Admiral Quinn paced back and forth in his office, on ESD, thinking to himself. Nearby stood a visibly nervous Ambassador Jiro Sugihara with sweaty palms. Vice Admiral Chico Sartez, the first Captain of the USS Gladiator and current commanding officer of the 11th Assault Cruiser Fleet, stood in the room with his arms folded across his chest. Sartez's eyes followed Quinn’s every move with unrepentant discontent.

The speaker on Quinn's desk beeped, "Admiral, the Deferi delegate is requesting..." Quinn slammed his fist on the speaker to cut off his secretary and give his immediate response.
"Not now, damn it!" Quinn wasn't so much shouting as he was just being very clear, and abrasive, that he didn't want interruptions at this time.

Quinn was in the process of contemplating one of the most difficult choices he has ever been faced with. It was a choice that, under normal circumstances, wouldn't even be possible. At any other time what he was considering would be considered illegal. But this was not like any other time. This was not some back room deal. This is something that had been brought directly to him by politicians to cowardly to make the decision themselves. Now, Quinn was forced to choose between the best interest for Starfleet or the best interest of the United Federation of Planets. This was one of those rare circumstances were the two were actually exclusive yet at the same time combined. What was on the table was just to enticing to simply ignore, but the demands were so extreme that even the bureaucrats opted to levy this decision on Starfleet who, in turn, dropped it into Admiral Quinn's lap due to his command position.

Quinn was no stranger to leadership. Making difficult choices comes with the job. Though, even Quinn admits that he had never faced the hardships that other leaders have. He never held command of a ship in war time. He was never in command of officers during any major battles or conflicts. He had tactical experience. He had fired a hand held phaser in self-defense; he had given orders to fire torpedoes. Though, the bulk of his career was spent on science ships and cruisers exploring the unknown. He did have experience in negotiations. Quinn had experience brokering deals with races outside the Federation. All that made it much easier for others to shove this onto his desk and force him to deal with it. That doesn't mean it made it easier to deal with it. Quinn went back to pacing around.

"Wearing out the floorboards won't help you make up your mind." Admiral Sartez's words were less than kind.

"What would you do? If this was up to you what would you say?" Quinn asked sympathetically to Sartez. The two had a cordial relationship but were hardly friends. They really had no common ground, other than they both wore Admiral Uniforms, to build a friendship out of.

Sartez dropped his arms to his side and proudly proclaimed, "I'd tell 'em to go to hell. Or... whatever they call hell."

"The potential in this situation is one so significant that both parties stand..." Ambassador Jiro Sugihara started to interject his logic.


"Shut up." Sartez had spun around to quiet Sugihara. Sartez held little respect for him. Sugihara had never commanded a ship. His career was spent in an office or in the guest quarters of a ship as he traveled to talks with newly discovered races. Sartez slowly turned to face Quinn once more who was now just staring at the wall. "You can offend Starfleet and follow through. Which, I'm sure, the citizens of the Federation will be grateful for the new sense of security on our border. Or, you can uphold your oath to your fellow officers," Quinn turned to shoot Sartez a look at his words of upholding an oath as Sartez continued to speak, "to which, once the public knows, will be enraged at Starfleet for not making the necessary sacrifice to foster in peace."

"Neither result is exactly something one wants to deal with." Quinn spoke in a somber tone.

"With due respect," Sartez's tone was noticeably more gentle at this time, "you have to answer to, and deal with, Starfleet daily. You do not answer to civilians."

Quinn took a deep breath and sat down. "True. However, I took an oath to support and defend the United Federation of Planets, not my career."


Sartez did not respond. Instead, he simply looked off to the side and remained silent. He knew the choice Admiral Quinn was about to make.

"Ambassador Sugihara," Quinn took one more deep breath as even he was shocked at the words about to come out of his mouth, "notify them that we will proceed and adhere to their demand provided they uphold their end."

"Yes, Admiral." Sugihara responded.

"We'll take my ship." Sartez said. As much as he disagreed with Quinn he was not about to let him face this hardship alone. He would need Sartez there to soften the blow or to at least divide the hate that was sure to follow.



General Wrot'Ka gazed out the enormous windows on the Bridge of the I.K.S. Lukara while his senior staff bustled behind him at their duty stations. He watched as the ship turned and the sight of their newly acquired starbase drifted from view. Wrot'Ka stood there as the ship jumped to warp. Their destination was to a secondary starbase being built in the Khazon Cluster. It was hidden and few, even in the Empire, knew of its construction. Wrot'Ka had been given special permission from the High Command to construct this secondary base as a platform to launch a full-fledged assault into the Sirius Sector. An advantageous plan. Surely the battles that would ensue would be glorious. Wrot'Ka would go down in history as the warrior who defeated the Federation. At least that is what he had hoped. The High Command was not so certain. They refused to aid the construction efforts which has forced Wrot'Ka to divide his resources and personnel and slowed the progression of their primary base.


As the stars zipped past Wrot'Ka, he clenched his fist and started to grind his teeth at the thought of why the High Command has not given him their full support. He has won countless battles, invaded Federation territory, and expanded the borders of the Empire. He turned his head slightly and saw Colonel F'sot, a Feresian who recently joined the ranks of SF:K, giving orders to two B'ekks.

"Damn Aliens." Wrot'Ka spoke softly to himself which was not a common trait for him. All the non-Klingons in his ranks is what was holding the High Command back. For all their victories they were being judged on their race and not their accomplishments. Wrot'Ka agreed that no warrior is a true warrior unless it is Klingon blood that rushes through their veins. However, their success could not be denied. Neither could their failures. Constantly he was pummeled with convoluted ideas of weapons of mass destruction and kidnappings and such. Hardly methods used by true warriors. But it was their out of the box thinking, diversity, and unconventional Klingon tactics that made them so difficult for Starfleet to predict. Could the Empire truly not see the genius in allowing the lesser races a say in tactics?

General Wrot'Ka began to slowly walk around the large Bridge. His reasons for this secondary base were many. There are several leading Klingons who despise both Wrot'Ka and Strike Force: Kargas for his use of aliens and their continued success. The primary reason for this other base was, of course, to crush the United Federation of Planets. That reason in itself was two-fold. The strategy he laid out before the High Command was for a full frontal assault of Klingon Fleets on the Eta Eridani Sector and the Regulus Sector which would hit multiple targets and occupy multiple areas while wave after wave continued through to completely claim the sectors as part of the Empire. This would completely cut off the Pi Canis Sector from any and all Federation support leaving it easy to claim later on. The Federation would have no choice but to allocate all of Starfleet to the sectors to stop their push. Then, in a flanking motion, Strike Force: Kargas and a contingent of other brigades would swoop through the Alpha Centauri and Sirius Sectors. Finally he would have the chance to take Starbase 24. A fortress many Klingons have attempted to take. It would be his. He doubted Starfleet would be so foolish as to leave no ships for defense. The best he could hope for was a blockade on the Sol System. That half-hearted attempt by the foolish Breen taught them to keep it well defended. No matter. So long as Starbase 24 fell to him and, more than likely Starbase 39, he would cripple Starfleet. His glory would never be forgotten.

As Wrot'Ka walked around, viewing his officers diligently working, he thought of how different the Empire will be once he is Chancellor. That was the driving force behind all his ambition. His House, through no fault other than time, was no longer a prominent member of the Council. His father’s death occurred before Wrot'Ka had attained enough rank, power, and fame. Thus slowly over time other Houses rose in power while his remained stagnant. That would no longer be the case once his plan is in full swing. His House would be propelled through the Council which will leave him in good standing to either have the power of Chancellor passed to him or a chance to challenge for it.

The General had learned his lesson the hard way, none of the officers outside his crew knew of the construction of this secondary base. He no longer trusted them to not screw everything up. The completion of the base was still months away. He had plenty of time to revise his plan on his own and perfect it.

The subspace transmission buzzed through the network of relays and towards the USS Gladiator. But it was never received. Admiral Quinn's orders for the Gladiator to abort it's mission and rendezvous with the USS Cherokee at Starbase 39 would never be read.

The lights throughout the ship were dimmed. The Gladiator sat in space in a state of "tactical cloak" to deeper conceal it's presence. It required all non-essential systems to be shut down and even necessary system were running on the bare minimum amount of power to keep them operational. Water is rationed. Replicators are off-line and only served meals in the Galley are authorized. Holodecks are off-line. All science departments, with the exception of medical, were completely shut down. All personnel not essential to tactical situations were training and preparing, as they have in the past, to perform maintenance, repel boarding parties, advance their first aid skills, and so forth.

The USS Patton and the USS Tiefort, both Defiant Class ships, were close by in a similar state. The three ships were on an ambush mission. A week ago a freighter ship had broken down in this area and sought refuge near an asteroid belt that appeared to have resources they could use to become operational again. The freighter believed they had discovered debris from a ship. In actuality, once they got within close range they discovered a Klingon Starbase being constructed within one of the larger asteroids. The base appeared to not be occupied but that quickly changed once a ship entered the system. The fate of the freighter is unknown, but one can use their imagination. Fortunately for Starfleet, the freighter had been transmitting to another freighter a few parsecs away until their communications were jammed. The transmissions had been analyzed by Starfleet and the ship was determined to be the flagship of Strike Force: Kargas.

Starfleet believes this base is being constructed to supply either a grand attack into Federation territory or into Romulan space. Recently, Romulan envoys have approached the Federation and talks have taken place. The issues and topics brought up during those meetings were not open to the public. Most did not even know these talks were in progress.

Captain Dewey exited the gym on deck 7 and proceeded towards the turbolift. He didn't bother changing into his regular uniform since he wouldn't be able to shower for another few hours due to water rationing. Dewey stepped out of the way as Ensign Packard, a young female tactical officer, was training a group of science crewmembers how to move through the corridor tactically in order to repel any boarding parties. The crewmembers knew to ignore the presence of the Captain and just continue their training.


Once Dewey reached the bridge he asked for a status report. Commander Savel stated in her usual monotone Vulcan voice, "We have not detected any activity in this sector, sir." Dewey simply nodded at the lack of news. It was likely they could be sitting here for days or even weeks before anything of interest happens.


“Perhaps they are there, just cloaked.” Major Serat said. He had no love for Klingons and was eager at the chance to kill a few.


