EP 7 "EROWOON: PART I" - ACT II



COMMAND YACHT: 1410 HOURS

“Commodore Sarah Louise Jackson, personal log.   This is the first opportunity I have had to make a log entry since the K’Tani Invasion of Qovakia on Christmas Eve.   For information of our situation up to date, I refer to the Captain’s recent log entries and those of the other appointed Heads,” Jackson walked around the Officers’ Mess on Deck One of the Command Yacht, watching her shadow undulate across the highly polished dark wooden table.  

“Against my better judgement, the Captain has elected to take the Yacht to a potentially hostile, but apparently neutral, space station.   Myself, Ganhedra, most of the section leaders and a small crew will assist him, taking on supplies, fuel and hopefully making contact with a dry dock facilitator who will be able to help us repair the Fantasy.

Meanwhile the Beta Section will remain hidden within a dalmation nebula under the command of Mister Struckchev.   Lirik will assist him and see to the safety of the survivors.   If possible, they will find a way of supplementing their power supply until our return.   But they will mainly concentrate on tracking and neutralising the infestation of spider creatures – a task I don’t envy.   Other than that, their orders are to stay put and wait for our return.”

The intercomm whistled. “Commodore Jackson, you are due for a meeting with the Captain in five minutes,” the prissy almost elderly female voice informed her.

Jackson smiled – she had found the computerised office assistant program easy to set in a spare 10 minutes, and hoped that once the entire computer network was up and running and people were into a routine, everyone could make use of the system.

* * *

COMMAND YACHT: 1410 HOURS

"Captain's Log, Stardate …note to Yeoman Lirik, please insert correct stardate to this log.   End of note.   It has now been 17 days since the K'Tani invasion of Qovakia and this log is well overdue.

“I have returned from my whistle-stop inspection of the Beta Section and had my first open meeting with the interim Section Leaders there.   In summary, while the amount of pressing tasks at first appears insurmountable, all things considered my newly formed command crew is doing extremely well under the circumstances.

“Engineer Leonard has got everything ticking over on the Beta Section, though he has his work cut out for him.   I thank God for Cally Warnerburg – she’s more than coped with her own engineering challenges aboard the Yacht while he got things straight over there.   I’ve decided to leave Warnerburg in charge of engineering on the Beta Section while Commander Leonard accompanies me to the station.

“Commodore Jackson, former commander of Starfleet’s Outer Zone Regional HQ on Vekaria, is also proving invaluable.   Despite her seniority over me, she has agreed to work as my executive officer in all ship-related functions.   Thankfully, her rapid learning ability is coming in useful as she brings herself up to speed with the disciplines of ship command.   But it's tough on the old bird…computer, delete the last sentence.   But it's tough on her, she wasn't the fit, young woman she once was, and I fear that decades driving a desk may have dulled her instincts somewhat.   I'm sure they will return, but it will take some effort on her part.   If the truth be known, I think she thinks I'm a little headstrong.   In fact, I would never have considered myself the gung ho type before now, but in Jackson's cautious, by-the-book presence, it sure can feel that way.

“Commander Struckchev, XO of the USS Papillon will be extremely useful in filling the gap of skilled, disciplined senior staff on board the Fantasy.   He's forthright, sharp, and his rank sets him apart from most of his peers, although I am slightly concerned about how he’s dealing with the destruction of his ship and the loss of all his shipmates.   On face value, his abilities as a first officer would have made him ideal to become my own number one, but I have to bow to Commodore Jackson's greater experience and aptitude for the enormous task ahead.   In this short space of time I have come to rely on her confidence and her ability to make me see all the aspects, despite her lack of hours in the centre seat.  

“With no more critical injuries to attend to, my field-appointed CMO, Lieutenant O'Hara, not to be known as nurse – computer, delete all after O’Hara.   Has turned her attention to the psychological scars, bereavement and shock among the survivors.   Having gathered a skilled team of volunteer medics to support her, she’s now focusing on potential counsellors and other specialists.   Despite this keeping her very busy, she continues to press me each day to urgently bring the Passenger Section’s medical facility on line – something I can’t do until our mission to the Station is completed.   On this matter, she’s also made a pretty good attempt at giving me an ultimatum about the procurement of medicines and vital equipment there.   It was quite a piece of writing – if we ever get back, I’m inclined to submit it anonymously to the Unofficial Starfleet Report Of The Year Award as a work of a nut-crunching genius.

