From: "The Aliens"
To: daltonator@hotmail.com
Subject: Star Trek: Valley Forge (Archive Submission)
Date: Sat, 25 Jun 2005 20:27:38 -0400 


PROLOGUE


"Bring us about!" Commander Senior Grade Elliot Scott grabbed for purchase on his 
swinging chair as the [I]Luxembourg[/I] rocked. The ship was on fire in several 
places, trailing plasma back into the nebula from which they'd came. The bridge was 
awash with the red glow of emergency beacons and lighting, as well as some small 
fires, and as another blast rocked the small, diplomatic ship, a console blew behind 
him. 

"K'nos, report," barked Scott, his long blond hair covered in sweat. He looked at his 
Vulcan Operations Officer, who was carefully moving his hands over the console. "We 
have lost main power on all decks. Breaches on Decks 7, 8, 9 and 10. Explosive 
decompression Deck 8, Section 13, and force fields are beginning to fail in the 
vicinity. Main Engineering has been evacuated. Warp Core containment also failing, 
estimate ten minutes to breach. Warp and impulse are both down."

Helm seconded the Warp report with a loud curse word in Andorian, and then the ship 
rocked and the console blew. The shrapnel ripped into the man's arm, and the flame of 
plasma in the second before the conduit shut itself down burned the man's face 
secretly. His white hair caught on fire, and the small antennae curled away from the 
stimulus. A moment later, Scott caught sight of the man on the floor as he turned to 
the source of the explosion, and caught sight of the man's ruined face. His brief 
medical training took over, and he dispassionately catalogued the man's injuries, and 
hit the comm as their full nature became apparent.

"Captain Scott to Sickbay. Doctor Khaaten, I need Ensign zh'Ref beamed straight to 
sickbay, third degree burns." He kept his voice as level as possible, drawing on his 
decades of experience as a Counselor to project calm.

The Caitian woman did not do the same. "Damn you and your pilots! I'm doing all I can 
to save these people, and instead of telling me that you're about to bring back main 
power, you're giving me more to do! Transporters are down, Elliot, I'll send a damn 
triage team."

"Thanks, Fehsha," he said, calmly, and turned to Mekler at Tactical. "Status on the 
Kra'Na ships?" The Luxembourg had been dispatched by Starfleet to attempt to bring 
some neutral worlds along the Federation frontier into the fold. It was for their own 
protection, Commodore Mendez had told him, since the Klingon Civil War was growing 
more unstable by the day, and could soon boil over. It had started with a few houses 
preying on freighters carrying supplies to their own personal enemies, up to 
assassinations, and finally several factions splitting away and forming their own 
nations. The central Klingon Empire did not, of course, recognize these new states, 
and so he sent vessels in to stop them from 'poisoning' the rest of the population. 
However, their troops still reduced by the Dominion War, the suppression had turned 
into stalemate, and Starfleet knew that any day the war could boil over the Klingon 
border and into the Federation's back yard.

Small worlds and confederacies, much like the Kra'Na, had been chosen to serve as the 
Federation's firebreak against Klingon aggression, they could be retooled to create 
Federation goods quickly, and would be relatively unimportant to protect in the event 
of a larger war. Of course, when the [I]Luxembourg[/I] had encountered the Kra'Na, 
they had been at war with another species, the Dorra. The two sides had been using a 
powerful bio-agent to burn through each other's hulls and soldiers, and as soon as 
Captain Scott had gotten into the fray, he had been badly damaged and forced to 
retreat into a nebula. The bio-agent that was being used had eaten through many key 
systems and infected the sinus passages of many soldiers- some had pulled through, 
but most died on contact.

Now, with most of their systems off-line, the [I]Luxembourg[/I] was desperately 
fleeing the Kra'Na and their bio-weapons, bearing a report telling the Federation 
that this sector was best ignored to begin with. Mekler looked at the status board, 
and up to Captain Scott, plainly deciding how much to share with his Captain. 
"Weapons and shields are down. The ships are continuing to approach. We're losing 
more systems by the minute as the bio-agent chews through the ship. Sir, I think we 
must abandon ship."

The acrid smoke now pouring into the bridge from fires faster than enviro-filters 
could remove it distorted the view, and dampened the sirens. Scott could have had 
them silenced, but knew that they carried a lot of information and he'd be better off 
hearing them. Someone finally put out the console zh'Ref had been sitting at, and one 
alarm quieted, the body had to have been beamed away in spite of Doctor Khaaten's 
objection.

Scott considered the options. He could surrender, impossible because of the comm 
systems being destroyed and not being able to reduce thrust any more, running simply 
on momentum with all engines offline, he could fight, which would result in death and 
likely a diplomatic incident, or he could abandon ship and attempt to make it away 
carrying his information in an escape pod. Only one plan could work.

"Abandon ship," he said, and the smoke thickened as environmental control finally 
failed. The red lights through it caused the people to look like pale red ghosts, 
taken from the flaming heart of hell itself. He managed to crawl away from his chair, 
breathing in the cleaner air near the ground, and saw the other officers who were 
capable of it doing the same. Most had large rips through their uniforms, were 
bleeding, or missing commbadges or pips. His engineer was dragging his arm along with 
him- it was bleeding heavily and seemed to be severely broken- probably in the escape 
from main engineering.

They made it into the corridors, and the Captain straightened up, shaking soot out of 
his hair. His leg was cut, bleeding deep red, but he ignored the pain to look at the 
officers following him out. He needed to be strong for them. He made it down the 
corridor, having to dodge one patch where the decking had fallen through and green 
bio-agent ate through the floor, and plugged himself into an escape pod, two junior 
officers with him.

"Computer, locate Commander Khaaten."

"Commander& aat& not... Luxembourg." The comm dissolved into static.

Scott nodded. If the feline doctor had made it off the ship, all the injured that 
could move surely had been as well. "Computer, launch escape pod."

"Unable& comply." The comm clicked.

"Initiate manual launch."

"Must& ducted& out& pod."

Scott shook his head. He got up to go to the back, if someone had to be outside to 
launch it, then the Captain would be going down with his ship. He hadn't even liked 
the Luxembourg, he had had it less than six months, so it wasn't a concern. Only the 
Counselor in him was worried about the casualties, but that instinct was quickly 
buried beneath the Command training. [I]Sacrifice the few for the many,[/I] he had 
been instructed constantly, and he knew that most of the crew that were still alive 
had made it off in pods.

He made it to the door when a junior officer, a reptilian Sharmnar nearly two and a 
half metres high and covered in green scales, threw him backwards, and left the 
hatch.

"Molto, get back in here, that's an order," said Scott, addressing the enlisted man, 
but the Sharmnar just shook his head and gave a reptilian grin. He slammed the hatch 
shut with a clawed hand, slammed the door shut with a tail, and pulled the manual 
override switch, firing the escape pod outside. Molto had only moments to wait before 
a bio-agent blast hit the pod where he was sitting, and sent him to join the gloried 
ones.

Aboard the pod, Captain Scott simply sat quietly. The young woman at the autopilot 
sat quietly, not intruding on the Captain's thoughts. He had lost one man in plain 
sight of freedom, and while it wasn't his orders that had killed him, he still felt 
guilt. [I]If it had been someone other than the Captain here he wouldn't have given 
up his seat, it wouldn't have been honorable for a Sharmnar to die for nothing.[/I] 
His choice of pod had killed an innocent, and it was just another thing the Universe 
had on its tab against him.

However, he calmed himself quickly- he had served as a Counselor aboard several ships 
for more than two decades, and knew how to drain the anger and frustration. Slowly, 
he drifted into a trance-like meditation state, and felt the anger redirect itself 
against the Kra'Na, who were the ones firing weapons. He opened his eyes long enough 
to see another bio-shot hit the [I]Luxembourg[/I] in the Engineering section, and 
shielded his eyes from the blast of light that signaled a Warp Core breach. Two of 
the Kra'Na ships detonated as the blast way hit them, and the rest peeled off, 
leaving the escape pods to flee out of the nebula and towards Starbase 425, more than 
three weeks away at the limited pace escape pods could travel. Scott sent out 
encrypted orders to the other pilots of the escape craft, no more than twelve, and 
the small vessel jumped to Warp.



CHAPTER 1

"Senior Commander Elliot Scott." The voice speaking was quiet, but clearly 
infuriated. It was a tone that Scott had heard many times before, from all sorts of 
Starfleet Instructors, Commanding Officers, and even patients. He was, by trade, a 
Counselor, and despite having taken Starfleet's Command Course at the Academy before 
being given the Luxembourg seven months ago, he analyzed people before he had a 
chance to properly meet them. He had a reputation in Starfleet for being loud, 
expressive, flamboyant, and most of all talented, but that had not endeared him to 
many of the more conservative older brass.

"I don't know what idiot decided you should get a Command, but I'll make sure they're 
summarily dealt with." The woman speaking, who sounded as if she'd eaten ice for 
breakfast, was Fleet Captain Maull Inor, an old Bajoran woman who had ascended to the 
position by no-one knew quite what methods. She was obviously angry, saw Elliot, from 
her tone and body language, but not necessarily at him. Probably at work, some other 
decision made [I]concerning[/I] him, but not only him personally.

He had a much less useful form of telepathy than Betazoids- he was fluent in reading 
body language. Studies dating back as early as four centuries ago had showed that 
most communication was non-verbal, and with degrees in all sorts of body language and 
non-verbal cue studies, Elliot could literally read people like books.

"Not too severely, I hope," he said, in a tone he accurately judged to be irritating. 
By presenting what he knew about body language over his own appearance, he could 
convincingly project many moods, a helpful talent in a negotiator and Counselor.

"Shut up, Commander. You have been in an escape pod for nearly three weeks,"

"Yes, Ma'am, I know. I was there, after all," he said, masking his shame at the 
incident in sarcasm.

"You are accused of precipitating an intergalactic war between the Kra'Na and the 
Federation, and you are, in my opinion, guilty of 128 counts of manslaughter- the 
people that died when the Luxembourg blew. You could have easily called for back up, 
left the nebula, or negotiated territorial concessions, to allow yourself out, and 
you chose to fight, destroying a valuable ship in the process."

This really did irritate Scott, but he did not let any emotion show. He clamped down, 
and forced his tone to remain polite, despite feeling his voice trying to crack. "You 
weren't there, and I was. I think I have more authority on you about what happened. 
We asked them to put aside the bio-weapons in their war against the Dorrans, they 
refused. We told them that in order to join the Federation, they would have to meet 
certain standards, lack of bio-weapons is one of the criteria. We followed [I]your
[/I] orders to the letter, ma'am, tried to stop them from destroying each other. We 
failed, in spite of having some of the best diplomats in the Federation on our side. 
What happened was a tragedy, and one I feel responsibility for, but not one for which 
I'm criminally responsible."

Inor looked at him coldly, and turned to the PADD on her desk. "Luckily for you, 
Starfleet command agrees with you, and not me. What a shame. You're being transferred 
immedietly to the [I]USS Valley Forge[/I], a carrier from before the Dominion War. 
You're being given a Bolian, Lieutenant Commander Traab, as your First Officer. He's 
already aboard, and will fill you in on the rest of the crew. Now get out of my 
office, and get your ship out of my Starbase as soon as it's space-worthy."

She turned away from him, the meeting plainly over, and Scott was struck by her 
ominous words. [I]"As soon as it's space-worthy,"[/I] she had said, and it was not a 
typical choice of words for a Federation Flag officer. Keeping his face impassive, he 
left the office, and then collapsed heavily onto one of the padded seats outside of 
her office. A large map hung on one wall, showing Starbase 425's location near the 
Klingon border. The lines inside the map corresponded to breakaway provinces in the 
Klingon Empire, and Scott knew that being in command of a warship meant he would soon 
be on high alert for any change in those borders.

