Chapter 31
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE:            A tiny pointed transport dipped quietly through the cloud cover, a mile above the bustling Bajoran metropolis of B’heli. It circled around the city’s main spaceport several times, the warm orange glow of the distant sun shining off its angular frame as it drew closer to the ground. When the space-traffic officials gave clearance for the tiny ship to land, Edam set the controls over to autopilot, letting the computer finish off the brief descent.

Aeretha sat beside him with her eyes halfway closed. Their offworld escapades had obviously drained her of energy, and as she watched the tips of the city's brass-domed buildings come into view all she could think about was how nice it would be to have a long quiet nap in her own bed.

But Edam was a bundle of liveliness, even though he had spent the past thirty-six hours sifting through pages of half-translated notes and scouring religious commentaries for a better insight into the prophecies, the thought of sleep didn’t even enter his mind. His search had yet to uncover anymore earth-shattering discoveries, but he was eager to return to Bajor and discuss what he had learned with the temple scribes.

As the ship settled down against the steady earth, the young man let out a sigh and turned a smile toward his lethargic companion. "Ah, home again," he nodded. "Back where it all began."

"Edam, please," the young woman in the chair beside him mumbled, "just shut up about all of that." She was far too exhausted to deal with thinking of the prophecies, and wished momentarily that the whole thing would just go away.

But Edam, incorrigible as ever, pressed on. “Are you kidding?” His tone bordered on incredulous, “We’ve just made one of the most significant discoveries of the modern age!”

Aeretha brushed a hand over her brow and mumbled, looking away. "You talk like that and people will think you're crazy."

"Many great people were thought of as crazy by their contemporaries."

She turned back to face him, disillusion written over her features. “That’s just it, we’re not great.” With a momentary struggle she mustered enough energy to sit up and shake her head. “We're just some kids working on a class project gone horribly awry.”

That comment brought a frown to Edam's face. "So you've backslid into doubt, I see. After all you witnessed, with your own e—"

"No," she said quietly. "I haven't forgotten what I've seen. I just—"

"What?" A hint of irritation had crept into his voice.

"Nothing," Aeretha shook her head. "Let's just get out of here."

The boarding ramp lowered and the pair stepped out of the shuttle, Edam clumsily struggling along with a bag or two more than he could reasonably handle. He managed to make it to the bottom of the gangway without falling or dropping anything and then turned an inquisitive gaze around the busy landing area. "Well that's strange . . ."

Aeretha stifled a yawn as she followed a few steps behind him, “What’s strange?”

"My uncle's supposed to be here.” The boy glanced around. “He said he needed to pick up the ship at the third hour aft—" he paused, as if realizing something, and whirled around to look at her. "Aeretha—what's the date?"

The girl stepped beside him and looked up, as if trying to track down the answer somewhere in the back of her mind, "Umm . . . I think today's the fifty-fourth day of the harvest season, why?"

Edam dropped his bags, "Oh no . . ."

Aeretha looked nonplussed, "What?"

Edam was suddenly frantic, "I was supposed to only have the ship for—"

A smack to the back of his head cut off Edam’s sentence, "—three days!!!"

Aeretha whirled around to spy a stout, scruffy old Bajoran with a dangerous glare in his eye standing a step or two away. It was obviously the uncle he had been talking about, and she wondered idly how someone so large could have crept up so close without alerting them.

Edam nearly keeled over forwards, the impact of the older man’s massive hand was enough to make him stagger. He managed an abbreviated "Ow!" as he regained his footing and rubbed the back of his head, turning to see who had struck him. "Oh—Uncle Kaj, I—"

The older man scowled at him, "What—d’ya have sand in your ears?"

Aeretha kept quiet as Edam fumbled for an answer, "I uhh—"

But his uncle wasn't in the mood for hasty explanations. He pointed his finger accusingly at his nephew and bellowed, “You're never going to get to borrow my ship again, ever, d’ya hear?"

The murmur of nearby gravity engines caught the group's attention and, for a moment, the trio looked up to the sky. There they spied a ship, a transport from the size and shape of it, coming in for a soft landing a few hundred feet away. It was a Sydney-class, an old contemporary of the Constitution-class starships of years gone by.   The look of this one made it obvious that civilians had reclaimed it, probably from a Federation salvage yard. Its hull was black with bright red, yellow and blue racing flames on the nose, tips of the warp pods and leading edges of her engine pylons.