“With the help of these and other Starfleet and Federation colleagues I have managed to form a makeshift crew of sorts.   At last count, 205 of the 496 civilians have volunteered to help, though most of them are currently incapable of all but the most routine maintenance tasks.   They all require extensive training, but as we few don’t have the time, we're hoping to give them crammer courses using the vast amount of holo-technology on board, hoping they’ll also learn on the job.   But of course that cannot happen either until power is fully restored to the Fantasy.   This has an obvious impact on our repair schedule made worse by lack of proper repair equipment, not to mention the arachnid infestation.

“The civilians not volunteering to help have been passed over to the care of Starfleet Diplomatic Corpsman, Lirik, although at the moment that merely means keeping them together in one place out of harm’s way.

“Note for Personal Log: I find Lirik to be arrogant and not a team player, which I believe makes him dangerous as part of the command structure.   The Commodore vehemently disagrees with me.   She likes and trusts him and although she doesn’t say it out loud, she believes that my dislike of him has more to do with his Medusan heritage than it does his personality or ability.   I have to admit that, despite his apparent insubordination, a trait he clearly learned in the Diplomatic Corps, he has proved himself to this crew on more than several occasions.   End of personal note.

“I’ve also instructed Mister Lirik to supervise the search parties exploring the ship for the spiders - they are making a thorough inventory noting curiosities and potential hazards along the way.    On a ship like this, that's some tall order, especially with so many nooks and crannies, not to mention the enormous amount of unusual artefacts still in their thousands of packing crates all over the ship labelled for the Starfleet and Federation Archive.

“It became obvious during our recent encounter with the android Pim that there are also some decks which are cleverly disguised and that were presumably off limits to all but a select number of crew when the ship was last in service.   They don’t appear to have been added by any of the refitters.   Unfortunately we haven’t been able to regain access to the deck I was on, even after gaining more computer control, so that’s yet another mystery to solve later.   And then there are the dead Vekarians we found in the turbolift when we first came on board – but that really will have to wait I fear for some time.

“In addition to these other duties, Yeoman Lirik is also helping the Commodore and myself with the strategic administration of the ship. Hopefully all that work will keep him more than occupied and right where I can keep an eye on him.”

The door chime sounded.   Christian pressed the release button and the door slid aside to reveal Commodore Jackson.

"Good afternoon, Sir," she said - he thought with a touch of sarcasm.

"And to you too," he smiled diplomatically as she entered and sat in the wing-backed leather chair opposite him.

"Here are the latest updates from all senior staff," she said, passing him a padd.   Christian dutifully scrolled down but the first he came to was O'Hara's and, noticing the use of pleading diatribe in the first paragraph, he cast it aside, deciding to leave that displeasure until later.

"I was just in the middle of doing my own catch-up log," he said.

“Oh,” Jackson was about to get up to leave, but he stopped her.

“It’s okay, I’ll have time to finish it on the way to Erowoon,” he ran his hands through his hair and flopped back into his seat, causing it to squeak on the axis.   "I would kill for a decent meal.   If I see another plate of Husup rolls and Kreploaf I think I'll go completely mad."

Jackson smiled.   "According to the idiosyncratic protocols of starship command I've been swatting, that's the wrong attitude for a Captain to display to his crew in this type of situation."

"So arrest me and throw me in the brig," he said trying the humour, but finding it just as sour as the repetitive breakfasts.   “Wherever that is.”

"Deck 8.   And it's out of commission," Jackson cocked a smile back at him.

“Well, you really have been swatting a little more than me,” the Captain half-grinned.  "Is Struckchev ready aboard the Beta Section?" Christian scratched his thigh - his unreplicated clothes were beginning to cause his skin to rash.   He wondered if he could sneak aboard the Hudson and use the replicator to change that – he was the Captain, after all.

Jackson lowered her head, then looked up at him through disturbed eyes.   "Has been for the last hour or so by his reckoning.   Though from what I’ve heard on the grapevine… he's got his bridge team wound up so tight they could probably work at warp speed," she wasn't intending to sound down on his leadership ability - she just didn't agree with the Kosovan’s hard, detached style given the rawness of their situation.

“The ‘grapevine’?” Christian quizzed.   “What’s that, some sort of idiosyncratic Starship protocol I’m not familiar with?”

“I’ve heard people griping openly about it,” she retorted. "Do you think it's wise to leave the rest of the ship behind under his command?   He must still be grieving for his shipmates and I wonder about his state of mind."

“We’re all grieving, Commodore,” Christian bodyswerved her question and paused for added effect.   “Anyway, I’ve not had any official complaints."

"Of course you haven’t," Jackson could sense where the Captain was edging her.   “The main complainant wouldn’t dream of coming to you at a time like this.”

The Captain nodded knowingly.   “If you’re talking about Lirik then just say so," Christian said deadpan.

