked at them loudly to shut the hell up, but later chastised herself for the knee-jerk over-reaction.
The Lieutenant, pregnant with Jackson’s unborn grandchild although it didn’t yet show, said she felt like she was wearing some kind of fancy dress, but clearly took some pleasure in how good it fitted her. One saving grace was that she was a natural when it came to walking in heels – not something she’d had much experience of in the past.
*
With Ambassador Narli at the Helm (a stuffy pilot’s booth sited at the pinnacle of the cone), the four others gathered in the compact saloon of the B’Det vessel to go over their plan of action.
“Our first priority is to seek information on the whereabouts of the individual’s names we’ve been given,” Jackson said. “I think this best done if we split up.”
Souveson flushed at this. “Won’t we look conspicuous travelling alone?” The Lieutenant referred to a fact given during their short briefing about B’Det tradition, in that it required people to travel in groups – sometimes couples, but rarely alone. She’d listened only half the time, the rest she’d drifted off into wild fantasies about what horrors might transpire, and so had missed the odd crucial sentence or two.
The Commodore sighed wearily and shook her head. “No, no, no. Really, Lieutenant, weren’t you paying attention? While that applies to the upper echelons of B’Det high society, the rest of the population don’t adhere to it at all. I suggest you go over your notes again forthwith.”
“Yes, Sir!” Souveson flushed with embarrassment.
“Besides,” O’Hara tried to lighten the mood, “the centre of the main city is often impossible to negotiate in anything more than a pair. As it is this systems’ principle space port, by its very nature the daily business is frenetic and will provide ample cover in the form of thousands of individuals going about their work. It’s common to travel alone there – if anything, it’s the one place we can do so without raising any suspicion.”
“How will we remain in contact? Bel told us the B’Det authorities monitor all atmospheric communications with sophisticated anti-terrorist technology,” Lirik said, fiddling with his protrusion.
“We don’t,” Jackson said confidently, and a little bluntly. “We have to set a time limit in which to venture out and then rendezvous back at the ship. I say no more than four hours, standard Earth time for our first venture.”
“Agreed,” Lirik nodded. Souveson felt useless and bereft of any confidence in this mission – at least as far as she was concerned.
The Commodore called up a small scale holographic representation of the massive city centre on the console table. Unlike Helub, this spaceport, being on an M-Class world, was open to the natural elements, with many open air and some large enclosed docking facilities sprawling out across most of the planet’s main landmass. Eight varying sized transport domes were arranged around the centre of the city. At the port’s heart, a vast hollow dome housed the main trading atrium – like the other domes, it had openings around its base perimeter to allow entrance and egress for many vessels. At its apex, several hundred metres into the air, a cluster of skyscrapers comprised the main port authority administrative and local government buildings.
“Lieutenant Souveson, you will go to the Office of Records for Trade in the main administrative tower,” Jackson indicated the highest point in the city. She then pointed to the thick, high, perimeter wall that encircled the central dome above its perimeter entrances – much like a crown’s gallery surrounding an ermine skull cap. “Lieutenant O’Hara, you will recce the lateral trading ring. Yeoman, you will go for the inner ring,” she said, creating a cut-away of the dome and showing the many levels that ran around the inside of its surface.
“How appropriate,” O’Hara said under her breath, getting her own back on Lirik for his earlier jibe. He punched her playfully on the arm.
“Hey!” Jackson barked – she was annoyed enough that the Lieutenant had volunteered to come along – the fact that she was enjoying herself seemed to Jackson as if she didn’t care about her responsibility for the near-baby she carried. “Just cut that out. I will try and talk to other Matriarchs – according to Bel’s notes, they like to observe each other’s vessels in this main atrium, and it would look out of place not to appear hospitable. They’re big time gossips, so hopefully I can gather intel without too much trouble – and in addition, I can check to see if any of the ships on our list are currently in port. As you know, we’ve already been granted a birth and are locked into an automated flight path, so all we can do now is wait,” she turned to the Canadian, “and swat up on our covers and protocols of behaviour.”
“Commodore,” Narli asked through the intercom, “what if another Matriarch wants to come and visit our ship?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t,” she said unconvincingly.
“Commodore,” Souveson spoke up. “Assuming we do make contact with the former members of the Cell, how do we convince them of who we are and the need to renew their intelligence transmissions again? Surely it’s too big a risk for them to do so?” Souveson was not untutored in tactical analysis. She was top of her class in strategy and historical military warfare, and was destined to pursue a career in psychology of military strategy until the war with the Dominion came about. This was the first time she’d openly expressed her reticence about the whole mission.
“I’m not sure I can answer that, at least until we can gauge the situation more fully,” Jackson sighed honestly. “All we can do is our best. If they believe us, hopefully they will agree with the logic of our request in that without their aid, any hope of a successful retaliation against the K’Tani will be impossible.”
There followed an awkward hour or so as everyone considered the wing and prayer on which they were making this journey. Each found themselves from time to time shaking their head in disbelief and wondering if they were nearing the end of their careers as officers aboard the USS Fantasy – or indeed their lives.
* * *
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, TEATIME (ie 4pm GMT)
USS FANTASY, B’DET BORDER
Although anticipated, the door chime nevertheless caught Captain Christian off-guard. “Come in,” he called, before he’d fully composed himself.
“You asked ta see me, Captain,” the old chap said in a broad Scots accent, teetering on the threshold of the large office, observing this strange ship’s young CO fiddling with his desk items and unsure if he’d been expected.
“Come in, Mr MacKay,” Christian stood, smiling as warmly as he could and gestured to the single wing-backed chair he’d arranged opposite. As the older man walked steadily to his seat, drinking in the lush and quirky décor of the Captain’s office, Christian sat back down in his own squeaky wood, leather and brass tacked seat. “So, how are you feeling?”
“Fully recovered, thank ye, Captain,” he said, showing his hands and rotating his forearms as if in demonstration. It suddenly struck Christian that the man was near his father’s age, and although he sensed a paternal demeanour about him, his file clearly stated that Lieutenant Alistair MacKay was a confirmed bachelor and dedicated – and decorated – Starfleet officer.
“First of all, I would like to express my deepest sympathy for the loss of your shipmates,” Christian spoke solemnly and noticed MacKay purse his lips tight and nod slowly.
“Thank ye, Captain,” MacKay said, “and I mysel’ owe ma gratitude to ye for ma rescue and that of the wee Yates laddy. If ye hadn’e come along when ye did, well, ah’m sure our fate would’a been more final.”
Christian nodded and picked up the padd he’d been reading on and off over the last few hours. It was an extensive report as compiled by Commodore Jackson with the help of Commander Struckchev and Mr MacKay’s input. The report detailed the last few weeks’ activities aboard the USS Craybourne and some background as to who the two survivors were and how they had ended up in the emergency shelters.
Jericho Yates, aged nine months, was the only child of Leading Nurse Sylvia Yates and her ten years senior husband and ship’s weapons officer Chief Petty Officer Roger Yates. MacKay was ranked fifth in the Science Department and had served aboard for only the last eight months.
To everyone’s joy, Lieutenant MacKay had verified that the USS Barfleur had indeed made off before their own demise, it being the least capable in battle. Many civilians had transferred to the Barfleur, but many families, the Yates’ among them, had opted to stay together on their own ships. Mr MacKay had also provided a huge boost to morale when he informed the Fantasy’s senior officers that he had personally scanned four other Starfleet vessels on long range sensors while on duty during their long flight from Vekarian territory after the initial K’Tani invasion; so these vessels, like the Fantasy and the Barfleur, may also still remain at large.
“You have been of enormous assistance in our intelligence gathering,” Christian thanked him genuinely. “It can’t have been easy for you to recall all the events, especially in such detail.”
“Aye, well…” MacKay faltered slightly. “I’ve seen ma fare share o’ conflict in the past, and though I’ll admit it doesn’e get much easier, I just did what I had te.” He smiled ironically. “I don’t mean ta sound blasé, Captain, but this’ll be the third ship I’ve outlived during ma career, you know.”
The Captain nodded in reverence to the lucky survivor, (he’d finished reading his extensive personnel file only moments before his arrival), then rapped the table to break the mood. “Well, the USS Fantasy certainly needs all the able hands it can muster, Lieutenant. I understand your particular field of expertise is Astrometrics?”
“Aye, Sir, though I started ma career with the hope of becoming a ship’s Navigator,” he looked a little melancholy as he recalled that time of his career. “But even when I was starting out at the Academy all those years ago, they’d already started to rationalise the bridge officer duties to a combined Helm/Navigation role, just as they had previously the Comm Officer’s role with the Tactical Officer. I wasn’e a gifted pilot, and I didn’e fancy tactical duty, so I side-stepped into Astrometrics and later inta more general Science duties.”
“Well, we’ll certainly need all of your many and varied skills in the coming months,” the Captain smiled, though he sensed caution – or was it distrust – in MacKay’s face. “That’s if you’re willing to join us, of course.”
MacKay looked shocked and his neck visibly flushed red. “Cap’n, I’m a Starfleet Officer! Tis ma duty!”
“Of course,” Christian nodded apologetically, seeing immediately that his softly-softly approach wouldn’t wash with such a proud veteran.
Indeed, MacKay wanted to express more on the subject. “Despite what the young ‘uns in the service may say these days, I was trained to keep ma faith in the oath we all swear when we join up.”
