WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR
Mahk sat at the helm of a cheap civilian shuttle. He was the one best suited to fly it. He had earned his reputation as a stunt pilot for the Breen. He had experience piloting many different types of vessels both large and small. Next to him sat Odesser while the giant Gorn, Major Serat, and Dalmor sat in the back talking about something.
Mahk spoke in his usual tones. It sparked a weird look from the Reman beside him who replied, “What? That doesn’t make any sense. How is this anything like being with a woman?” The Breen made just a quick response.
“Are we almost there?” Dalmor shouted from the back. He was slightly nervous. He wasn’t sure how his friend would receive this group given their species.
The rickety shuttle approached the livable planet in the Dera System and entered the atmosphere. The shuttle shook and rattled as it descended. Dalmor had given Mahk the coordinates back when they purchased the shuttle. The group was fortunate that Dalmor had saved up a great deal of Gold Pressed Latinum over the years. Much of it was obtained in not so honest ways over his years with the Obsidian Order.
The shuttle landed in a swampy area with a river nearby and a wooden house in shambles. As the door opened the group of unlikely heroes exited.
“That’s easy for you to say.” Serat spoke to Odesser as they continued their conversation from the shuttle they had just started after landing. “You will not be held accountable for whatever actions we take here. I am still a Major. I have a career to…” He intended to continue but the Reman cut him off.
“As I recall, you defected from the Klingon Defense Force.” Odesser commented.
“Starfleet still allows me to retain my rank so long as I provide strategic…” The towering lizard was interrupted once more by Odesser.
“As a Major? A Major?” Odesser knew the Starfleet rank structure well enough to know that the Gorn was basically just talking to make himself sound more important than he really was.
Dalmor had been leading the group but turned around to hush them. He spoke in a loud whisper, “Quiet! And don’t make any sudden moves.” The group seemed confused. Dalmor was decidedly more agitated now that they were here. “Whatever you do, don’t mention anything about transporters, or transwarp, or the Bajoran Wormhole, or…” Dalmor had intended to continue to caution the group but suddenly from one of the swampy trees sprang a Jem’Hadar who landed right behind Dalmor. The Jem’Hadar poked the tip of a long sword right to the base of Dalmor’s skull. The group froze as they were utterly shocked at the warriors presence.
“Why are you here to kill me!?” The Jem’Hadar yelled at Dalmor. His grip tightened on the handle of the sword.
“I’m not here to kill you, Ixer.” Dalmor tried to reason as he slowly put his hands up and very slowly turned around to face his friend. “Why would I want to kill you?”
“Because last time we met, I tried to kill you.” Ixer the Jem’Hadar spoke bluntly to the Cardassian.
“Well,” Dalmor tried to force a smile upon his face, “That was a long time ago.”
Ixer smirked sarcastically, “Some people hold grudges over things like that.”
“Oh, not me.” Dalmor replied, “I’m your friend. Remember?”
Ixer nodded to the group following Dalmor, “What about them?”
“They’re not here to kill you either.” Dalmor was trying his hardest to defuse the situation. “I brought them here. They’re my friends too. We came because we need your help. And I figured you’d like to help.” A questioned look appeared upon the Jem’Hadar’s face. “It’ll involve fighting. Probably lots and lots of fighting.”
Ixer lowered his blade and smirked once more. “Follow me. I’ll show you the house.” As he walked, Dalmor and the group followed. Serat, Odesser, and Mahk were all wondering what kinds of people Dalmor considers friends.
As they walked well past the house Mahk made some questioned tones. Ixer turned and huffed at him while he kept walking, “Decoy.” He returned to walking normal and mumbled to himself, “Idiot.”
Ixer led them to a stripped shuttle and walked inside where he removed one of the floor boards to reveal a ladder. The group descended down the ladder onto a platform and began walking down a damp dark tunnel.
“Interesting friend.” Serat commented to Dalmor as they continued walking.
Dalmor looked at Serat and tried to explain, “Ixer believed he was part of secret Founder mind control program that involved brainwashing him to ignore years of training and genetic disposition so that on signal he would kill his fellow Jem’Hadar, Vorta, and predetermined Founders in an effort to overthrow the Dominion hierarchy and establish a new form of government.”
Hearing this explanation Odesser rolled his eyes. Dalmor continued, “As it turns out… Ixer had been receiving manipulated forms of Ketracel White which contained massive amounts of hallucinogenic compounds for eight years. His unit was actually the one that attempted to hijack an Iconian Gateway back in 2372 in an attempt to stop the Dominion in their war with the Federation.” Both the Gorn and Reman grew wide eyed at the facts.