"Prophets spare me," Edam's uncle growled, "He's early."

Aeretha glanced at the man, curious enough to risk a little extra flack from Edam’s uncle. "What?"

Kaj turned aside and looked at her as if he hadn’t noticed she had been standing there the entire time (and truth be told he hadn’t). "Huh, what?" He sized the young woman up and then glanced at his nephew, "Who's this?" he asked, "Your girlfriend? It's about time you got yourself a girlfriend, Edam—what with your head in those books all the time. You need to work on your social skills."

Aeretha weathered the comment admirably, glancing over at Edam—who had now turned to look at her, wondering how she would respond. "We're just friends." She nodded to the older man, "Edam and I are classmates at the Planetary Academics Institute."

The older man harrumphed doubtingly. "That's a pretty long time alone on a small ship together for 'just friends' . . ."

Edam stepped in this time. "We were doing some field research, uncle. Now stop—you're embarrassing me."

Kaj let out a loud belly-laugh, "He's embarrassed, he says." The stout Bajoran pointed over to the ship which had since landed, and whose skipper was now approaching at a distance. "No, missing my last three quadrotriticale shipments because my nephew had decided to go gallivanting The-Prophets-Know-Where out in space for so long—that is embarrassing."

“Uncle—“

But Kaj only waved his hand, “Later.” He turned and promptly set out toward the tall figure in the distance—a wolf by the look of him—and took his hand in a firm shake, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ulfric, as I said over subspace we've had some logistical issues here we had to deal with."

Edam turned with a quiet sigh, gathered up the luggage again and began to haul it over to a nearby coach station. Aeretha peered after him, "Do you need any help?"

But Edam didn't answer, instead overweighing himself again with his bags and waddling away.

Aeretha let out a sigh and hopped off the gangway, stepping between him and the coach station so he couldn’t ignore her.

The young man paused and looked up at his companion, "I need to get to—"

But before he could finish off his sentence, she reached up to him and caught his face in her hands. Edam barely realized what she was doing before she had captured his lips in a gentle kiss.

From the distance Edam’s uncle paused his conversation and looked aside. After a moment, he grinned and slapped his business associate on the shoulder. "See that, Fenris?" he pointed. "That's my nephew over there. He's an idiot."

The tall man chuckled, "Mayhaps she finds that endearing.”

Kaj laughed, "I guess so, Fenris. I guess so."

————————————

            Commander Deano Fuhrer slowly roused himself from the cold abyss of unconsciousness, stirred by a strange sensation on the top of his head. His eyes still closed, he shifted slightly, only dimly aware of his surroundings. After a moment he took a deep breath and pried open his eyes, only to be met by an unexpected sight.

            For a moment he thought he must have been dreaming; the last thing he remembered was being hauled onto a medical stretcher of some kind and being injected with a drug in the arm. Instinctively, he reached over toward where the needle had pierced him and felt carefully through the fur. There was no bump, nor bruise, nor any sign of a puncture wound, and for another second he entertained the idea that he must still be unconscious.

            Again feeling something ruffling through his hair, he glanced up to spy a diminutive young ensign standing over him and looking out into the sickbay. She looked vaguely familiar, and Deano tried his best to recall where he had seen her before. But so many things had happened since they’d left for that ill-fated away mission, and his mind refused to settle on any one thought for too long.

            After awhile he gave up and shifted again, trying to crane his head up to speak. That too, failed, as the only sound he could make at first was a gentle rasping in his throat.

            Ensign Brett Walick quickly glanced down toward the sound, her ears twitching as she met Deano’s bleary gaze. A look of surprise flashed across her face and she promptly withdrew her hand from his hair. “Oh, uh sir . . .” she stammered, “wow-w-welcome back.” She promptly turned aside, more to hide her embarrassment than anything else, and tapped her communicator badge. “Ensign Walick to Doctor Pierce—“

            An irate groan echoed over the sickbay speakers, “What the bloody he—“

            “Doc!” Brett cut him off, “Sir—Commander Fuhrer is conscious.”

            The was a momentary pause, “The sedatives should have kept him under for another eight hours.”

            “Well—sir—he is awake.”

            “Alright, ensign. I’ll be right down.”

            Deano mumbled something and Brett returned her attention to the man on the bed beside her. When she couldn’t make out what he was saying she crouched down and turned an ear to him. “What?”

            It was all for the commander could do to weakly mumble, “Am I awake?”