"She's still got it, eh," asked a deep voice nearby. He looked up, and stared at a 
mammoth chest hidden under a bulging uniform. He continued looking up, far past the 
level where a normal man's head would be, and finally saw a bald, blue head with a 
thin ridge running along it, and horizontal bands of darker blue across the top of 
his head. He was a Bolian, and far from the usual plumpness of Bolians, this one was 
stocky, muscular, and very tall.

"Dressed me down like a first-year Cadet. I'm Elliot Scott. You would be-"

"Lieutenant Commander Traab, your first officer on the Little Boat That Couldn't, the 
[I]Valley Forge[/I]. Nice to be suffering with you."

"You've inspected it," asked Scott, getting to his feet. The Bolian was clearly 
acting much happier than he felt, and seemed to be carrying some kind of guilt or 
sadness on his broad shoulders.

"I stepped on board, and then stepped off. The air scrubbers were broken and the 
whole place smelt terribly stale. I've got a very refined sense of smell, you know. 
Helps when cooking." He looked off into the distance down the corridor, made a sharp 
right and walked slowly enough to allow Commander Scott to also change course.

"You were a cook?" Scott looked upwards at his companion, who he know judged to be 
two and a half metres tall, and tried to judge the man's thoughts from his stance. He 
was clearly a fighter- well-trained and talented, but he seemed to also be sniffing 
the air as he walked, and tasting it with the tip of his tongue. 

"Twenty-seven years aboard a small freighter, making regular runs to Bolius XI from 
Vulcan. Loved it. Then one day some Orion pirates took over the ship, I happened to 
be in the galley where they beamed in, and I killed three with kitchen utensils 
before Security made it in. They gave me a medal for bravery, promoted me into 
Security, and I worked as a bodyguard for eight years, getting up to full 
Commander." Traab looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and offered no information 
about why he only wore Lieutenant Commander pips. Scott ignored it, figuring he would 
be able to find the full story on the man's file, and nodded.

"Why'd you get transferred to Command?" Scott thought it would be an easy, light 
question, something about life goals.

"Same reason you did, probably. I screwed up my last assignment, badly, and they 
wanted me somewhere out of the way, so they demoted me and tossed me onto a derelict 
old carrier. Look, I've got to talk to the station XO about some personnel 
assignments, I'll get you in to go over them with you and the Chief Medical Officer 
in the morning. Also, I recommend sleeping on the station, grab some executive 
quarters, because the Forge does not smell too healthy." At the next intersection, 
the large Bolian disappeared round a bend, and Scott did not bother to persue, not 
wanting to endanger the already fragile Captain-First Officer relationship. At least 
the crew reports would be some entertaining reading, if Traab were any barometer.
*****

Doctor Fehsha Kaaten was furious. She had been ordered off the dying [I]Luxembourg
[/I], of course, more than three weeks ago. She had taken a brief inventory of 
Sickbay, saw who could be saved and who could not, and dispassionately moved those 
who would have hope in an escape pod to the exits. Cool, calm, collected, as was her 
stock in trade. Of course, she had internally railed against the Captain's orders 
with every part of soul in her feline heart, and had carried that bitter resentment 
through the isolation of the escape from the ship.

She had arrived at the Starbase in bad shape- claws overgrown, fur starting to grow 
on her chin, and ready to bite through someone's neck with her powerful teeth, and 
had immedietly insisted on looking after her patients in the better venue of the 
Starbase's Infirmary. She had been sedated after fifteen minutes of inflicting a bad 
scratch on a junior officer who had tried to keep her down on an operating table for 
a check-up, and had woken up now to find that her patients had been discharged and 
were in perfect health- without her intervention.

Of course, she had returned to her quarters to sprawl out and have a good, solid, 
replicated meal but had had an urgent message waiting for her from Starfleet Command, 
and so she opened it. The contents put food well out of her mind.

	[I]To: Commander Fehsha Kaaten, Starfleet Medical
	From: Starfleet Command, Bajor
	Re: ORDERS
	Doctor Fehsha Kaaten , as of immediately you are assigned Chief Medical 
Officer on the [I]USS Valley Forge[/I]. You are to report to Senior Commander Elliot 
Scott on the USS Valley Forge before Stardate 73421.3. Failure to comply will result 
in punishment under Federation Article 543 section (b), paragraph 3.[/I]

Well, she had assumed she would be re-assigned, and with her quarters being a rapidly 
expanding cloud of hydrogen millions of kilometers away moving didn't bother her. 
What did was being placed under the command of Elliot Scott for the seventh time in 
twenty-one years. It was as if the Starfleet brass was attempting to stick her career 
onto the coat tails of Scott, and she would not have it. She got up out of her 
quarters, threw on a lab-coat, and started walking for the middle, commercial area of 
the station where she knew Scott would be.

It was a brief walk- several turbolifts made direct connections to the middle, and so 
it was only five minutes before she picked out Scott's shaggy blonde head among the 
population of the Commercial Centre. She sat down heavily, startling him, who seemed 
to be playing children's games on a pink PADD, and dropped her orders on his table.

"Something to drink," asked the Ferengi waiter, who looked as if he knew he could be 
doing better, more profitable, things.

She merely turned quickly and bared her fangs at him, and he stumbled backwards, out 
of the way.	

"You realize it's going to be impossible to get away without tipping him now right," 
asked Elliot, surreptitiously sliding the PADD with the games into his front pocket. 
He also wore a red overcoat, a flagrantly non-uniform thing that many younger Command 
Officers had started wearing over the standard black, grey-shouldered uniform.

"You realize I've been assigned to you again," she snapped, looking at him seriously. 
Her tail loudly brushed the ground.

Elliot shrugged. "That's good, I think I'm going to be needing a competent Doctor."
	
"This is the seventh time, since you were Chief Counselor and I was your Assistant 
back on the [I]Zephyr[/I]. I'm sick of you outranking me," she said, her expression 
softening. She [I]liked[/I] Elliot, most people did, but it was frustrating to be 
given to him again, like a tricorder or a phaser.

"Oh come on," he said, reading her body language, "I don't think you're a present off 
Command. I think you're-"

What he thought she was, she didn't find out, as two men, one with very dark eyes and 
the goldenrod engineering collar and the other a Vulcan scientist, piled into him 
from the rear. He spun around, but without a firm foothold, he was helplessly knocked 
sideways with Fehsha. She curled up into a ball, and landed on two legs and one arm, 
the other being kept to her right for balance. The Engineer swung a side kick at the 
Vulcan, who deftly dodged, and countered with a solid punch. It connected with the 
man's face before he ducked out of the way, firing a second kick at the Vulcan's 
knee, catching him and knocking him to the side.

The bartender called for order and waved a phaser, in a broad change from most 
Ferengi, who would be taking bets or hiding, and two shots rang out into the ceiling. 
Alarms, reacting to a phaser firing, cut through the ambient noise in the bar- much 
of which was taking about the fight, and Fehsha clawed at the Vulcan's face, dropping 
him, and kneeing the Engineer in the stomach. He too fell, and Fehsha shrugged out of 
the way as Security arrived.

"Good shot," said Elliot, nodding at her, but she merely went to another table and 
sat down. She folded her tail underneath her, picked up a padd with the day's 
selections on, and drummed her claws against the table.

"I am now ready to order," Elliot heard her say, through the loud tumult in the bar.


CHAPTER 2


"You're joking me, right?" The speaker was Senior Commander Elliot Scott, looking 
carefully around the room as if to spot some hidden man behind a table ready to jump 
out yelling 'Surprise!'

"No, sir, I'm not." Fehsha Khaaten's voice was a low purr, addressed to her Captain. 

"So I have both these idiots aboard my ship." Scott looked at Traab, as if hoping the 
large Bolian would dispel the illusion.

"Yes, sir. Although [I]I[/I] don't think they're idiots- they were caught fighting, 
once, in  public place. I've done that plenty of times, all over the Federation. I'm 
actually banned from Risa." Traab said it as if it was a true mark of pride.

"Alright. The suspects," said Scott, pulling up the file of the Engineer. "Lieutenant 
Junior Grade Jahn Davits, Chief Engineer, USS Valley Forge. He's a Betazoid- full 
telepath. Several documented anger problems, recorded for being an excellent 
Engineer, but abrasive to those under his command. Just what we need. Well, I'd like 
to call him in for an appointment."

"Appointment, Elliot?" Fehsha purred out his first name, and Elliot did not bother to 
tell her to call him 'sir'. "Are you trying to take over my job?"

"And risk having my face clawed off? No. I'm a counselor, perhaps I can get some 
insight into what he's doing." Elliot started walking around the small conference 
room. The three officers, Scott, Traab, and Khaaten were performing the standard 
analysis of a new ship's crew on the ship itself- out the window hung the insides of 
Starbase 425, small worker-bee pods and EV-suited crewmen flitting around the outside 
of the ships under repair.

And the [I]Valley Forge[/I] was in a constant state of repair. It had started life as 
a pleasure yacht, and when it had become too old to ferry passengers it was 
downgraded to a cargo hauler. It had spent years in undistinguished service hauling 
roots and fungi between worlds along the Vulcan Trade Spine, before Starfleet had 
picked it up. They made extensive modifications, making a through-hull flight deck 
fit for two squadrons of fighters- 24 vessels, increased power to the weapons and 
shields and optimistically dubbed it a 'light carrier'. In reality, the power systems 
were a frail mess, the computer was outdated, and the ship's crew was hardly 
Starfleet's finest.

"Why he's abrasive doesn't matter," purred Khaaten, "making him stop does."

Scott shook his head. "Both matter. If he's going to be expected to work with&"

"Ensign T'Sav, Vulcan, Chief of Science," said Traab, answering Scott's unspoken 
question. "She's going to be disappointed- our science facilities are worse than our 
weapons- and the phasers on this tub wouldn't fry an egg. Before you ask, nothing 
wrong with her except good old Vulcan arrogance, so there's not really anything we 
can do about her. She's fresh from the Academy, on her first cruise- probably hasn't 
been around too many non-Vulcans, she did her training on Vulcan proper."

"How is it that we end up with an Ensign as Science?" Scott ran his hand through his 
hair, sighing in vexation. 

"Take these," said Fehsha, looking at him clutching his head, and handed two small, 
green tablets to him. "They are good for pain, they taste minty, which I've heard 
humans say is a pleasant taste." 

"Never cared for it myself- masks too many flavours," said Traab, leaning back on his 
chair, which was making a groan of complaint as it dealt with his large weight. "The 
Ensign is because we're pretty low on the list for crewmen- you're here because 
you've lost a ship, Fehsha is here because she's attached to you, I'm here… well, I'm 
here with a new Ensign and a psychotic Engineer… not good at all. Helm is going to be 
done on a rotating shift between four Ensigns, three with flying experience and one 
with combat, Tactical and Operations still haven't come aboard, and our Fighter Wing 
Commander is supposed to be some crusty old fossil that Starfleet Command dug out of 
retirement."

"How are the fighters themselves?" Scott popped the pills and smiled as they took 
effect, fuzzing the pain in his head.

"Also not yet aboard. I've got to hit the Mess Hall before seven, I'm going to teach 
some children how to make [I]gra'shath[/I], replicators don't do it right. I'll 
schedule Davits in for an appointment first thing tomorrow. Captain, Doctor," he 
said, as he eased his large frame out the door.

It slid shut, and Scott could see Khaaten's stance slacken.

"You don't like him," he asked, jutting his head in the direction of the door Traab 
had left through.

"I don't trust him," she said, after a moment. "I have known you for two decades, 
Janson on the [I]Luxembourg[/I] for about that much time- I need to feel comfortable 
with an Executive Officer, not wondering how long it will take for him to be in my 
Sickbay. He does not eat any replicated food, and he is forcing officers to cook with 
[I]actual[/I] meat, hacked off dead animals. I know I will not be in the Mess&"

"You'll be in Sickbay, caring for people with stomach infections, I know." Elliot 
offered up a small shrug. "As soon as people get sick, I'll pull him out of the Mess, 
but it can't hurt to let him try."