Jackson couldn’t help but still feel hurt at the Captain’s obvious hatred for the Englishman.   "Is there any reason why you’re playing the Yeoman off against Struckchev?"

“I’m what?!” Christian snorted, mock hurt, mock amused.

Jackson inched forward on her chair.   “Look, you want to talk about grief?   I lost my husband in a transporter accident.   Walked out the house fine one morning with a ‘Bye darling, see you later,’ never to return.   I know how that can affect a person.   I was angry.   I took it out on the people around me.   I know about the fate of your parents.   So I am naturally assuming that you’re only treating Lirik this way because it makes it easier for you to deal with your loss.”

“That’s nonsense!“ Christian sounded more like a disagreeable son than an argumentative colleague, she thought.   He just couldn’t seem to help himself from reacting like a child.   “I’ve just put the most qualified man in charge.”

“Have you?” Jackson looked him dead in the eye.

Christian shrugged, shaking his head trying to get to grips with his feelings on the subject.   “Look, even if you’re right, which I don’t believe you are, I can’t just go giving Lirik a field rank over Struckchev simply because he’s had more years in service.   It’s not in my – or your – jurisdiction.   Besides, Struckchev’s Starfleet, through and through, he understands how I would want things to work-"

“LIRIK is Starfleet-“ the Commodore protested.

“He’s Starfleet DIPLOMATIC Corps,” the Captain boomed, “there’s a big difference.”   He paused, lowering his voice again.   “Look, I’ve made my decision, I was hoping that you would support me in such matters.”

That put her on the spot somewhat.   “Well, of course I would, but-“ Jackson began.

“Then if Commander Struckchev just happens to be a stickler for detail, well that’s just tough,” Christian cajoled.   “But that certainly doesn't mean he’s lost his marbles or that I'm purposefully trying to set up a confrontation.   Anyway, if Lirik is the consummate officer you believe him to be, then I’d expect him to be able to cope with the Commander’s regime and bow to his – in my opinion - better judgement.”

"Okay,” Jackson bowed softly.   “Play it that way if you want.   But understand me, if I need to, I will step in to prevent things from going too far.   You’re a Captain, dammit, and you cannot allow this emotive reaction to impair your judgement.”

Christian’s heart was racing.   For some reason, he wanted to let off some aggression.   “Look, Commodore, if you’re so damned concerned about this, why don’t you just pull rank and put Lirik in charge?”

Jackson paused – her bluff was being called.   Despite her agreement to follow Christian’s lead in ship matters, here they were already disagreeing over a command decision.   Perhaps the Captain was right – taking command away from Struckchev might do more harm than allowing Lirik to suffer a couple of days’ inconvenience under the Commander’s orders.   “No.   No, I’ve said I’ll stick by you and I will.”

Silence fell between them and the tension dissipated a little.   "Look,” Christian conceded.   “I'll make a decision on a firm command structure when the time is right, that should take away any misunderstanding between them," Christian bit his index finger nail.   "But for now we've got far more important things to focus on.   Besides, they're grown men, I’m sure they won’t blow up the ship or anything."

"Hah!" Jackson snorted.   “They’re men.   That’s enough.”

Christian rubbed his temple – he wasn’t used to feeling this tense all the time.   “Then perhaps forcing them together in this way is just what they need to iron out any ill-feeling.”

Jackson folded her arms and peered at the Captain over her spectacles, apparently waiting for him to say something more.

He looked up at her and dropped his jaw.   "What?"

"You're just asking for trouble, you know that?" she nodded her head, hoping for a response for him but the Captain just sighed in exasperation.

* * *

COMMAND SECTION: 1450 HOURS

On the bridge of the command section, Struckchev sat in the centre chair, leaning back with his legs wide apart.   In between reading a defence shield systems analysis from Leonard, he was glancing across at the upturned posterior of the pert Cadet Yip as she made adjustments to the circuitry in the recessed housing behind and below the engineer's station.   Although they hadn't spoken at great length since coming aboard the Fantasy, he could still feel a strong attraction to her small but delicately proportioned frame.   So engrossed was he in his lurid thoughts about her, he didn't hear the turbolift swish open behind him.

Lirik hesitated beside the Captain's ready room, checking his curvaceous reflection in its observation window - the curved glass made him look taller and slim and he like that.   He had ditched his uniform for a set of old-style orange overalls he'd discovered.   They were one of many rolled up in a crate that had been found on deck 3, together with junked packaging materials and a few broken, antiquated hand tools and miscellaneous tiny spare parts.   Lirik had purposefully chosen the filthiest, most torn of the lot, knowing fully well it would annoy the Commander no end - though it had not been much of a choice seeing as it was the only one large enough to fit him properly.