            “What?” Brett blinked, “Why of course you are. You’re onboard the FELIX.”

            Deano was quiet a moment, turning over what she had said slowly in his exhausted mind, “. . . FELIX, how did I get here?” After a second his eyes widened, “What abou—what about the rest of my team? Lieutenant Moore, Lanna—did we, did we find the captain?”

            “Woah easy there, Dean-bean.” She put a hand to his chest, steadying him, “I’m no doctor but I’m pretty sure you need to take it easy. Lieutenant Moore and Lieutenant Tigris are all fine, but no we’ve not found Captain Xavier.” She gave him a bit of a soothing smile, “There’s a lot that’s happened since you’ve been gone—but I’m sure someone will brief you in good time.”

            Deano nodded to himself, “Now I remember you . . . Ms. ‘we’re allll gonna dieeeeee,’ right?” He managed a weak smile.

            Ensign Walick blushed, “Erm, ye—“

            The doors to the medical ward suddenly opened, cutting off Brett mid-sentence, much to her relief. Dr. Pierce came barreling through the doors, still in his bedclothes, and made a bee-line for the nearest tricorder. He quickly fumbled it into his hands and began to scan the commander with it. Brett moved aside and Pierce scrutinized the readings, “Good to have you back with us, Mr. Fuhrer,” he nodded, unawares of the moment he had charged in onto. “I’d ask how you’re feeling but I doubt it’s anywhere remotely good.”

            Deano wrinkled up his nose slightly, “I’m alive, doc, I can’t complain.” He paused, as if fighting off a sudden assault of fatigue, “How long have I been under?”

            Timothy frowned, “Hard to say.” He nodded, “You were unconscious when you arrived, but you’ve been onboard the FELIX for over thirty-one hours, now.”

            “Some nap,” the commander grumbled.

            “I’ve managed to treat most of your injuries, Mr. Fuhrer,” the doctor’s tone had a hint of gravity in it. “But we are going to need to perform extensive reconstructive surgery on your left leg and you’re going to need to wear a back-brace for the next several weeks. I could fuse the fractures of your femur, but with this much damage it’s better to use a combination of both artificial and natural bone-healing mechanisms.”

            “And that means . . . ?”

            “You’re going to have to be off your feet for at least a month.”

            The commander took an impatient breath, “I can’t miss that much duty—I—“

            But Pierce held up his hand, “You won’t have to miss more than a week of duty. In fact I’d prefer that you be doing something during that time—activity helps speed the healing process, and will make it easier for me diagnose any complications which may arise with your back. You can go back to work on a limited basis, provided you do so in a hoverchair, and I only want you working half-shifts.”

            Deano took a moment and glanced at his feet, wriggling his toes lightly, remembering to make sure they worked. “Doc—“

            But Pierce wouldn't hear anything of it, “That’s an order, Mr. Fuhrer.”

            The commander gave Pierce a hard long look, but after a moment relented. “Alright.”

            Timothy nodded and turned toward an equipment tray, but before he could find the healing tool he was looking for, Deano called after him.

“Hey, doc.”

            Pierce turned, “Yes?”

            Deano frowned, not wanting to ask what he knew he must, “Where is Lieutenant Moore?”

            The doctor shrugged, “In temporary quarters, I’d imagine. He was treated for some minor injuries and released hours ago.”

            The commander nodded and let out a sigh, tossing a heavy glance toward Brett before nodding in Pierce’s direction, “You should have him confined to quarters, and notify Commander Weiss.”

            Timothy paused, considering momentarily whether he should inform Deano of the change in command. No, he’s been through a lot . . . perhaps later. “Why?”

Deano swallowed and hesitated a moment, “He . . . he cracked, sir.”

————————————

Lieutenant Jamarr Moore sat quietly on a small metal stool before a long metallic table in one of the interview rooms of the FELIX’s brig. “Interview room” was a euphemism, really, it was a questioning area, an interrogation chamber—rarely used and even more rarely mentioned. But it was small, dark, cramped and private—ideal in Admiral Rumsfield’s opinion to “interview” an officer of special interest like Mr. Moore.

It was late in the night, both the admiral and the lieutenant were tired; Jamarr more so after having been rudely roused from bed by the FELIX’s night-shift security team. Now, the situation was all too familiar to the lieutenant, bringing back unpleasant memories of his interrogation at the hands of the Imperials.