"You would think that," she purred, "but I've seen what organic food can do to 
people. As always, it is your choice, Captain." She shifted to the formal tense, and 
sat backwards, and Elliot knew a part of her had just retreated from the 
conversation.

*****

"The first thing you've got to learn when cooking," said Traab, over the bustle of 
the crowds in the Mess Hall and the clattering of pans in the kitchen where they 
stood, "is that there are no rules. Put something together, see what you get. If it's 
bad, don't do it again. If it's good, then write it down so someone else can do it. 
Ever since the first Bolian wrapped a soft-peat grub in a Ba'ka leaf and invented 
Shru'goth, that's how recipes have been created."

The people in the room stared at him, puzzled at his obscure choice of analogy, and 
there was the loud hum of a replicator. With what most in the room would judge to be 
deadly force, Traab slung the PADD in his hand at the man near the replicator, who 
dropped the tray, startled. The PADD shattered into pieces, spilling plastic and 
perspex over the floor, and bouncing over the NCO, who didn't move.

Traab crossed the room in one step, pulled off the panel beneath the machine and put 
his hand into the wires. He ripped several out, there was a loud spark, and the 
lights dimmed, before the power came back on.

"Ops to Kitchen."

"Go ahead, Ops," said Traab, looking impatiently at the ceiling.

"I'm showing some power circuit breaks in your replicators. Know anything about 
that?"

"I ripped out the wires."

"With what?"

Traab smiled. "My hands."

There was a pause as the Operations Officer doubtlessly checked what he was hearing. 
"Your hands?"

"That's correct, Ops."

"I'm sending a medical team. That should have killed you."

"Negative on that, Ops. Order that no-one is to repair the replicators, by authority 
of the Executive Officer. I'm fine- I didn't pull out any of the physical wires, just 
the plugs. I didn't get any shock."

"Confirmed, sir. If you ever do that again, let us know so we can send down some 
pliers?"

"I'll try, Ops. Traab out." He looked at the assorted crewmen, wearing their floppy 
chef hats and stunned expressions. "Now, who knows how to make a chicken pot pie?"

*****

"Alright, Mr. Davits," said Scott, leaning over the table. "Why should I take you on 
to the [I]Valley Forge[/I], with your record of fighting." Scott and Davits say in 
Scott's ready room, a dilapidated room with one small window, a large packing crate 
as a desk, and old fighter ejector seats as the only furniture. A field replicator 
stood on another thin packing crate in the middle of the room, a thick wire 
connecting it to the wall. Elliot sat with his feet up, leaning back, looking at some 
of the art that was strewn haphazardly on the walls. Books also lay about the room, 
piled up on their PADDs on crates, and several small plants sat in pots in different 
levels about the room.

"Because you don't have any choice, do you? Look, [I]sir[/I], I can read your mind, 
don't forget. I'm a Betazoid, so don't pull any crap on me. You need me on this ship 
to keep it from falling apart, I need to be on here so I don't go to prison."

"You were in prison?" Scott was stalling, looking for ways to open up the man's 
psyche.

"Assault, against an Orion Operations Officer. Never trusted him. He's like humans, 
Vulcans, Klingons, Cardassians, Bajorans- can't trust any of them. Never know if 
they're trying to lie to you. That bastard was lying to me, I know. He didn't do that 
again."

Scott shrugged, looking at the man's record. "No, he didn't, because you were shipped 
to the Delphus V penitentiary. They let you out as long as you agreed to contribute 
to Federation society, you said as an Engineer. Well, Lieutenant, you know you're 
going to have to smarten up. There are plenty of people on this ship that can do your 
job-"

"Sure, if my job is to make sure the ship explodes. Hell, half these kids can't tell 
an ODN relay from a J-325 patch cord."

"Then you'll have to bloody well train them, won't you." Scott now dropped his calm 
demeanor, as he saw it was not getting him through the man's defenses. He would have 
to play hardball.

"Yeah, sure. As long as you want me on your ship and can stand to have them showing 
up at your office crying. I promise to keep the physical violence to a minimum, as 
long as no-one starts anything with me. But there ain't no force strong enough to 
keep me from verbal abuse."

"A phaser would," said Scott, looking directly at him. He saw a brief flicker of fear 
in the man's posture before he straightened up.

"You're bluffing," he said, standing. "can I go, I have kids to baby-sit."

"Dismissed," said Scott, and turned away. A moment later the door hissed, and he 
heard the soft padding of Khaaten's feet on the floor.

"How is he?" she took a seat in the chair, and looked at him calmly. He could tell 
she only needed his professional input, but she had a remarkable ability to draw him 
in and make him feel comfortable around her. She was a steady presence, a constant on 
a ship that was field with more and more variables.

"I don't like him. Do you think we can count on Traab to keep him in line?"

"No. Traab is emotionally six years old- I almost had to haul him out of the kitchen 
after he stuck his hands in live wires. That man has no idea what he is doing." She 
looked disgusted, and sat with her hands in her lap. "I wish you would let me declare 
him medically unfit."

"Out of the two of us, I would know if he was insane first."

She hissed at him. "there is no need to rub in the fact you have been my superior for 
the last two decades!" 

He looked frankly at her. "I'm not rubbing in anything. I'm telling you that he's 
fine for duty. Look, Fehsha, I've known you long enough for you to know I'm not going 
to play power games. But you're going to need to accept you're under my command, and 
not running around doing what you want."

The fur on her face, which looked somewhat like a beard running around her chin and 
onto her nose, leaving her cheeks and forehead hairless, rippled, and she quieted. 
"Fine. Are you bringing in T'Sav?" 

"Maybe tomorrow. Look, I'm going to go to bed, we have a briefing tomorrow, and I 
really need some rest. Good night, Fehsha." He stood up, and began to round his desk.

"Good night, Elliot." She left ahead of him and took a seat on the bridge. It was a 
haphazard place, consoles having simply being bolted down at random when it had been 
commissioned as a warship by Starfleet, and Scott's eyes stayed on it for only a 
moment, and he swept into the turbolift, which promptly jammed.

He rolled his eyes. "Captain to Ops."

*****

"Captain to Ops." The voice rung through the Ops centre, and Petty Officer First 
Class Melan Arys rolled his eyes. He was a Bajoran, on loan to Starfleet from the 
Militia, and was very busy. "Will someone get that," he said, and the people in the 
Ops centre continued on their tasks. Melan was a Bajoran, but unlike most Bajorans, 
he had been raised on Ferenginar. His mind had accepted the tenets of Profit, as 
opposed to the Prophets, when he was young, and as such, was considered to be 
somewhat of an oddball. He had family on both Bajor and Ferenginar, and never missed 
a chance to make a quick few credits. On top of this, he was extremely religious, 
praying often to the Blessed Exchequer, in the hopes He would deliver him from 
destiution.

It was a room two stories tall, looking much like main Engineering. There was a 
massive display of the ship on one wall, two decks high, showing every access port 
and computer junction on the ship. Many of them were marked in yellow or red, 'in 
need of repair' or 'damaged beyond repair', respectively, but there were enough blue 
to show the ship could take off if needed. There were computer terminals everywhere 
on the outside wall over the two decks, and a catwalk running from the stairs right 
around the room, effectively making it open in the middle, but with two functional 
levels.

"Captain to Ops, respond."

Melan was almost finished what he had to do. He was attempting to bring the port side 
computer online to run it with the bridge computer- the two were from about twenty 
years apart, and as such, were totally incompatible. As the ship's computer 
specialist, Melan was responsible for coding a module that would ensure full 
compatibility, and this was what he was doing now. 

Teraquads of data were flitting through the Ops network now, as more and more 
stations came online and the officers were forced to make sure the computers were 
doing what they had to. They ran diagnostics, dispatched tams to fix logic gate 
errors or stream code to make sure the ship ran smoothly- they were responsible for 
all the software aboard the ship. What Ops couldn't fix, couldn't be fixed without a 
hydro-spanner and sonic hammer.

"Officer Melan, that means you," said Scott thrugh the comm, and Melan sent his 
module to a station upstairs for code optimization. He flicked a switch on his chair, 
which was in the centre of the Ops room and surrounded by screens and computers, and 
a chirp of a comm came from upstairs.

"Yes, sir," answered the officer.

"Guyal, I've just finished the module, it's sitting on server 8 on drive R. Check it 
over?"

"Sure thing, boss." The comm channel ended, and Melan opened the other line. 

"Go ahead, Captain."

"Officer Melan, you are in charge of Ops. When the Captain calls you, that is your 
number one priority. There are many people upset I've put a non-commissioned officer 
as Chief of Ops, and one on loan from the Bajoran Militia at that. I don't want to be 
disappointed."

"I'm sorry, sir, I had to get a module written. What's the problem?"

"My turbolift is stuck."

Melan rolled his eyes. He had much more important things to do that shepherd a lost 
Captain.

"I'm going to beam you in some food, shortly. You're on my repair list." He closed 
the comm channel and ignored the beeping, as he began to work on coding new 
replicator patterns for the starfighters.



CHAPTER 3


The conference room aboard the [i]Valley Forge[/i] was originally a small executive 
officer's galley. It had large windows, open to space, a large table in the middle, 
and dark patches on the carpet where old foods had been spilled. The table itself was 
a group of old consoles from an even more decrepit ship placed together, welded, and 
then given a transparent plastic sheet over the top to make a flat surface. There was 
a model of the original [i]Valley Forge[/i], before her extensive modifications, cut 
into one side of the gently sloping wall, and a middle-sized flatscreen was placed at 
the wall above the head of the table, currently displaying the Starfleet Insignia.

"What I don't understand is why you couldn't just beam me out of the damn 
turbolift," said Senior Commander Elliot Scott, at the head of the table. Most of the 
senior staff were present, Scott having called a staff meeting fifteen minutes 
before, and the atmosphere in the room was distrustful.

"I take it you weren't an engineer, then," asked Melan, not looking up from the PADD 
at which he was working. He slumped back in the chair, keeping the PADD near his lap 
and craning his neck to see it, and displayed all the military discipline of an 
Orion.

"A counselor, for a long time. You're resentful of being transferred from the militia 
to Starfleet, stressed about the poor state of computers on the ship, and nervous I'm 
going to throw you out of an airlock for having the audacity to beam me in food and 
leave me for five [I]hours[/I] in a turbolift." Scott glared phasers at the Bajoran 
Ops officer.

"Alright, let's put it into medical terms. What's more complicated, a plate of rice 
or a person?"

"The person, in most respects." Scott suppressed rolling his eyes, he was getting his 
answer and didn't want to put Melan's back up against the wall.

"Alright. So since the human is so much more complex, it would be harder to transport 
out than it would be to beam in some field rations, right?" Now the Ops officer 
looked up from his work to return the Captain's glare.

"Fair enough. But people beam out all the time, why not here?"

Melan shrugged. "The transporters aboard the [i]Valley Forge[/i] are thirty-seven 
years old, going by their recorded installation date. The person manning the 
transporters on Alpha Shift is twenty-two, enlisted, and on her first cruise. I don't 
know if you've ever tried to use equipment fifteen years older than you, but it's not 
easy. I plan to let her have some time to adjust before making her beam anything 
sensitive out." He returned to his PADD, having delivered his riposte, and Scott 
stared blankly for a moment.

"What about replacing the transporters," asked Scott, half-heartedly.

The Engineer, Lieutenant Junior Grade John Davits, laughed. "I knew you were going to 
say that," he said, tapping his forehead. Davits was a telepath, and found briefings 
to be ridiculous wastes of time. "and you're lucky we have toilets on this can. We 
are, frankly, so far down the requisitions list that if the Warp Drive broke down 
tomorrow, we'd be told to get out and push. It's the big carriers that are getting 
the replacement parts- [I]Merrimac[/I], [I]Coral Sea[/I], even the [I]Zephyr[/I] are 
getting spare fighters and parts as soon as they're made."