They reached an opened chamber with a torn couch, a coffee table, and a single plant in the room. Ixer turned to face the group with a smile. “Home sweet home. Now, what kind of fight are we talking about?”
Dalmor walked a bit closer, “Actually, we won’t know that until we find where it is. I was hoping you still kept tabs on anything, uh, unusual in your opinion.”
“How unusual?” Asked the Jem’Hadar.
“Well… it’s a Starfleet Captain who has been handed over to Romulan custody.” Dalmor was hoping the crazed Jem’Hadar would not lose his cool over the fact they want help finding someone who belongs to an organization he once fought. “The Romulans accused him of a crime. But I’m fairly certain it’s all a ruse. I wanted to know if you could check your logs for anything that might reveal where he is being held.”
Ixer began pacing in a clearly annoyed manner. “What did I always tell you, Dalmor!? Everyone is under their control! We’re all just pawns to them.” The group seemed a little disturbed at Ixer’s frantic ramblings. Ixer raised his arm and pressed his finger to his head, “Communicators.” Ixer pressed his finger to his head again, “Transporters.” Again, the angry Jem’Hadar poked his skull with his finger, “Sub-Space transmissions.” He continued his hand motion, “Holodecks.” Once more with the finger, “Artificial gravity.”
“Ixer!” Dalmor shouted to get his friends attention. The Jem’Hadar stopped in his tracks and looked at his friend with a startled expression on his face. Dalmor spoke in a normal tone now, “The Starfleet prisoner.”
Ixer’s face turned to a sarcastic smile, “Yeah… I have to check the files.” He turned and headed for a distant room with numerous filing cabinets packed with paper.
Eventually Ixer found a file of note. He explained it, in his delusional way, that pirates outside the Eridan Belt had been hired to bring supplies to a Romulan project at an undisclosed location. The new part to their plan was to track down one of these pirates and see if they can’t get any information out of them that would help lead them to Captain Dewey.
When Dalmor asked if Ixer would like to accompany them on their quest, the chemically imbalanced Jem’Hadar couldn’t grab his things fast enough.
A Breen dissident, a defected Gorn, a former Reman terrorist, a retired Cardassian spy, and a conspiracy driven and paranoid Jem’Hadar. What could go wrong?
AMBUSH
The planet had grown dark for the first time since Wrot’Ka had been on it. It grew freezing cold as the temperature dropped and the wind whipped through the trees. The General was unsure how long he had waited for his prey. However, Subject 13 had yet to show up. He considered moving, but it was also possible that the vial beast was watching him and waiting for him to move.
Wrot’Ka had slowly repositioned himself so that he was curled up into a ball as he sat in the cold night weather. He forced himself to control his breathing and shivering as Subject 13 does have superb hearing and any movements could compromise his location.
The Klingon was struggling to stay awake when he heard some rustling in the trees off in the distance. He couldn’t be sure if it was the wind, and animal, or his foe. The cold plaguing Wrot’Ka quickly became a thing of the past as his blood began pumping from his heart racing as the noise drew closer.
From the dense jungle the monstrous beast leapt into the clearing. It quickly used something to start a large fire. Through the dark Wrot’Ka watched the light from the flames flicker across the twisted and scared face of his enemy. The thing was starting to feast on the carcass of a dead being it brought. Wrot’Ka understood that that means the creature was at a weak point if it was stopping to eat.
It dawned on the General just how ill-prepared he was for this attack. His adversary was too far away and would surely hear him attempting to get closer. The once mighty Klingon was powerless to fight this opponent as he had nothing strong enough to wound him.
Wrot’Ka slowly moved his hand down to grab a small rock. He was planning on throwing it to get Subject 13’s attention. His hope was that it might distract the beast and have it’s attention focused elsewhere as Wrot’Ka moved in for his attack. Once close, Wrot’Ka was hoping to use one of the bones, the flesh having been picked fresh by 13, of the dead creature the foul thing had brought to this hide.
As Wrot’Ka slowly cocked his arm back with the rock in his hand, the beast stopped and stood up. Some meat from it’s kill dangled from it’s mouth. Wrot’Ka froze in fear that his intentions had been discovered and that the monster was now primed to defend itself. There was a rustling in the trees on the other side of the clearing from the General. It almost sounded as if someone was beating sticks against rocks.