“Indeed,” Christian said eagerly, “it is an honour to serve in Starfleet.” It was something many senior officers would say in passing to juniors when maintaining a stiff upper lip. He brought them back to the main thrust of their meeting. “As you know, our Astrometrics Department isn’t quite fully up and running yet. In fact, I’ll most likely need you on Bridge duty serving as relief Science Officer, at least until we have more crew up to scratch on Starfleet operations and console operation,” Christian said, noticing the accepting demeanour and not a hint of reproach, fear or disappointment. “You’ll be Lieutenant Karnak’s Deputy and take orders from her.”
“Ah, the Professor,” MacKay nodded with unabashed apprehension. “I’ve heard some o’ her since I came aboard, but I’ve not yet had the pleasure.”
“Well,” the Captain decided to deflect any possible criticism at once. “Although it’s true that until recently she was a representative of the Vulcan Science Academy, she is now my Bridge Science Officer and Heads the Combined Sciences Department. She may be a novice Officer, but she’s a keen study, and has A1 memory recall. Her knowledge and expertise will be invaluable. However, as you’re my only science officer with Starfleet experience I’ll be relying on you to help… show her the ropes, as it were.”
The Scot couldn’t hide his true feelings. “Sir, with respect, is that an achievable goal?” Christian’s jaw almost dropped at the comeback. MacKay verified his position. “I’m no meaning to be rude, Sir, but it takes more than a Captain’s say so and the moral support of someone like me to make someone into a Starfleet Officer.”
That caused the Captain to smile. “I agree, Lieutenant,” he said as warmly as he could. “Wholeheartedly. But I don’t need to remind you about the desperate times we face. As it is we are vastly under-staffed. And I expect you along with everyone else to do no less than your best.”
“Of course, Sir,” MacKay flushed, embarrassed that the Captain may have considered him something other than the loyal and consummate officer he’d always attained to be.
“I’ll grant, it may be a tall order. Off the record, the Professor might not be that… easy to get along with at first,” Christian immediately sensed that despite the old Scot’s stoic attitude, he’d cope with Karnak’s shortcomings and steer her well. “But I believe, as does the Commodore, that she has the potential to be a fine officer.”
“Aye, Sir,” MacKay said, clearly not in total agreement but obedient and positive thinking nonetheless. “I’ll give it ma best shot, Sir.”
“Good,” Christian helped with an affirming smile. “One small word of advice, though. I’ve found it’s better to forget that she’s actually Human while talking to her. She was raised a Vulcan, and that’s what comes naturally to her, even if it is an inner struggle.”
“Yes, Sir,” MacKay responded resignedly – he didn’t appreciate Vulcans, they were too literal about everything.
Christian nodded and stood, extending his hand. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant.”
MacKay followed suit, shaking the much younger man’s firmer hand. “Thank you, Sir.”
As he walked to the door, Christian added. “Oh, Lieutenant, I nearly forgot. I’ve arranged something special for all senior officers this evening,” he smiled at the old Scot’s surprised expression. “I’d very much like it if you would join us in the Purser’s Apartments at 1900 hours.”
“Yes, Sir,” he began to walk off, and then turned. “But I don’t have a dress uniform, Captain. What should I wear?” (Replicators were strictly rationed for the time being – Ed)
“It’s strictly informal, Mr MacKay,” Christian replied politely. “Come as you see fit – one of the cargo officers may have clothing that might be appropriate.” (supplies coming from the stored inventory – Ed).
MacKay nodded, and then was gone.
(Note – Christian, though born in space, and thus transcending all usual afflictions to Earth culture, is in practice more akin to a North American, having spent most of his time on Earth in that part of the planet: hence, no tea at teatime – Ed)
* * *
FRIDAY (SEVERAL HOURS LATER)
APNIANIA, B’DET HOMEWORLD (Early morning, local time)
Narli sat up in his seat and watched his console of lights ripple like an antique slot machine as the autopilot handed over control to the B’Det central traffic control net. He looked out through his surrounding viewports as the silent system safely navigated the ship down into the overcast, drizzling atmosphere of the B’Det Home World on its just pre-dawn side.
Within minutes, through the cloudy haze of luke warm rain, their craft decreased altitude and approached a vast megalopolis, shadowy grey in the distance and studded with a billion pin pricks of light. It would be sunrise soon, though it wouldn’t make much of a difference in this weather, he thought.
Momentarily, they decreased speed and crossed through the imposing perimeter wall at the port’s outskirts (all ships had to pass through the wall, or between special masts if the ship was particularly big, each ensuring that the ship posed no obvious threat). Massive dark shapes rolled past – huge towers, delicate walkways and buttresses, all lit with man-made blue and golden lights. Finally, looming in the distance through the breaks between the skyscrapers became visible the outline of a vast dome shape that curved up and disappeared into the clouds – the central spacedock and their final destination. Just as Narli’s appetite was whetted, the reality of a busy commercial capital set in. Their vessel slowed to a stop, joining a long, crawling queue of traffic arrived from across the sector, all filing for access to their various pre-booked births, many anti-grav engines screaming at their over-use to the city streets below.
An hour later, the queue seemed to miraculously dissipate, and the ship accelerated swiftly through one of many wide conduit entrances, each hundreds of metres long and scattered around the base of the vast dome. The conduit angled down and shortly after levelled out before releasing them into the dusty, gloomy light of the immense inner atrium. Their ship was destined to park in one of the cheaper births, a low, poorly lit recess of the floor of the immense hangar space. All manner of hundreds of vessels were parked above at many varying levels of the surrounding dome structure, many grasped firmly by thin, angular docking arms and plugged into gravity-defying passenger ramps that linked to dome’s floor. Lines of tiny anti-grav guidance lights indicated winding paths around the vessels for taxiing in and out of births, though in reality the powerful computer that ran the automated docking procedures did all the work. The crew recognised a number of Qovakian ships in the huge space above and around them – some Wau-Vin, some Vekarian, and even what looked curiously like a customised Tholian vessel high up in the rafters.
Hearts beating fast, the four disguised crew set their timepieces and exited the ship, Narli wishing them luck (either caringly or sarcastically, aside from Lirik the others weren’t sure which). The air was surprisingly clean, a vague smell of fuel and burnt plastic, but nowhere near the kind of toxic headiness that usually accompanied a busy space dock. Each breathed the air deeply – they had been cooped up in one vessel or station or another for weeks now, and being almost outside felt great.
Their birth was a triangular ditch of moulded, glossy plastic of some kind, a dark gun metal colour, surrounding them to a height of eight metres. The G’Vorn Spring rose proudly above the walkway level surrounding it, providing Narli – back in his shielded cockpit at its apex – a clear view all around.
The crew couldn’t help but study the unusual smooth, shiny substance covering the floor and walls. In fact, it seemed that pipe work, controls, cabling – just about everything – lay beneath the surface of the single continuous layer of odd material. Lirik asked if they could investigate further, but Jackson urged them towards the single ladder that led to the walkway above: he muttered under his breath that it would only take a second, but no-one heard him.
Climbing onto the walkway level, they got a true perspective of the space. Their birth was one of a vast number, all arranged geometrically fanning out from the centre of the vast dome, increasing in size as they bled off to the distant walls: everywhere all surfaces were coated in the shiny substance, and Souveson echoed people’s thoughts, wondering if the B’Det had something to do with the strange coating that covered the Fantasy. O’Hara went against Jackson’s orders, stealthily accessed her compact scanner (the B’Det equivalent of a tricorder) and scanned the floor, reporting to Lirik that it was in fact what it looked like: a single layer of plastic-metal, containing some unknown substances, but what appeared to be primarily a very tough heat protective layer.
They looked out toward the entrance/exit conduits dotted around the circumference of the dome, moody daylight beginning to filter in, almost calling to them to go outside. Each would gladly have gone there and then, even if it were the stormiest of conditions weather-wise – but the mission took precedence.
Elevator tubes and anti-grav corridors thrust at intervals up and away from their ‘ground’ level, but on the whole there was little activity to be seen. Aside from a few individuals in the far distance they were alone on the walkway. The births immediately adjacent to their own were occupied, though each of the smaller vessels appeared to be powered down and bereft of life.
Most of the group felt uneasy. As seasoned travellers, they were used to beaming on and off many worlds, without so much as a name check – but they had come to expect a certain amount of ID verification in the Outer Zone. However, here on the B’Det Home World there was no screening process, no checking of documents or papers, no validation of identity or searching of their persons or vessel. It was B’Det law that all vessels were fitted with a central processing chip accessible to the authorities that authenticated who they said they were. And so all of the usual processes had taken place hours before their arrival, direct from the B’Det central computer to the ship’s onboard chip – provided, as was the vessel, by Bel’s efficient contact.
Each of them took a good, long, hard look around and split up, going their separate ways.
Jackson was the last to move from the spot. She looked longingly back at the cone shaped vessel and felt the urge to return to its safe comfort. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so alone or indeed so vulnerable. But she was the Fantasy’s XO now, and leader of the away team, and as such she had an example to set.
With her enhanced spectacles (the fashion for face furniture was as popular in B’Det culture as anywhere else – if a bit over-gilded) Jackson surveyed the vessels about her – as her eyes peered to see closer, so the lens fields adjusted and her vision ‘zoomed in’; the detail was remarkably clear. For many minutes she scanned across dozens of vessels, and then her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell onto a large ship some few hundred metres away and about a quarter of the way up the Dome’s height. Although the traditions of the B’Det were intricate, their turn of phrase quirky, the written word was surprisingly easy to read – even if the words were mostly meaningless. Ships in the Outer Zone often carried name plates or emblems rather than registry numbers, and there, painted on the side of the ship beside the passenger ramp connected to it, was a name very similar to one of those on the list provided by Bel.