“Unlikely.” Responded Lt. Etirr, the ships Chief of Operations. She continued, “Even if they were cloaked we’d detect construction activity from the base. I doubt anyone is there right now.”


“Keep me informed. I’ll be in my ready room.” Dewey ordered as he walked past one of his Science officers and towards his ready room.


Once in there, he took a moment to gaze out the window. He had a feeling that what was to transpire here would not be something he would look back on fondly.


Captain Dewey was napping, as he did frequently, in his ready room on the couch. He had changed into his regular duty uniform and finished up everything he needed to. He had already put in at least fifteen hours on this day. Five days they’ve sat out here. Waiting. Soon the time would come for orders and torpedoes to fly. He was not looking forward to it. Something didn’t feel right about it all. For one, the Klingon ship they had discovered in this area was state of the art, tough, and commanded by a General known more for his victories in impossible situations than defeat.

“All hands to battle stations. Repeat, all hands to battle stations. Captain Dewey to the Bridge.” Commander Savel, the ships First Officer, announced throughout the ship in her usual calm voice. Dewey sprang up and rushed out onto the bridge. An announcement like that could only mean one thing.

“A Klingon battleship just de-cloaked. They’re scanning the area.” Cmdr. Savel updated Dewey on what was going on.


“What are they doing?” Dewey asked for more information.

“They’re moving at full impulse towards the base. They don’t detect us, sir.” Lt.Cmdr Nour responded as Dewey moved to take his seat.

“Bring us underneath their ship.” Dewey ordered as he sat down. This was the tactic the three ships had planned on. However, just as the realization of what was about to take place was sinking in with the entire crew, the USS Tiefort jumped the gun and de-cloaked and started racing to close range. Hearing what was going on from his First Officer, Dewey shouted, “De-cloak. Full power to weapons. Target her engines. Jam all communications.”




“General! Federation ship de-cloaking off our starboard stern!” One of Wrot’Ka’s officers yelled.

“What!?” Was the scathing response from Wrot’Ka. Was it possible? Did they know his plan already? The ship started to rock as it was peppered with torpedoes and phasers. “Return fire! Attack Pattern Chang!” Sparks danced about the Bridge of the I.K.S. Lukara as they reacted to this attack.


“Another ship de-cloaking, my Lord.” Lady Karana, a member of Wrot’Ka’s House, informed him what she was detecting at her station.
The powerful ship was slow to turn but the amount of firepower she produced made up for that. In a flash, the USS Paton was destroyed.

Dewey didn’t like what was going on. The entire plan of attack had been ruined. Now they were not in position to easily take the Klingon ship and the USS Patton paid the price from Lukara’s powerful disruptors.

Wrot’Ka was more angered that Starfleet knew they were there than being outnumbered. He, and this ship and crew, had been outnumbered by Starfleet before. He was not concerned about that.

Orders of maneuvers, weapons fire, damage control teams, and status reports flew from the mouths of the two battlefield commanders as their ships shook violently in the stars. Suddenly, a swarm of torpedoes slammed into the Gladiator as explosions rocked the ship and crew.

“Report!” Dewey demanded.

“Port Nacelle is… is destroyed, sir.” Chief Valda responded as she organized repair teams to various portions of the ship.


“Shields at 12%!”

“Multiple hull breaches!”


“Aft torpedo bay is offline!”

Orders and status reports flooded both Bridges and began to blend together. Both Dewey and Wrot’Ka spoke loudly enough for their crews to clearly hear and understand their orders. Both ships had sustained a lot of damage. The USS Tiefort exploded in a tremendous ball of fire as parts of her hull smashed into the Gladiator.

“Main disruptors charged!” Wrot’Ka’s First Officer explained.

“Move us into position. Destroy them!” Wrot’Ka ordered from his seat.


“Lance Phaser back online, Captain!” Cmdr. Savel informed Dewey in all the chaos. Small flames flickered about the Bridge of the Gladiator as damaged wires hung from the ceiling and walls while small plumes of smoke leaked out of a few consoles damaged in the brawl.

“Line her up, Mr. Kor’at!” Dewey shouted to his helmsman.


“Target her Bridge!” Dewey had given the order but Lt. Nour was already anticipating it.


The two battleships lined up bow to bow with less distance than either preferred. Both ships were charging up for their powerful attack. Both weapon systems on the two ships would take a few seconds to actually fire from the time the command is given to the time the officer fires to the time the weapon comes to full power and discharges.

The I.K.S. Lukara was in position a half moment first. They were hurting just as bad as the Gladiator. Both had their crews tossed about and vital systems damaged or destroyed. “Kill them!” Wrot’Ka shouted as spit and blood flew from his mouth.


Just then, the lights flickered. The power required for her powerful disruptors drained so much energy that it tripped the entire weapons system.

“Weapons are offline!” One of the officers yelled to Wrot’Ka who already knew. He stood up slowly from his command chair as the view screen showed the USS Gladiator face them.


Dewey sat in his chair with significant damage throughout his ship. The Bridge had grown deafening quiet as all weapons fire had stopped from both ships. In a calm, cool, and collected voice Dewey gave a very simple order, “Fire.”


The Lance Phaser charged up and shot out. It scorched the bottom of the saucer section as it overloaded. But the shot came out. The powerful beam of energy ripped through space and decimated the command portion of the I.K.S. Lukara. No one in that section would have survived.

In total, the price paid in the battle was heavy. The USS Gladiator was dead in space, but she had emerged victorious of the Klingons. Both the USS Paton and USS Tiefort were lost with all hands onboard. The Gladiator started the battle with 821 crew members. By the time it was over 301 had given their lives in the line of duty and an additional 277 were wounded enough to warrant treatment in sickbay. Many of her systems were offline or not functioning properly.

Dewey sat in his Captain’s Chair as the reports came in. They were unable to respond to the Bird of Prey that was, before, docked with the I.K.S. Lukara and now activating a tractor beam on the shattered Klingon ship. The Bird of Prey towed away the ship. Why it didn’t simply destroy the Gladiator is unknown. Perhaps her weapons were offline. All that mattered to Dewey was that the battle was over and the surviving Klingons were vacating the area.

Officers were still talking and updating the Captain on the damage when Dewey stood up and uttered, “Send out a distress call.” He slowly walked towards the turbolift. The doors opened, but no turbolift. They were offline. So, Dewey began to descend down the shaft.

He made his way through the ship as he surveyed the damage and death. Crew members sat and laid about. Some in agony. Some dead. Some dying. Aid teams responded as best they could while repairs teams tried to work around them. Cargo bay 2 was set up as an emergency medical area in the event of mass casualties. Captain Dewey walked to Sick Bay. There were lines of crew members out the door some of whom couldn’t remain on their feet any more while others were being carried. Many of them were shouting for help and crying out in pain.

The Captain entered Sick Bay to find the beds full. Doctor Commander Gorri was rushing about as she tried to preform emergency surgery on various members of the crew who needed it to survive. There were 3 EMH’s activated and running around with the nurses to treat who they could.

Dewey found his way to his Second Officer, Commander Carllet. She was the Chief Science Officer and had not been on the Bridge during the battle. Instead, she was in Engineering to try and render as much help as possible. She laid there in the medical bed in a medically induced slumber. There were cuts and scratches to her face and burn marks on her uniform. She was missing her right arm from the shoulder out.

Cmdr. Carllet was an excellent officer and a truly remarkable Chief Science Officer. However, she wasn’t one for a fight. Dewey wondered if this would be the end of her career. The doctors would be able to give her a new arm. She’d be good as new in a few weeks or months. Her mind is what he was concerned about. Her body would heal but her mind may be shattered forever.

Admiral Quinn sat in his guest quarters of Admiral Sartez’s ship, the USS Cherokee, as he glared at the desk in front of him. On the desk was a single hand held phaser. Quinn debated whether or not he would need it. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to use it even if he did need. Was he ready to turn a phaser on the very man who had saved his life so many years ago? Would it be necessary? All these thoughts danced through his mind mocking him and his decision to follow through with this.

Quinn owed Dewey his life. Dewey owed him nothing. It would be uncharacteristic of Dewey to simply surrender. Quinn stood up quickly. He grabbed the phaser and holstered it to his hip.

The Cherokee arrived at it’s destination to link up with the USS Fox which was towing the Gladiator towards Starbase 39 since it lacked the ability to get there on it’s own. Upon hearing about their arrival both Quinn and Sartez made their way to shuttle bay 1. The Gladiator’s transporters were offline and with the damage to the ship it was to risky to simply beam in anywhere. As they approached the shuttle, Sartez noticed 4 security officers.

“What the hell is this?” Sartez questioned Quinn.

“I thought it best to be cautious and…” Quinn started in but was interrupted by his angry counterpart.

“Get out of here!” Sartez waved off the security officers. The pilot remained and nervously entered the shuttle quickly before he was yelled at too. Sartez stopped and grabbed Quinn by the arm to pull him in close. “You do this right. Be a man. There is no one on that ship that will look favorably on you. None of them will ever like you again… but if you do this right, do this honorably and act with courage you may just retain their respect.

“What would you have me do?” Quinn asked despite the fact he was Sartez’s superior.

“Do it right on the Bridge. In front of his senior staff. It’ll kill rumors, make it clear it’s not some sick joke, and he will understand that it’s not up for debate.” Sartez explained as he brought his fist up to chest height and clenched it tightly. “Take command of the situation. It is your mess after all.” Sartez turned and continued towards the shuttle as Quinn slowly followed.

“Wrot’Ka. Wrot’Ka.” He could hear the chanting of his name. General Wrot’Ka stood on a circular platform as it slowly rose to the surface. Confused, he couldn’t understand what was going on or how he got here. He wasn’t in his usual attire, his sash and medals were nowhere to be found. He stood on the platform, in his sleeveless shirt, as he looked up to the blinding white light that grew closer as the chanting grew louder.


The platform stopped once it reached the surface. General Wrot’Ka was familiar with this place. It was a courtroom, but it was different. He could not see anyone in the stands despite the chanting of his name. The bright white light the emanated from the Judges panel was interrupted with sparks as the faceless Judge slammed the spherical judgment stone down three times. The Chanting stopped. No words were spoken.

“What is going on here!?” Wrot’Ka demanded. He waited for a response that was slow to come.