"Speaking of fighters," said another voice, with an extremely heavy British accent, 
"we really could do with some." The man entered the room, about fifty years old with 
flaming red hair, only starting to go lighter at the roots. He had the characteristic 
spots down his neck of a Trill, and Scott briefly wondered if he was joined- before 
seeing the characteristic body language of an unjoined Trill. [I]Pity,[/I] he 
thought,[I] it would have been interesting to have one aboard.[/I] "Flight Major Evan 
Crespin, reporting for duty. I'm in charge of the tin pots you lot here call 
fighters." He sat down in a chair near the bottom of the table, and nodded to Scott.

"Well, it looks like we're all here then," said the Captain, irritated at having been 
upstaged by this man who steadfastly refused to look even slightly abashed for 
arriving twenty minutes late to the briefing. He looked around the room at Crespin, 
sitting in the back with his navy blue collar and pilot's insignia, Melan on his 
PADD, Davits sitting with his eyes closed, reading the thoughts of everyone present, 
T'Sav, the Vulcan Science officer looking serenely at Davits, apparently trying to 
read [I]his[/I] thoughts, Khaaten looking impatient as usual, and Traab who was 
staring off into space smiling like an idiot. "Let's have a station report."

"Alright," said Crespin, throwing his PADD into the middle of the ramshackle table. 
"I have twenty-four space-worthy fighters. Ten of these are Thunderbolts, ancient 
craft with only two, shuttle-class, phasers, no shields, and moderate engine power, 
along with a simple reticule painted on the canopy for targeting. I've also got eight 
Falcons, which are somewhat sturdier, being equipped with moderate shielding, six 
miniature photon torpedoes, but slightly less speed than the Thunderbolts. 
Mercifully, they have a targeting computer. 

Lastly, six Avengers, which are the slowest craft I have ever flown in, loaded with 
technical problems but also a fairly heavy weapons loadout, useful for taking out 
small capital ships. Of course, none of the fighters are Warp-capable, and we have 
three pilots with combat kills out of twenty-four. I hope you won't need these 
fighters for anything other than show, because without a lot of training and repairs, 
they're not going anywhere.

"Other complaints include my officer being roughly the size of a broom closet, with a 
tipped over cabinet for a desk and old replicator housings for seats, insufficient 
mechanics, and no proper training facilities, such as a holodeck." Crespin crossed 
his arms, and leaned back in his chest, his mouth a thin line.

"Similar story in Engineering," said Davits, opening his eyes and shaking his head as 
if to remove spectres of thoughts floating around. "We've got Warp online, but I 
wouldn't push Warp Four, since the plasma manifold is twenty years out of date and 
matched with incompatible antimatter injectors. We've put patches on, but no idea how 
well they'll hold up in an emergency. The Engineers are by and large enlisted 
officers, so they have basic training, but I wouldn't consider them capable of any 
mathematical calculations, I'll be running the show with five trained engineers, 
optimistically."

"Ops is worse than anything I encountered with the Militia. We've got about eight 
different operating systems running different things on the ship, only three of which 
are remotely compatible. I'm trying to standardize everything, but I have about half 
my staff on it and we're thinking it'll be another week or so before we get it up to 
an acceptable level, and lots of work on maintenance. I know a few contacts around 
this area that will bring new computers on board, and I'd be willing to put you in 
touch with someone for new replicators, for a small fee." He smiled broadly, and 
Scott immedietly saw the influence being raised on Ferenginar had on the man.

Traab snorted loudly. "Replicators! That's one thing that we don't need. I've brought 
on enough provisions from the Starbase to last us about six months- actual grains, 
meats, spices and fruits from all over this part of the Alpha Quadrant, loaded up in 
Cargo Bay Two."

"Is that cleared with the Quartermaster?" asked Scott.

"I am the Quartermaster," responded Traab, shrugging.

"And is it safe," continued the Captain, when Khaaten jumped in.

"People used to eat natural food on Earth, when their life expectancy was below 100 
years. I wouldn't recommend it, but if we can devote resources from replicators to 
other areas, I can probably fend off the stomach diseases about to be caused by Mr. 
Traab's cooking."

Traab turned a deep shade of purple, and glared at the Caitian doctor. "Don't you 
ever insinuate that my cooking will cause disease ever again! I'm one of the best 
chefs in this Sector, and I will not have-"

"Traab, shut up," said Scott, rolling his eyes. The Bolian was simply faking his 
anger to get a laugh, but with the reports Scott was hearing about the Forge, it was 
not a laughing matter. "Who's doing Tactical?"

Traab raised his hand. "I was a Tactical Officer for eight years, and specialized in 
small-unit tactics. In the absence of a Tactical Officer designated by Starfleet, 
I'll be doing it, as well as my Executive Officer and Head Cook jobs. As far as 
Tactical goes, you've heard it all before- the phasers are under powered, our shield 
grid fluctuates after continuous use, and we haven't been issued any torpedoes. The 
Tactical staff on this ship comprises twelve men, and I am the only one who has 
combat experience. The rest are midshipmen and enlisted men, straight from basic 
training. Thank you, Starfleet."

"Contrary to all these horror stories," purred Khaaten, clearly taking delight in 
Traab's frustration, "sickbay is well stocked. We have several expereinced Doctors 
off the Starbase, as well as modern equipment and a well-stocked pharmacy. We're 
running a modern replicator-"

"How much did that cost, and whatever it was I'll undercut it by 10% to get you a new 
one," chimed in Melan, who now clearly had a replicator to sell to someone by the 
time the [i]Valley Forge[/i] shipped out.

"We have a modern replicator," continued Khaaten, after giving Melan a dark look, 
"and should be in good hands for the foreseeable future."

T'Sav nodded serenely. "This ship is not optimized for science, however the main 
deflector has been well taken care of, and despite having somewhat aged equipment, 
the laboratories should be sufficient for most scientific inquiries on this mission. 
And, if I may ask, what will this mission entail?" The Vulcan raised one eyebrow, and 
masked her impatience with the room's casual tone not deeply enough to conceal it 
from Scott or Davits.

"Well, I got a communiqué from Starfleet during my happy time in the turbolift 
today." He glared at Melan, who stared back, slack-jawed, not interested in the 
least. "I'm sure none of you have heard of the Dorra."

Melan snapped to attention, and spat out a word not to be found in most Ferengi, or 
Bajoran, dictionaries. Crespin laughed, inexplicably, and Melan continued on. "We, or 
rather, the Ferengi, engaged in trade negotiations with them for tritium, which is in 
abundance on the eighth world of their home system. They have absolutely no honour in 
negotiating- they didn't abide by the rules of acquisition, and worded their contract 
so that they were legally entitled to take our ships after they'd loaded up on the 
tritium."

"Shrewd negotiators, they're notorious for playing hardball in trading and being 
notoriously unscrupulous, especially during the Dominion War, when Starfleet tried to 
procure ship-building facilities off them on loan. They're said to have even fewer 
redeeming qualities than the Ferengi." Davits chimed in, looking smugly at Scott.

"Alright, I know how Melan would know about them- he might be the only Ferengi-raised 
Bajoran in Starfleet, but how did you know about them," asked Scott, puzzled by the 
Betazoid engineer's burst of insight.

"You have the PADD infront of you, and you're reading it- I simply read your mind." 
Davits shrugged non-commitically.

"I thought Betazoids weren't supposed to read people's minds without permission," 
asked Khaaten, looking untrustingly at Davits.

Crespin leaned into the table and addressed the Caitian. "Most aren't. There are 
some, however, that choose to ignore the ancient laws dealing with telepathy, and 
live a free lifestyle. They are generally not welcome on Betazoid, but some think 
it's worth it to have such an advantage."

"You're Betazoid as well," said Davits, looking amazed at the old pilot.

"Half. My Dad was Betazoid, my mother was a Trill- unjoined, of course. I'm empathic- 
I can feel emotions and vague thoughts, nothing specific- except with Betazoids, full 
telepathy there. And no, Lieutenant Davits, I [I]don't[/I] think Doctor Khaaten would 
look better in a trimmer uniform, as you've been thinking throughout the briefing." 
Crespin's comment took a moment to sink in, due to his thick accent, before Khaaten 
contracted inwards in shock and horror, and Davits looked around angrily.

[I]Perjuring bastard[/I], thought Davits, at Crespin.

[I]Right, kiddo, that's a lesson you need to learn. If you don't use your telepathy 
responsibly, I'll be broadcasting your thoughts to see how you like it.[/I] The older 
pilot smiled at Davits, who turned away.

"Back on topic," said Traab, seeing the awkwardness, and clumsily trying to keep the 
crew somewhat united.

"Back on topic," echoed Scott, giving a warning glare to Davits and Crespin. "The 
Dorra control about twelve systems near the Klingon border- space that's disputed 
between the two powers. With the schism in the Klingon Empire, several houses going 
rogue and declaring independence, this area is going to get even hotter. Since it's 
only a few light-years from Federation outposts, we're being sent to take a look." 
Scott let the comment sink in, then stood up and pressed some buttons on the large 
screen behind his head. A green space vehicle, Klingon-looking in design, appeared.

"This is a [I]Grek'Nar-class[/I] vessel. It's roughly twice the size of the [I]Valley 
Forge[/I], and six times more powerful in terms of weapons and shields. Last year, 
the Klingon government contracted out the Dorra Prime Spacedocks, construction bay 9, 
to build this cruiser. Section 31 believes that this is likely because the Klingon 
shipyards have been hit with contracts for even more vessels to keep the peace, and 
there wasn't enough time to expand domestic yards.

"However, in typical Dorra style, the cruiser has been offered for sale to the House 
of Voth, a small House that has declared independence from the Empire three weeks 
ago. It borders on Federation and Dorran territory, and comprises four systems with 
five planets. It has not been annexed by the Klingon Empire yet simply because it is 
not important enough- it has a population of less than two million and produces 
nothing of any value. However, if the House of Voth is able to procure the [I]
Grek'Nar[/I], it would have the power to annex other systems, and possibly even pose 
a threat to the Federation."

"How can the Klingons attack the Federation without starting a full-scale war," asked 
Melan, looking at the main screen.

"The House of Voth is not part of the Klingon Empire any more, and is not recognized 
by the Federation. These people amount to pirates, and they would be able to greatly 
tip the balance of power in the region, forcing us to call ships away from other 
sectors to protect our interests in the region," said Scott. 

"Therefore, our mission. We are to prevent the sale of the [I]Grek'Nar[/I], by 
keeping it from the Klingons, we force the Dorrans or the Empire to get it, keeping 
it in a place where it won't cause havoc. Neither the Dorrans nor the Empire can use 
it against us without starting a war, something Starfleet Command is confident they 
won't do. We are to use political and economic tactics to stop this sale."

"And if we can't," asked Crespin.

"Then we'll have no choice but to stop the ship in some other way- one that doesn't 
let the Dorrans know that the Federation is behind it. Stability, not glory, is our 
goal." Scott looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each person, before 
switching off the screen and sitting back down. "Dismissed."

*****


CHAPTER 4


Elliot Scott sat on the bridge, in the Command Chair. It wasn't actually bolted to 
the ground, and so tended to move around a lot, but it was currently in one piece, so 
Commander Senior Grade Scott was calm. The bridge crew moved around the tangle of 
wires that connected the consoles to the back-up generator that had been installed 
when Melan had failed to bring power to the bridge, and everything seemed as ready as 
it was going to get.

"Hail the station." Scott turned to Melan, who was sitting behind his desk, lips 
moving in a silent monologue. The Bajoran held up one finger, and continued for 
nearly thirty seconds before finally opening his eyes.

"What were you doing," asked Scott, irritated.

"Praying. To the Blessed Exchequer, if you must know- hoping nothing will go wrong 
non this venture and that we will bring profit to all."