Subject 13 had turned to face the noise. Wrot’Ka saw this as his moment to strike. In a flash, the strong Klingon lunged from his position. He hit the ground below and summersaulted across the jungle floor. As he got back to his feet he dove for the dead animal 13 had been eating. Wrot’Ka quickly snatched up a sizable bone. As Wrot’Ka got back to his feet he took a ready position with the bone held in his grip like a baseball bat. However, his enemy was no where’s to be seen.
Wrot’Ka spun all around in confusion. He tried searching the area as his eyes darted all about looking for any sign of 13. The colossus was not to be seen. He heard a loud scream from not too far away. There were a series of loud thumps that lightly vibrated even the ground Wrot’Ka stood on. The Klingon heard crunching sounds that he couldn’t be sure if they were branches breaking or someone/somethings bones.
Without warning, Subject 13 came soaring back into the opening from atop a tree. It was clear the thing had not expected Wrot’Ka to be there. It attempted to adjust it’s trajectory in mid-flight, but it was of no use. Wrot’Ka’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart ready for battle. The bulky Klingon took a large step in the direction of 13 as he brought the large bone back. Wrot’Ka was poised to make a devastating strike.
Before the fiend had landed, Wrot’Ka swung the bone as if he was swinging a Bat’Leth to slay the mightiest Fek’Ihr. The bone’s splintered end cut through the air until it slammed into the ribs of the still airborne monster. The bone itself shattered on impact and fell to pieces in the Klingon’s hands. Subject 13 let out a thunderous yelp and roar at the injury.
The large creature doubled over and rolled across the ground only to jump back to its feet. Wrot’Ka stood there weaponless. He lowered his center of gravity and spread his arms wide. Wrot’Ka was ready for the beast to counter attack. 13 sprinted towards the Klingon. Wrot’Ka took a wild, and powerful, swing at the foul things face. The Klingon’s fist connected with the jaw of 13, but the abominable creation was not even phased.
With one swing, Subject 13 sent Wrot’Ka flying through the dark night. Wrot’Ka landed hard and quickly scrambled to his feet. His enemy came flying at him, but the General rolled out of the way just in time for it to slam head first into a thick tree. Wrot’Ka quickly began to lay waste to 13’s injured rib area. The Klingon’s foe let out a shriek right before it backhanded Wrot’Ka. The hit sent Wrot’Ka spinning through the air.
As Wrot’Ka fought through the pain and got back to his feet once again, he saw the beast charging for him. The thing was knocking trees out of the way. This was not a fight Wrot’Ka could win. Not on these terms. The Klingon began running away as fast as he could. He knew he could not outrun Subject 13, but he hoped he could find an area that would better suit him. Perhaps a landscape feature that he could use to his advantage and defeat the mistake he helped create.
As the stranded General raced through the jungle he thought he caught a glimpse of another individual standing nearby. He paid little attention as he was more focused on out running the nightmare chasing him. He could hear Subject 13 gaining on him. The Klingon pushed harder and harder to try and gain speed. Wrot’Ka frequently turned back to see if 13 was near. Branches, weeds, leaves, and more smacked off of Wrot’Ka as he raced for his life.
Suddenly, Wrot’Ka was weightless. The Klingon had been looking over his shoulder and not paying attention to his direction of travel. Without knowing, he had run himself right off a cliff. As Wrot’Ka began to try to stabilize his body as he fell through the air he tried to see what was below him, but it was too dark to tell. He had no idea how far down he would fall or what was below him.
The planet had grown dark for the first time since Wrot’Ka had been on it. It grew freezing cold as the temperature dropped and the wind whipped through the trees. The General was unsure how long he had waited for his prey. However, Subject 13 had yet to show up. He considered moving, but it was also possible that the vial beast was watching him and waiting for him to move.
Wrot’Ka had slowly repositioned himself so that he was curled up into a ball as he sat in the cold night weather. He forced himself to control his breathing and shivering as Subject 13 does have superb hearing and any movements could compromise his location.
The Klingon was struggling to stay awake when he heard some rustling in the trees off in the distance. He couldn’t be sure if it was the wind, and animal, or his foe. The cold plaguing Wrot’Ka quickly became a thing of the past as his blood began pumping from his heart racing as the noise drew closer.
From the dense jungle the monstrous beast leapt into the clearing. It quickly used something to start a large fire. Through the dark Wrot’Ka watched the light from the flames flicker across the twisted and scared face of his enemy. The thing was starting to feast on the carcass of a dead being it brought. Wrot’Ka understood that that means the creature was at a weak point if it was stopping to eat.