“General Wrot’Ka son of Krett.” The Judge started in. “Known also as Wrot’Ka the Wretched, The Liberator of Harricka, Destroyer of Mal Etore, and Wrot’Ka the Unfavorable.” The General was not pleased with many of those names. “You stand before this court to face charges of dishonor. How do you plead?”

Wrot’Ka’s jaw clenched. He would happily kill this Klingon if he could. “I have done nothing dishonorable! I have forged my name, my house, for the Empire.”

“You have forgotten your Klingon ways. You have allowed impure races to dictate your actions. You have sacrificed your honor for victories.” The Judge explained as the crowd, still unseen, roared and booed.

“My actions…” Wrot’Ka trailed off for a moment, “my actions have protected the Empire. I have defeated my enemies multiple times over!”

“Your results are not justification for your actions and choices.” The Judge paused for a while as he considered the facts of Wrot’Ka’s life. “You have done a service to your people. But you have brought shame to your name through your tactics.” Wrot’Ka wanted to yell but he held back as he balled up his fists. “For this, you will not enter Sto’Vo’Kor… nor will you be condemned to Gre’thor.”

Wrot’Ka was still confused as to what was going on. He didn’t remember getting here. “Who are you!? What is this place!?” He shouted with rage.

“Your destiny has not completed.” The Judge spoke in riddles. “You will go… and you will prove that you are worthy of life. Wrot’Ka son of Krett, your punishment… is to fight back to life and choose your path. You will either fail, or you will return. Then you must choose either the Klingon way or the dishonorable way.” The Judge smashed the judgment stone down three dramatic times while the unseen crowd cheered and jeered alike.

Wrot’Ka had yelled multiple times demanding answers but could not be heard over the sound of the crowd or the thunderous judgment stone.

Suddenly, the platform Wrot’Ka had been standing on gave way and he fell through the dark tunnel. He was unable to see what was going on as he tumbled down through the air. Finally, with a loud splash, Wrot’Ka found himself submerged in a bright blue ocean. He fought to swim to the surface as his lungs briefly flooded. No sooner did he break the surface did a large wave crash down over top of him forcing him beneath the water again. The tide carried him underwater until he was forced upwards by another tide.

Wrot’Ka’s near lifeless body was dumped onto a sandy beach of a large tropical island not unlike those found on Risa. He slowly brought himself to his feet as he coughed up the saltwater. He was completely clueless as to how he got there. He had no idea what was going on. The last thing he remembered was being on the Bridge when the weapons failed. Now he was here. Alone and weaponless, he ventured up the beach in his soaked clothes.


The Gladiators turbolifts were back online. To Quinn, it felt like the slowest ride of his life. The doors opened and Quinn and Sartez stepped out onto the Bridge of the USS Gladiator. Both men had data PADDs in their hands.

“Admiral on Deck.” Lt. Garg announced as the crew came to attention.

“As you were.” Quinn said quietly and the crew returned to repairing the damage they had suffered. He and Sartez made their way front and center of the Captain’s Chair where Dewey waited with a slight smile on his face.

“Welcome aboard, Admirals. I wish I could…” Dewey had started in but Quinn had no use for pleasantries at this time. There was no point. It wasn’t going to be pleasant here in a second.

Quinn raised the PADD up to read it and interrupted Dewey, “In the past few days Romulan envoys have contacted the United Federation of Planets. This turbulent time we all reside in cannot be ignored. The Federation faces multiple enemies on multiple fronts.” Quinn’s speech was rehearsed and he kept glancing at the PADD to stay with the talking points. “The Romulan Star Empire understands it no longer has the resources to face the same threats that we face. They have talked to our leaders and are willing to consider an alliance. Both sides have their demands before any such alliance could be formed. Some of these demands have been met. However, there is one they are unwavering on. That is the extradition of criminals of the Star Empire.”

Dewey stood there emotionless. He had wondered if this day would ever come. He knew that at some point in his future that his past would return to haunt him. He didn’t say a word as Admiral Quinn continued.

“Captain Timothy Dewey, you are hereby relieved of your command and placed under arrest for the crimes of assassination of Star Imperial politicians.” The crew around them gasped as Quinn paused for it to sink in. He didn’t believe the charges. Dewey did. Dewey knew his time on Romulus wasn’t good. However, he truly had no memory of it nor did anyone from his team. Dewey had always figured that their memory wipe of their time on Romulus and Rator was due to Section 31 or the Tal Shiar. It was a time when Dewey, a fresh faced Lieutenant, was given an undercover assignment with his team to infiltrate the terrorist group known as Nu’Tri. Romulans were not their target but it was clear now that they had been used for things outside their mission. Now he was going to pay the price. Quinn continued, “You will accompany Admiral Sartez and myself to an undisclosed rendezvous point where you will be handed over to the Romulan Star Empire and face a trial on these accusations.” Quinn had entertained the thought of Dewey being found innocent and returned to them, but he knew the Romulans would not give back a Starfleet Captain that was given to them.

Admiral Sartez stepped forward and read from his PADD, “Commander Savel. You are hereby promoted to the rank indicated: Captain. You will take command of the USS Gladiator NCC-83305 effective immediately.” Sartez was the first commanding officer of the Gladiator. He had always been present for the official change of command ceremonies for the Gladiator. He felt it right to do it here and now. He stepped closer to the newly promoted Captain and pinned her fourth pip on her uniform.

Dewey had anticipated the reaction from his crew. He saw Major Serat rise up from his seat and slowly move his hand to his holstered weapon, but Dewey waved him off without saying a word. His Klingon helmsman even stood up from his console. Quinn didn’t say a word; he simply turned and headed for the turbolift. Admiral Sartez shot Dewey a look as he waited for the Captain to follow Quinn.

Without saying a word, Dewey followed behind Admiral Quinn. Admiral Sartez was right behind him. Of all the blows the crew had suffered, this may have been the hardest one yet. The Bridge was silent with shock. They watched as their now former Captain stepped into the turbolift with the Admirals and turned to view them just as the doors shut.

The USS Cherokee had reached the designated point. They were not detecting any other ships in the area. However, they received a text transmission stating that their security detail would beam over to take custody of the criminal known as Captain Dewey.

Dewey didn’t speak to either of the Admirals, and neither of them knew what to say. They were throwing him to the wolves in the hopes it would usher in some peace. He was being sacrificed. The security detail escorted Dewey to the transporter room.

“Is it true?” One of the officers asked.

“Is what true?” Dewey responded.

“Did… did you kill those Romulans, sir?” The officer added. His curiosity got the best of him.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” It was all Dewey could say. He had hoped not but doubted the Romulans would go through all this trouble for a simple person of interest.

“They probably deserved it.” The officer said as they rounded the corner. Dewey let out a brief, yet honest, chuckle. He knew it was likely the last time he would ever laugh or even smile.

As Dewey and the security officers entered the transport room he saw Admiral Sartez and Admiral Quinn. He gave them a look. Not of disgust or anger, just a simple look. He understood what was going on. He had had time to consider Quinn’s decision. He came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t know what to do, but he probably would do the same thing. If throwing away one life stands to save others then it was the correct choice no matter how hard it was to make.

The Admirals stepped aside to reveal the Romulans awaiting Dewey’s change of custody. It all became very clear what was going on. The entire accusation may be entirely false. There stood Sub-Marshal Numitor and an all too familiar security guard. Obviously the others had no clue who he was, but Dewey knew him all too well. It was Sark. He was dressed as a centurion but Dewey knew he was no Romulan.

“I can’t thank you enough for adhering to these demands, Admiral Quinn.” Sub-Marshal Numitor spoke with that sly grin on his face. He was sincere and devious at the same time.

Admiral Sartez replied in Spanish, which is not one of the languages programmed into the standard Universal Translator as it is not the primary language on Earth. Numitor simply nodded believing either his UT malfunctioned or that it was just a simple response. Dewey understood Sartez’s response to be a barrage of slurs and insults said with a slight smile.

“Right this way… Captain.” Sark said as he took hold of Dewey’s arm and escorted him onto the transporter pad.

Numitor stepped up next to Dewey on the transporter. “I will keep you informed of how the trail goes, Admiral Quinn.” Numitor said.

There was no exchange of good byes. No words of encouragement. Nothing. Dewey watched Admiral Sartez and Admiral Quinn as his atoms were broken down and he was beamed off the USS Cherokee.

***********Profile of Sark:


Name: Sark

Species: Vulcan

Age: UNKNOWN (Previously indicated to be 37)

Occupation: UNKNOWN (Former Starfleet Officer)

Rank: NONE (Previously held the rank of Captain)

Modus Operandi: Homicidal and emotionally unstable. Possesses a suicidal level of conviction towards his goals. Enjoys torturing individuals he is able to capture. Prefers various cutting tools over modern personal weapons. Often sets an elaborate trap or develops an intricate and extravagant plan to carry out his objective. Prone to revealing his entire plan in order to display his “superior intellect.” Conducts indiscriminate attacks against the UFP, the Klingon Empire, and various civilian agencies. Highly enjoys his “game” of “cat and mouse” with Captain Dewey (USS Gladiator). Is known to pose as Starfleet personnel. Believed to have undergone genetic reconstructive surgery to appear as other species to better infiltrate areas of importance. Believes that Anarchy should be the rule and that all governments should fall. Targets key leaders (Senators, Captains, Admirals, Governors, etc.) and often avoids lower level leaders stating, “They are too easy to kill and their death won’t inflict nearly as much anarchy.” This statement is in contradiction to his clearly displayed joy of slaughtering unarmed victims to include infants.
Information: In 2263 Sark is promoted to the rank of Captain and takes command of the USS Courage NCC-1699. In 2267 the USS Courage encountered an “Unknown Event” in the Delta Volanis cluster. The ship and crew remain unaccounted for.

In 2372 Sark is observed, for the first time in over 100 years, by a remote security scanner on Nimbus III. He was, and remains, acting uncharacteristic with what was known about Captain Sark. It was at this time that Sark’s current Modus Operandi surfaced. It is unknown how he has survived and returned while his ship and crew remain missing. He is known to have played a major role in the terrorist group known as Nu’Tri. This is where his obsession with Captain (then Lieutenant) Dewey began. Lt. Dewey was deep undercover in an operation to bring down Nu’Tri. -FURTHER INFORMATION ON THIS EVENT IS CLASSIFIED- Sark has since been observed multiple times and has been involved in many attacks on various governments, civilian agencies, and militaries. He is known to support and participate in several terrorist organizations. Unconfirmed reports state that other members of the ill-fated USS Courage accompany Sark and provide support and assistance to his plans. It is reported that they also display the unusual and uncharacteristic behavioral traits Sark now displays.