"Except the Dorrans," said Traab, smiling thinly from the Tactical station. He had to 
cramp down to access it- the overhead panel was slightly less than seven feet above 
the floor and Traab's head was slightly more than seven feet above it, under normal 
circumstances. There was no chair, since the console had simply been bolted down near 
the back of the bridge, and no-one had thought to put in seating.

"Except the Dorrans," repeated Scott, "Hail the station."
"Communications are down, I haven't been able to get the transmitter working, even 
with engineering. We're thinking the power socket is burnt out, and Requisitions told 
us that they stopped making the old type of socket twelve years ago. We're, um, 
trying to get a replacement." Melan looked sheepish. "We could use a land line, but 
as soon as we break away we'd be out of contact."

"Or we could just leave," offered Traab.

"Moving away from the station without permission would be illogical, and most 
dangerous, should any important pieces of equipment still be attached. In any event, 
departing station without a fully operational communications array is not a safe 
course of action, sir," said T'Sav, oblivious to Traab's joke.

"We're thinking everything will be operational in a day but we're scheduled to 
launch, according to the station, in three hours." Melan looked around patiently, but 
Scott could read his body language and saw that he was really very nervous.

Scott sighed. "What would the station say if we were to stay here until all main 
systems were online?"

"Probably fire on us or something. You don't know Inor, the Fleet Captain- she's 
mental." Traab acted genuinely nervous.

"Delay the launch, then," said Scott. "All department heads are to give me full 
reports in twelve hours, and everything had better be ship-shape. Mr. Traab, the 
bridge is yours- I'm going to my ready room." He stood up, with the air of a defeated 
man, and crossed the small gap to his ready room. He opened the door manually, it 
being yet another thing on the ship that didn't work, and sat down heavily.

What the hell did the universe have against him? He had been taken out of the 
diplomatic corps on a diplomatic ship, and placed on a barely held together pile of 
junk. It had been the first time in his career that a ship had missed its designated 
start time, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had been able, for so 
long, to control and persuade people to do what he needed- as a Counselor and a 
diplomat. 

Here, however, he couldn't get a single door to open, didn't have anyone to give the 
psychological help his crew so badly needed, and every department was understaffed 
and short on materials. It was the sort of situation that could, and had, cost lives, 
and he was helpless. He looked out the window at the inside of the bay, and saw the 
runabouts and worker bees move past, and his vision began to blur as tears came to 
him.

[I]This is what I've wanted since I was a little kid- to be out with Starfleet 
fighting. And now, I've got one hand tied behind my back on a ship that could blow up 
at any moment. This is not what I dreamed about, but there is nothing I can do to 
change it. The shame of being stuck here in this boat, waiting for someone to get the 
most basic of systems online, while other Captains can blow up shuttlepods at will 
and get them replaced. That's the problem- it's not just.[/I]

The door chime rang. Scott turned away and looked out the window, wiping his eyes. 
"Come in," he said, carefully controlling his voice.

A large blue figure appeared in the doorway, which Scott saw in the reflection from 
the mirror, and sat down. Traab's weight caused the chair to creak, a sound that 
again reminded Scott of how far down the ladder he was, and the Bolian exhaled.

"You look troubled." He said it simply, without even asking permission. Scott spun 
around on the ejector seat, and looked at his first officer.

"How did you know?"

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Knock yourself out, Commander." Scott felt angry at the intrusion, but also curious 
as to the reason behind it.

"I worked in security for a long time. For the past eight years, I was a bodyguard to 
the Tholian Ambassador, and worked every day of my life protecting this man. I foiled 
no less than eighteen assassination attempts, and took a phaser shot for him on 
Donoros VII. I was good at my job; I served loyally and faithfully. The ambassador 
was a Trill, unjoined, with a real talent for negotiations, it seems you would have 
liked him, and my staff consisted of five people. Well, I had essentially followed 
the man everywhere for close to a decade, so I knew everything about him- I was 
friends with his wife, and I knew he had a young daughter on Trill, 15 years old.

"There was a banquet on Regolor II, to celebrate the achievements of the scientists 
on the world- they had developed some kind of fungus that didn't need air to survive. 
Great stuff, it was one of the dishes at the banquet, as we later found out- supposed 
to be a food-stuff for airless worlds that had been recently colonized. There were 
flags from all over the Federation, and Gard, the Ambassador, was expected to attend. 
We showed up, me and the entourage, and wandered around a little bit- me tasting his 
food to make sure it wasn't poisoned, checking the higher levels for snipers, that 
sort of thing. It wasn't out of the ordinary- the guest list was a who's who of 
Federation and Tholian diplomats, so we were expecting something.

"Well, after a little while, he went to the washroom. Obviously I didn't go into the 
station with him, just stood outside. The next thing I knew, there was a bright 
flash, and I was thrown to the floor. I wasn't knocked out, too sturdy for that, but 
I was disorientated for a moment. When I finally got up, and saw Gard crawling out 
from the twisted metal. His legs were gone, I remember that…" the Bolian stopped for 
a moment, eyes beginning to swell with emotion.

"I saw him crawl out, not dead yet, trailing dark blood behind him. I saw him die, 
and was powerless to help him. I had defended him for eight years, Captain, eight 
years, and in that moment, everything was gone. I had to tell his family why I failed 
in my duties, and why their husband, father, brother, son- why he wasn't coming 
home." Traab stopped, and turned away, now fully in emotional pain- it was the guilt 
that Scott had seen pouring out all over him in a torrent of raw emotion.

"I'm sorry. No-one should have to see anyone, especially a close friend, die like 
that. But why are you telling me this?" Scott felt for the man, but had to keep 
control- he knew his problems were small compared to the burden his first officer now 
had to be carrying.

"Because you're being a selfish prick. You think you have it bad, being stuck here 
with a no-hoper crew. The engineer has been demoted twice, according to his record, 
your CMO is slaved to you, you blew up a ship, I'm officially responsible for the 
death of a prominent ambassador, and that Melan character is an asshole." Traab was 
now looking forcefully, if not angrily at Scott.

"You're not the only one suffering here- there are two hundred and fifty good men and 
women on this ship, and they're in just as much danger as you. How will these 
midshipmen feel, being put on a ship with equipment older than they are? Do you think 
this ship is going to have high morale to begin with, nevermind the Captain sulking 
around griping about it? You have to get out there and show an example, that you're 
going to do the best job you can with whatever you've got. I don't care if you're 
falling apart inside, if the crew sees that, we're all going to be demoralized, 
sloppy, and then dead." Traab paused, and looked off into the distance. Almost as an 
afterthought, he added, "Permission to return to duty," straightening up and allowing 
the dark purple to creep out of his cheeks and forehead.

Scott sat for a minute, evaluating the Bolian in front of him. He considered the 
man's speech, the intimate story he had shared, and his advice. After what was 
stretching into an uncomfortable pause, Traab sat up. "Granted. Thank you, 
Commander."

Traab nodded as he left the small room, with a deep depression in his vacated seat, 
and ducked his head as he walked out onto the bridge.

*****
"All stations, report readiness." It was the second time now that Elliot Scott had 
sat on the bridge of the Valley Forge, the second time he had called out readiness, 
and the second time he had attempted to get the ship under way. The Starbase's 
Traffic controller was having fits, and Scott was close to joining him.

"All stations reporting above 80% readiness. This is the best we're going to get, 
sir," said Melan, looking pointedly at the Captain. Scott looked away, and Melan's 
head shot to the ceiling, mouth moving in a wordless prayer.

"Fine. Hail the station."

"Responding, on screen," said Melan, and the image of a harassed looking human man 
appeared on the viewer.

"Valley Forge, you had better be telling me you're leaving," he said, irritation 
through his voice.

"As a matter of fact, we are. Requesting permission to depart." Scott smiled at the 
man- he was finally leaving, where he would be the master of his own ship, once 
again.

"Permission granted, depart on launch vector Seven-Gamma-Phi. Good luck, and safe 
journey, Valley Forge." The man's face changed to an image of the inside of the 
Starbase, and Scott looked to Helm.

"We're going to need it. Retract umbilicals." The sound of the machinery operating 
deep in the ship ground its way up, and presently the ship was floating in the centre 
of the Starbase, untethered, with it's pick of stars before them. "Take us up to 
thrusters, launch vector Seven-Gamma-Phi." The ship began to accelerate, sluggishly, 
and worker bees and runabouts cleared the path for it. It passed into the large 
docking port, and the stars appeared through the magcon field, millions of them. "One 
quarter impulse." The ship accelerated again, breaking into hard vacuum, and Scott 
smiled.

"Lay in a course for Dorran Space, Warp Four. Engage." The helmsman complied 
docilely, and the ship leapt forwards, the stars merging into lines on the screen.



CHAPTER 5


The small room in which the Dorran negotiation team sat was dark and industrial. 
There were good reasons for both of these qualities- dark due to the absence of 
windows and overhead lighting, with simply one small glowpanel in the table producing 
illumination, and industrial due to its location in a shipyard being used to create 
the largest cruiser ever seen in Dorran space. Across the table from the Dorrans- 
small, green, humanoid creatures, sat a party of Klingons, the dark-skinned, ridged-
foreheaded warrior species. These particular Klingons, however, were not warriors, 
and had they have shown up on the Klingon capital of Q'Nos, they would have been 
immedietly slaughtered. They were [I]bhaak[/I], traitors. Klingons who had decided to 
forsake the glory of the Empire for their own personal gain, and therefore rendered 
the lowest of the dishonoured.

"It would seem we both have much in common," said the lead Dorran, giving an 
unnaturally wide smile.

"What would give you that impression?" The Klingon looked affronted, but knew better 
than to jeapordise his bargaining position. He was T'thak Voth, a representative of 
the mighty House of Voth, and he was nervous- failure on this mission would not be 
met by much acclaim on his homeworld.

"We are interested in power. We, the Dorrans, wish for the power to control who in 
this sector should get the [I]Grek'Nar[/I]. You wish to have the power to defend your 
small territory against the Empire. We both wish for power, which should make these 
negotiations easy." The little green man, grinned wildly. He was small, with no hair, 
and humanoid features. His skin reflected the dim light of the glowpanel, making him 
seem slightly ethereal, and his long fingers gently stroked the computer terminal in 
front of him.

"Very well, you are most perceptive. Name your price." T'thak leaned back in his 
chair.

"Nineteen million credits. Cash is not necessary, a wire transfer of the money will 
suffice."

"That price is not feasable. The entire House of Voth does not have that wealth." 
T'thak growled, and leaned forwards in his chair again, his sharp nails digging into 
the table infront of him. His two bodyguards, warriors who looked as if they had 
stepped off a recruitment poster for the Klingon Empire, stepped out of the shadows 
and showed their small knives.

"The entire House of Voth also does not have this starcruiser. It would do you well 
to not threaten people you wish to strike a deal with, either- you seem to forget in 
your…confidence in your own abilities you are on a Dorran space station." The Dorran 
smiled, waved his hand, and a mechanical hiss sounded through the small room, as what 
appeared to be a disruptor turret dropped out of the ceiling, and painted a laser dot 
over the Klingon's forehead. "Perhaps you would like to take a brief recess to 
consider our offer?"

T'thak growled, and stood up. "We will retire to our quarters. You will not follow 
us."

The Dorran also stood up, rising to a height of roughly five feet. "We would not 
dream of it." Smiling enigmatically, he waved his fingers, and a half-dozen Dorrans, 
cloaked in black, appeared from behind furniture, crates, and shadows and followed 
their leader out of the room. 

*****

"Their offer is not honourable." T'thak sat in front of his communications terminal, 
looking at his leader, Karta of Voth. The Voth leader had a long scar running down 
his face, which he had received in battle against a small Klingon re-occupation 
force. A young solider had attempted to gain honour by attacking the aging warrior, 
but Karta had shown him why he had earned the right to be called an 'aging' warrior 
with his Bat'leth.