"Warnerburg has realigned the Command Section’s power flow regulators and restored minimum levels to all but a few decks.   Environmental systems are back on line," the Yeoman stated, letting his London accent bellow out across the deck.   Walking forward to the Operations station he turned and leant on the console to face the burly Russian - who appeared oblivious to his presence.   Struckchev suddenly looked up, quickly crossed his legs and slipped the padd down the side of his seat.

Cadet Yip glanced nervously over at Lirik as she sat back down, burying herself in detailed computational analysis in an attempt to try and ignore whatever confrontation was clearly about to take place between the veterans.

"Protocol dictates that you should address me as Commander or Sir when on the bridge, Yeoman," the Commander instructed softly.   "We don't want to set the wrong example for the rest of the crew."

Lirik pouted, shaking his head.   "If you're going to be a stickler for regulation, then strictly speaking it is you who should be calling me 'Sir'.   General Order Absolute Addendum 1: ‘Starfleet Diplomatic Corps’, and I quote: ‘all Starfleet personnel of all ranks bar senior Admiralty, the President and senior Council Members, all civilians and others in employ of Starfleet and related organisations- "

"I know the G.O.A.!" Struckchev's face flushed but rather than have-at-him in front of others he instead propelled himself out of his seat and stormed into the small glass fronted office several paces behind and above.

Lirik stood his ground for a moment, watching the Commander leave before slowly looking up at the window to see the Russian standing inside, glowering, his eyes compelling Lirik to follow him.   Lirik was fast learning exactly how to push the Commander's buttons.

As soon as the Yeoman casually strolled across the threshold into the small, cosy office, Struckchev hit the sound-dampening field around the doorframe.

"I'll say this just once.   Don't screw with me, Mister, especially not in front of the crew, or you'll live to regret it," Struckchev stepped closer to Lirik, then stopped himself - either because of the peripheral Medusan effect or because he might do something he'd regret.

The brutality of the verbal assault and the aggressive forward motion shocked Lirik, but he hoped that outwardly it didn't show.   He hadn't thought of the Commander as medically unstable, but he was concerned at his lack of outward emotion following the demise of his shipmates.

"Okay, let's just cut the crap then…Sir," Lirik adopted a non-aggressive stance, and spoke confidently but with a hint of warmth to ease the tension between them.   "You and I don't like each other - for whatever reason, who the hell cares."

"I could name a very obvious one right now," the Commander dropped his eyes repulsed over Lirik's attire.

"But," Lirik continued, "despite our differences we must work together.   Because the Captain has left you in command - and I've agreed to obey his orders - I am forced to accept you as leader.   I'll even do whatever you instruct me to do.   But get one thing straight in your head: don't demand a respect you have yet to earn.   Back on the Hudson you displayed to me what kind of a man you truly are and I'll take a lot of convincing otherwise."

'So far so good', Lirik thought to himself.   'You haven't even sworn at him.'

The Commander turned his back on Lirik and returned behind the desk, placing a physical obstacle between them to avoid further temptation to punch the Englishman on the nose.

"Actually, you don't know me at all," he said with some control, casually recalling in his head all the citations and moments of 'glory' in his career.   “But you can see I’m wearing the pips of a Commander, and that means I’ve earned my rank through hard work and the respect of my colleagues.”

"I know you've got everyone snapping to attention and fearing you every time you enter a room," the Yeoman said.   "That hardly inspires respect."

"Discipline is necessary if we want to become an effective crew," the Kosovan stated.

Lirik continued: "You want to know what I think?   You screwed up back on the Papillon, and you feel guilty about it.   You feel like you let everyone down who died on board.   Now you're over-doing the disciplinarian bit to try and make up for it.   Or maybe you're burying yourself so deep in the role that you don't have to deal with your emotions."

"How would you know?!" Struckchev barked.   "Discipline certainly appears to have deserted you some time ago."

"On the contrary," the Yeoman squared his shoulders off, not wanting to appear tired of the bickering.   "I've served under Starfleet's top brass and fought shoulder to shoulder with Commanders that make your methods seem anarchic.   I know plenty about discipline."

Lirik had flashbacks of death and destruction that took place during such times and he suddenly remembered Struckchev's own loss.   It struck a deep chord with him.   For some reason - probably because he'd felt challenged by the Commander - Lirik hadn't shown much compassion or understanding of the man's feelings, despite his awareness of them.   He'd been quick to judge, and now his own antagonism was adding to the problem.   He decided to change his approach completely.

"Look, I admit you cannot have earned those pips by being such a hard arse," Lirik almost smiled.   "But with a few exceptions these people working out there aren't even Starfleet.   Being hard on them will only reflect badly on you."