Jackson wondered if she should approach the vessel in her guise as Matriarch and ask to have a look around, and her heart beat even faster at the thought. Slowly, her eyes tracked from the passenger ramp that connected to the ship down a steep incline and then almost a perpendicular angle to the Walkway level. There, at the base of the conduit, just in front of the entrance, she spotted another Matriarch, standing alone. Jackson figured out the most direct route to her across the criss-crossed walkways that bordered the sunken births – it took a good few minutes to negotiate.
As she approached, slightly breathless, Jackson saw the Matriarch was standing on a raised observation balcony, staring out at the vessels in the huge space above and around her, and following the occasional little robot cargo and servicing pods that flitted about between them, a vaguely amused expression on her face. The Matriarch was much older than Jackson, with more rolls of fat and wrinkles than even she had.
“I greet you,” Jackson said in the familiar manner as she climbed the steps behind her, thigh muscles straining.
The woman barely turned to her and half smiled, then turned back to drink in the magical vista. She was white-haired, small wisps sticking out under her headdress. Jackson realised she was probably younger than first appeared, a sad expression despite the fixated grin. Her outfit was shades of grey and white, paling her even more.
“Are your family well?” the Commodore asked – a traditional enquiry more about whether her business was doing well, and a common form of introduction.
The woman turned to her and Jackson saw she had hollow, glazed eyes that seemed to separate her from her physical existence. “My Family are dead,” she said coldly, a faint but distinctive whiff of alcohol on her breath. “I am my only family now.”
She turned away again, and Jackson paused, not quite sure what to think or say or do.
Suddenly, a young woman, dressed similarly to the ‘old’ woman came calling out from the docking corridor behind them.
“Mother!” she cried, genuinely concerned. “Mother! You shouldn’t be out here!” The youngster bounded up the steps, then seemed to notice Jackson for the first time. She grasped her mother firmly by the shoulders and turned her, leading her back inside. “I greet you,” she said as an afterthought to the Commodore over her shoulder.
“Pardon me,” Jackson said to the girl’s back on the steps below her. It was an unexpected thing to say to a stranger, and caused the girl to stop in her tracks. “Forgive me any disrespect,” Jackson adjusted her tone accordingly. “But your mother said her family was dead.”
The girl whipped her head all around, and then shot a look at Jackson, her face a mixture of outrage and fear. “I beg you do not repeat this publicly, Matriarch!” she implored in a raised whisper.
“I crave pardon,” Jackson tried to back peddle her way out of the faux pas - though curious to know more, she didn’t want to create a scene and so raise any suspicion. “I hadn’t meant to pry. I depart you,” she began to walk down the steps and back in the direction she’d come from.
“Please!” the woman stopped her with a slightly raised voice. “Do not depart,” she eagerly smiled at Jackson, her tone gentle but undeniably pleading. “It is almost time for the waking respite, please join me for a while, if you’re Family can spare you. It’s been a while since we were visited by another.”
Jackson knew a humorous response to this from the few colloquialisms she’d memorised. “A Matriarch that tires of the Family, if only for a moment, is usually on the path to a long life,” she smiled. The girl smiled in response, knowing it to be an acceptance of girl-girl chat, even if the woman had got the phrase slightly wrong. “I should be glad for another’s company,” the Commodore added.
The girl nodded and led her mother and Jackson into the docking corridor, which turned sharply through 90 degrees a short way in. Jackson stumbled awkwardly as the gravity waves realigned, and the Commodore couldn’t resist looking through the small portholes at the space outside, everything now on its side. It made her feel a little queasy, so she focused on the route ahead. As she crossed a gentler ramp ‘down’, looking at the world outside wasn’t so bad, everything now merely sloping away. Through the oval portholes she studied the vessel they approached with her enhanced spectacles. The ship was clearly old, yet its design was sleek with clean lines and very well maintained. Her diagnostic display then honed in on several areas where the outer hull had been repaired – a dozen or so localised areas, clearly impact points. She wondered if these were as a result of the natural dangers of space or something more sinister. Certainly the ship had had an eventful life, and Jackson hoped that she had hit the jackpot, that there was some connection to the vessel on her list.
The corridor turned again and they approached the airlock at a low angle. From here, the Commodore looked out of a large window at the side of the vessel and translated the huge red letters from the B’Det once more: the ‘Uitali Ariday’ (the vessel she recalled from her list had been the Urituli Ariday).
Stepping over the threshold the interior of the vessel was surprisingly busy with many young men in this family’s employ, all apparently in their late teens and quite handsome in bare-chested attire, a short wrap of sheer material around their waists barely hiding their modesty or their bare bottoms – even the Fantasy’s resident Vulcan priests would have blushed at this attire, she thought. They all gracefully moved out of the way and bowed as the young woman took her mother first to her quarters and laid her on an ample bed of softly padded blankets to rest. Jackson hovered at the doorway, but couldn’t help notice the pill bottles on a nearby low table beside a large, ornately decorated jewellery box. On the narrow table beside the bed two holo pictures glowed a gentle, nostalgic light: one of a young man and woman in glorious attire, smiling and surrounded by ribbons and feathers (clearly a wedding photograph), and another of this young woman, a year or two earlier, standing between two slightly older males.
Once the Matriarch was settled, the girl escorted Jackson to the front part of the ship into a large, soft-furnished, dimly lit tented lounge. It had a low ceiling and even lower lighting, creating a cosy, intimate atmosphere. The space was decorated in deep ochre and ivy green and smelled of… well, it smelled of people having a good time, Jackson recalled. And indeed, many young men in various states of undress lay strewn around, either in idle conversation with each other, playing board games, aimlessly eating fruit or just sleeping angelically in each others’ arms. Incredibly, male harems were still very common among the Matriarchs on Apniania and the surrounding inner planets. It made Jackson feel a little uneasy, if not intrigued, though she knew that the men of the harem were usually also the ship’s casual hands.
The young woman clapped loudly, four times, and all the men departed, save for four burly types dressed slightly less alluringly who proceeded to waft them into a sunken cushioned seating area and then provide refreshment with much flexing of muscles and reaching across - a little too close for comfort for Jackson.
The B’Det mistress grew quickly impatient and waved the men out of the room to leave her and Jackson alone.
“I am Keylar Ruk,” the young woman sipped at the … tea? It looked like tea. Jackson sniffed the delicately gilded little cup – it smelled like fresh lemon. It tasted the same, almost pleasant if a bit too sharp for the Commodore’s taste. “And you are..?”
Jackson decided to take a gamble, albeit a long shot. “Tulana Yarid,” she stated, recalling the name at the top of the list of possible female contacts. If it meant anything to the girl, she didn’t show it.
Keylar sipped her tea nervously and Jackson sensed she may be building up to saying something important or difficult. Jackson smiled back at her and the two continued to sip in silence. When the awkwardness was too much to bear, Jackson placed her cup down and shifted on the slippery silken pillows. “Has your mother been this way for very long?” she gambled.
The young woman looked down, ashamed, then back at Jackson with fear in her eyes – though it was obvious she was yearning to off-load to another. “Too long,” she replied sadly. “Ever since my brothers abandoned us to go and live in the border regions.”
‘The young men in the picture’ Jackson thought.
“Oh. Why did they do that?” Jackson asked, deciding on questioning replies for now, at least until she felt more confident with the topic of conversation.
“Why would any man do that?!” Keylar scoffed harshly – Jackson realised her question was patronising, remembering B’Det culture and its recent history.
The Commodore nodded and sipped her tea again; she felt a little heady, and wondered if there was some form of narcotic in the drink, so placed the cup down and relaxed back.
“So they wanted their independence,” Jackson stated. Keylar nodded, a troubled frown creasing her brow and tears welling up. “Take heart, Keylar,” the Commodore tried to comfort her with a little Earth-bound reasoning. “All societies change over time, and while that change may be difficult, sometimes it is for the better. I think it is only a matter of time before similar changes come to the Home World, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that is true,” Keylar whispered resignedly, and then hope glinted in her eyes. “And perhaps when it does, then they would come home? That’s all that my Mother truly wants, I’m sure. It’s certainly what I want. But I fear she wouldn’t accept them back, she’s so proud. She was so angry when they left. And she’s not been the same person since,” Keylar wiped a tear away as her chin trembled in grief and self pity. “You see, Matriarch, my Father, he… he died in an accident when I was younger, toward the end of the K’Tani reign. Even with time, my mother would never have re-married another concubine. So my brothers stepped in to take his place, learned everything she knew as they grew to manhood. My Mother relied on them so much, when they suddenly decided to go, well, it must have hurt her dearly. And our business has suffered as a result ever since.” She sensed Jackson’s disbelief that a traditionalist Matriarch would ever let her sons disobey her, so explained. “Of course, she tried to make them stay, but they just wouldn’t listen – I remember they seemed… they seemed so angry at the time. Even I begged them not to go, but despite carrying tears of sorrow in their eyes and promises that they would see me again, they were determined.” She shook her head.
Jackson studied Keylar, recalling her own memories of grief, and then wondered why the brothers, apparently good, decent boys, would have left their Mother and sister knowing what hardships they would face. Were the lives of B’Det males so awful that they would put their emancipation before family? It was possible, Jackson knew as much from Earth’s history. Keylar seemed like a good person, and she believed that her brothers were too – she instinctively felt they wouldn’t have left without good reason.
“Strange...” Keylar said, a far away look in her eyes.