"Indeed it is not. But there must be a way to negotiate."

"No, my most revered elder. They hold all the advantages- they have the [I]Grek'Nar
[/I], and the House of Voth has no resources they do not already have access to."

"Then we must negotiate as a warrior does."

"A warrior does not negotiate! I am a negotiator, and any warrior who believes 
himself to be my equal can kill me with his bare hands, as befits a warrior." T'thak 
looked outraged at the idea of a warrior taking his position, and his bodyguards 
bristled at the assault on their honour.

"Be quiet, insolent boy. Think- use your brain, then, if your brawn was kept from you 
by Kahless. Two warriors are walking, and one threatens to kill the other if he is 
not given a certain, rare flower. The threatened warrior would lose a battle, and has 
not the flower, so how can he prevent his own death?"

"Tell me, Karta of Voth."

"You would do well to watch your tone. With a single word I can have you executed. I 
will tell you the answer. The weaker warrior asks why the stronger wishes for the 
flower. The stronger replies it is to save his son, infected with the [I]grathaka
[/I]. The weaker warrior cures the son with a salve, and he is allowed to go free."

"This parable makes no sense. The stronger warrior would allow his son to die, as 
disease comes only to the dishonoured, and he would kill the weaker warrior to regain 
his honour!"

"You are a fool, T'thak. Wisdom does not come at the edge of a [I]bat'leth[/I]. You 
must find what the Dorrans wish to use the money for, and give them that which they 
desire, instead. End transmission." T'thak sat back in his seat. The Master made a 
good point- perhaps he would be able to determine what the Dorrans wanted, and, in 
doing so, save his own life.

*****

The [I]Valley Forge[/I] rocked, as the lines of stars rushing past the forward viewer 
snapped into pinpricks. Several bright shapes began crossing through the field of 
view, like stars that had somehow lost their way.

"What the hell was that?" Senior Commander Elliot Scott rose from his command chair, 
where he had been dozing. He quickly changed his startled body posture into that of 
someone in control of the situation, and looked to the Ops console, where Melan sat, 
looking harried.

"Catastrophic ODN fuck-up… I mean error, sir. Navigation lost the information that 
should have been coming from sensors, and the whole system shut itself down to 
prevent running to an object." Melan did not look at the Captain, and instead made 
the hand-signals that indicated a prayer was coming on.

"Navigation, report." Scott rolled his eyes, but did not intrude on the Bajoran's 
prayer.

"Exactly what Officer Melan said, sir."  The ensign sitting at the helm, a young man 
no more than 22, looked bewildered and terrified. He had been closely monitoring all 
his systems, exactly as the Starfleet rulebook had said, and suddenly everything shut 
down. He was stunned.

"I mean where are we, what's our course and velocity?"

"Umm& umm& I have no idea!" The man was sweating, and looked extremely pale.

[I]Oh, for God's sakes…[/I] thought Scott, but pitched his voice so it would sound 
understanding and compassionate. "Perhaps you should take a 15 minute break and 
relax," said the Commander.

"Y-y-yes, sir!" The man jumped from his station as if it had been lit on fire, and 
walked hurriedly to the turbolift door.

Fehsha, sitting in the CMO's chair, rolled her eyes, and lithely unfolded herself 
from her chair. "I had better go with him," she said. "Perhaps I should give him some 
[I]counseling[/I], she half-hissed at Scott. 

"That would be your job," replied Traab, shortly. "Poor kid. I remember my first 
assignment in Starfleet. I was two feet taller than everyone else, and everyone was 
terrified of me. It's not similar at all," said the First Officer.

Scott bit his tongue, and turned to Melan. "Are you done, Officer?"
"Yes, sir."

"Where the hell are we?"

"Rellit System, in the Oort cloud. That would explain the bright shapes on the 
viewer. We're about a day and a half out of Dorra Prime at Warp Six, far out of 
sensor range of the main planet. In fact, this would be a good place to take up 
station-keeping, at least for a little while, so we can repair the ODN relays."

Scott sat in his chair, heavily. It creaked threateningly, but did not fall off its 
mooring, which Scott took as a positive. He was falling further behind schedule every 
day in his ship, which couldn't hold Warp Six for sustained periods. However, taking 
a day to run late would give that Crespin fossil a chance to get his pilots out in 
some practical training, and everyone knew that Engineering could use an extra day to 
tighten up the warp relays.

"Very well. Helm& err, Mr. Traab, take up station-keeping. Bridge to Major Crespin."

"Go ahead, Commander."

"We're taking up station-keeping in this system's Oort cloud. Suggest you get your 
fighters out on some excersizes."

"As ordered, sir. Crespin out."

Scott stood up. "Everyone else, you know what you need to do. Try and work on a way 
of achieving Warp Six for more than 45 minutes, would you?" Vexed with his crew and 
ship, Scott walked to his Ready Room, and manually pried the doors open. He entered, 
turned around to the bridge, where all eyes were still on him, and manually slammed 
it shut- onto his foot. He removed the offending appendage, and slammed the door shut 
again, against Traab's hysterical laughter.

*****
"Right, now, pilots, shut the hell up, would you?" Flight Major Evan Crespin glared 
at his pilots. Representing a half-dozen species, they were 24 of the greenest pilots 
Starfleet could find- of which three had any combat experience. The luck three had 
been promoted to Flight Lieutenants immedietly, and each headed a small group of 
fighters. "Now, you're all going to get into some fighters today." His accent, being 
thick as it was, masked his words sufficiently that there were whispers of 
translations through the room.

They sat in the "Pilot's Lounge", a part of the hangar roped off from the others by 
large crates, that were meant to hold torpedoes, but currently held only the empty 
space that usually surrounded the torpedoes. The hangar was busy, with flight crew 
examining the fighters, and attempting to make them flyable, as well as servicing the 
magcon shields that kept the atmosphere in.

As the news that they would be flying slowly made its way through the pilots, some 
grins began to appear, and Crespin glared at them. "That is not a good thing. I 
wouldn't certify half of you to pilot a garbage scow, but there you are, you've all 
got to learn sometime." The pilots, unsure of the actual words, knew what they were 
being told was not good.

"Alright, the lot of you are to report to your fighters, and run pre-flight 
checklists to the letter. As soon as you're done, I'll be having your computers 
sending me records of exactly what you did, and I'll make sure you did it right. 
Every deviance from standard operating procedure takes of one hour of recreation 
time. Clear?"

In response, there was a great puff of wind, and several pieces of equipment flew 
across the hangar, being sucked out into the vacuum where the portside magcon shield 
used to be. A second later, the shield snapped back, a technician yelled out 'Sorry', 
and a heavy spanner had ripped through the canopy of Crespin's fighter.

"God-fucking-dammit," he announced, and stood up quickly. "Everyone to your fighters- 
I'll race you. If every fighter in this hangar is powered up and operational by the 
time I get a new canopy on mine, you all get a week off." The pilots, inspired by the 
illusion of having time to do anything they wished on the entire decrepit mass of the 
[I]Valley Forge[/I], dashed to their stations.



CHAPTER 6


T'thak, de facto Klingon Ambassador to the Dorrans, and head negotiator for the 
purchase of the [I]Grek'Nar[/I], was unhappy. Since his conversation the previous day 
with the leader of the House of Voth, many situations had been running through his 
head- few of them pleasant. He essentially had two options- to either succeed in 
purchasing the massive battleship, of not. In the case of success, the House of Voth 
would gain the ability to make glorious war, to carve out a principality in the Beta 
Quadrant, something T'thak would receive at least a continent for. However, in the 
case of failure, he would likely be executed, or worse.

[I]And look what I have to work with[/I], he thought despondently to himself. He sat 
on the bridge of his small Bird-of-Prey, the [I]Voth Rampage[/I]. It was a small 
ship, fairly modern by the standards of the Voth fleet, with a skeleton crew of 
warriors and technicians. On his viewscreen he had the Dorran computer terminal 
inviting him to view private information, if he could gain the correct access codes. 
He peered around the bridge, at its emptiness. The ship was docked to the large 
Dorran construction yards, and so the majority of its small crew were off enjoying 
themselves- a situation the merchant T'thak could do little about.

He sighed audibly. He needed to find what the Dorrans needed their 18 million credits 
for, and he needed to do it quickly. Rumours had reached his ears of the Klingon 
Empire preparing to strike at the House of Voth, or to even purchase the [I]Grek'Nar
[/I] for themselves. He knew the Empire could outbid the paltry House of Voth easily, 
which strengthened his desire to save his country through espionage.

[I]If anyone could see what I was doing, I would be summarily executed for my lack of 
honour,[/I] he thought to himself, and allowed himself a small smile at the idea. The 
concept of honour had never swayed T'thak, ever since his earliest days as an 
accountant where he had been ridiculed for his choice of career. [/I]Yet perhaps my 
lack of honour here will bring great honour to my House, and great rewards for myself
[/I].

He began typing in earnest. The screen demanding a password shone blankly at him, but 
he activated another program, hidden deep within the Klingon mainframe. It identified 
the small piece of Dorran hardware, far on the other side of the station, responsible 
for creating the combination, and invaded its programming. Within seconds, the 
password was [I]Voth[/I]. He searched through several screens of unimportant data 
until he came to a small file named "Economic Projections". Searching through the 
dates, he began looking at the short-term forecasts, and saw the Dorran economy 
expand greatly, after a date roughly a year in the future.

He opened a file attached to that date, and saw a thumbnail picture of a small mining 
station, simply a small dome with a network of covered hallways running from it, on a 
blasted lunar surface. A run through the translator provided a garbled message, and 
so T'thak took a different tactic. He copied the picture into the Klingon database, 
and ran a search for planets matching the one pictured. 18 000 different systems 
appeared, and the small terminal froze.

With a roar of rage, he smashed the small terminal on his desk, and rose to the 
Operations station. He ran the same search, isolating only systems in Dorran space 
with no significant developments, and came up with three moons. He looked carefully 
at the picture, and identified one particular constellation of stars. He fed that 
pattern into the computer, cross-referenced it, and came up with a small world- 
Rither IX.

T'thak grinned. He had accomplished what he needed. As soon as the Dorrans received 
the 18 million credits, they would build a mining station on this world, rich in… the 
smile wiped off the Klingon's face like a well-fried egg. It was rich in tritanium. 
The Dorrans were going to use the world to produce starship hulls. An invasion fleet. 
T'thak's visions of a continent, large manor, and delectable slave girls was replaced 
with the House of Voth becoming a collection of smoldering rocks. 

He punched the comm. 

"Yes, sir?"

"House of Voth, immediately!" 

"Who may I say is calling?"

"Death!" The Klingon snarled at the comm operator, likely somewhere deep within his 
ship. A moment later, the face of Karta Voth, the leader of the small breakaway 
nation, appeared.

"T'thak! I hope you have solved the problems of the House of Voth!"

"My most revered elder, I fear our problems are just beginning."

The older Klingon affected a look of surprise. "You have failed to bring glory to the 
House of Voth?"

"No, Revered One. I have discovered that which you asked me to seek. The credits we 
would give to the Dorrans for their Battleship will be used in a most unpalatable 
way. They plan to open a mining colony on a small world in one of their far-flung 
systems, Rither IX. It will mine tritanium. And with this tritanium, the Dorrans will 
have the ability to create yet more battleships, and use them to bring about our 
destruction, or sell them into the hands of the Empire! We must give them something 
else. We must make ourselves so valuable to them they have no wish to conquer us."

Karta smiled. He rested back in his chair, and the top of his head disappeared from 
the viewscreen, leaving only his eyes. They were bright, mirthful, as if he had been 
related an amusing anecdote. "No, young one, we must do something else. Something 
Klingon. Karta out." With his cryptic response, the viewer blinked off, and T'thak 
was left alone in the imposing bridge of the starship. He rose, and made a decision 
to go to his vessel's mess hall. He needed something to kill.