Sark has been apprehended 5 times (3 times by Starfleet. 2 times by the Romulan Star Empire). He has escaped each time. Starfleet medical diagnosed Sark as a paranoid schizophrenic. However, several surveillance videos indicate that the paranoid schizophrenic persona may be an act. Starfleet Medical has since reconsidered its previous diagnosis. It’s believed that Sark does suffer from some form of psychosis.

It is known that he possess several shuttles, a refit Constitution Class Starship (recently destroyed), the saucer section of a Galaxy Class Starship (believed to be used as his base of operations), and an Ambassador Class Starship.

Currently listed at #4 on Starfleet’s “Most Wanted.”

A fat and short animal, not all that dissimilar to a chimpanzee, slowly walked along a creek in the jungle. It stopped briefly and knelt down to cup water to its mouth. The animal did not make moves nearly as nimble as that of the primates of Earth. It slowly quenched its thirst and relaxed in the serene environment.

A multitude of insects and birds chimed together like a natural orchestra that gave the jungle sound and life. The water from the creek made a gentle and soothing sound. The vast jungle was teaming with life as it has since the dawn of time.

Suddenly, and without warning, all the birds and insects fell silent. The primate froze for a moment then slowly stood up and calmly looked around. It could see nothing but the normal backdrop of the jungle. It’s ears perked up as its nostrils naturally flared open so the creature could better detect any other animal in the immediate area. The primate’s muscles tensed as it lowered its center of gravity. The animals instincts, developed over eons by its forbearers, were preparing it for fight or flight as the primate continued to scan it’s surroundings and develop an understanding of the sudden change in volume in the air.

Without warning, a wooden spear pierced the humid air. It soared straight and true towards the bipedal animal. The spear itself was nothing more than a shaved branch. It had been crudely whittled down so that it was slim and straight. Its tip was nothing more than the sharpened end. It flew through the air and over the creek until it found its mark. It drove into the chest of the stout primate and knocked it backwards off its feet. The spear had punctured the animal’s heart. It was dead before it hit the ground.

Across the creek, from the now dead primate, Wrot’Ka emerged from the shadows of the lush jungle. He quickly crossed the ground to his fallen prey. Once there, he looked down upon his conquest and let out a triumphant roar. He placed a victorious boot upon the dead beast and brutally removed the spear. Smiling and sweating, he knelt down beside his fresh kill. Wrot’Ka’s chest still heaved as he breathed heavily from having covered so much ground while stalking his prey to this point. He was shirtless and he had cut his pants from the knees down due to the humidity and incase he would ever require cloth to wrap future wounds or use for other means.

The once mighty General pulled a hand sized stone from his pocket. It was partially wrapped in some of his former garb. He removed the cloth and revealed a sharp edge to the rock. He was preparing to remove the animal’s entrails. He had learned that the scent of the blood and insides served well to attract birds and lizards and other animals Wrot’Ka could hunt and eat.

The deposed General grabbed a handful of hair on the belly of the beast as he moved to slice it open. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an imprint in the mud next to his kill. It was not the track of the animal he had just slayed. This track looked more humanoid, but larger. Wrot’Ka had seen this track before. He had hunted the animal that had made it long before he was marooned on this desolate island. However, as much as he had sought out this very beast, it had also haunted and hunted him throughout the ages.

Wrot’Ka’s movements ceased. It finally dawned on him. The birds and insects had not returned to making noise. Other than the flow of the creek, the area was silent. The smile on the face of Wrot’Ka faded as a scowl appeared. Was the beast near? Had he just been baited to this spot? Was he being hunted? How did the foul abomination find him here? Though the questioned flooded his mind, like the dead primate had done just moments ago, Wrot’ka’s muscles tightened, his nostrils opened, his eyes darted about, and the tiny hairs throughout his Klingon body stood up.

Wrot’Ka was out of his element, kneeling, and armed only with primitive tools. If Wrot’Ka was attacked here and now, he would have to evade the fight and run for his life. If the foul creature was watching him right now, it would attack within a moment.

The Gladiator sat in dry dock. Repairs were coming along and nearly finished. The extent of the damage might have warranted the ships decommission had it not killed General Wrot’Ka. The fact that all of Starfleet now had sympathy for the crew after losing their Captain certainly helped too. Finding replacements for the loss of crew was proving difficult. Not for lack of interest, but simply due to lack of available personnel. With all the starbases being built and manned, crewmembers were a commodity difficult to come by right now.

Captain Savel, the former First Officer, had already been informed that she would likely have to ship out with a skeleton crew for the time being. The Gladiator should be ready to shove off in another week and personnel simply will not be available in time. Captain Savel was not particularly concerned. For one, she’s a Vulcan. Also, their mission was to patrol the Sirius Sector. Not exactly a hardship tour. She expected that would change once they had enough crew.

Captain Savel toured the ship frequently, just as her predecessor did, to survey the repairs and gain ‘face time’ with the crew. She had learned much from Captain Dewey considering the bulk of her career was spent on Earth Space Dock. One of the many thing she learned, and saw firsthand, was that a starship Captain who was well respected and liked would always receive the best hopes from the crew. Since Captain Dewey was not dead or even actually missing, she ascertained that the crew would still be holding out on the thought that he would be returned to them safely. She did not believe this, but she knew that is how they felt and she had even overheard multiple conversations about it.

Given their moral, Captain Savel would not wear the standard uniform. She had commanded the Gladiator before, but now that she held the rank of Captain she determined that it would best serve the crew’s interest for her to not report for duty with four pips on her uniform. Instead, she wore the same type of garment that Dewey often wore when off duty but still ready to jump into action. She believed this would put them more at ease and allow them to perform as they had done so in the past when she commanded the ship when Captain Dewey was away.

Commander Carllet was slowly getting use to her new red uniform and her new arm. Both felt a bit odd but each got a little better as time went on. Commander Carllet was the Chief Science Officer who was notable for her extreme intelligence, petite figure, constant smile, and cheerful demeanor. Now she was the First Officer of the Gladiator and was sitting, hunched over, at the bar on the starbase with a drink in her hand. She had very little command experience and reacted rather shy and timid when she was forced to make leadership decisions in the past. Many had wondered if she would be able to handle this task. She had wondered it herself.

“Commander.” An excited Chief Valda sat next to Carllet. “I haven’t seen you since we got here.”

“I’ve been… busy.” Carllet thought as she continued to gaze into her mostly empty glass.

“I guess you probably haven’t heard the good news then, have you?” Valda and Carllet had grown to become good friends. They had spent a lot of time together. Carllet was the one who had set her and Lieutenant Commander Nour up on a date. Valda and Nour were the only Romulans onboard. Their love had blossomed about a year and a half ago. “Nour and I… we’re having a baby.” Valda was very excited to tell her friend, and new First Officer, the news.

Carllet didn’t respond at first and the smile on Valda’s face slowly faded. “How could you do that?” It was the only thing the Commander could utter.

“Weren’t you a science officer? Don’t you know?” Valda said while trying to make light of the situation and get her friend to smile.

“You’d bring a baby into this life?” Carllet’s behavior was very uncharacteristic of her.

“Well… I didn’t really have a choice in it all.” Valda tried to maintain a slight smile but it was difficult.

“Sure you do.” Carllet began to swirl the glass to stir the liquid, “You could do it a favor and make sure it doesn’t have to suffer like the rest of us.” With those words she gulped down the rest of her drink which Valda had come to the conclusion must be alcohol of some type. Carllet plopped the glass onto the bar and then walked off. Valda just sat there with her mouth wide open.

Commander Carllet, the once polite and jovial girl was now a dark and brooding woman. Many things had changed in the last month, but none so drastic as Commander Carllet.


Captain Dewey had been hauled into a dark room and forced to sit down at a table with a bright light beaming down on it. The light managed to not shine on anything other than the table and Dewey. He had been here every other day since he was handed to the Romulans.

The Captain was no longer in his uniform. He was dressed in all grey loose fitting clothes. He had been that way since first arriving on the Romulan ship. He had no clue what class of ship this was or where it was going. The only thing other than the clothes he had received was a handful of food, some water, a cut above his right eye, a fat lip, and a dark bruise on his left cheek. They let him sleep about 3hrs a day and kept him awake by flashing lights in his face, blasting random loud noises in his cell, and a frequent boot to the ribs. His holding cell wasn’t very big and lacked a bed.

Usually when he asked questions it resulted in a beating. He was supposed to answer questions not ask them. It was always the same questions, always about his “time on Romulus.” As far as Dewey knew he had never spent time on Romulus. He was on Rator III at one point during an undercover operation where he and his team were to link up with Romulan agents. Dewey figured he and his team were used for something outside their mission parameters and the Romulans simply did something to them to erase their memory. Apparently, if you believe the accusations, a young Lieutenant Dewey was involved/carried out a plot that resulted in the death of several Romulan political figures and the near death of another. But seeing as their actual mission had nothing to do with Romulan politicians, Dewey never assumed they were responsible. It wasn’t until after he had been resurrected from his medically induced slumber that he even heard of the events. Dewey likes to believe he had nothing to do with it, but with the treachery of the Romulans he understands that it’s perfectly plausible he was used against his will and forced to forget. Even though every interrogation session started and ended with questions about his “crime” there were always more questions in between. It was as if the questions about the assassinations were being done in a lackluster manner to simply justify his detention. The Romulans seemed more interested in more technical, tactical, and classified information pertaining to Starfleet currently. Sub-space frequencies, MK XII torpedoes and phasers, shield modulations for starbases, and so forth.

Without noise or notification, Sub-Marshal Numitor became visible from the other side of the table. Numitor slowly sat down and locked eyes with Dewey. They didn’t speak or break their gaze for several minutes. This was common when the Sub-Marshal and Captain sat here. It was like two great chess masters thinking about their moves and their opponents move. Like two tacticians waiting to see a sign of weakness in his foe. Both waiting for the moment to interject themselves into the silence and begin the verbal dance that always resulted in both parties leaving disappointed.