It dawned on the General just how ill-prepared he was for this attack. His adversary was too far away and would surely hear him attempting to get closer. The once mighty Klingon was powerless to fight this opponent as he had nothing strong enough to wound him.
Wrot’Ka slowly moved his hand down to grab a small rock. He was planning on throwing it to get Subject 13’s attention. His hope was that it might distract the beast and have it’s attention focused elsewhere as Wrot’Ka moved in for his attack. Once close, Wrot’Ka was hoping to use one of the bones, the flesh having been picked fresh by 13, of the dead creature the foul thing had brought to this hide.
As Wrot’Ka slowly cocked his arm back with the rock in his hand, the beast stopped and stood up. Some meat from it’s kill dangled from it’s mouth. Wrot’Ka froze in fear that his intentions had been discovered and that the monster was now primed to defend itself. There was a rustling in the trees on the other side of the clearing from the General. It almost sounded as if someone was beating sticks against rocks.
Subject 13 had turned to face the noise. Wrot’Ka saw this as his moment to strike. In a flash, the strong Klingon lunged from his position. He hit the ground below and summersaulted across the jungle floor. As he got back to his feet he dove for the dead animal 13 had been eating. Wrot’Ka quickly snatched up a sizable bone. As Wrot’Ka got back to his feet he took a ready position with the bone held in his grip like a baseball bat. However, his enemy was no where’s to be seen.
Wrot’Ka spun all around in confusion. He tried searching the area as his eyes darted all about looking for any sign of 13. The colossus was not to be seen. He heard a loud scream from not too far away. There were a series of loud thumps that lightly vibrated even the ground Wrot’Ka stood on. The Klingon heard crunching sounds that he couldn’t be sure if they were branches breaking or someone/somethings bones.
Without warning, Subject 13 came soaring back into the opening from atop a tree. It was clear the thing had not expected Wrot’Ka to be there. It attempted to adjust it’s trajectory in mid-flight, but it was of no use. Wrot’Ka’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart ready for battle. The bulky Klingon took a large step in the direction of 13 as he brought the large bone back. Wrot’Ka was poised to make a devastating strike.
Before the fiend had landed, Wrot’Ka swung the bone as if he was swinging a Bat’Leth to slay the mightiest Fek’Ihr. The bone’s splintered end cut through the air until it slammed into the ribs of the still airborne monster. The bone itself shattered on impact and fell to pieces in the Klingon’s hands. Subject 13 let out a thunderous yelp and roar at the injury.
The large creature doubled over and rolled across the ground only to jump back to its feet. Wrot’Ka stood there weaponless. He lowered his center of gravity and spread his arms wide. Wrot’Ka was ready for the beast to counter attack. 13 sprinted towards the Klingon. Wrot’Ka took a wild, and powerful, swing at the foul things face. The Klingon’s fist connected with the jaw of 13, but the abominable creation was not even phased.
With one swing, Subject 13 sent Wrot’Ka flying through the dark night. Wrot’Ka landed hard and quickly scrambled to his feet. His enemy came flying at him, but the General rolled out of the way just in time for it to slam head first into a thick tree. Wrot’Ka quickly began to lay waste to 13’s injured rib area. The Klingon’s foe let out a shriek right before it backhanded Wrot’Ka. The hit sent Wrot’Ka spinning through the air.
As Wrot’Ka fought through the pain and got back to his feet once again, he saw the beast charging for him. The thing was knocking trees out of the way. This was not a fight Wrot’Ka could win. Not on these terms. The Klingon began running away as fast as he could. He knew he could not outrun Subject 13, but he hoped he could find an area that would better suit him. Perhaps a landscape feature that he could use to his advantage and defeat the mistake he helped create.
As the stranded General raced through the jungle he thought he caught a glimpse of another individual standing nearby. He paid little attention as he was more focused on out running the nightmare chasing him. He could hear Subject 13 gaining on him. The Klingon pushed harder and harder to try and gain speed. Wrot’Ka frequently turned back to see if 13 was near. Branches, weeds, leaves, and more smacked off of Wrot’Ka as he raced for his life.
Suddenly, Wrot’Ka was weightless. The Klingon had been looking over his shoulder and not paying attention to his direction of travel. Without knowing, he had run himself right off a cliff. As Wrot’Ka began to try to stabilize his body as he fell through the air he tried to see what was below him, but it was too dark to tell. He had no idea how far down he would fall or what was below him.