“What?”
“When I think about it now, I feel my Mother was less worried about their decision to leave and more about their destination,” she shook her head. “But perhaps I’m remembering it wrong.”
“Perhaps… perhaps your Mother feared that the K’Tani would return to the Border Regions, only this time not to make a pact?” Jackson plucked a guess out of her head, simultaneously turning the subject to her mission objective. She felt pity for Keylar, certainly, and for her Mother, but she still had her own agenda. Regrettably, if Keylar couldn’t be of use, then she would have to move on; and quickly, regardless of her feelings for the youngster. Though Christian had determined this mission as potentially terminal, Jackson had every desire to complete their aims and get back to the Fantasy in one piece – and the longer they remained on the planet, the more chance there was of exposure.
“Perhaps,” Kelar agreed, but not convinced. “Though I doubt any part of B’Det is in danger. We have too much to offer the K’Tani, and they wouldn’t jeopardise the chance of rekindling their lucrative agreement with us.” Although the words pricked at Jackson’s sensibilities, she also heard a definite tone of distain in Keylar’s voice. “I mean, there is no way that they would risk open confrontation against our superior fleet.”
“You don’t approve of the agreement?” Jackson probed.
“Hah!” Keylar balked. “Does any true B’Det?!” Keylar shook her head slowly, tight lipped and resolute. “While we may not have willingly and openly agreed to aid such a brutal race with weapons technology had we known all the facts beforehand, you cannot deny that it was incredibly beneficial to our people – both as a whole economy and for those who made side deals with the K’Tani in person, my Mother for one.” Jackson started at this statement. “Back then, we were one of the top dealers in personal arms,” Keylar said quite proudly, “and we still are in the market of bespoke hand weaponry, though business isn’t quite what it was.”
It sent a cold shiver down Jackson’s spine to know that this young woman and her family had profited from the K’Tani’s bloody tyranny – indeed, supplied them with the weapons with which to achieve it. Before her mood turned to contempt and despise, Jackson checked herself, remembering that she was an outsider, an alien, and had to remain objective and controlled. After all, this Keylar was young, and she couldn’t have been much into her teens toward the end of the K’Tani reign.
The Commodore wondered if she had reached a dead end – that the similarity of this ship’s name to one on the list was merely just that, a coincidence and nothing more. Indeed, if this family were suppliers of arms to the K’Tani, they would hardly be likely to work with the Resistance.
“Perhaps then it isn’t such a bad thing for your brothers to have chosen to go to the Border Regions,” Jackson said, almost spitefully, “there may be a chance at significant profit for them there in the years to come.”
Keylar looked at Jackson, as if trying to read her – not in any subversive way, but more out of curiosity. “As you well know, Matriarch, since the K’Tani returned to neighbouring Qovakia, the divide between outer and inner planets has grown wide once again. But… forgive me,” Keylar blushed, suddenly. “Here I am casting aspersions and I haven’t even asked where you are from. You seem too formal to be from the Border Regions, yet you strike me as too kindly to come from Apniania.”
Jackson remembered her briefing. “I’m from a small community on Erid, the third moon of B’Tra.”
“Oh,” Keylar said amused. “A bohemian.”
Jackson just chuckled, not knowing if it was a regional insult or a fair comment. She decided to go with the latter.
“I should have guessed from your accent. My Mother is of the old school,” Keylar said. “Born and bred on Apniania, though we moved to Ch’Lera twelve years ago just after my father died. In company she always says she moved because she felt standards were slipping and traditions were changing for the worst on the Home World – though in reality she had bought out several large manufacturers of micro components and the deal came with a large family home. That said, she is traditional to the core and it is fair to say that my Mother would die before letting her principles, or her business interests, change.”
“So…” Jackson hedged, “why did she say to me that her family is dead?”
“It… it’s the medication she takes,” Keylar looked upset again, but she shook her head when the Commodore reached across to comfort her. “She was heart broken when my brothers departed and became very depressed. She took it so badly; it must have been a great wrench for her.”
“Forgive me for saying so,” Jackson said, “but you yourself don’t seem that upset about your brothers leaving.”
“I know they shouldn’t have abandoned mother like that,” Keylar said, “but I do understand their reasons for going up to a point.”
‘I wonder if you actually do,’ Jackson wondered, but nodded in acknowledgement. She recalled that men, well, sons of Matriarchs, had a pretty rough deal. Their lives were planned out for them – to help look after their Mother’s family business interests, and eventually become adept enough in commerce to marry into another wealthy family as a Concubine, thus providing a lucrative business return for the family and a career for themselves as Negotiator and First Mate. Alternatively, they could go for a career as a Family’s pilot – or join the military, which was open to everyone, but not exactly revered as the best way to go. For those with less of a predisposition – or indeed for the young with time on their hands – they could do worse than join a harem; it wasn’t unknown for a good harem boy to marry a First Daughter when her Mother died. But as far as capitalism went, it was a woman’s galaxy. Keylar was deep in thought again.
“I remember now. It all seemed to change shortly after we came to Apniania on a long-stay trip. I remember my brothers disappearing for several days. My mother was frantic, and when they came back there were such arguments – it was as if it was about something else entirely, but they all kept me well out of the way. I can only guess that they realised men were successfully setting up their own business interests in the border regions. It’s possible they may have asked Mother if we could relocate there, so that they could have a chance to make a life for themselves,” Keylar went on. “But I’m sure that even if they had my Mother would have refused. So when they got an offer from a distant cousin to join him, they jumped at the chance.”
“And since then..?” Jackson probed.
Keylar shook her head. “Things were okay at first, but fairly soon it became clear Mother was losing focus on the business,” she straightened her robes and sat more upright. “In the weeks and months that followed I took on more and more responsibility. I can’t quite believe how quickly she deteriorated. But for the last couple of years she’s stabilised, after a fashion. So I now take care of all my Mother’s businesses… or at least, I try to.”
“It must be very hard for you, she must rely on you greatly,” as she spoke, Jackson coldly calculated if this vulnerable woman’s position could benefit her mission.
“If I could be so bold as to say so,” Keylar replied suddenly, “in truth, I am more Matriarch than my Mother.”
Jackson pondered for a while, recounting her briefing. “So why doesn’t your Mother step down? If she’s truly finding things so hard, could she not make way for you to become Matriarch proper?”
Keylar dropped her head. “I’m afraid not. My Mother, as I said before, is very traditional. It would not be in her nature to step aside. ‘Always better to die in the job’ is her mantra. And besides,” Keylar looked left and right, and whispered this: “occasionally she has moments of frighteningly clear lucidness – as if she isn’t ill at all. That’s part of the reason why we’re here on Apniania. She insisted on coming here, even though we weren’t due for another season. Our family doctor is not unaware of the situation, and although I would not wish to bring legal proceedings against her, it may be in her best interest. But until he can find her mentally incapable, his hands are tied. So we must continue as we are.”
“What exactly is her condition?” Jackson probed. Keylar looked a little taken aback – perhaps it was too much of an intrusive question.
Keylar licked her lips. “Depression, mostly… the Doctor won’t discuss the more personal nature of her illness, but has prescribed her a number of drugs. He… he told me to be prepared for the worst.” She began to sob, and the Commodore placed a caring hand on the youngster’s shoulder.
It struck Jackson as odd that such an advanced civilisation couldn’t cure a case of depression – indeed that the condition was potentially terminal. She also realised that, in their predicament, this family – or what was left of it – could be something of a laughing stock among other traditionalists. Most Matriarchs held on to their sons, ruled them with an iron hand. To have lost both her concubine and her male offspring would have made things doubly difficult (successful B’Det families usually limited themselves to one daughter only, so that they could solely inherit the business without the need for splitting it up). So Jackson imagined that if this Matriarch wasn’t coping, then keeping it from others would be very hard to conceal indeed.
“It must be a great strain for you,” Jackson said as sympathetically as she could while also thinking of an excuse to leave.
Keylar composed herself, poured them both another drink and flopped back into the cushions. Jackson decided to give the girl a little more of her time – it was possible she may still learn something useful.
“It’s worse than you may imagine,” Keylar confided in her finally. “Our business, like many others these days, is in trouble. I am trying to sell off less profitable interests on my Mother’s behalf, but despite changes in the Border Regions, things are more formal around here. It seems that no-one on the Home World wants to talk to anyone less than a Concubine Negotiator or Matriarch herself. In effect, we have neither.”
“Could your brothers not help you? Perhaps if you explained your predicament they could return, just long enough for your mother to recover and-“
“My brothers are not interested,” Keylar said brusquely. “They haven’t bothered to reply to one of my communiqués for the last few months.”
Jackson worried about this – there could be more than one reason for a loss of contact to the Border Regions recently. “Do you not have extended family who could help?” Jackson asked, forgetting briefly about B’Det culture.
“Are you mad?!” Keylar blurted, and then blushed. “Sorry Matriarch. I did not wish to be rude. You may be more open about such family relations in your part of our territory, but it’s different here. Only a few trusted employees know of my brothers’ departure, everyone else believes them to be touring the far quarters drumming up trade. But for that, everyone else believes it’s business as usual in our household. If it were otherwise, the value of our assets could plummet, and no doubt our closest relations would move in to help relieve us of the burden at a much reduced price. In time, we could be penniless.”
Jackson stared into the face of this young woman. She must have had a lot of growing up to do recently. Covering for her mother, running the business, and looking to a future where she might possibly inherit nothing couldn’t be easy. “Could your family doctor not do more for her? It sounds like she needs grief counselling to me rather than medication,” Jackson suggested helpfully.