"I've led crews for a long time now, Yeoman," the Commander seemed to relax slightly following Lirik's different approach.   "I thank you for your observations, but I know what works and what doesn't, whatever you may think."

"Then take a little advice, at least," Lirik wondered if there was any getting through to the guy.   "Ease up.   Cut everyone some slack.   And if there's anything I can do to help, just say the word."

For a few moments, Lirik wondered if this was the point when they would become friends and begin to work together.   Struckchev sat down, not saying anything, and picked up a padd.   Lirik paused and realised he wasn't going to get an answer.   Sighing heavily, he turned to leave defeated, when the Commander spoke.

"There is one thing you can do," the Commander waited for Lirik to turn toward him expectantly.   "Your attitude towards me in front of the crew isn't helping.   If you can show your loyalty and your obedience to me in front of them, it might help inspire confidence in the rest of the crew," he was matter-of-fact, but still acting like a buffoon, Lirik thought.

"And those…those are your orders?"   Lirik asked weakly.

"They are,” he waited for Lirik to begin to leave and said: “Oh, and one other thing.   I want toilet and replication systems functional - make it your next priority," Struckchev said.   "Some of those old ladies haven't had a decent squat for a fortnight.   Dismissed."

Lirik knew the Commander was doing this on purpose.   He may as well have ordered him to clean the toilet bowls with a toothbrush – and Struckchev would probably enjoy that, he thought.

* * *

COMMAND YACHT: 2303 HOURS

The Command Yacht made short work of its journey to the station. With each crew member allocated several hours of sleep, most arrived refreshed.

"Mister Narli, put the station on screen," the Captain requested.

"Maximum magnification," Narli informed them.

It was still fairly small on the large viewscreen, but its main details were obvious.   Erowoon was unlike any other station any of them had seen before - a massive, relatively thin rectangular platform with huge structures ranging along one long edge of the top, and many more massed together on its entire underside.   Around the perimeter of the central platform and across the mostly flat expanse of its top surface, hundreds of ships of varying sizes were docked, several in the process of departing or arriving.

"Open a channel," Christian said nervously.   Narli tapped the console.

"Channel open," the blue man straightened, intense upon the screen as the station grew larger.  

"This is the Starship Fantasy calling Erowoon Station," Christian said.

The automated response came rapidly, audio only.   "Erowoon station acknowledges, go ahead."

Christian composed himself, watching Ganhedra's face to make sure he didn't make a faux pas.   "We would like permission to dock."

"For what purpose?" the computerised voice asked.

"We wish to refuel and take on supplies.   We also need to find relief crew for the Grania crossing," the Captain glanced over at Ganhedra who nodded his approval.   They had decided that Erowoon would be wary of any ship coming from the direction of Vekarian space, even if they weren’t apparently refugees.   The Grania crossing, it turned out, required additional damage and repair crews for the turbulent journey and such freelancers were to be found aplenty, mostly propped up in the plethora of near-dark bars and pulsating nightclubs of this station.

There was a pause as the computer processed the response, then a humanoid voice was filtered into standard English by the universal translator: "This is Sissador, Station Security Chief.   Your heading indicates you have come from Vekarian territories - be advised that following the recent K'Tani coup our station has declared a neutrality to the conflict, and is not open to refugees.   We simply do not have the resources-"

The Captain didn't like the sound of this, and quickly cut in.   "We're not refugees, we are businessmen.   Our vessel was en route from Palladoria to Kreo.   We have had to endure the Wibbly Wobbly Way in order to avoid the coup."   Ganhedra smiled, pleased that the Captain was remembering all the details of his briefing.

Another pause followed.   Then: "Your ship appears to be partially cloaked, be advised we do not allow ships with cloaking technology to come within two thousand kilometres of the station or we will take action.   Please drop your cloak and hold your position."

Christian felt deflated, but nodded to Reb who brought the Command Yacht to a standstill.

"Mister Sissador," Christian explained in his gentlest of tones.   "Our ship is naturally cloaked at all times.   How may we be allowed to dock?"

Yet another pause followed.   Then: "Remain stationary while we assess your case.   A survey team will join you as soon as one becomes available."

The transmission cut off and Jackson's console tribbled.   "Two objects are approaching us.   They seem to be probes of some kind."

Ganhedra swept around the back of Christian to look at the readings.   "They are verification probes.   They will make an external assessment of the ship in advance of the on-board search party."

"This is all very paranoid," Reb said.   "How can they ever do any business around here?"