There were a total of three Romulans who questioned Dewey throughout his time thus far, but Numitor was the only one who ever questioned Dewey in private. There were no guards or beatings when Dewey and Numitor spoke. The Sub-Marshal was intelligent. He knew that Dewey would not try to escape, and Dewey knew that Numitor knew that. This time was different; Dewey could sense another person nearby.

Numitor took in a deep breath before speaking, “You’ve held up admirably.” He snapped his fingers and dishes were placed before the Captain. “I believe you deserve a little civility. Your favorites. Broccoli salad, fried beans, banana pudding, earth whiskey, and peanut butter chocolate ice cream. I figured you would be able to consume it all considering you haven’t had much to eat lately.”

“A generous offer, but these meals don’t exactly go together.” Dewey spoke while trying to fight off a smirk from creeping across his face. “I do appreciate it though.”

“The human pallet,” Numitor leaned slightly forward as he reacted to Dewey, “I’ll never truly understand it. Never the less, please indulge yourself.”

The Captain looked over the food. He probably could eat it all, but he knew it was just a tactic being employed. Dewey understood that Numitor was simply trying to gain his trust and attempting to get Dewey to feel comfortable in giving up information. Due to that reason alone, Dewey could not and would not have one bite of it. “I’m good, but thanks.”

“Very well.” Numitor responded while motioning to have the food removed. It was another tactical move. It was meant to show that Numitor has the power to give Dewey great things and yet be able to also take them away. Once the food was removed the bitter silence filled the air once more for a time. “You know,” Numitor broke the silence, “You should have eaten that. It will likely be the last chance you ever get to have nice food. That is, of course, unless you wish to divulge some useful information to me. On the bright side, you’ll be getting some sunlight soon.”

“Oh?” Dewey played it off, “Are you handing me back to Starfleet?” He was simply trying to get the Sub-Marshal to slip up by annoying him.”

“No, Timothy. You’ll be deposited into a penal colony where you will spend every waking moment smashing big rocks into little rocks. It is work that should suit an individual of your intelligence.” Numitor was also trying to get Dewey aggravated. In these types of talks, the first person to make a mistake loses.

“Are you sure that’s wise, Sub-Marshal? I mean, if you give me the tools to smash rocks,” Dewey paused for a moment as he brought his hands above the table and looked at them before returning his glair towards Numitor, “Surely I could crush a man’s skull.”

“I know that you will try to escape. I’m sure, as we speak, you’ve thought up a thousand scenarios on how to do so once on a planet’s surface.” Numitor spoke with confidence as usual. “I assure you, sir, escape will not be possible. The penal colony is in a large steep creator. The guards remain on level footing while the degenerates live, work, sleep, and die within the hole in the ground.”

“So, I get sunshine AND sleep?” The look on Dewey’s face was equal to that of a happily surprised child. It was an act and it was just enough to invoke a slight change in expression on the Sub-Marshal’s face. Now was the moment Dewey needed to press forward. He was in a dark room, with no weapons, on a Romulan ship, with armed Romulans all over; in an unknown area in space… making Numitor mad was the only move he had. “Exercise, sleep, sunshine. Hell, I… I just won’t have a reason to ever need to tell you the location of listening posts within Romulan territory.” Dewey ended with a fake smile.

“Your childish behavior is unbecoming of your character. Your overconfidence in your resiliency will be your undoing, Dewey.” Numitor’s words were clearly spoken in anger.
Dewey leaned in and squinted his eyes as his gaze pierced Numitor’s, “And your ego will be yours.”

Dalmor walked the corridors of the Gladiator. He made his way around the twists and turns as he approached 10 Forward to prepare a hot breakfast for those not in the mood for replicated food. His mind toiled on his missing friend and ships former Captain. Dalmor and Dewey had grown into good and trusted friends. They shared a similar relationship decades ago, before Dewey found himself in stasis, but that was due to them both being assigned to the same mission and having worked so closely together. In truth, they were more like brothers back then. They had no choice but to be together and help each other out. Now they were more along the lines of really close friends who relaxed together. He envied Dewey for retaining his youth while Dalmor grew older. Though, the flip side was that his friend has missed out on so much. Now his faithful ally was missing once more. And Dalmor was rattling his mind on how to remedy that. He had contacts throughout the Galaxy that could render some assistance. However, most were not all too willing to lend a hand to a former operative of the Obsidian Order to track down a missing Starfleet Captain.

As the cook rounded one of the many turns he saw a confrontation between the ships Chief Tactical Officer, Lt. Cmdr. Nour, the large Gorn, Major Serat, the ships new First Officer, Commander Melodie Carllet, and that weird Reman Liaison, Odesser. Something was being said about a cat. Dalmor then noticed that Dewey’s cat, Mister Jeepers, was cornered near a Jefferies tube hissing at the giant lizard. Dalmor couldn’t begin to fathom how the cat had escaped or how it had eluded so many individuals. He watched as the female First Officer scolded Lt. Cmdr. Nour and Major Serat for being late for their shift and raising a ruckus throughout the ship trying to chase down the feline. The ugly Reman just stood there. It was doubtful Odesser had anything to do with the situation and Dalmor suspected he had simply just been there when Mister Jeepers had been cornered.

Dalmor did not particularly trust the Reman. Though, that was because Dalmor took the liberty of exercising his old skills and had hacked the messages and personal data files of several “questionable” individuals onboard. Odesser just so happened to be one of them. Dalmor knew of Odesser’s intentions, that he was little more than a sleeper agent. Odesser, and others like him, were aboard Federation vessels to assist Captains and crews in dealing with Remans. Truthfully, as Dalmor had discovered, the Remans were actually there to sabotage ships incase Starfleet had turned against Obisek and his ilk. Lately though, the (former) terrorist known as Odesser had received new orders. Orders to simply persuade Captains to assist more with New Romulus. Odesser had expressed, multiple times, that he didn’t approve of settling a new home world where they would share with the Romulans. It was clear that Odesser despised the Romulans. Dalmor thought that maybe he could use that to his advantage.

Dalmor proceeded past the group as Commander Carllet had finished chewing them out in her peculiar British accent which he always found annoying thus giving him cause to constantly avoid her for fear of having to listen to that disagreeable accent that bugged him so. She gave him an angered look. She was a much different person these days. He didn’t say anything and no one spoke to him as he passed. He could feel that single beedy little eye from the collosal Gorn starring him down. Major Serat did not like, respect, or trust many individuals. Dalmor guestimated the Major kept close tabs on his activities. The Reman also followed the old Cardassians movements. It was clear the three of them suspected each other of treachery and for good reason too. The Gorn certainly did not have clean hands amongst them. He too had indulged in a little vengeance from time to time on Klingons though.

Dalmor just played it Bogart and kept striding towards 10 Forward. When he got there he saw the usual members of the crew in there relaxing at this hour. As the aging former spy took his place behind the counter he noticed in one of the far dark corners another individual he didn’t trust. The Breen. He couldn’t remember his odd name but knew he was an expatriate and a superb fighter pilot. The Breen gave him no cause to distrust him other than he was Breen.

As the Cardassian cook started to wipe down some of the glasses behind the counter something clicked for him. A Gorn, a Reman, a Breen, and a Cardassian. All far away from their homes. All virtually shunned by their own species for their choices to be here and/or actions that forced them to be here. And every single one of them owed Captain Dewey a debt. He helped out Dalmor in the past and was key to granting him asylum. He saved Major Serat’s life when he defected from the KDF. He nearly got the ship destroyed protecting Odesser from Tal Shiar authorities. The Breen’s people came hunting for him good and hard and a lesser Captain would have simply coughed him up to spare his ship and crew. Four individuals… four non-Starfleet individuals to be exact. A plan began to form in Dalmor’s meddlesome mind.

Dewey had suffered a beating much more brutal than the previous times. He figured it was his going away present. Numitor made it sound as if he’d be getting off this ship relatively soon. Dewey wasn’t sure if he should be looking forward to leaving or dreading it. It was a safe assumption that where ever he ends up, whatever happens, he will be made to suffer.

Dewey laid there on the cold surface of his cell. His face was swollen around his left eye, his bottom lip was split open, and he had been spitting up blood for some time now. Two guards sat on the other side of the force field. Neither of them paid much attention to him.

The door to the brig opened and in stepped Sark. A man who has haunted Dewey for nearly his entire career. Sark casually walked over to Dewey’s cell and knelt down in his usual attire of a grungy old Starfleet Captain’s uniform circa 2267. Dewey didn’t possess the strength to do much more than move his eyes to follow Sark's movements.

Sark lightly glided his fingers across the force field making it flicker. He made a clicking sound with his mouth as a smile formed on his face. He motioned for the guards to leave and they did as instructed.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Dewey’s raspy voice cut the air.

Sark let out a cackle of a laugh, “I… I don’t want to kill you. What would I do without you? Go back to exploring the Galaxy?” He shook his head briefly, “No. No, no.” His voice oozed his psychopathic ways and Sark seemed to cling onto each of his own words, “I need you, Timothy.” Sark tilted his head back and took a deep breath. He appeared as if he was trying to gain control over his emotions. “Besides, you don’t fear death. You welcome it. Your punishment must be much more, uh, more severe. You must be made to suffer. Suffer not of the body… but of your soul. That is why I need you.”

“Where are you taking me?” Dewey mustered the courage to ask as he laid there on the floor. As hardened as the Captain was, he was sincerely nervous and uneasy around Sark.

Sark pondered his question for little more than a second before ignoring it, “There is a reason why the punishment you will suffer will be greater than anything you’ve ever endured before. …Hope. You’ll look about and think that escape will be so easy. So simple. But many have died trying to get out. When I took my ship into that wormhole and came out on the other side, I learned that there can be no true misery without hope.” Sark's gaze pierced through Dewey’s eyes and went much deeper than simple eye contact. “So… as I systematically destroy your Federation, the remnants of the Star Empire, and the Klingons, I’ll feed the people hope… to poison their souls. I will let them believe that there can be peace, that they can survive. They’ll rip each other apart to escape their anguish. And you… you’ll be unable to stop me, unable to prevent what is to come. You will rot away knowing the true depths of your failure…” Sark paused for a second to lock eyes with Dewey and spoke a truly malicious tone, “as the Galaxy burns.” Sark stood up and walked out with all the confidence of a man who had finally beaten his hardest opponent.

The words sent an uneasy shiver down Dewey’s spin. He recalled last time he and Sark talked in a brig. The situation was different then, Sark was the one held captive. As unstable as Sark was, it certainly appeared that the man had a plan. A plan that had been in motion for some time.