There was only one light in the room, a hanging filament which barely lit up the young lieutenant’s face and the table before him. Rumsfield stood in the shadows, quietly brooding and watching the younger man with critical eyes. After awhile of glancing back and forth into the darkness, Jamarr looked toward the ground and weaved his hands.

Immediately the admiral snapped at him, “You look up when a superior officer is in the room, lieutenant.”

Jamarr started at the order, took a steadying breath and did his best to obey the command, his eyes looking in the direction of the voice.

Rumsfield stepped forward, letting the dim light of the sole filament wash over the drooping features of his face, “Name, rank, serial number.”

“Sir. Jamarr Moore, sir. Lieutenant; Junior Grade.” The younger man frowned, “Serial Number Q19893671.”

            The admiral nodded to himself, giving a grin that was anything but amiable. “You say that like a real StarFleet officer—like you know what it means to wear that uniform.” He paced back and forth a few times and then prodded down onto the table with his finger, “But I have a man in sickbay who says otherwise . . .”

            “Ah—“

            But Rumsfield held his hand up for silence, “Careful, Mr. Moore.” His tone was a deadly warning, “You only get one chance at this . . . and I doubt you want to add lying to—or about—a superior officer to the charges already levied against you.”

            Jamarr glanced away, “Sir.”

            “You look me in the eye when you speak, solider!” Rumsfield barked, “I might have expected this from a member of the FELIX’s crew, but you—you came aboard from my ship.”

            “I—I’m sorry, sir.”

            “Sorry doesn’t cut it.” The admiral gave a hostile sneer, “You coward—you disgust me. You come back from that mission without a scratch on you because you volunteered the information they asked, for, didn’t you?”

            “Sir, they we—“

            Rumsfield slammed his fist against the table. “Didn’t you?”

            Jamarr’s gaze lost focus, and for a moment he saw himself again in that interrogation chamber, the cold shadow of—what did the old man call him? ‘Mr. Korriban’?—falling over him. In his mind he heard himself speak those words, those words of weakness and fear that he had surrendered, not wanting to end up like Deano had—or worse: All right, I’ll tell you—just don’t—don’t hurt me . . . please. The young lieutenant hung his head, “After Lieutenant Tigris disappeared—I thought she was dead—and what they did to Commander Fuhrer—I—“

            “You broke.”

            Moore locked his jaw, “Yes, sir.”

            The admiral paced again and turned aside, “You broke because you were a coward.”

            Jamarr ground his teeth, but kept his gaze steady as he took a breath, “Yes . . . sir.”

            Rumsfield produced something from beside him, a small data PADD, and glanced at it. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat, turning and throwing the device at the lieutenant.

            Jamarr shifted in the chair, but the PADD caught him in the shoulder and clattered to the floor. For a moment he just sat there, looking down at it as it lay face down on the deck.

            “Pick it up.”

            The lieutenant sniffled uncomfortably and reached down, obediently gathering the PADD into his hand.

            Rumsfield stayed still and spoke in a quieter but no less dangerous tone, “I want a detailed report of everything that occurred during that interrogation—down to the last damn detail you coughed up, d’yhear me?”

            Jamarr’s hands were shaking as he set the device on the table in front of him. “Yes, sir.”

            “And one last thing.”

            Moore looked up.

            “Your rank pips, give them to me.”

            The lieutenant’s eyes widened a bit, “Sir—I . . .”

            “Give them to me right now or I will rip that collar off your neck.”

            Jamarr shuddered and looked down at the table. He made an effort to raise his hands and hesitated, feeling as if the gravity if Jupiter were tugging them down. With a great effort he pressed on, though, growing numb as he reached up and plucked off the rank pips from his uniform—one by one.

            Rumsfield coldly held out his hand, “Give them to me.”

            Moore gulped and shook slightly, standing and cradling those golden buttons in his fist as he slowly held them out toward the admiral.

            “Come on.”

            With a heavy breath he opened his palm, and one by one the three pips fell into Rumsfield’s hand.

            The admiral considered them quietly, “StarFleet doesn’t give these things out the way they used to.” He looked over to the lieutenant, “Consider this your informal discharge from StarFleet, Mr. Moore. The official details will have to be handled by a formal tribunal.” As he set them aside he spoke in a mumble, “If I had my choice you’d have been shipped home aboard the EPIMETHEUS this morning—but they were called away on assignment. It looks like you’ll have to spend the remainder of this mission in the brig.”