STORMING THE CASTLE IN THE AIR
As the weeks passed, Dewey had waned himself from doing as much work. He had slowly allowed himself to believe that this was what was meant to be for him. He still did the work that was needed to keep himself and the other prisoners alive. But, over the past few weeks, he had listened to D’Jaen’s words and did some serious self-reflection. He came to the realization that the only way he would ever know peace would be to just let himself go and accept this as his new place in life.
Dewey’s unshaved face no longer bothered him. The itching had passed. His clothes were grimy and smelly, though. His muscles felt strong but his bones and joints were starting to ache. He didn’t have access to the medical facilities normally afforded to Starfleet personnel. His hands were blistered and calloused from the work in the crater. But, he felt good.
Life wasn’t easy in this prison but at least his life wasn’t in danger any more. The guards were mostly calm and generally uninterested in the prisoners. There wasn’t much for food and what there was wasn’t all that tasty. The other inmates certainly didn’t act like your run of the mill criminals, most of them seemed pleasant for the most part. As it turned out, most of the inmates would not be considered criminals by Federation standards, most of them had been sent here for speaking out against the Tal Shiar or getting in the way of the Empress and her quest for more power and control.
D’Jaen and Dewey had developed a close relationship as time had passed. Most of the other prisoners stayed away from Dewey due to the fact that he was Human (possibly the only Human here). D’Jaen was interested in him though. She took him under her wing to show him how to better survive this place. They began talking more and more and sharing each others past. That slowly developed into sharing meals together. Eventually, due to lack of space, D’Jaen had invited him to share her “living spot.” It wasn’t much, but it was her little corner of the place. They spent the last dozen nights talking to each other until they fell asleep. The company they provided to each other helped them endure the harsh environment.
“So, why exactly is it that you constantly refer to the Romulan government as ‘them’, aren’t you Romulan?” Dewey asked while he laid there in the still night.
“Of course I’m Romulan.” D’Jaen lightly smirked at his question. They had talked in depth enough that Dewey knew she was Romulan and D’Jaen understood that. “I guess when your own people throw you away…” She began to trail off, “it’s hard to identify yourself as one of them.” Dewey could definitely understand her logic there.
“If you got out of this place, where would you go then?” Dewey asked. “Would you go back to your people or find some new place to settle down?”
D’Jaen briefly chuckled at the man’s question, “Would you?” She rolled over to look at Dewey.
Dewey laid there and thought for moment before answering, “No.” He let out a deep breath, “I suppose I wouldn’t.” His own answer bothered him. For one, he knew it wouldn’t be right to not go back. Also, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave this place. As crazy as it seemed, he almost enjoyed his stay. He had found something he had not known in a long time. Peace. And in that peace he found himself having feelings he had not felt in a long time. He was beginning to develop stronger feelings for D’Jaen. He tried to dismiss those feelings as something that was natural given the situation and that it was possible the two of them would share nothing in common outside this place. He knew that wasn’t true though. Her curiosity and knowledge made him smile. It was as if looking into a mirror of his mind.
“Where would you go then, if not home?” D’Jaen asked innocently enough. She was interested in finding out where Dewey would go if it was up to him. She had a feeling his dreams would be similar to hers.
“I’m not sure.” This was Dewey’s first and honest answer. “I suppose I’d just go… away. Out there.” He looked to the stars. He had often dreamed of just taking off and exploring the Galaxy for himself. Not filing reports, not charting systems, just seeing what he could see and learning what he could learn.
D’Jaen took a deep breath and smiled, “That sounds like a wonderful escape.” She rolled back onto her back close to Dewey and gazed at the stars with him. “Something new every day.”
The two of them were comfortable laying there as there were no more words to be said. Slowly their hands had drifted closer to the others. To both Dewey and D’Jaen, it took a lifetime for their hands to meet, but it also happened faster than they had expected.
They slowly drifted to sleep on this night while holding hands and being happy in place so void of anything anyone else would consider happiness.
As the night passed and the two slept, Dewey’s dreams started to take a turn. The man’s dreams began singing the chaotic screams and cries of all too familiar voices.
In a flash, Dewey saw a horrible sight in his nightmare. Sark was on Earth Space Dock. It was badly damaged.
He saw Sark and his devoted followers standing over the bodies of men and women he knew. Commander Carllet, Admiral Quinn, Admiral Sartez, his daughter Lillian, and an assortment of others.