“You really are from Erid, aren’t you?!” Keylar frowned at the dark skinned Matriarch.
* * *
APNIANIA, 30 MINUTES LATER – JUST NORTH EAST OF THE MAIN DOME
Lirik’s journey through the inner ring had been fruitless. People were hard at work and had little time for conversation, and almost every office was rented by some private family company or other, closed to anyone without an appointment. The various sized holdings were infrequently interspersed with service and wholesale establishments. Lirik felt awkward, not working himself, and conspicuous when he stumbled across major repair and building works and had to turn back. It transpired that a substantial portion of the inner ring was undergoing a refurb, so the Englishman decided that as he still had a lot of time to spare before he had to be back he would take his investigations further afield instead.
Lirik bounded along, as if late for an appointment, moving on all the time so as not to engage in conversation or raise any suspicion. He wasn’t sure where he was going until he saw iconographic signs for a transport system. He descended to the ground level and found his way onto a vast moving walkway that led him to a terminus for a huge and complex rapid anti-grav train network. He began to look forward to rest on his feet for a while and just observe B’Det life.
As passengers got onto and off the busy carriages, Lirik strategically moved to a better standing spot. As one nearby passenger alighted, he slipped into her still warm seat and finally relaxed, though he was careful not to be lulled into a slumber with the gentle rocking movement and continuous background hum of the train. Avoiding eye contact with anyone, he looked up and around at the carriage. Public broadcasts were playing on small screens placed along the partitions and just above head height. As his eyes locked onto the screen, tiny sensors detected the direction of his iris and beamed sound waves to his position, so that he could hear what was being said above the sound of the train. It was a news channel – mostly about business, although there were occasional short items about sport, entertainment and some local news items. There was surprisingly no mention of the K’Tani, although there was a rather staged and one-sided ‘discussion’ with a group of ‘experts’ about male emancipation in the Border Regions with the conclusion that it was a hollow pursuit. It was interesting nevertheless, and provided a good deal of cultural information, especially colloquial phrases and terms of address.
All Lirik decided he had to do now was to pay attention to what was being said, and he might learn something of value – this was only an initial recon after all. He gently reminded himself to keep an eye on the direction of travel as the last thing he wanted to do was get lost in a city of this vast size.
* * *
SAME TIME, ON LEVEL 23 ON THE SURROUNDING OUTER RING OF THE DOME
Having traversed the moving walkways to the Outer Ring of the Dome, O’Hara had found nothing of interest. Most of the Outer Ring contained huge storage depots and freight holding bays. Practically all of the public areas had been turned into temporary accommodation for all those evicted from the Inner Ring during the refurb, so there was very little she could see or learn here. She wandered up several levels and finally found retail and leisure areas for the dockers. O’Hara quickly spotted a number of people wearing similar uniforms to her own congregating toward a seedy side corridor and into what turned out to be a bar. It seemed the establishment was geared exclusively towards ‘Generals’, and the air of camaraderie was thick with laughter and back-slapping – not at all like the traditional B’Det.
They were a feisty lot, it seemed, completely the opposite of how they behaved outside of the bar in the company of their employers where they were lofty, moody and mostly silent. Indeed, for orphaned girls or young women who were for one reason or another excommunicated from their family (usually for committing adultery with a step-Concubine), being a General was the only decent thing to do – it was either that or join the army, the Government Services Department or become either a retailer or a ‘Domestic’, the lowest ranking public servant. Equally for the men, being a General was in many respects a better alternative to becoming a Pilot as there was a lot more personal freedom. For many who had neither the skills of navigating or the inclination to be a Concubine or Harem boy it was THE only choice aside from manual labour or joining up. Unless your family could pay for you to gain employment, although nearly all the males involved in the Professional and Government services were from the wealthiest families.
A popular expression in the B’Det language was ‘All Generals Are Equal’. And from what O’Hara saw here in the bar, it seemed to be true – unlike anywhere else, here males and females alike cavorted playfully and exchanged much gossip and story telling on an equal footing.
It occurred to the Lieutenant that, as a General, she was part of a sub-culture of some type, and wondered if said group were in some way dissident – perhaps even allied to or sympathetic with the former Resistance. There was only one way to find out.
O’Hara spied a handsome older man the opposite side of the room. Large, with a finely trimmed beard and long, straggly jet black hair. He caught her eye instantly and threw here a wicked wink and half a smile. She wondered if it was a mistake, engaging in conversation with such flirtatious overtones on a potentially hostile world, but found her feet taking her toward him.
“Chell,” the man said with a deep, throaty voice in introduction.
“Oh-Hah-“ the Lieutenant almost forgot her fake ID. “Urahu,” she managed as she sad down.
He nodded and, throwing the residue contents of a nearby glass onto the floor, placed it before O’Hara and filled it from the large pitcher in front of him.
The Lieutenant hesitated – although Bel’s briefing had confirmed that B’Det physiology was similar enough to Humans that they could consume any of the food or drink products available, alcohol would not be good for the baby. Perhaps this was a mistake.
“Wood juice,” Chell said, verifying the glass’ contents. “’Liquid Muscle’,” he joked.
O’Hara smiled, belying her ignorance. ‘Well, one couldn’t hurt, could it?’ she thought, and sipped at the light brown liquid. It reminded her of carrot juice, and hoped it was just as harmless.
“Here long?” Chell asked, his eyes flicking from her face to her chest and back up again. Quite blatant, but not in a creepy way – like it was something he’d rehearsed as part of his seduction.
O’Hara recalled her briefing. “One solar cycle, maybe two,” she said. “My mistress is fickle like that.”
Said with such conviction, the man nodded in sympathy. “I too have a demanding Mother,” (it was common for Generals and all close Family staff to refer to their Matriarch employer as ‘Mother’ – ed). “She threatens me with exile to the border world of Jentorn with her spinster sister Mimositt – an evil spendthrift who denies her staff any carnal pleasures.”
“Sounds awful,” O’Hara looked into the man’s eyes, for a moment they caught a bright light and almost shone. Though up close, she could see he was about her own father’s age. As she thought of her father briefly, she realised that despite her deception and her determination with the mission, this man – all the people in the bar – had their own lives. They had worries, fears, hopes and dreams, just like her. A cold feeling gripped the Lieutenant as she imagined their possible reaction to her if they knew her true alien identity.
Chell looked back at her, quizzically, but with certain warmth. “If you pardon me, you are a strange one.”
“Oh?” O’Hara sipped at the drink coyly, trying to look as butter wouldn’t melt.
Chell appeared attracted to her as he studied her high cheekbones and gazed into her wandering eyes. “You have the gait of a General, but the manners of a Matriarch’s protégé daughter,” he said, then looked her up and down again, searching for more visual clues.
The medic smiled, thinking fast. “We live on Erid, the third moon of B’Tra. My Mother is more unconventional than most,” she said, referencing their cover story. “She allows her staff a certain… freedom of expression. I grew up alongside her family; I suppose I’ve picked up some of their ways.”
The man smiled, and chuckled a little. “No,” he said. “There’s something more. I can tell.”
O’Hara began to worry. Was the man becoming suspicious of her true intentions?
He ran his long, thick forefinger across his lips. “But you are pretty enough,” he grinned. “Your first time here?”
Grateful for the reprieve, O’Hara got deeper into her part. “First time to the inner planets,” she nodded.
“Oh, it’s a fine city,” Chell stood enthusiastically and offered his big hand. “If you have the time, permit me to be your guide?”
The Lieutenant hesitated, and then nodded. “I cannot be long,” she warned. “My Mistress expects me to return before Twofast.”
“Time enough for now, then,” he held her hand firmly. “Maybe we could continue again later? The lights of the city are spectacular from Abodar Pass Monument up in Shamilen Province.”
O’Hara had nothing to lose but also threw a shield up – he was moving quite fast, and she briefly wondered if he had an ulterior motive. “Perhaps,” she said, nodding sweetly. Smiling, the man licked his lips and firmly pulled her into his arm and guided her out into the bustling corridor outside.
* * *
A SHORT WHILE EARLIER, IN THE ADMINISTRATIVE COMPLEX AT THE MAIN DOME’S APEX
Lieutenant Souveson couldn’t remember the last time her heart had beaten so fast. Was it when the Command Yacht had wrenched itself free of the Beta Section, or was it when she and the Captain had been incarcerated and beaten by the Romulans on Erowoon station? Perhaps, she mused, it was when she had nearly been killed by a hologram of a K’Tani soldier on the Fantasy’s standby shuttle bay deck. Or possibly when the length of metal had impaled her thigh during the initial attack on Helub where it had all began.
Truly, she had been through much in the last number of weeks. It was a wonder she was still sane, let alone alive.
The Lieutenant looked over the rail surrounding a wide circular observation window cut into the floor of the middle of the foyer and surveyed the vast space of the docking atrium beneath her. In the gap between the level where she now stood and the bottom of the dome far below, many vessels were suspended through multiple levels – she thought she could just make out the speck that was their vessel, it’s pointed pinnacle peeking up from the shadows of its birth: one of hundreds of man-made ditches cut into the surface of the vast ‘hangar’ dome. She gazed at the tiny point of light reflecting off its conical apex; it was more than just an alien ship to her now, it was her one and only way off this potentially hostile world.