Dewey’s thoughts drifted back to that day in 2407 when he was the First Officer on the Gladiator.

Captain Morg, the Commanding Officer of the USS Gladiator back then, ordered Dewey to question Sark. They had picked him up while en route to Starbase 236 to investigate the loss of communication with the base.

Commander Dewey walked into the brig to discover Sark sitting on the bench in his cell dressed in Naussican style clothing. The two men had met before. Dewey had thwarted a previous dastardly plot by Sark to infect Memory Alpha with a devastating computer virus just a few months ago but the two had not met on that specific occasion. Their rivalry had started long before that.

“Captain Morg said you’d only talk to me. Why? And what were you doing drifting about in a simple freighter?” Dewey spoke with command presence but knew to choose his words wisely with Sark.

“I wanted to see how you were doing after all these years. And you haven’t disappointed.” Sark's words were crisp. “You and I,” Sark stood up and slowly walked closer to the force field separating him and Commander Dewey, “We… we are so much alike.”

“We’re nothing alike. You’re a psychopathic Vulcan who kills for fun.” Dewey’s face had turned to disgust when he replied.

“Don’t talk like one of them! You’re not!” Sark shouted. “Even if you pretend to be.” He stopped walking just short of the force field. “You’re a killer. Like me. Everywhere… every when you go… you find people to kill. Just like me, it’s your inescapable destiny.” Sark closed his eyes for a second and let his words soak in even for himself. He knew Dewey’s past, that he had fought in the Second Klingon-Federation War, fought in the Dominion War, fought the Borg, fought Sark, and then later ended up in stasis only to be revived just in time to fight the Klingons again. As much as Dewey hated to admit it, Sark did have a point so far.

Sark locked eyes with Commander Dewey. He knew he had the man’s attention. “See, they need you right now. But when they don’t…” Sark waited, hoping his twisted logic was burrowing into Dewey’s mind, “They’ll cast you aside… like an obsolete piece of equipment. Starfleet’s rules and regulations… they’re a bad hoax. Tossed away at the first sign of trouble.” Dewey made the mistake of actually thinking on Sark’s words. He believed what he was being told. He had seen Starfleet bend their own rules to fit their agenda. Sark started back in, “They’re only as good as the Galaxy allows them to be.” A smile slowly formed on the Vulcans face, “I’ll show ya. When the dabo chips are down these, uh, these evolved people… they’ll rip each other apart.

Captain Dewey’s thoughts drifted off past the conversations he had with Sark. Later that day, when he was a Commander, the Naussicans attacked the Gladiator and captured several of the crew. Commander Dewey had been unsuccessful in protecting Captain Morg from being taken. It was something he never forgave himself for. He came to realize that was the reason they captured Sark so easily. It was all part of his plan. Sark escaped during the chaos of the attack.

Dewey’s thoughts centered as he lay on the floor of Romulan holding cell. The thought entered his mind and then wouldn’t leave. Sark was right, Starfleet did just throw him away just like he said they would. He realized now that everything that Sark has done over the past several years has been in preparation for what he is about to unleash. Like a chess master Sark had moved each peace carefully and with a purpose. But if that is true, why would he capture Captain Morg and several crewmembers of the Gladiator? Surely he understood that Dewey would take command of the Gladiator. It didn’t make sense just yet.


In an unknown part of the Galaxy, in an unknown sector, on an unknown planet, there is an unknown desert. In this desert is a great crater, the remnants of a violent meteorite that slammed into the planet several dozen millennia ago. The outer top edge of the crater has a large chain fence that runs completely around it’s perimeter. There are four walkways over the gaping hole that intersect with each other. Close to the crater is a long silo-like structure and another rectangular structure that rises higher.

In the arid landscape, the only signs of life come from the crater. It houses thousands of individuals who have been forced, over the recent years, to dig into the sides of the crater and deepen it’s scar on the planet’s surface. Small tents, poorly carved tables, crates, and simple tools populate the surface of the rocky hole. Shade is rare and valuable.

The inhabitants of the area are mostly Romulan. There were a few Ferengi, Naussicans, and others. All exercising poor hygiene. All were malnourished and over worked. A sizable group of them slowly flocked out from the scarce shade into the brutal heat and unrelenting burn from the nearby star. They watched silently in awe.

The echoing chime could be heard as each meeting between steel and rock rang throughout. Over and over again the loud “ping” was heard as it echoed off the crater. It was almost mechanical in nature, a constant beat, a constant tune.

D’Jaen, a young attractive woman, gently pushed her way through the crowd to see the source of the sound that had caught the attention of so many. As she reached the front of the group she observed exactly what she had suspected. The defiant Human, sweating and swinging a pickaxe at a large boulder. He was alone.

All the others had stopped. The arid crater becomes unrelentingly hot during this month. With barely enough water and food to survive, the prisoners had to carefully manage who would dig and for how long otherwise someone would require more food and more water than normal to sustain themselves from the exhaustive work. Dehydration was commonplace and the cause of most of the deaths in the camp.

Captain Dewey understood his situation. It was important in these cases to make an unbiased, logical, realistic observation of the situation at hand. Here he was, in this hot hell hole, surrounded by aliens, not allowed to leave, with minimal resources. The Captain had one tool that no one else had. Training. Training and knowledge, that is. He had been subjected to training, by Starfleet, for being taken prisoner. He received it during the Dominion War and again once he became an officer and once more once he had become a Commander.

Survive Evade Resist Escape, or S.E.R.E. as it’s known. Dewey had enough training to know that those words are much more than some fancy acronym someone came up with. It is a full on, in-depth, thorough way to endure captivity. Most people improperly think that it means to survive out in the elements, evade capture, resist torture, and then escape captivity. Although the description works, it is not entirely accurate. The elements or weather, for example, you must do more than simply survive through the weather. You must also evade the cold (or hot), resist letting the climate get to you, and then escape the environment. Just like when being tortured, you do more than simply resist. You must survive the torture, evade future torture, resist the torture, and then finally escape from the torture. Dewey knew this well and he was confident that his training and knowledge would be enough to carry him to accomplish his ultimate goal.

The sweat from Dewey’s brow splashed against the giant rock with each swing of his pickaxe. His entire body was wet with perspiration. His unshaved face itched and begged to be scratched each moment. His muscles were beginning to feel fatigued but Dewey pressed on. He knew that the others would be reluctant to give him enough water to fully recover and he was counting on it. The imprisoned Captain knew that in order to survive this dump he would have to do much more than simply evade the heat. He must become resistant to it. To survive the lack of food and water he would have to push his body’s tolerance level to new boundaries. If he is to retain any physical strength, he must do more than the minimal amount of work the prisoners allow themselves out here. He must push himself. And push himself he has for the past several weeks as he has called this prison a home.

With each swing he could feel progress. Each violent meeting of steel and rock gave way to the Captain as he felt victory was surely in each next swing. Finally, an unusual tone rang out as a large chunk of the boulder split off and smashed against the ground. A few laughs and cheers were heard as others clapped. The piece that had split off was not nearly as large as Dewey had hoped for, but it was a sizable piece none the less.

The Romulans running the camp demanded a certain amount of minerals be harvested a day. During the summer months that task became nearly impossible due to the heat. Many prisoners dropped dead. Others were executed as “motivation” to achieve the demanded goal. With what Captain Dewey had just done, the prisoners had just exceeded their quota.

A few of the prisoners came up to help finish off the work as Dewey handed the pickaxe to another. His breath was labored as he walked away satisfied with his work for now. The oxygen was thin and the gravity slightly heavier than he was accustomed to.

D’Jaen watched as the man walked off. She had heard rumors of him working like this. She was, admittedly, impressed with the Human. Though, his actions were foolish in her mind. He would wear himself out. “Dead in a week.” She mumbled to herself thinking how he’d drop dead from continued work like that in this heat. She knew what he was trying to do though. His level of discipline was admirable. She began to slightly regret bashing him in the face with a shovel his first night here. Even though that was her favorite sleeping spot he stole. She did note that there was something, though she wasn’t sure what, that was impeccably intriguing about the Captain.

The blood thirsty Klingon crawled across the floor of the jungle as if he were an Earth alligator. He kept his whole body very low to the ground but not so low it dragged. The only thing actually supporting his weight were his hands and feet as he slowly and deliberately made his way through the dense vegetation. He kept his wooden spear in his hand, it’s tip stained with the blood of his hunting prey. Moving like this made very little noise and prevented Wrot’Ka from silhouetting himself. However, the downfall was that he was unable to view his surroundings to anticipate an attack. This method of travel also left Wrot’Ka in a vulnerable state should he be detected and attacked. The vacated General was unconcerned about being left open for an attack. In truth, he was hoping to lure in his prey.

To the untrained eye, Wrot’Ka appeared to only be covered in moderate camouflage. In fact, the crafty Klingon had affixed barbs, from the indigenous bird eating plant of the area, to his back side but took careful measure to ensure the barbs were unable to poke him. The prongs were neither thick nor long, but they were as sharp as a needle. The prongs themselves were not the ambitious Klingons sole line of defense. The prongs were dipped into the venom sacks of a florescent yellow and dull green colored snake that was about a meter and a half in length. He had observed the snake in the area before. He watched it take down an Elk-like animal weeks ago. He learned where the snakes of its type generally hide. He killed one and dipped the barbs into the deadly venom. If his suspicions were true, the venom would not be enough to kill his foe. Hopefully, though, it would be enough to subdue him.

As Wrot’Ka continued his trek through the tall grass he heard a triumphant roar from the distance in the direction he was traveling. He know that voice. He quickly sprang to his feet and darted through the jungle. Along the way, he crossed some thick mud. He quickly stopped and started rolling around in it. He scooped up the mud and coated his entire body with it. He covered all of his clothes, his face, he even dumped a few handfuls down his shorts (once pants) and rubbed it around. He quickly took off his boots and dumped even more mud down inside and plunged his feet into the mud before putting the boots back on.

Wrot’Ka spun his head around, eyes wide with what was an unmistakable look of fear on his face, as he heard a loud crash in the distance, as if a large tree had just been knocked over. He only paused for a moment before returning to covering himself in the wet and slimy substance and decided to quickly soak his spear. He noticed the blood on it was now dry. The General was unable to determine how long he had been on the planet. The sun never moved, the night never came, the weather never changed. He couldn’t tell if it had been hours or days since he began tracking the beast that had haunted him for so long.