"Erowoon station is an efficiently run enterprise.   It is funded mostly by the nearby Warataka State.   The station needs to be wary of all strangers, even in peace time.   With the K'Tani now revoking the Qovakian Union they have to be especially cautious, particularly to those who speak with voices they don't recognise or come in ships they haven't seen before," Ganhedra scolded the young Helmsman.   "However, they do appear to be overrun with vessels currently – they must be turning a tidy profit today.   Consequently it may also be some time before they get a team out to us."

Christian turned to Narli.   "Can you zoom in on the platform?   Let's take a look at those docked vessels."

The viewscreen morphed to show the neat rows of vessels plugged into the side of Erowoon.   Some were recognisable as Vekarian, Ganhedra pointed out other Qovakian ships and those of other races he knew.   Like a beacon, the viewscreen panned past the back of a Romulan ship, its green surface pitted with several impact marks.

"Oh my!" Jackson exclaimed out loud - she felt foolish of the outburst.

"Doesn't look like they're too fussy about their patrons' origins," Reb stated, then remembered that Murak was sitting at engineering, and felt embarrassed - if a little nervous of the Romulan's reaction.

Christian glanced over at the young man, expecting him to ask the Captain if he could be allowed to rendesvous with his fellow Romulans, or maybe even transfer to their ship.   But perhaps because of fear, or perhaps with his new found freedom of sorts, the boy remained silent, head down trying to look busy.

Jackson's console chirped again and her earpiece whistled with local chatter.   "I’m picking up some kind of confrontation taking place on the comm network.   It’s coming from the other side of the station."

"On screen," Christian ordered.   To their surprise, the view revealed a Federation runabout, very badly damaged.

"There are…my God, eighty six people on board," Jackson couldn't believe the sensor readings.   "Life support is failing, but otherwise the ship is intact."

Narli glanced at Jackson who exchanged his look of concern from what they were hearing.   "Things appear to be reaching a head," Narli said and patched the chatter over the bridge speakers.

The channel hissed slightly - some kind of disalignment in the comm array, Christian guessed.   "Look, I don't care about your damned rules, we have to dock with you now!" came the mid-Atlantic female voice.

"I say again.   That's a negative," came the response.   "Without exception, we do not take refugees and our sensors show you are carrying too many lifeforms for a ship of your size.   Hear this again: if you travel two hours to the coordinates we know that you have received, you will find a planet-side refugee camp organised by the K'Tani that can provide food and shelter-"

"I've told you twice already, we don't have five minutes of life support, let alone two hours!! For the love of God, let us dock, man!" she was frantic and putting up a hell of a fight.  

Christian could see from his own arm-mounted sensor panel that a reverse tractor from three of the station's patrol ships were trying to push the runabout away, but in response she had her impulse engines on three-quarter throttle, matching the resistance perfectly.   Structural integrity was beginning to strain, but Christian knew from the life support readings only full well that the runabout had nowhere else to go - they would run out of air in a matter of minutes.

"I'm sorry," came the genuine but emphatic response.   "We cannot allow you to dock.   Retreat now or we will be forced to take further action."

Christian twisted in his chair, its leather creaking slightly.   "Commodore?"

The woman simply nodded.

Christian pressed the all-hail channel.   "To the pilot of the runabout," he said, not giving too much away, though clearly identifying himself as someone who knew what a runabout was.   "Your life support is failing.   In return for… a small fee we will take you on board our ship and deliver you to the refugee camp ourselves.   With the station's permission, of course."

"This is Colour Twenty Seven to holding ship…" the lead pilot paused as he checked the preliminary registration via the network, "…Fantasy.   Refugees are not allowed on the station, sir."

"I realise that, Colour Twenty Seven," Christian said calmly.   "Rest assured we won't let them out of our shuttle bay until we hand them over to the K'Tani."

The channel went quiet for a minute or so.   Christian was about to ask to be re-connected when the voice spoke:

"Very well," said the official.   "We will escort them to you.   But be aware you will be held fully responsible for them."

A moment later, the runabout female's voice spoke again.   "I look forward to meeting you, Captain of the Fantasy," but the tone sounded more like 'kiss my arse'.

Christian turned to his crew.   "Let’s waste no time!   Get that shuttle bay open right away."

* * *

COMMAND YACHT: 2343 HOURS

Christian stood in the shuttle bay control room with Jackson.   Both had phasers set on maximum stun, wide-range, but hoped they wouldn't have to use them.   When the Hudson had previously made it’s shuttle runs to and from the Beta Section, the crew had discovered the shuttle bay had no passive forcefield mechanism, so each time they had to bring the vessel on board in a vacuum, close the doors and then re-pressurise.