Here she was, cosmetically altered and dressed up to pass as a B’Det, on her own in their capitol city on a dangerous and seemingly impossible mission. She wasn’t even half a year out of the Academy. Was this what she had joined Starfleet for? As the war with the Dominion ensued and she resigned herself to a change of career as a tactical and security officer rather than a research specialist, she had nonetheless imagined pristine state of the art vessels, weapons systems that actually functioned with some wallop, the chance to serve with a tight knit crew of experienced veterans, to hobnob it with the senior staff and serve faithfully on a busy bridge on one of the ships of the fleet – and perhaps all this under the command of a handsome Captain.
So far, she had ticked only one off her expectation list, and even then he clearly didn’t look at her in any other way than a junior rating, and a naïve girl at that.
During her last months at the Academy, when reports of heavy losses were coming through from the front line, she wasn’t fearful of doing her duty – she knew at the least she would experience some pretty intense, lasting and probably life-long relationships, friendships with other crew, (if she survived) and most of all, the chance of romance. In the short hiatus between graduation and her first posting her fretful parents had often spoken encouragingly of the opportunity she would have to see the Federation and beyond, blatantly avoiding any talk of war. She hadn’t mentioned it either, though at the time she focused on the prospect of adventure - she remembered even slightly looking forward to the odd battle, just to keep her sharp! How naïve she had been. She wasn’t ignorant of the realities of space conflict – her Academy training had prepared her for that – but the truth was, at that time she was untouched by experience, hadn’t seen death and pain at first hand.
And now she had. But this latest episode of her life was getting out of control – it seemed ridiculous compared to what she had foreseen, and she repeatedly told herself what a fool she had been and what an unreal view she had on life.
When she embarked on a career in Starfleet, she had intended to elevate herself beyond ship-based duty and specialise as a career research officer. She had been allowed to specialise in a variety of intelligence and psycho-strategic and tactical studies while carrying out all the usual classes for the security branch, but as the future seemed uncertain, so too her tutors managed to cajole her along with other elite specialists into following a more traditional route – the Fleet needed all the able officers it could mobilise if their predictions on the future were right (not least the ramifications of the previous Borg conflict had left an ongoing shortfall in the numbers needed for new and replacement vessels).
And now here, following the K’Tani Invasion of Qovakia, her life had turned on its head. She still couldn’t quite believe it had all happened to her in a matter of weeks.
A vessel passed underneath the window at close proximity, startling her and blocking her view, jolting her back to the present. As its dark length continued to move past, like a gigantic sea creature through a glass bottom boat, the French Canadian caught her reflection in the glass. She suddenly saw, not a young rookie security officer fresh out of the Academy, but instead a woman, who had endured a great deal to get this far. She imagined how the people on the Fantasy looked at her, and wondered what they felt when she walked into a room.
Indeed, what would her old Academy classmates now think of her? Whatever they might think, she decided, they would surely all be grateful to her for playing a part in this dangerous but vital mission for the newly forming Resistance. And undoubtedly some would teasingly think otherwise of her in this garish, ridiculous costume. As a smile was about to cross her lips, Souveson suddenly imagined them all dead, as they probably were, and her mind uncontrollably slipped into nightmarish fantasy images of their possible demise on Helub.
“Miss?” the young clerk had minced silently forward, making her jump. “Your authorisation has been granted.”
The teenage worker, dolled up in starchy white and black, handed Souveson a data card and herded her toward the singular elevator behind his donut shaped desk.
Souveson thanked every deity in the Universe that the fake ID’s were working. She was the elevator’s only occupant. With ear-popping speed, the car shot rapidly to the 243rd floor, near to the top of the tallest building in – or rather on top of – the port’s main dome.
The Lieutenant barely had time to recover her composure as the doors swished open to reveal a huge, sunny, open plan level. The massive, thick, column-supported airy space was cavernous, stretching away on many levels, yet the atmosphere was still and quiet. Glass panels in the ceiling showed a cobalt blue sky just above the layer of thick grey rain clouds, though at this altitude cirrus cloud wisps licked up and occasionally across the otherwise clear vista. She walked out onto a large, flat reception area. All around, the library stepped up and away in graduated wide tiers, all crammed full of shelf after shelf of records, arranged in a complex, labyrinthine fashion and culminating in distant high walls made up of conventional and rather over-stuffed bookshelves interspersed with thin arched windows and cosy looking nooks containing window seats. Occasionally a tall exotic plant or small indoor tree broke the otherwise stark décor, along with sunken squares of relaxing comfy seating or tucked away leather armchairs beside low lamped tables.
Souveson walked directly to the main desk and handed her card over. “Please direct me to the Inner Planetary Registry of Names,” she asked.
The thin, peaky looking government employee behind the desk tapped her console a few times and a small bauble floated up into the air and hovered before her. Souveson and her shipmates had learned that it was the B’Det who had created these tiny drones (as you may recall the Fantasy crew had encountered them during a customs search on Erowoon – ed).
The little robot travelled at Souveson’s walking pace up several flights almost to the top tier. There, shelves of data cards and older information storage devices filed back in either direction, interspersed with short banks of study booths.
The drone bounced up and down a couple of times indicating the start of the relevant section, then bolted off back to its reception desk home.
Souveson read the index indicators and navigated her way to the desired location. There, she selected twenty (of a possibly two thousand and fifty one) tapes, and awkwardly carried them over to the nearest available study booth. Inevitably, the too-high pile of smooth surfaced cards fell scattering and clattering to the floor, the sound echoing loudly around the library. Many outraged faces sternly peeped out from around shelves of records or leaned out from the partitions separating the booths to scowl and tut-tut at her.
So much for not drawing attention to herself, she thought. Souveson half expected a librarian to come charging at her full of condescending tone and harsh reprimand. But instead a young man, dressed unconventionally in loose fitting robes made of black leather, white cotton and what looked like light blue denim, came to her aid, helping to stack the disks and carry them to her intended workplace.
“I thank you,” the Lieutenant noticed first this young man’s incredibly handsome face – fawn, floppy hair, bright eyes the colour of dark amber and the cutest, freshest face. He, it seemed, was more interested in the data cards she carried. His full red lips elongated to a wide, dimpled smile, flashing a clean line of white teeth and dark pink tongue.
“A passion for genealogy?” he asked – his accent was curious, more an attitude than a regionality.
“Yes,” Souveson replied easily. “Thank you,” she said again and began to sit down, ignoring him. The man hesitated, and then returned to his own booth.
Souveson picked up the first card and inserted it into the obvious slit in the console. The screen illuminated the title and then the scrollable index of names. As the Ensign awkwardly manipulated the controls to search for a specific name, she was aware of an older woman departing from the booth to her right.
The Lieutenant at last selected the appropriate keys and her search began in earnest, instantly giving her a match with four names on the register. As she read through the first woman’s public profile, she became aware of the vacant booth now becoming occupied again. That wasn’t unusual in itself, but Souveson felt a tingling sensation of trepidation.
As she peeped around the privacy partition, she saw the young man who’d helped her earlier grinning right back at her with a look of – well, Souveson guessed he liked her, but she wasn’t about to let her guard drop.
“Hi,” he flashed those white teeth again.
“I… I greet you,” the Lieutenant responded in traditional form, and turned back to her work. Ignoring him was the first resort, but when she sensed him leaning around the side of her booth, his breath close to her head garment, she knew she’d have to try a different tack.
“Do you mind?!” Souveson snapped, quietly, in her best insulted tone, hoping that such an uncommon response would put him in his place. When he cracked a crooked smile, she insisted. “I have many tasks, many duties to perform. So if you please…” she shooed him away with her hand and returned to the screen again.
“Are you hungry?” he asked boldly.
Boy, she realised she absolutely was and her stomach made a coy growling sound in response. He beamed.
“Well, I...” Souveson tried to think of an appropriate response that would close him down once and for all.
“I am SO sorry,” he said, grabbing her right arm tightly. “How rude of me,” he pulled her round to face him and removed his hand. “I am Leflin Artonac. A border boy, in case you couldn’t guess,” he said proudly, and loud enough to cause a few people to stir and huff and hiss at him to be quiet.
“What brings you to Apniania?” Souveson managed to ask a question and focused herself, trying to remember all her training. Covert operations: act natural, listen, observe, don’t commit to anything, be friendly and most of all, analyse. She tried to read him as he replied – his clothes, his expression, his turn of phrase.
“Only Gorandora, the best damned College of Business in the Sector,” he smarmed arrogantly. “I’m a third year, you know. Not exactly the most popular pupil in my year, but I am the brightest.”
“Congratulations,” Souveson said flatly, thinking him an arrogant pig. “Now, really, I must insist.”
She turned back to her disks, removing the one, setting it aside, and picking another less incongruous one as a distraction. The details illuminated her face in a green glow.
“Well it’s either you or me,” Leflin rested his head on the side of the booth, sighing. “And I know it’s not me, so it must be you.”
Souveson barely glanced at him – he was obviously trying to lure her into conversation.
“Most women would jump at the chance of sharing the company of a handsome border boy,” he continued, goading her gently. “But you – you’d rather look at this screen than my handsome features.”
Souveson’s jaw dropped and she turned to him, amused by his prideful and not wholly unsubstantiated boasts she guessed. She decided a more Human response to get the message across. “You have a very high opinion of yourself.” She studied him – he had only been teasing. “Look, I am flattered, but I am also… already spoken for.” He continued to gaze into her face. “So beat it!” she snapped.
He chuckled and folded his arms as if it were a challenge to him to come back. “Damn, you’re a jumped up little border girl made good, aren’t you?” he accused. “Not too good at controlling that feistiness though. Hey – is that it? Are you spurning me because you think you’re too good for the likes of your own kind now?”