Wrot’Ka returned to tracking once he, and everything he had, was completely covered with the mud. The mud itself was more than just a visual camouflage, it would also serve to cover his scent. He would have to move slowly so as to not have to much fall off or get brushed off by the leaves. In his hurried state, the warrior had not thought to realize that his efforts with the mud had nullified his poisoned barbs on his back.

The Klingons heart was pounding so loud that he swore it would give away his position as he moved in closer and closer. He was fatigued. He had not slept or ate since he began his hunt. He had nothing by which to gauge time. He knew he should rest before he attempt a fight.

He found a large depression with an opening in the jungle just up ahead of him. There were only rocks and puddles, no trees for a good 20 meter radius. The tracks had led him there. He decided he would set up a surveillance position. If the disgusting creature he was after took rest, it would be here.

He moved, once more like an alligator, towards a clump of trees and a cliff face on the parameter of the clearing. He positioned himself near one of the trees and slowly stuck his head up to look around. He didn’t see anything in sight to give him cause to be concerned. He carefully and quietly climbed part way up the cliff. He stopped at a small ledge that had more mud on it and some large rocks. He opted to post up his surveillance at this location. It was elevated, hidden behind some trees, it was an unlikely avenue of approach or departure for the creature, and offered a well enough field of observation of the area. He waited. It could be hours or days before the creature returned. That’s assuming it would use the clearing at all.

Wrot’Ka needed the rest. He allowed himself to get comfortable without altering his surroundings. His mind began to race as he thought of what he might come up against. Test Subject 13. A truly horrid abomination that he approved the creation of. A demented creation concocted on Qo’Nos. The program was designed to develop and field test disposable Soldiers for the inevitable war with the Federation and any other advisories that would stand in the way of the Empire. Wrot’Ka never liked the idea much, but he endorsed it none the less. Wrot’Ka even volunteered his own DNA to help create the thing. If it was to be a success, he wanted his name to be listed as one of the reasons. And that was all that was needed for Subject 13 to want to kill him.

Subject 13 was a truly superior opponent. One that had nearly bested him twice. Wrot’Ka was able to escape both times but that was simply due to luck rather than skill. At Wrot’Kas best, he was only able to hold the abomination to a standstill for a short amount of time. It was, without a doubt, a far better fighter than he.

Subject 13 was disfigured by Wrot’Ka when it came for him the first time. Wrot’Ka had given the order to terminate test subjects 7 through 16 due to a range of qualities that he deemed unfit for controllable tools on the battlefield (test subjects 1-7 having died already. 1 through 3 and 7 from training, 4 and 6 by suicide, and 5 was murdered by Subject 13). Subject 13 had escaped the lab and termination and the two have been vicious enemies ever since.

It had been nearly two years since the two had battled. Wrot’Ka hoped it would be at least another day before the beast arrived so he could rest. But if it’s too long, the General will grow hungry and will have to compromise his position to search for food which could alert Subject 13 to his presence. It was a deadly game he was playing.

As Wrot’Ka son of Krett waited on the cliff face, coated in mud, his mind drifted to the details about Subject 13. He remembered finding the ferocious thing’s lair on Grev’let Mor V once. He raided it with an assault team but Subject 13 was nowhere to be found. The team did discover a personal log left by the beast…

Personal Log, Subject 13.

I hate that designation. I am not some rat in a cage. My name is Acrimon. I chose it from the ancient texts I have read on this planet. Acri was their god of vengeance, while Mon was the God of justice. Those are the very two things I seek.

I leave this log for anyone who may discover it in the times to come. It is the only one I leave. I will include the only known picture of my existence. I plan to exact my revenge, deliver justice to the Galaxy, then die.


I was created in 2405. I woke up on a hospital bed. A product of genetic engineering. Part Romulan, Cardassian, Human, Klingon, Breen, Hirogen, Vulcan, Nausicaan, and Jem’Hadar. With augmented DNA to boot. The “Ultimate Warrior.” I am “Subject 13.” Designed by the Klingon Defense Force to hunt and destroy the enemies of my creators. They took the most useful traits from each of the races to concoct the perfect warfighter. Romulans for their ability to deceive, Cardassians for their guile, Humans for their ingenuity, Klingons for their sense of honor, Breen for their toughness, Hirogen for their sense of hunting, Vulcans for their sense of logic, Nausicaans for their tenacity, and the Jem’Hadar for their overall tactical ability.

They neglected one important factor… rage! Most of these species are prone to unbridled rage. I underwent the testing. The trials. But those who willingly, or unwillingly, submitted their DNA were the deadliest of warriors for their species. Sub-Marshal Numitor, Agent Drake, Colonel Wrot’Ka, Thot Trel, Gul Aculls, Ambassador Spock, and Remata'Klet are among the DNA donors I’ve received.
I have superior speed, strength, toughness, sight, smell, intelligence, and hand-eye coordination. I can survive without oxygen for up to 6 hours, without food for approximately 77 days, and without water for nearly 6 weeks. I require no more than 2.5hrs of sleep every 5days. Any weapons set on anything below a “Low Kill Setting” will have little effect on me. Weapon settings that would normally kill a combatant have only a slight stun effect on me.

I determined that my existence was both illogical and dishonorable. Those who created me bring shame to the Klingon Empire. I am determined to kill all those who contributed to my existence. I am the superior being. Only I should be the one to exist, not them. I crushed the skulls of every scientist involved in my manufacturing. I hunted down the Nausicaan who willingly gave his DNA. I tore him limb from limb. I tracked the Hirogen and punched him until there was not a single intact bone left in his body. The Cardassian begged for his life before I ripped his head off of his neck. The Jem’Hadar known as Remata’Klet was a decent fight but he did not survive me.

Sub-Marshal Numitor operates in the seedy shadows of the Romulan Star Empire. Agent Drake apparently does not exist… likely a Starfleet covert operative. Thot Trel met his fate by the hands of another while Spock has vanished. Colonel Wrot’Ka is now a General and is proving to be the most difficult to track and hunt.

Wrot’Ka. He approved of the experiment. He endorsed it. Wrot’Ka is my main target. I have faced him twice now. He is the cause of my disfigurement. A truly worthy prey, but he cannot defeat me. The best he has done is carried our matches to a draw before making a quick escape. He dares not hunt me. His time will come… and I will wear his skin and grind his bones to dust.

With Wrot’Ka trapped on this unknown planet, he would have no real way to escape the creature forever. He thought to himself, “I have no choice but to vanquish it and claim victory if I want to… live?” It dawned on him that perhaps his dream from before was no dream at all. Perhaps he is actually dead. It is possible this is the afterlife he was sentenced to in that court room that he figured was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. This could be a test. A chance to prove his worth and end a mistake he had made. This is his chance to restore his honor and reclaim his life.

Dewey stood there, his chest puffed out, gazing at the top of the crater. Atop of it all stood Sub-Marshal Numitor drinking from a large mug. Near the Sub-Marshal was Stark. The two individuals appeared to gaze right back at Dewey.

The Captain was tired, sore, hungry, and thirsty. He’d trade what little he had for a chance to shave his face. However, at this moment, he must remain still. It was a contest of will. Two verses one. Dewey was not about to yield. It was crucial, to his plan, that he appear steadfast and show no signs of weakness just yet.

His all grey jump suit, the one the Romulans provided him with back on the ship, was dirty, stained with sweat, and beginning to rip in some places. His hair was unkempt and he had not had the chance to shave since he had been beamed off his ship.

"For a man with impeccable eyesight, you have horrible vision." The gentle feminine voice came from behind Dewey and caught him off guard. He spun around with a bewildered look on his face.

"What?" Was the only response he could muster. His eyes fixed on the women. He quickly remembered her as D'Jaen, the one who bashed him in the face with a shovel for sleeping in her favorite spot.

"To see that far and to know who you are looking at... that's good eyesight." She was decidedly much more civil than their first encounter. "But you seem to think you'll be able to escape." A nice breeze caught the woman's hair and briefly fluttered some strands over her face. She walked a bit closer to Dewey. He ignored her and went back to stacking rocks on the metal pallet right next to him after he saw that Numitor and Sark had walked off upon winning their staring contest. She waited for him to pause but soon realized the stubborn human was not interested in her words. She spoke anyways, "I know why you push yourself." The scruffy man still did not pay attention to her. "What, are you just going to climb the sides, steal a disruptor and then commandeer a shuttle?" She had hoped this man was more intelligent than that.

"Nope. My plan is much more simplistic than that." Dewey didn't pause as he lifted more and more rocks onto the pallet occasionally grunting with the heavier ones.

D'Jaen looked at him with puzzlement before responding, "The Federation and the Star Empire are closer to a true peace than ever before. It is possible you'll be delivered back to your people. So, why risk killing yourself in a feeble attempt at escape?"

Dewey dropped a large rock on the pallet and it split in half. He looked down upon it for a moment before looking D'Jaen right in the eyes. He could see that she was genuinely curious. "My goal isn't to escape."

She was confused at first but then it sunk in. He was telling the truth. He had no intentions of escaping. The man was simply determined to kill the ones that put him here even if it meant his death. "I would have thought revenge would be beneath a Starfleet Captain."

"It's not revenge." Dewey returned his gaze to the split rock, "It's justice. And I'm not in Starfleet anymore. I'm no Captain."

"Ah," D'Jaen started in with a somber look upon her face, "but justice served late is no justice at all." She walked a bit closer to Dewey. He ignored her as he viewed a fossil of a lizard in the split rock. "Even if you aren't Starfleet anymore, you use to be. And your people are so close to peace for the first time ever with the Romulans... yet, here you are planning out your own private war."

The words carried more weight with Dewey than D'Jaen realized. My own private war. As he studied the fossilized lizard, the words taunted him. As a child Dewey had loved fossils. He collected a plethora of them. Fossil and ancient artifacts from long gone cultures. Those were his two hobbies as a boy. His entire adolescence he dreamt of one day being able to devote himself to at least one of these fields. Make a career out of them. However, fate had a different plan for him. His entire adult life has been spent fighting. The Klingons, the Dominion, the Borg, and just when the Federation had approached a moment of peace, he had been put in stasis from the incident on the USS Atlantis. Frozen in time, much like this long forgotten lizard in the rock. He felt like a fossil. Out of date and forgotten. The war with the Klingons was in a new lull. The Romulans are looking for peace. Here he was, looking for a fight he could never hope to survive. Was that his destiny, to wage war until he dies?