Then, without reason as dreams often do, the scene changed. It was quiet. The only noise was the sound of hard falling rain and fires that licked the flags of the Klingon Empire, the Romulan Star Empire, and the United Federation of Planets.
Dewey sat straight up in a cold sweat. The night was still dark and most of everyone in the prison was still asleep. His breathing was labored and his heart raced at the images he just witnessed in his dream. He looked over to D’Jaen and saw her still asleep.
Dewey wasn’t one for reading too much into dreams. He was trying his hardest to avoid analyzing this one. Dewey hoped it was not a vision of things to come. Though, that meant that even subconsciously he knew he should resist, escape, and stop Sark.
Dewey laid back down next to D’Jaen and tried to push the images out of his mind. He tried to force himself back to sleep. It was of no use.
As the weeks passed, Dewey had waned himself from doing as much work. He had slowly allowed himself to believe that this was what was meant to be for him. He still did the work that was needed to keep himself and the other prisoners alive. But, over the past few weeks, he had listened to D’Jaen’s words and did some serious self-reflection. He came to the realization that the only way he would ever know peace would be to just let himself go and accept this as his new place in life.
Dewey’s unshaved face no longer bothered him. The itching had passed. His clothes were grimy and smelly, though. His muscles felt strong but his bones and joints were starting to ache. He didn’t have access to the medical facilities normally afforded to Starfleet personnel. His hands were blistered and calloused from the work in the crater. But, he felt good.
Life wasn’t easy in this prison but at least his life wasn’t in danger any more. The guards were mostly calm and generally uninterested in the prisoners. There wasn’t much for food and what there was wasn’t all that tasty. The other inmates certainly didn’t act like your run of the mill criminals, most of them seemed pleasant for the most part. As it turned out, most of the inmates would not be considered criminals by Federation standards, most of them had been sent here for speaking out against the Tal Shiar or getting in the way of the Empress and her quest for more power and control.
D’Jaen and Dewey had developed a close relationship as time had passed. Most of the other prisoners stayed away from Dewey due to the fact that he was Human (possibly the only Human here). D’Jaen was interested in him though. She took him under her wing to show him how to better survive this place. They began talking more and more and sharing each others past. That slowly developed into sharing meals together. Eventually, due to lack of space, D’Jaen had invited him to share her “living spot.” It wasn’t much, but it was her little corner of the place. They spent the last dozen nights talking to each other until they fell asleep. The company they provided to each other helped them endure the harsh environment.
“So, why exactly is it that you constantly refer to the Romulan government as ‘them’, aren’t you Romulan?” Dewey asked while he laid there in the still night.
“Of course I’m Romulan.” D’Jaen lightly smirked at his question. They had talked in depth enough that Dewey knew she was Romulan and D’Jaen understood that. “I guess when your own people throw you away…” She began to trail off, “it’s hard to identify yourself as one of them.” Dewey could definitely understand her logic there.
“If you got out of this place, where would you go then?” Dewey asked. “Would you go back to your people or find some new place to settle down?”
D’Jaen briefly chuckled at the man’s question, “Would you?” She rolled over to look at Dewey.
Dewey laid there and thought for moment before answering, “No.” He let out a deep breath, “I suppose I wouldn’t.” His own answer bothered him. For one, he knew it wouldn’t be right to not go back. Also, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave this place. As crazy as it seemed, he almost enjoyed his stay. He had found something he had not known in a long time. Peace. And in that peace he found himself having feelings he had not felt in a long time. He was beginning to develop stronger feelings for D’Jaen. He tried to dismiss those feelings as something that was natural given the situation and that it was possible the two of them would share nothing in common outside this place. He knew that wasn’t true though. Her curiosity and knowledge made him smile. It was as if looking into a mirror of his mind.
“Where would you go then, if not home?” D’Jaen asked innocently enough. She was interested in finding out where Dewey would go if it was up to him. She had a feeling his dreams would be similar to hers.
“I’m not sure.” This was Dewey’s first and honest answer. “I suppose I’d just go… away. Out there.” He looked to the stars. He had often dreamed of just taking off and exploring the Galaxy for himself. Not filing reports, not charting systems, just seeing what he could see and learning what he could learn.
D’Jaen took a deep breath and smiled, “That sounds like a wonderful escape.” She rolled back onto her back close to Dewey and gazed at the stars with him. “Something new every day.”
The two of them were comfortable laying there as there were no more words to be said. Slowly their hands had drifted closer to the others. To both Dewey and D’Jaen, it took a lifetime for their hands to meet, but it also happened faster than they had expected.