He wasn’t angry, just expressing an opinion – Souveson guessed he was feeling genuinely hurt by her response. “I’m not snubbing you,” she said softer, but still resolute. “But I don’t know you. And I have work – very important work – that I need to do.”
Leflin shouldered into her booth with her and rummaged through the disks. “Tell me,” he said, his face close to hers, those lips, also nearer to her own – it had been many months since she’d kissed. She licked her lips and swallowed as he spoke. “Who are you looking for? I might be able to help?”
The Lieutenant looked into his eyes, and realised she was not focusing again. As he returned her look there was something there, something not right. It was as if he could see right through her. Thoughts tumbled in her head – was he a resistance sympathiser? Or was he working for the other side? Perhaps he was the local alien police, working under cover – it had taken a while for her authorisation to be approved.
“Okay,” she said suddenly, instantly deactivating her console. “I’ll join you. But only for a short while.” It had been an instant decision, a gut instinct, (literally!) and one she hoped she wouldn’t regret. She stood, but Leflin remained crouched on the floor.
He looked up at her, melting her with his eyes. “But I couldn’t…”
“What?” Souveson was confused. “I thought you just-“
“I couldn’t share my meal with a pretty woman whose name I do not know,” he said, then that crooked smile returned.
Souveson handed over half the data disks for him to carry. “My name is Cresthna,” she lied, and walked with him back to the reception desk.
* * *
MEANWHILE, HUNDREDS OF METRES BELOW…
Jackson walked through the alien ship following Keylar to the airlock. Her subsequent conversation led to her being asked, quite humbly, if she would represent Keylar at a meeting with a couple of arms dealers the next day. Apparently Keylar had been working at great lengths for the past few weeks to arrange a meeting. But now the time had come to meet face to face – and without a Concubine or Matriarch present, there would be little chance of a successful deal.
The Commodore had been touched by her desperation – the dealers were crucial to the family business, apparently, and while they were unscrupulous capitalists, they also had a lot of collateral and more in terms of contacts. But it wasn’t until Keylar had mentioned the dealers were so dastardly that they had allegedly supplied the Resistance that Jackson seriously considered the proposition.
The couple turned a sharp double bend and into a longer corridor running along the outside hull. It was an old vessel, there was no doubt, Jackson mused, but the attention to detail, and the quality of materials used in the construct of the internal fittings as well as the occasionally protruding skeletal structure showed either a time-honoured tradition of excellence in ship-building among the B’Det, or a personal wealth beyond her imagination. The low-key lighting with the occasional shaft of golden or yellow hued spots reminded Jackson of the corridors around Deep Space Nine, although this vessel had carpeted floors and didn’t smell of acrid ore processing combined with the lingering odour of Cardassian sauna oils [Jackson had been among a small group sent to the station immediately following their withdrawal and had helped in the transition before the Enterprise arrived and Commander – now Captain – Sisko took over officially].
A man suddenly appeared before Keylar from out of a hidden doorway, forcing a surprised gasp from them both. He was taller and older than the other semi-clad attendants the Commodore had seen so far, with slicked back silver-blue hair. From his shiny patent leather brown, red and black tight-fitting suit clinging to his athletic physique, and the stern glare which he shot at Jackson, there was no mistake that this was the ship’s General. And he didn’t look very happy.
“Mulcro,” Keylar clutched her bosom as if to slow her heartbeat by touch, “you surprised me greatly.”
“I’m sorry my Lady,” he bowed slightly, casting Jackson another look of suspicion as he rose to full height. “Pilot needs to see you right away.” His eyes were deeply set, shadowed by his firm, frowning brow which hid his true emotions, though Jackson felt his pupils were penetrating her with distrust and a suppressed violence.
“Momentarily, General,” Keylar waved him aside and continued to walk to the airlock – he blocked her path with a rapid side step, showing off his long, powerful legs and hinting at his physical prowess, not to mention the power he had over the First Daughter of his Matriarch. The Commodore sensed that he wasn’t being insubordinate, but rather he had her best interests at heart. She also considered that as the family’s General, he was appraised of the situation between Matriarch and Daughter, and kept it a close family secret. No doubt he was suspicious as to Jackson’s identity and intent on this matter, she thought.
“The issue is of some urgency,” he pressed, only tipping his head forward slightly as a show of respect. “I’m afraid it cannot wait.”
Keylar huffed audibly. “I cannot see what can be so urgent in our docked state.” She saw the fixed, determined look in his eyes. “Oh, very well,” she glanced over her shoulder. “Please forgive me Matriarch,” she spoke softly to Jackson, as if trying to sound over-casual. “Mulcro will escort you the rest of the way to the airlock. Until later.”
“Until later,” Jackson replied, noting that Keylar hadn’t bothered to introduce her formerly to him. “Thank you for your hospitality,” the Commodore realised it was not the conventional parting comment.
Keylar angled her head and smiled tolerantly, then made off through the doorway.
The Commodore and the General faced each other, not more than two metres apart, neither moving, and both in silence. She swallowed – an automatic response, but hoped her position as Matriarch, albeit fake, would protect her from any probing questions. Several heart beats passed. Then he moved, only slightly and gestured for her to proceed with him.
Jackson hitched her robes and walked toward him, he only turning with her once she was level with him. She could smell the leather very strongly, along with a spicy, musky aroma. She glanced up at him as they walked side by side and noticed his gaunt look, his sunken cheekbones and angular jaw – more athletic than anaemic. He glanced down at her and she looked forward, avoiding those accusing, shadowed eyes. It was the General who broke the silence, just as they passed out into the bright lights of the docking arm corridor. He first pulled a device out of his pocket – the Commodore hoped it wasn’t a weapon as she was totally defenceless, but when he merely clicked it, she heard only the vaguest whining and whistling that rose quickly beyond Human range.
“I know that you are not B’Det,” he said firmly, voice confident but polite, “and I also know that you are not K’Tani. So who are you? And why have you altered yourself to look like us?”
Jackson stopped and turned to face him. The device stayed in his hand – she decided it was a jamming mechanism of some kind, to hide their conversation presumably.
“How dare you accuse me-!” she began, but he cut her off mid-sentence, not rudely but rather in an attempt to move things along.
“I scanned you using the ship’s internal sensors,” he said impatiently. “So don’t deny it. If you are from the Resistance please, I beg you to leave us alone.”
The Commodore’s jaw dropped. “What makes you think I’m from the Resistance?” she asked, wanting more information from him before she began to divulge, but feeling elated that after all she may have made first contact by such a chance meeting.
Mulcro studied her, trying to work out her reason for being here, seeing her searching look staring back at him. “You called yourself Tulana Yarid,” he said, his tone more accusational now, “and that’s not possible.”
Jackson skipped the expected response. “Do you always listen in on your employers’ private conversations?”
He blinked, deadpan. “Of course.”
She realised that it was his job to do so – and then felt embarrassed for her own oversight. From his reaction so far, it seemed all he was doing was just that – his job, trying to find out more information in order to serve and protect his Family. But his question about the Resistance intrigued her. Still, she was determined to keep her identity a secret until it was absolutely necessary.
“How do you know that I’m not who I say I am?” Jackson batted back at him.
Mulcro half laughed this time, a cruel sounding murmur, mocking her question. “I told you already that your species is not B’Det,” he said, “and that aside, Tulana Yarid is not only known to me but she is also most completely dead.”
‘Dead’ the word echoed in Jackson’s ears. Tulana Yarid was dead. “You… knew her?” she pressed.
He shook his head, but was rather denying her a reply. He stepped around to her left and faced her – Jackson understood that he had intentionally positioned himself between her and the way out. She swallowed again – annoyed she was not being more self-controlled, but thought that he could have probably killed her by now, so perhaps his intentions were not necessarily hostile, just resolute.
“Tell me why you came here,” he demanded, still politely, but just his appearance made the request sound life-threatening to Jackson. “Why did you agree to help my Mistress with her negotiations? Was it just so that you could get to my Mother?”
The Commodore thought fast. He knew she was not B’Det – if he wanted, he could turn her over to the authorities, but he hadn’t done so…yet. There was clearly some knowledge or a prior connection to the Resistance, or he wouldn’t have mentioned it. His priority appeared to be protecting the family – most especially the Matriarch. Perhaps if she could focus on that, then he might be able to help her in return. A little truth, then, she decided.
“My presence aboard your ship was not intentional,” Jackson said as honestly as she could. “However, I am trying to make contact with the Resistance movement. It is imperative that I do so, and quickly. The lives of all the B’Det people may depend on it. If your Matriarch can help-“
Mulcro bared his upper teeth and stepped toward Jackson – an animalistic expression and one of hostility; almost Klingon. “No!” he cautioned loudly. “You’ve seen how she is, she cannot help you.”
Jackson stood her ground, afraid but hoping she could still turn this situation around. Clearly the Matriarch knew something, perhaps had had dealings with the Resistance in the past – although she had dismissed the idea earlier, despite the risk it would also make perfect sense considering her business in the arms trade and these dealers Keylar was to meet with.
“If you or your … Mother knows how I may make contact with the Resistance, then you must help me,” Jackson insisted, deciding to over-egg rather than beg. He didn’t respond, he clearly wasn’t sure what to do. Although it went against Jackson’s nature, she wondered if she could truly hit him where it hurt. “A lot of people would be very interested to learn about your family’s state of affairs,” she said, watching the blood rush from his face.