As the new runabout arrival came into view just outside of the ship, Christian saw the word Severn on its battered, blackened side.   As its nose pushed further into the bay, he could see the pilot - a rough looking young woman wearing a Starfleet uniform, command department.   She was flanked by more than a score of people, and he could easily make out several children on the laps of adults in the other window.

The runabout touched down and immediately they closed the bay doors.

As Christian and Jackson entered the pressurised chamber, the runabout's door quickly opened and Federation civilians poured out, elated, stretching their limbs, breathing the fresher air deeply and running up to Jackson and the Captain, shaking their hands and patting them on the back.   Finally, the Starfleet pilot emerged - no pips, so clearly an enlisted crewman.

"I'm Doreen Able," she said, "Crewman Grade Three."   She weakly shook the Captain's outstretched hand.   "Glad to see we weren't the only ones to escape the K’Tani with our lives."

"Where are your shipmates?" Jackson asked, looking around at all the people wearing civilian clothes.

"There are none," she said.   "Our ship, the USS Van Gelder, was destroyed."

“The Van Gelder, she was a Galaxy Class starship,” the Commodore recalled meeting the command crew vividly before they set off on a short tour of Vekarian space.   Counting the survivors here, that meant a further 1000 at least could be added to the mortality list.   “Commanded by Captain McGilligan.”   Able choked back a tear.

"I'm truly sorry," Christian grasped the woman’s wrist sympathetically, reminded of the enormity of the destruction that had taken place throughout the sector.   “You did good, crewman.”

The comm speakers cut off any further dialogue.   "Bridge to Captain Christian," Reb's voice spilled into the deck.   "The Erowoon patrol craft is too big for the shuttle bay so wants to dock with us to make the internal inspection."

Christian's brain went into shock - no-one was rehearsed in ship to ship docking procedures for this vessel.   "Tell them okay and then have an engineer and someone from security to meet me at airlock … er …"

"From the cofiguration of their lateral docking mechanism, I suggest Deck 1, Captain," Leonard's voice cut in.

“Very good, Deck 1 it is.”

* * *

BETA SECTION/COMMAND SECTION: 2200 HOURS

Lirik entered the secondary bridge for the umpteenth time that day.   On this occasion, however, he displayed a look of grim determination, knowing full well the next few minutes would be difficult.

As he passed the Captain's ready room, he noticed its occupant immediately.   Given recent events, Lirik wasn't surprised that Commander Struckchev was residing alone in the quiet, plush interior of the small office whilst his crew, such that they were, worked their nuts off elbow deep in consoles and arguing laws of physics in tight little clucks.   The glazed look in his eyes made the Russian seem to be staring through the display screen rather than at its surface content.

The Yeoman decided to play it cool, at least for the moment.   "Ah-hem," he muttered, watching for the reaction on Struckchev's far-away demeanour.

A heart-beat later, the Commander glanced in his direction, not noticing who it was at first.   "Report," he said instinctively.

"We've got limited head facilities on the upper decks of the Command Section and one waste reprocessing unit operational," Lirik read from the padd he held, holding back his outrage at the Commander's latest decision and the reason he was there now.   "However, without replication and transporter systems working there's little it can do except store our waste.   It's a different situation on decks 20 and below.   Some parts of the waste pipe network there are clogged - matter that hasn't been shifted in years, so it's rather a … big job."

The Commander was oblivious to the humour.   Lirik carried on, laughing inwardly at the man's po-faced attitude.   "Warnerburg's team have shored up the last of the plasma conduits that were damaged from the yacht separation.   Some of them will remain fragile until we can get spare parts, but we can safely re-route power around the most unstable ones for now,"

Lirik stepped over the door-frame.   He was amazed how the noise inside the room had no trace of an echo – he thought it was the dampening field, but on closer inspection he realised it was just clever use of sound absorbing materials within the room.

"Good," Struckchev responded weakly.   He looked as if he'd been crying, but if he had, the jaw and mouth were now resolute and unwavering.   The Commander must have sensed the Yeoman's curiosity at his emotional state for his eyebrows lowered and his stern gaze returned, raising the brutish front against the world once more.   "Was there something else?"

"Yes," Lirik spoke immediately and with confidence, stepping deeper into the pin-drop room with his back against the smoked glass window.   "Warnerburg   tells me you want to put all the civilians in the stand-by shuttle bay while you gut the entire sensor network and tactical systems."

"That's right," the Commander sank into the big chair and picked up a padd, casually checking it - but clearly not absorbing the contents.   His attempt at looking nonchalant merely riled Lirik all the more.   "They are using up a lot of energy - valuable energy.   We can save between 20 and 40 per cent of daily power consumption by keeping them all in one place, and it will also keep them well and truly isolated from the arachnids.   I thought even you would appreciate that kindness."