*****
Flight Major Evan Crespin had been sitting in his cockpit for a half-hour, and he was 
already sick of his pilots. His pilots, for their part, were sick of him- they had 
dashed to their fighters, run through the pre-flight check-ups, and waited more than 
an hour while a new canopy was fitted on Crespin's fighter. As soon as his power had 
come online, Crespin keyed his comm, and informed his entire squadron he was docking 
a half-hour of recreation time from them all.

"Why, sir? We got every fighter powered up before you got your canopy on, so we 
should get a week of rec time," said one of the younger pilots.

"You get an extra day of scrubbing the flight deck," responded Crespin. "Who knows 
why?"

One of the more veteran pilots spoke up. "You said to get every fighter in the hangar 
powered up- that presumably included yours. You had your canopy on before every 
fighter had been started, so we lost."

"Absolutely correct. Now, power up your engines, bring them to 75% of maximum, and 
form up by squadrons as soon as you clear the flight deck."

He switched channels on his comm, and heard a shay-voiced Ensign on the other line. 
"Forge Wing, this is the Bridge."

"Bridge, requesting permission to launch 24, that's two-four fighters, on manoevers 
to the Oort Cloud, Vector 142 mark 9, pattern Delta."

"Umm& that's approved, Forge Wing. Godspeed."

"Forge Out."  

Crespin killed his comm as he deftly brought his throttle up, eased the fighter up 
off the solid floor of the [I]Forge[/I]'s flight deck, and coasted into open space. 
There was a slight pop as the fighter cleared the magcon field, and then Crespin was 
in space.

It had been nearly a year and a half since he had flown on an actual mission, and it 
felt good. He was, technically, flying a stripped down shuttle with a painted cross 
for a targeting system, one that couldn't reach warp on its own and had pitiful 
sublight acceleration, but he was flying. He saw the rest of his squadron leave the 
ship, some shakily, some nearly running into each other, but there were no major 
accidents. Crespin keyed his comm. 

"All fighters, form up on Vector 324 mark 5, we're heading into the cloud. All 
fighters report." A flurry of all-ok messages poured into his comm, and his two 
squadron leaders reported their charges were prepared for flight. "Alright, 
Thunderbolt squadron, break by pairs, on me. Avengers, you're with Avenger Lead, run 
some close bombing patterns on some of the larger asteroids, do no, I repeat, do [I]
not[/I] fire on anything. Falcons, you're with Falcon Lead flying escort for the 
Avengers." Crespin flicked a switch, and now addressed only his squadron.

"Thunderbolts, we're going to go hot into the heavy clouds. We're going to be doing 
some evasive manoevers, a little bit of shooting at rocks. Phasers down to 10%, shunt 
remaining power into shields if possible. If you hit anyone else, I don't want to be 
sweeping up a starfighter because of your mistake, because lord knows we don't have 
the parts to build a new one. Engines to full, burn 'em if you've got 'em." Crespin 
increased his thrust to 98%, and saw several of his fighters leap ahead of him, with 
several lagging behind. The pilots were following protocol, staying with their 
wingmates, and that pleased the aging Major.

Something, however, seemed out of place. There was a shape in the shadows, something 
moving erratically. "Thunderbolt Squad, abort manoever, form up on me. Thunderbolt…" 
he looked through his brain, searching for his communications specialist, while 
slashing his throttle. "Thunderbolt Eight, what are you getting on sensors?"

"Some communications, sir, nothing major. It looks to be warp-capable, definitely 
mechanical." [I]Shit[/I], thought Crespin [/I]I would have telepathy on my side if I 
need to shoot it.[/I]

"I'm going in for a look- Two on me, everyone else, hang back. Crespin increased his 
throttle to maximum, and he saw his wingmate do the same. A young Bajoran, too young 
to have fought in the resistance, Two showed all the signs of a gifted pilot. He had 
three kills in only two missions, and his service record had stood out for Crespin 
when reading through his manifest. Crespin sensed nothing from him but calm, twinged 
with anticipation, and that, in turn, relaxed the Major.

"Sir, that ship is making the run up to clear space." Two was correct, it was now 
manoevering quickly through the comets and debris, and Crespin increased his phaser 
intensity to maximum. "

"He's not going to make it there. Two, break, around the big asteroid, and cut it 
off." Two acknowledged with a click of his com, and Crespin gave his attention over 
to the small probe. It was spherical, with four tiny warp nacelles placed 
equidistantly around it. It seemed to be using two small jets to manoever, but 
Crespin could not detect where it was getting its incredible manoeverability from. 

He lanced one phaser shot at it, missing high, but spraying it with debris from the 
big asteroid that the two vessels were transversing. One warp nacelle on the craft 
went dark, likely from a rock impact, and it began to list. Crespin fired two more 
shots, both clean misses. [I]Dammit, this reticule isn't where it should be. It has 
to be at least .5 out,[/I] thought Crespin, and he tilted his fighter slightly 
sideways. He launched another shot at the frantically manoevering fighter, and grazed 
it, ripping off another nacelle.

Crespin could see he was coming up to clear space, and he would need to deal with the 
fighter quickly, before it could get away. If it was left in a body of rocks such as 
this, someone was interested in protecting them, and if someone was protecting them, 
they wouldn't be happy that a 'light carrier' and 24, albeit dilapidated, fighters 
were cutting through it. 

The small probe began accelerating quickly, making to run up to warp, and Crespin 
launched one more phaser blot at it. It shore through the vessel's thin hull, and 
impacted its tiny warp reactor, shattering it into a million pieces. Two swept over 
the crest of the asteroid, which Crespin was now almost around, and hailed the Major.

"Good shot si- holy hell, there's another one." Crepsin felt his wingman's surprise, 
and whipped around to see another small shape disappear into warp. 

"Christ," said Crespin. " Where did it go?"

"It's on a straight-line course for the Dorran system, sir."

"Christ. All fighters, emergency recall. All fighters are to fdock now. [I]Valley 
Forge,[/I] this is Thunderbolt Leader, we have a situation."

*****

It had been a busy day and a half in the Oort Cloud. Melan had all but entirely re-
wired the ODN relay, and apparently he had got the ship down to 7 operating systems, 
four of which were now compatible. Davits had gotten the warp core up to 70% 
efficiency, for the first time in a decade, reported the Engineering Logs, and Elliot 
Scott had taken three bath, a shower, and slept for 18 hours, as a result of working 
through Traab's rendition of 'omelette', a ridiculous concoction of actual animal 
eggs and flesh. He wondered why eh had allowed the Bolian to persuade him.

He was, in a rare moment of consciousness, on the bridge.

"Sir, it's really fine, a lot of people are allergic to eggs. I was once on a planet 
where the smell of an Earth egg hospitalized 6 people. I'm… not allowed back there 
anymore." Traab smiled a wide, sheepish smile.

"Traab, the next time you want to cook for me, don't." Scott clutched his stomach and 
groaned.

"Hot transmission coming in, sir," announced Melan, from the comm station. "Audio 
only!"

"Put it on," said Scott, instantly alert.

"Bridge, this is Thunderbolt Leader."

"Go ahead, Major."

"We're not alone in this Cloud. We've just detected at least two small probe vessels, 
one of which escaped and is en route to Dorra Prime."

"Oh, no. Regroup the fighters."

"Done, sir, we're on a landing course. Incidentally, permission to land on vector 142 
mark-" Scott cut him off.

"Just land the damn fighters, Major, as quickly as you can. If the Dorrans find a 
light car… well, a Federation vessel, at any rate, in their territory they're going 
to flip. We need to plot a course out of here-"

Melan cut off the Commander. "Wrong- the operating system I put the nav computer on 
won't sent data in a recognizable format to the nav station. I need an hour to redo 
it."

Crespin's comm clicked off, and Scott assumed he had landed his fighters in some 
order. He hoped there were still recognizable parts of fighters left after the 
novices made their first emergency landings.  "Damnit, we don't have an hour. Helm, 
can you compute a course manually into the system? Any gravitic anomalies we can use 
to hide ourselves?"

"One Class-I planet, sir," responded the Ensign, shaking. "I don't know if I can get 
a course laid in without the computer."

"Yes you can- put us in orbit and then take us into the atmosphere, as far as we can 
go without risking structural integrity. You have 30 seconds." Scott turned to T'Sav 
at Science. "Report."

"Eighteen of these probes in the asteroid belt."

"How the hell didn't we see them before? And Helm, fifteen seconds."

"We now have the sensor data from Major Crespin, so we know what we are looking for- 
we did not detect them before because they mask their engine emissions in a clever 
manner involving heat dissipation. They are remarkably efficient machines, sir. They 
do not use long range transmissions, they must manually deliver their information, so 
there is no detectable signal leak. They are designed not to be found."

"Fantastic. Helm?"

"I- I hope, sir."

"Me too, Ensign. Engage." The viewscreen showed the particles of the dust cloud 
elongate into lines, as the [I]Valley Forge[/I] leapt to safety in the strong arms of 
an unknown gas giant.

*****

"Report." The Dorran officer sat in the centre of a dark room, one that appeared on 
no official maps of the construction yards. It was all but invisible form the 
outside, soundproof, and well-guarded. It was here that the Dorrans conducted their 
most high-level meetings, at it was here that they now gathered.

"The Klingons have found the bait."

"We know the penetration was them?"

"They changed the password to 'Voth', so it is a good bet."

"Excellent. If it proves they believe we are planning to crate a fleet, we will reap 
an even higher price from them to prevent them from losing the [I]Grek'Nar[/I], and, 
in turn, their only defense against some kind of Dorran Invasion Fleet." The 
assembled Dorrans laughed, a high-pitched, wheezing sound that filled the room.

"Is this all?"

"No, sir. One of our decoy scouts in the Rellit system discovered a Federation 
vessel. It bears the name [I]USS Valley Forge[/I], and seems utterly dilapidated. It 
launched fighters in the Rellit System's Oort Cloud, and destroyed one of our decoy 
probes."

"Those probes are only there for testing, they were not meant to be discovered yet." 
The other Dorran allowed a concerned look to cross his face.

"Yes, sir, I know. If word of them gets out our Voth initiative may be jeapordised. 
It is my recommendation that we have the [I]Valley Forge[/I] destroyed, to prevent a 
possible leak of data."

"Yes, I ratify that." The senior Dorran looked solemnly around the room. "We must 
move against the Federation sooner than expected. The [I]Valley Forge[/I] must die. 


CHAPTER 7


 The [I]USS Valley Forge[/I] snapped back to impulse no longer than seconds after it 
had vanished into warp. With no timer controls, no direction except for pointing the 
vessel at a bright point of light and hitting the 'go' button, it had been dragged to 
a conventional physics-obeying speed by the gravity of the enormous gas giant in 
front of it. It had been a tense few moments aboard the vessel, all hands hoping the 
unproven Ensign at Helm would direct the ship truly, but the tension eased as the 
ship began orbiting the mammoth world.

"Sensors, what's the neighbourhood like," asked Scott, twisting in his chair to look 
at the Science officer. 

"We are currently in orbit of a class-I Gas Supergiant, a protostar that barely 
lacked the mass to become incandescent at this system's inception, 7 billion years 
ago. It has upwards of 100 moons, most less than 100 kilometres across, and a 
standard thin ring system of carbonaceous debris, rendering them near-invisible." 
T'Sav didn't look directly at the Captain- her entire report was delivered into her 
console as her hands were working the station furiously.

"Any enemy vessels?"

T'Sav looked up, pointedly at Scott. "Two Dorran vessels in the Oort cloud, searching 
for us. They were plainly in the vicinity of this system before the probe escaped, 
hence the promptness of their response."