Despite the shock tactic, his body language returned to one of a determined, veteran General who wasn’t inexperienced in dealing with difficult situations. “I hardly think you are in a position to threaten me…” he snapped, “…alien.” He said the final word with such venom.
“My people know where I am,” she lied convincingly. “If I don’t return, they will come looking for me. And they will exact revenge should anything happen. Our mission may be of interstellar importance, but we take care of our own. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Besides, what would the authorities think of you… fraternising with an alien?”
Mulcro regarded her with a mixed look of surprise, mistrust and respect. “I… I cannot help you,” he said, honestly. “And my Matriarch is not in a position to help you.”
“Then Keylar-“ Jackson began.
Mulcro’s reaction was more aggressive this time; he put his face into her’s. “She’s just a child! She knows nothing, not even the truth about what happened to her-” he stopped himself before he went any further.
“Her what?” Jackson pressed, squaring up to him. “Her brothers..?”
“This is family business!” Mulcro could contain his angst no longer, grasping Jackson by the scruff of her neck and pushing her into the corridor’s wall with a loud thud. “I don’t care who you are, but you will not bring harm to this Family! I forbid it!”
“Your Family is already on the brink of ruin!” she tried to free herself, but he was too strong. He snarled, his grip tightening. Jackson fought to catch a breath. “I’m not… threatening… you… but I might be able… to help you...”
Jackson saw his eyes for the first time, they blinked at each other, and Jackson’s face straining, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Please…” she begged croakily.
Despite her pain, she saw him identify honesty in her face and he released his hold on her, stepping back and clenching and unclenching his hands. Jackson coughed and breathed deeply. She adjusted her robes and moved slightly away from him.
“How… how would you propose to do this?” he asked, body rigid, expression a little lost.
The plot had already formed in Jackson’s mind, but she wasn’t about to back down from her stronger position against him now. “What happened to her brothers?” she pushed.
He looked to the ceiling, plunging his hands on his hips. “No,” he shook his head firmly, a crooked smile forming. “I’ll not let you do this. Threats be damned! You tell me who you are, and you tell me now, or so help me I will turn you in to the authorities, we’ve got Lawyers clever enough to disassociate ourselves from you.”
The Commodore flushed and nodded slowly, she’d clearly taken him to the brink – perhaps too far. “Okay. As an act of trust, I’ll tell you.”
He didn’t react. Jackson groaned inwardly – would this go as planned? She was alone here, after all, and there was no guarantee that things would go her way. Captain Christian’s warning about the possibility of not returning to the USS Fantasy rocked through her mind.
“You know of the retraction of Tholian borders..?” she asked.
He nodded, having quickly circumvented her precise of what had passed since Christmas Eve last year. “You’re from the other side of the wormhole, from the Alfalfa Quadrant?”
Jackson contained her amusement with the raise of one eyebrow. “We call it the Alpha Quadrant, but that’s just a means of designating the quarter of the Galaxy in which we – and that includes you - reside. I’m part of a peace-keeping, military-style organisation called Starfleet, we serve to protect the citizens of the United Federation of Planets, and we are also explorers – hence our reasons for coming to the Outer Zone in the first place, to make contact and friends, and to exchange goods and information with other races.”
“You weren’t expecting the K’Tani,” Mulcro interjected wryly.
“We most certainly were not,” Jackson spat, a little riled by his jest. “Our Vekarian hosts made sure we were kept in the dark about the K’Tani threat, fearful we would abandon them, but ultimately leaving us to their mercy. I managed to escape, along with …some others, civilians and children mostly. But we left behind hundreds of thousands of others to who knows what fate. We hope to liberate them… one day… somehow…” Jackson found her words getting stuck in her throat – still the memory of the last time she’d seen her son had haunted her. The made-up image of O’Hara in her son’s arms intruded, then thoughts of her unborn grandchild, currently somewhere else in this dangerous, alien world and swathed in a suit not dissimilar to this man’s. She reminded herself of her mission, and how important it could be to her grandchild’s future.
“But with the wormhole destroyed we are cut off from our home and any hope of support from there, thanks to the Tholians,” she wondered how he would react to the next part. “Since fleeing Vekaria, we have managed to elude the K’Tani. And along the way we have made contact with former members of the Resistance. That’s why we are here, on their behalf. They lost contact with the Resistance Cell here on B’Det, and have asked us to help them re-establish that link. Without it, no-one will be a match for K’Tani firepower. Your own civilisation may very well be at risk.”
Mulcro frowned at her. “The K’Tani would not dare turn on the B’Det,” he conjectured.
“Wouldn’t they?” she asked him directly, a rhetorical question really. “So you see, if you can help us-“
“How do I know that you are not a K’Tani spy?” he asked.
“You don’t,” Jackson sighed. “You’ll just have to trust me on that one.”
Mulcro considered her for a while, looking her up and down. “What position do you have in this Star Fleet then?” He looked at her closely for a reaction.
“You’ll help us, then?” Jackson countered.
“If that I could…. But only the Matriarch can help you,” he retorted, shelving his line of questioning for the moment. He shook his head. “Though you’ve seen how she is, and there’s no reaching her now.” He looked out through one of the portholes at the passing traffic.
“How do you mean?” Jackson was confused, as far as she could tell the Matriarch was only a very depressed, pill-popping alcoholic.
Mulcro stepped closer to Jackson, using the device as a gavel with which to hit the air, enforcing his words. “I… I believe you, that you are who you say you are. Don’t ask me why, in fact I should probably break your fat neck on the spot.”
Jackson gulped.
“But I know how dire the situation is. I’ve seen the family business in trouble before, but never have things been so bad,” Mulcro glanced at the airlock. “If we don’t do something soon, it’ll be the end of me, and Pilot… and poor Keylar may have to become a General herself, perhaps. The Matriarch… she’d probably be shipped off to a charitable sanatorium. And I can’t let any of that happen. If there’s a chance you can help us, then I must take it.”
“And I want to help,” Jackson said sincerely, “really I do. But I need to know what’s going on here.”
Mulcro paced toward the airlock, and for a moment Jackson thought he’d changed his mind. But he spun on his heel and paced back toward her. “Walk with me,” he instructed – perhaps the General had been checking if someone had been lurking near the ship’s entrance, she wondered. They walked steadily onward. “The Matriarch has… an addiction. It’s a rare narcotic, White Temple, otherwise known as Pheraldesyum Trifoquadrilate.”
“Is… that bad?” Jackson asked. He shot her a look, and almost smiled.
“You really aren’t from B’Det are you?” She just tightened her lips. “It’s the most potent of all psychotropic antidepressants, and quite outlawed,” he explained. “Not even Keylar knows I supply her. If she did, I’m sure she would execute me on the spot.”
‘As is the right of an employer on B’Det’, Jackson thought, ‘for anyone found guilty of such a heinous crime.’
“Most of the time, she appears oblivious to events,” Mulcro went on. “And to an extent she is, reliving much of her memory in her conscious thought. But she is totally aware of her surroundings if she chooses to be, and can perform all normal functions perfectly - even respond to questions when it suits her. Occasionally, there are days when she is ‘sober’, if quiet and moody, but they grow steadily fewer. In time, she’ll be oblivious to everything.”
“The addiction is treatable, though?”
The General shook his head. “Our physician told me that once it’s taken hold it kills within a few days if not continued, though even if you take it regularly the same thing will eventually happen within ten years usually.”
Jackson shot him a look, wondering why he had supplied her with the drug, even if instructed by her. He saw her expression. “I merely continued to supply her to keep her alive. She had something of a breakdown when her sons left and started taking the drug herself, right about when…” his voice trailed off, a look of hatefulness tightened his mouth.
“Go on,” Jackson prompted kindly, placing a hand on his shiny clad firm feeling bicep. “There’s no room for secrecy between us now.”
The General bit his lip, an internal fight between responding and not.
“You’re referring to when her sons… left…?” Jackson prompted.
“No,” Mulcro said, looking at the floor.
“Her husband’s death, then?” she probed.
He looked down at her, stopping. They’d reached the exit to the gangways criss-crossing the vast docking dome. “He’s not dead,” he said. “He’s alive and well, and living right here in this city.”
“What?! I … I don’t understand,” she said.
“I won’t say any more for now,” Mulcro said. “We will talk further when you return. I trust that you will keep your end of the bargain, to help with the negotiations?”
“Provided that I won’t be identified as easily as I was by you,” Jackson thought out loud, realising she didn’t stand a chance. “In fact, that will definitely preclude me, won’t it?”
“Don’t worry. I can provide you with an adequate shield that will disguise your physiology,” Mulcro said. “But I can’t provide you with any guarantee that the Matriarch will have a moment of clarity any time soon - or that, even if she did, she would be willing to talk to you. She may even take the opportunity to execute me for my actions here tonight.”
Jackson regarded him much as she would one of her grown sons in moments of dilemma. “It’ll be okay,” she said, trying to reassure him. Then a thought occurred to her. “Mulcro, do you have a sample of this White Temple drug? I am accompanied by a physician of my own… well, almost a physician… anyway, we may be able to find an… alien treatment for it.”
The General shook his head. “No, that’s not possible, not even the combined intellect of all the B’Det medical research scientists could do such a thing.”
“But it’s worth a try, surely?” Jackson said to his doubting face. “And if we could create a treatment drug, would you then allow me to have an audience with your Mother?”
Mulcro nodded slowly, reaching into an internal pocket and handing over a small metal and glass vial of whiter than white liquid powder. Jackson smiled and took the vial, hiding it in the fold of her headdress. “Then I take leave of you, good and honourable General.”
* * *
ACT 2