Lirik huffed and shook his head.   "Commander, there are hundreds of civilians on board.   They can't all stay cooped up in one relatively small space like common prisoners.   It could take weeks for this much extensive repair to be finished.   Surely it would be better to leave it until we’re in drydock?"

"On the contrary," Struckchev tossed the padd noisily to one side as it clattered onto the shiny desk and almost slid off the edge.   "Many of the civilians have told me they feel scared of this unsafe ship, frightened of the arachnid infestation, not to mention vulnerable to the K'Tani considering its state of repair and lack of competent crew on board.   They'll be pleased to be somewhere relatively spacious and out of harms way.   And anyway, I for one don't need people who can't be bothered to help interrupting the work of those that can.   And besides, once our sensors and tactical systems are operational they'll feel even safer."

"You're right about one thing - they are scared.   Which is why it's important they become at ease with the ship.   Maybe they'll even feel guilty seeing the volunteers working all hours and pitch in a hand themselves.   Shutting them away is going to make them rely on us even more.   They could even become more demanding as a result-" he was cut short by the Commander's hand slapping onto the edge of the desk.

"You've made your point, Lirik," he said.   "My orders still stand."

"Permission to speak freely?" Lirik drew himself to his full hight.

"No," the Commander snapped.   "Now get the hell out of my office."

Lirik paused for a fraction of a second.   He'd have liked nothing more than to lash out at the Russian where he stood, but he found instead his anger was welling up toward Christian and the Commodore.   How could they have left such an unstable, unapproachable person in command?   Lirik's answer was simple: because the alternative would have been to choose a half-Medusan.   The fate of the Captain’s parents was still raw, and coupled with his distrust of the diplomatic corps, he would have been the Captain’s last choice.

Several retorts popped into his head, but his sensibility turned him on his heel and sent him out of the ready room.   He slammed his fist onto the call button for the turbolift, causing the panel to bleep in protest at being manhandled.

Stepping into the elevator he heard running footsteps and an approaching voice coming from the bridge behind him just as the doors were closing.   "Hold, please!"   the voice was male and young.

Lirik shoved a pinky finger across the doorway, keeping the sliding doors apart and a strawberry blonde big-framed Helan bounded in.   It was Fraxon, slightly flush-cheeked, his shirt open to the waist showing off his muscled torso and flecks of golden chest hair.

"Deck 27," the Yeoman stated, dropping his hand.   The doors slid closed and Lirik looked expectantly at Fraxon, waiting for his destination.   Perhaps they were going to the same level.

"Has something upset you?" Fraxon suddenly asked.

Lirik humphed.   "It's nothing."

The alien planted a big fingered hand claw-like around his shoulder, causing his environmental shield to shimmer, and gently squeezed.   "Whoever they are, they should be ashamed."

Lirik looked into the younger man's face - despite its boyish appearance, there was more of a masculinity there than he'd remembered.   Fresh skin, tousled hair, and bright eyes with a slightly agape full mouth displayed a sexy awkwardness.   A firm chin and chiselled jaw supported by a thick, hard neck atop the big frame was firm and comforting.

"Thanks," was all the Englishman could manage with a half smile.

"It's my Penratta tomorrow," Fraxon grinned, stepping around the circular space until he was directly opposite the Yeoman.   "Would you do the honour of accompanying me through the ritual tomorrow night?"

"What is penratta?" Lirik asked.   He wondered suddenly at the culture of the Helan - they knew so little about these people, even having lived cheek by jowl for the last few weeks.   Lirik's first thought was that he wouldn't be available.   But he liked Fraxon (mostly, it was true, because he seemed to like him – and more importantly, seemed unaffected by his Medusan energies) and excused himself that it might at least be an opportunity to study the people closer.

"My coming of age," Fraxon said, almost alluringly.   "The time for my first seeding cycle."

Lirik wanted to laugh.   The alien words as interpreted by the universal translator left a lot to the imagination.   "Do I need to do anything to prepare?"

Fraxon smiled innocently, but his eyes displayed a glint of wickedness, the Yeoman thought to himself.   "Just try not to over exert yourself beforehand.   The ritual can be quite exhausting."

Lirik groaned inwardly.   The thought of physical exercise made him want food and bed even more than usual.   While he'd shed a few pounds and regained some of his former fitness in the arduous conditions since the coup, he was hardly feeling athletic.   Goodness only knew what would happen if the Helan’s rights of passage were comparable to the Klingon or Andorian traditions, he thought.   "Okay," he said weakly and noticed that Fraxon's body seemed to instantly relax and became content.

* * *

ACT 3