"Do they know we're here?" asked Traab, from the Tactical station. The burly Bolian 
had moved from his typical chair at the right of the Captain to the tiny station at 
the back of the bridge at the mention of enemy vessels. The console pointed slightly 
away from the main viewscreen, due the haphazard placement of bridge consoles, but 
Traab had to twist into the station to keep his head from impacting the roof, so he 
was still able to follow the flow of conversation on the bridge.

"Not likely, Commander. The [I]Valley Forge[/I] is woefully underpowered in most 
respects, and the planet we are in orbit of is emitting enough background energy to 
keep us covered- until they find our warp trail." T'Sav's impassive voice seemed to 
bring a calming influence to the bridge.

Traab nodded. "That won't take long- our Warp Core is inefficient enough tat we must 
have left a massive amount of energy behind."

Scott looked concerned, but masked it before virtually anyone noticed. "What are our 
options? Commander Traab?"

"We would be outmatched by a group of angry natives with sticks. Combat is not a 
viable option. Our shield grid is fluctuating even with the radiation coming off this 
planet, a disruptor would annihilate them. My body can absorb as much energy from a 
good plate of pasta than this shield grid can." The Bolian looked angry, but it was 
twinged with a helplessness- he knew too well the power of not being able to render 
any assistance to someone in need.

"Officer Melan?" Scott turned to the uncharacteristically quiet Bajoran Officer.

"Standard Ferengi Crisis Procedure Twenty-Seven." The Bajoran nearly smiled, pleased 
his Ferengi upbringing might actually re of consequence.

"Would you care to translate for those of us not acquainted with the feelings of 
avarice?" shot T'Sav, looking up coolly from her monitor.

"When in doubt, hide. Commander, we're losing systems by the minute- Lieutenant T'Sav 
was understating the problem with this planet's trace radiation, it's playing havoc 
with many of our systems. Transporters are getting their power directly from the 
reserve generators, so they're unaffected, but everything else is showing a definite 
power drop. It seems to be wiping some of the data packets that control power 
distribution, so any minute-" Melan was cut off in spectacular fashion by everything 
on the bridge fading to blackness, including the viewer. Emergency lights came on, 
and the Bajoran was wreathed in the glow from his panels, the only ones that had 
stayed on. "-we could lose power anywhere." He paused. "Including the bridge."

Scott swore. "Get the power back, Officer. And why did your panel stay on?"

"This console runs through main Ops, I don't get power form the same source. When 
power goes out, it's good to have a way to get it back on." The Bajoran flicked a few 
buttons, switched one wire, and the lights came back on. "Always back up your data, 
ladies and gentlemen." He smiled a smile that made Scott want to throw a brick at 
him.

"Recommend a course of action, Officer Melan." 

The Bajoran continued to grin. "Take the ship into the planet, where the radiation 
and clouds will cover us. I'll organise my Ops teams to go around the ship and 
replace any switches or breakers that get wiped, and I'll personally look after the 
overall system health. The ship won't be in fantastic shape, but it will survive."

"We will have 30 minutes from the time we descend until we are forced to resurface," 
said T'Sav. "It is necessary that we wait until the last possible moment before 
initiating this course of action."

Scott ran his fingers through his hair, considering. If he hid, he would be able to 
avoid a confrontation. If he fought, he would likely lose not only his ship, but 
probably his career, if not his life. He turned and schooled his expression into that 
of anger contained behind extreme discipline, and looked at Melan. 

"You are now personally responsible for every piece of software on this vessel, 
Officer. If we hide, and are unable to surface, the failure of this operation is on 
your head. Go." Melan, slightly alarmed, turned and left the bridge without further 
remark.

"Orders, sir?" asked Helm.

"We wait."

*****
Lieutenant Junior Grade John Davits was furious. He was up to his elbows in the RFW-3 
Distributor, the piece of equipment that allowed power flow to be regulated from the 
Warp Core. He had had to shut off all power to it, so the Core was running simply to 
stay warm, and was attempting to mend it. Ten minutes ago, it had gone offline for no 
reason, and he only barely managed to avoid a breach. With a crack squad of engineers 
trained on the latest equipment unable to do much more than hold tools on a ship a 
decade older than them, he had done much of the work himself, and was only now 
getting to diagnose the problem.

He pulled out a small black chip from the board, and looked carefully at it. He 
pulled out a small scanning microscope, and shrugged- there was nothing physically 
wrong with it. He took the chip and plugged it into his tricorder, and tried to open 
the files it contained- numbers that would indicate power flow and direction, and 
swore. The card was completely unreadable. A flash of sparks from another console on 
the other side of the Engineering room, one deck up, indicated to him the problem was 
not isolated.

He slapped his commbadge. "Engineering to Bridge, did someone forget to tell me 
something?"

The voice of Elliot Scott snapped back at him. "We're in orbit of a gas giant, which 
is giving off radiation erasing some of the data on ship's systems. Officer Melan and 
Operations are working on it. Bridge out." The comm chirped, and Davits hit it again.

"Davits to Melan."

"Melan here."

"Want to send someone to fix Engineering? Your code is disappearing."

"You're on the list. Melan ou-"

"Do you like breathing, Officer Melan?" interjected Davits, becoming red in the face.

"Is that a threat, Johnny?"

"It's a promise, crumple-nose. You don't get down here, the warp core goes, and 
that'll end your party with a bang, won't it?"
There was a pause on the comm, Melan obviously mulling over the benefits of defying 
the engineer versus the risk of explosion. "I'll send a squad."

"Thanks, shitstain, Davits out." The engineer clicked off his commbadge, and decided 
he needed a hammer. Hammers made everything better.

*****

"Sir, we've found something." The bridge of the Dorran vessel was brightly 
illuminated, so nothing could hide in the shadows. The Dorran officer speaking caused 
several officers to look up, who had been working in complete silence. The Captain 
did not even look at the officer's station, merely flicked a switch on his chair that 
displayed the station's contents to the main viewscreen, a feature installed by the 
Dorran Illustrious and Powerful Command, or DIPCOM to prevent 'treachery'.

"A Federation warp trail, leading towards a gas giant. They must be hiding there. 
Science, report."

"We won't know where the ship is, probably. We can use our sensors to detect where 
the dove to, and calculate their position roughly, but we will need to drop distance-
time charges to damage the ship."

"How will we know it is destroyed?"

"Federation ships use a device called a "Warp Core" to power their vessels, which 
reacts matter and antimatter. We will detect a massive explosion when it breaches, 
destroying the vessel."

"Weapons, prepare charges. Engines, take us there. Glory to Dorra!"

*****

"Sir, they're vectoring towards us!" The nervous Helm officer's voice cracked as he 
made his report.

Scott nodded to the Ensign. "Dive."

The [I]Valley Forge[/I] descended into the clouds, cutting through the gas like a 
dangerous shark through the water. It parted the vapours, which swirled around it, 
and came to rest, hidden from all but those within it.

*****
"Fire." The Dorran vessels launched their torpedoes at the point where they believed 
the Federation marauder to be. The Valley Forge rocked slightly as the charges missed 
their marks, and the Dorrans switched firing patterns and attempted again. The 
atmosphere of the planet was too thick to catch fire as a result of the detonations, 
but it did not stop the Dorran vessels from firing a wide spread, hoping to catch the 
ship off guard.

It was not so peaceful on the bridge of the [I]Valley Forge[/I], however, Klaxons 
blared, lights flickered on and off, and the ship rocked. The viewscreen displayed 
several explosions as they occurred, but it was the ones happening off screen that 
seemed to cause the most terror on the vessel.  

"Tactical, report!"

"They're using a predictable firing pattern, so I don't think they can detect us. 
They know we're hiding because of ionization in the atmosphere where we descended, 
but they can't tell where. Shields here are at practical maximum, about 54% of 
designed maximum, but one shot will annihilate the grid. Even if they can't detect 
the ship, they'll spot the blast." Traab looked concentrated, but his voice belied 
his stress. 

"Possibility of fighters to strike with?"

"Launching fighters will give away our position, we'll be eliminated, and the 
fighters will die without a capital ship to return to." Traab shook his head. "We're 
on our own."

Scott brushed his hair out of his eyes. "Options, anyone?"

T'Sav nodded. "Distract them."

"With what?" asked Scott, the pitch of his voice rising in stress.

"An explosion."

Traab interjected. "No torpedoes, we have nothing to blow up. Maybe a shuttle, but 
that won't-"

"That will not persuade them to abandon their pursuit," said T'Sav, ending Traab's 
objection. "We must detonate something that makes them believe we have been 
terminated."

"We're not self-destructing, Lieutenant," called Scott, over the klaxons.

"Jettison the Warp Core into the path of one of their torpedoes, have it detonate it- 
Commander Traab said they are using a predictable pattern. They will believe they 
have destroyed us, and we will not be destroyed." T'Sav looked impassive, as if not 
realising how condescending the end of her last statement sounded. 

"We don't have another Warp Core. We'll be stuck," said Helm, looking alarmed.

"We'll be alive. We can climb out of here and into a safe orbit on impulse. They 
won't be looking for us if they think we're a cloud of hydrogen." Scott mulled it 
over in his head. "Engineering, this is the bridge. You are to eject the Warp Core, 
and tractor it to the co-ordinates Commander Traab is sending you." Scott nodded at 
Traab.

Davits erupted in laughter. "We don't have an ejection system, that wasn't invented 
until well after this hulk was built."

"Transport it, then," said Scott, over the rumbling of the bridge as the torpedoes 
grew nearer to their marks.

"That'll short out half the ship!"

"That's half less than a torpedo will. Do it, Lieutenant, that's an order."

"I object to this action, on the grounds that-"

"Noted! Do it!"

A second later, every console on the bridge went blank, and the sounds of explosion 
reached the ears, including the massive [I]boom[/I] of escaping air on the flight 
deck. The ship rocked, the emergency lights all burnt out, and the ship was quiet.

T'Sav looked like a ghost wreathed in the dim light of the emergency lights behind 
Science, some of the only ones on. Her console began to flicker, and she read the 
reports quickly. She hoped it would be something pleasing.

*****

"Warp Core Breach detected, on a direct course with torpedo 4352 launched tube 3, 
Vessel 13-7, Time 36.9, 12, 009." The tactical officer on the Dorran vessel looked 
impassive, as did all the bridge crew. 

"Contact DIPCOM, alert them to our victory. Helm, take us away."

The Dorran vessel, an inelegant box with several spikes protruding from the back 
making it appear much like a geode, stretched through space and disappeared, leaving 
even light behind in its wake.

*****

"Science, report," said Scott, picking himself up from the floor. His chair had come 
loose, as had the Tactical station, which was lying on the ground infront of the 
front wall, having ripped out all the carpeting and circuitry, leaving jagged lines 
in the floor. Traab lay beneath the console, but as Scott watched, he raised himself 
and threw the twisted thing to the floor. His arm was bleeding heavily, and he had at 
least six inches of a metal beam protruding from his left leg. He began walking 
across the bridge, and opened up the First Aid Kit, sitting behind the Comm station.

"They're moving off, sir." T'Sav showed no outward signs of relief, but felt as if a 
squeezing hand had been removed from her chest.

Scott nodded, and noticed his arm was broken in at least two places. He winced at the 
pain, and turned to the Helm. "Take us to a safe orbit. I'll be in Sickbay. All 
stations are to work on getting up to operational readiness, staff meeting in two 
hours, my Ready Room." The Commander limped to the turbolift, joined by his First 
Officer. They began to descend.

"You just saved 200 lives, sir," said Traab. "That would qualify as redemption from 
your earlier mistakes in my books."

"Perhaps, Commander, I'll be able to save a lot more by the time this mission is 
over." Scott turned away, and fought to control his shaking legs, giving away the 
enormous relief he felt at simply being alive. He would not have traded that feeling 
for the fastest ship in Starfleet.

A/N: Yes, they've survived, but they have a mission to carry out, and a ship with no 
warp core! How will they survive? Find out in Chapter 8, coming whenever I finish 
writing it. Please review!