            The COMM system in the room chirped a moment and the impassive voice of the FELIX’s computer echoed over the line. “The time is now 2130 hours.”

            Jamarr kept his eyes on the PADD in front of him, though he had yet to input a single word of his report. His career in StarFleet was over, and if he was lucky, he might only have earned himself a year or two at a penal colony.

            But as he sat, his mind trying to grasp the sheer gravity of what had just happened, Rumsfield, too, took a seat with the quiet announcement from the computer echoing through his mind. His expression gradually changed from indignation to a blank and distant stare. After awhile, he shook his head and waved his hand, as if dismissing something.

            Rumsfield mumbled quietly under his breath, something spoken so softly that Jamarr couldn’t hear. He then turned again to the younger man, who still seemed too shocked to speak. “When you join the Federation, you become part of something bigger than yourself, something that must be protected regardless of the personal cost. Comfort, security, conscience—sometimes your duty as a StarFleet officer requires you to look beyond these things for the greater good. You forgot that, Lieutenant Moore, and that is why you will never wear that uniform again.”

————————————

The tapered body of the Sith Infiltrator EREBUS hung in the air mere feet above a landing pad outside the Emperor’s palace of the city-world of Coruscant. Its hull was a shimmering gladius in the soft mauve light of the morning haze as it deployed its tiny landing arms and settled gracefully atop the floating dais. Jets of hot steam spewed from the ship’s underside as its boarding ramp lowered, a dark figure appearing in the doorway and scaling the short distance to the platform.

A diminutive hooded figure stood near the bottom of the gangway to meet him, flanked on either side by scarlet-robed guards wielding sterling Force-pikes. Korriban recognized them well; he had had many dealings with the Imperial Royal Guard in his years of service to the Emperor. At least two of these masked centurions accompanied the Emperor any time he took leave of the capital building, the rest left guarding his palace with an uncommon vigilance.

“Welcome home, Lord Korriban,” the Emperor addressed his servant with an unusually cordial greeting.

The Sith Lord bent to a knee and lowered his head, the short strands of his pearl-colored hair draping toward the deck. “You honor me, holy Emperor.”

As they spoke, the landing platform began to lower toward the ground and draw back towards the palace tower. Despite all the busy air-traffic that filled the smoggy skies of Coruscant, no vehicles—civilian or otherwise—were allowed to fly over the palace grounds. Normally, the only way for a ship to get near the Emperor’s abode without being shot down by an octet of turbolaser turrets was aboard one of these antigravity platforms.

“Arise, you may, Korriban.” The emperor nodded after awhile, “Much to speak about, there is.”

“What would you wish of me, milord?” The Sith stood after a moment, shielding his eyes from the growing glare of the rising Coruscant sun.

The Emperor turned his back to the sunrise, and as he spoke, the platform moved into shadow. “Served me faithfully you have,” his ears twerked slightly. “For many years—since from Tyranus you came.”

The Sith Lord nodded, “Yes, my Master.”

“Stepped forward without hesitation, you did—when my last apprentice died.”

Korriban hardened his gaze a bit and nodded again.

The Emperor mused to himself, tapping his cane against the deck as it continued to float silently toward the base of the palace spire. “But, not the only one are you.”

The panther’s tail flicked minutely, “Yes, my Master. There are many Sith whom you—“

“No.” The green fox seemed suddenly irate, “Many Sith call me ‘Master,’ but my apprentices they are not.”

Korriban dared turn to face him, puzzlement clear on his face, “I do not understand, milord Emperor.”

“Know you do not, I do.” As the ferry came to settle onto the ground, the diminutive figure nodded to himself, “Come with me, you will.” He prodded the Sith Lord in the leg with his wooden cane, “And stay in your ship, your lover must—if she values her life.”

Korriban turned a momentary glance back to the EREBUS, where Jadeite had doubtlessly been listening to the conversation thus far; the two Royal Guards, who had until then been standing beside the Emperor, stalked quietly over to the gangway of the ship and sealed its doors.

The Emperor and his servant continued into the palace alone. They walked together in silence a moment, neither of them speaking as the Emperor weighed his words. When they finally reached an open room, a compartment once used for the training of Jedi padawans, he stopped.

“What is it, my Master?”

The Emperor looked up to his apprentice with a grave expression, “The most trusted of my Sith, you are. Instructed you I have; taken you as my learner. But Korriban—” He paused, and then spoke three weighty words. “—there is another . . .”

Chapter 31
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