The thought crossed his mind to go against the path he had been on for so many years. He could choose to not fight. Though, the prison was not easy living he at least did not have to fight any more. Most of the prisoners here did not act anything like your run of the mill criminals. There were no battles to be fought here. He pondered the notion that perhaps the only way he would ever know peace would be to allow himself to go the way of this lizard. For so long he believed he would leave this life in a thunderous blaze. It felt right to be defiant to his own nature and simply allow himself to go quietly into the night.

The dark room came to life as the doors opened. “Lights.” Sub-Marshal Numitor ordered the computer as he entered his personal office. It wasn’t a large room. It contained only a single black leather couch, a medium sized desk made out of earth mahogany wood, and a comfortable office chair. Behind the desk the wall was one giant computer screen.

Numitor slowly strolled over to his desk while unbuttoning his uniform. He mumbled some curse words about the planet and the heat and the prisoners whom he loathed. The Sub-Marshal undid his pistol belt and tossed it, with its standard issue Plasma Pistol still holstered to it, onto the couch. He made his way to his chair behind the desk and plopped himself down as any tired individual would from a long day of hard work. Though, Numitor was not overworked physically. His was a form of stress from empty promises and a meaningless, at least in his eyes, position.

Numitor’s eyes caught sight of his shadow box on the wall. He spun the chair around to face it head on. He stared at it blankly for a moment. The shadow box was a present from his son. It displayed Numitor’s vast collection of ribbons, medals, and pendants that he had been awarded over his illustrious career. Along the wall, near the shadow box, were his diplomas from various universities across the known Galaxy. He hated looking at the wall but he made a point to do it every day. It was his little punishment to himself. The crater may be a prison to the inmates. But in here, in this room, Numitor’s choices were his own prison.

Sub-Marshal Numitor reached under the desk to grab a glass and slammed it on the table. While his hand was there, he turned on the large screen wall. Several displays from multiple news organizations played all at a low volume. Numitor ignored them all as his eyes stayed fixed on the other wall that was a testament to his past accomplishments. He reached back under the table for a bottle of Romulan Ale but instead accidently grabbed the bottle of Earth Whiskey. It was the one that he had obtained specifically to entice Captain Dewey. He held the bottle up and regarded it with curiosity. He decided to open it and pour some into his glass. As he took a taste he tried to swash it around in his mouth but the taste was too strong. He swallowed it and poured some more.

The wall was a proverbially torture for him. All the past glory that he would likely never see again now that his government and his people have been divided up. He spent his life hunting down and catching the worst criminals in the Romulan Star Empire. His acts and cases were the thing of legend to his people. There were a total of six holonovels based on his exploits, some even contained a lead character that resembled him. Only one was a true to form real life adaptation of one of his cases. He was famous, revered, and feared. There was not a single case he took that he did not solve. His awards and decorations from the Star Empire were significant. He rose so quickly through the ranks of the Imperial Police (a division within the Empires military) but now he was here. Here because of bad deals and bad luck. The Tal Shiar offered him a deal where he was to contain those that stood in their way, in exchange he would find himself sitting as the Chief Marshal (two ranks up) of the new Star Empire that they endeavored to create. The idea of imprisoning people was a new concept for the Tal Shiar, but they figured that since everything has changed then perhaps their tactics should as well.

Numitor gulped down another glass of the whiskey. He wondered how much longer he would be made to suffer on this planet. This was hardly the path he wanted his career on. Catching enemies of the state is what he was good at and what he wanted to do, not babysit people the Tal Shiar didn’t like. Numitor began to wonder if perhaps he had chosen the wrong side. Both the Federation and the Klingon Empire have moved in to influence this newly forming Romulan government on New Romulus and are chasing the Tal Shiar all around the Galaxy. He wondered what would happen if the Tal Shiar are unsuccessful. What would become of his career?

As he finished yet another glass of the whiskey and sat the glass down he glanced over at the single picture on his desk. It was of his son. The young man in the picture was dressed in a Sub Commanders uniform and standing on the Bridge of Romulan Bird of Prey. Numitor’s thoughts drifted to the family he once had. The wife that left him. The brother who took his own life. The son who died fighting the Borg. He was always too busy to be there for any of them. He was always striving to be the best. That meant he didn’t have time to be with them, time to take care of them, or even time to see them one last time.

As he went to pour another glass of whiskey he looked at the bottle once more. It crossed his mind just how much he and Captain Dewey were alike. Catching Dewey was one of the highest moments of his career. It would be a shame if anyone found out that the reasons for which Dewey was imprisoned were completely fabricated and false. But it served a higher cause.

Dalmor walked past a random officer of the Gladiator in the corridor and politely smiled. As the officer pasted, Dalmor slowly turned his head to watch them travel out of sight. He looked around to make sure no one else was coming. He crouched down and pulled a slim tool from his pocket and started to shimmy it into the door of the Reman’s quarters. He had been tracking Odesser’s movements for some time now and figured he was out to the arboretum. There were a few clicking sounds as the tool did its work on the lock.

Then, the door opened up to Dalmors surprise. There stood Odesser with a none to pleased look upon his face. The look on Dalmor’s face betrayed him. He was caught completely off guard. Odesser snatched Dalmor by the collar and tossed him into his quarters. Dalmor quickly scrambled to his feet to find the Reman walking towards him swiftly.

“I thought you were out for the day.” Dalmor said with a fake smile on his face.

“I’ve known about your surveillance for a while now.” Odesser spoke while pulling out something that resembled brass knuckles.

“Let’s not take this to extremes.” Dalmor smiled as he talked but his hands were reaching into his belt to pull out a small knife.

From the side of the room came a loud roar like that of a tyrannosaurus rex. It was Major Serat. Both the Reman and the Cardassian stopped dead in their tracks. Beside Major Serat stood the Breen dissident Mahk “The Uncouth”. The Breen spoke in their species usual cryptic tones while wearing their suits.

“You don’t have to be so loud!” Dalmor shouted at the Major. “And you,” He pointed his finger at Mahk, “This is why no one talks to you. You’re always so vulgar.”

“Enough.” Said the Major.

“We know you’ve been keeping tabs on us.” Odesser started in. “More than the usual. Why the amped up surveillance?” The Reman slid his pair of unusual brass knuckles back into his pocket while Dalmor sheathed his knife.

“General curiosity.” Dalmor spoke with a big fake smile. He was about to speak again when Mahk cut him off with the standard Breen tones for language. The Cardassian had an offended look on his face. “Again with the coarse language. You know, it’s very unbecoming.”

“Enough games.” Major Serat spoke at volume louder than the others. He wasn’t happy about the Cardassian being there to begin with, the fact that he had been watching their every move didn’t sit well with him either. “You’ve been more restless than usual. Tell us why. Now.”


Dalmor straightened up and adjusted his suit. Though his years of being in the Obsidian Order had left him well for his old age, the Cardassian understood that he would not be able to stop the three men before him. He didn’t really want to divulge his plan just yet but he figured he might as well. “Truth be told, it occurred to me that we all have something in common.”

Mahk started in but Odesser raised his hand to silence him and hear Dalmor out. Dalmor continued, “We all owe a great debt of gratitude to the former Captain of this Ship. And we are all in the advantageous position of having to not adhere to Starfleet rules and regulations.”

The Breen started sounding off with his tones. Major Serat added, “Yes, exactly what are you talking about?”

Dalmor adjusted his suit one more time before saying, “Gentlemen, I purpose we take ourselves a little vacation. Get away from this ship. And… in the process… rescue Captain Dewey.”

Odesser started to chuckle, “Are you serious!?” He regained his composure, “No one knows where he is.”

“On the contrary.” Dalmor informed the group, “Someone has to know where he is. We just need to find that someone.”


“You expect the four of us, just the four of us, to track down a Starfleet Captain, hidden by the Romulans, in Romulan territory, held in what is likely to be a well defended area, without a ship, and free him from whatever captivity he is held in?” The Gorn did not sound as if he liked the odds.

“No. Not the four of us.” Dalmor explained. “I know a man in the Dera System. He can’t be trusted, but he likes a good fight.” The group seemed to lose interest in the fact that Dalmor’s ‘additional help’ came in the form of just one more person. “And a fight is exactly what we can expect to get Dewey back. It’s been sometime since my friend has seen any action. So, I have a feeling he’ll be eager to help.”

“It’s much worse than that.” The Reman stated totally ignoring the Cardassians over confidence in simply five individuals trying to pull this off. “Dewey might be dead already. Not to mention we aren’t likely to be allowed to just waltz in to be sure he is where we think he is.” The Breen also chimed in with his fluctuating tones.

“Actually,” Dalmor began to explain in an uncharacteristic tone, “it gets worse. I checked the security cameras for the transporter room our dearly transported Captain left on. Sark was there. I’m sure you remember him.” He finished that last sentence by pointing at Major Serat.

Mahk said something to which Dalmor responded, “It means that not only will we be dealing with heavily armed Romulans but also a pack of psychopathic faithful followers to the ‘lost’ Captain known as Sark.”

Odesser huffed at the idea. Dalmor shot him a sharp look and spoke harshly, “We can go over the details as to how each of us owe Dewey our lives or we can simply skip that part and get to doing the right thing… the thing Dewey would do for each of us.” The group appeared to start seeing things Dalmors way. He was, after all, correct. “On the bright side, many years ago Dewey and I infiltrated Sark’s group. I think I may be able to work some of those old contacts. At least to the point where we can get some useful information seeing as Sark is clearly involved in this.”

“We’ll have to convince the crew that we are simply leaving. No one can suspect we are going after Dewey or eventually that information will find itself into the wrong hands.” Major Serat spoke in simple terms. He was clearly onboard with the hasty operation.

The Breen said something to which the Reman added, “Yes, and weapons too.”

Dalmor smiled, “Oh, don’t worry. It just so happens I already booked us a transport freighter to the Argelius System. From there we can buy a shuttle,” Dalmor turned to look directly at Odesser, “and guns. Then we’ll go pick up my, uh, old friend.”


No one, besides Dalmor, seemed too enthused to carry this out. However, they did owe it to Dewey.