They slowly drifted to sleep on this night while holding hands and being happy in place so void of anything anyone else would consider happiness.
As the night passed and the two slept, Dewey’s dreams started to take a turn. The man’s dreams began singing the chaotic screams and cries of all too familiar voices.
In a flash, Dewey saw a horrible sight in his nightmare. Sark was on Earth Space Dock. It was badly damaged.
He saw Sark and his devoted followers standing over the bodies of men and women he knew. Commander Carllet, Admiral Quinn, Admiral Sartez, his daughter Lillian, and an assortment of others.
Then, without reason as dreams often do, the scene changed. It was quiet. The only noise was the sound of hard falling rain and fires that licked the flags of the Klingon Empire, the Romulan Star Empire, and the United Federation of Planets.
Dewey sat straight up in a cold sweat. The night was still dark and most of everyone in the prison was still asleep. His breathing was labored and his heart raced at the images he just witnessed in his dream. He looked over to D’Jaen and saw her still asleep.
Dewey wasn’t one for reading too much into dreams. He was trying his hardest to avoid analyzing this one. Dewey hoped it was not a vision of things to come. Though, that meant that even subconsciously he knew he should resist, escape, and stop Sark.
Dewey laid back down next to D’Jaen and tried to push the images out of his mind. He tried to force himself back to sleep. It was of no use.
A PIRATES LIFE FOR ME
The small band of unlikely heroes had docked their shuttle at a commercial orbital station in the Eridan Belt. They were hoping to find someone that might have some information on who is shipping cargo to this unknown Romulan project and gain their trust. Or, preferably, where this Romulan project is and if it is indeed the place where Captain Dewey was being held captive.
Major Serat stayed in the hotel room the group had bought as they spent their time there hoping to cross paths with one of the pirates who has been hired by the Romulans. Serat stayed here mostly due to the fact that the Gorn are not well received in this area. Not to mention his bulky size would draw far too much attention. His only company was Ixer, the mad Jem’Hadar.
At one point, Serat had gone as far as to literally dent the wall with his head from beating his skull against it so hard out of frustration from listening to the crazy ramblings of the conspiracy driven Jem’Hadar.
Dalmor, Mahk, and Odesser were scoping out the various bars and restaurants for the likes of pirates. They were currently sitting in some slum bar. There were plenty of drunks about. The three aliens, looking well out of place, sat at a table together as Dalmor had taken the liberty of ordering himself a few drinks.
The Breen made a series of long noises as he spoke. The Cardassian responded, “It’s called blending in. And in a bar, people are expected to drink and enjoy themselves.”
“I’m sure your suit blends in perfectly with this location.” The Reman rolled his eyes at the former Cardassian spies choice of attire. “You look like a man who has been playing around in too many Human spy holonovels.”
Dalmor finished one of his mugs and looked at Odesser, “I have yet to encounter a situation that gave one an excuse to ignore a sense of fashion.” He smirked at the Reman. “It might do you some good to try something different than that dreary thing you’re wearing.”
Odesser scowled at Dalmor. “And tell me, just how are we supposed to spot a… you know, here? It’s not as if they are going to be wearing a sign.”
“Try paying attention.” Dalmor said in a wide eyed expression.
Just then, nearly everyone in the bar turned to face the entrance as a shabby looking man entered the establishment. He walked with a swagger built off of confidence and cockiness. The man was grimy and his hair greasy. Although neither Odesser or Mahk had noticed, it had become blatantly clear to Dalmor that this was just the man he was looking for. This was a Human, but he wore Romulan military boots.
Dalmor stood up immediately and began walking to intercept the man at the bar. The Reman and Breen, confused, both followed.
As the group neared the man they heard the conversation he was having with the bar tender now.
“I thought I told you to not come back here!” The burly Orion bartender shouted at the Human.
The Human had a sway in his stance as he regarded the green man. He squinted as he spoke, “I was hoping we could put all that behind us, mate.” The Human spoke with a rather curious accent.
“She was my daughter!” The Orion shouted over the bar.
“To be fair, I hadn’t even the slightest inclination she was of relation.” The Human began to slowly back up.
“Out!” Was the simple reply from the bartender.
The Human began to leave but his path was blocked by the Cardassian and his allies.
“Oh, pardon me, sir.” Dalmor said with his slick smile across his face.
The man merely patted Dalmor on the shoulder and replied, “Think nothing of it.” The Human tried to side step the Cardassian when he found his path blocked by the Breen. The Human stopped and looked about the alien group before him. He began to sway once more as his eyes squinted yet again. “If this is about your freighter I borrowed without your permission, I’m terribly sorry. I fully intended to give it back.” He poked Odesser in the chest with a limp finger, “You should take it up with that ugly Ferengi that was here last week.”
Mahk made a bunch of loud noises. Dalmor followed his comment, “Yes, what are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t your freighter then?” The man asked.
“What freighter?” Odesser asked with a questioned look on his face.
“What freighter?” The Human echoed his question with sincerity.
“That… that was my question.” Odesser was lost which kept him from getting angry.
“What question?” The Human was either drunk, stupid, or really smart. He had the three of them confused.
“About the freighter!” Odesser shouted at him. The Reman was becoming frustrated at talking in circles. “We don’t have a freighter!” The Human looked completely baffled, as if he had just stumbled into this conversation with no point of reference to what the Reman was saying. The Reman shouted once more, “You… you were talking about some freighter.” He had grown angry at how the Human had got himself lost in his own words.
The Human smiled, “No I wasn’t.” He started to turn to excuse himself from the situation when Dalmor put his hand on the Humans shoulder and lightly kept him in place.
“You’ll have to forgive my friends.” Dalmor started in. “We’ve been out of work for some time and we’ve been hoping to cross some ones path who might know where we can find a job running some cargo.”
“Well then, that sounds like a might sad story. I be letting you go so you can find that person then.” The Human smirked as he attempted to leave but was blocked once more by the Breen. “You three are beginning to put a damper on me night.”
Dalmor spoke up once more hoping his gift of gab would sway the individual into divulging some information. “I couldn’t help but notice those wonderful boots you’re wearing.” The entire group quickly looked down at the Humans footwear. “We’ve heard that the Romulans are hiring people out here. People willing to run cargo for them.”
The Human got a sour look on his face. “Aye. But something tells me you three aren’t the type to be running cargo.”
Mahk made a long statement in his usual Breen tones to which the Humans expression barely changed. It invoked a response from the Human none the less, “A girl you say. Such a tragic story. But I highly doubt that’n they be just lettin’ her go to you should you show up there. Besides, they don’t exactly approve of me anymore.” He was responding to the Breen’s tale of an imprisoned love. Mahk obviously figured that this man was unlikely to help them spring an imprisoned Starfleet Captain.
“So, you know that there is a prison. And you know where it is then.” Odesser deduced this from the man’s response.
The Human swayed slightly in his stance before responding, “Suppose I do. What’s in it for me?”
“We’ll pay handsomely.” Dalmor informed the man.
“And you can keep whatever you find along the way.” Odesser added.
“That does sound enticing.” The Human replied. “But as I mentioned, the Rommies be not liking me all too much anymore. Not after that, uh, well never mind that. Anyhow, they tend to remember men like me.” The man smirked as he brushed his mustache with his fingers.
Dalmor questioned, “And who exactly are you?”
“Why, I’m Captain Sti Guff.” The Human said with a giant smile upon his face expecting the three to have heard of him.
“A Captain, you say. So… you have a ship then?” Dalmor seemed rather pleased at their sudden change in luck. Not only was this man clearly a pirate but he had also been working with the Romulans at the most likely place Captain Dewey is being held.
The Human leaned close to the Cardassian, “Not at the moment as it were. But I’m assuming you fine gentlemen have means of transportation.”
The Breen chimed in to which Odesser followed up, “Yes, and a shuttle.” The Human gave them a serious look.
Dalmor smiled hoping they had just enough to get Guff’s help and echoed Odesser’s comment, “And a shuttle.”
The small band of unlikely heroes had docked their shuttle at a commercial orbital station in the Eridan Belt. They were hoping to find someone that might have some information on who is shipping cargo to this unknown Romulan project and gain their trust. Or, preferably, where this Romulan project is and if it is indeed the place where Captain Dewey was being held captive.
Major Serat stayed in the hotel room the group had bought as they spent their time there hoping to cross paths with one of the pirates who has been hired by the Romulans. Serat stayed here mostly due to the fact that the Gorn are not well received in this area. Not to mention his bulky size would draw far too much attention. His only company was Ixer, the mad Jem’Hadar.
At one point, Serat had gone as far as to literally dent the wall with his head from beating his skull against it so hard out of frustration from listening to the crazy ramblings of the conspiracy driven Jem’Hadar.
Dalmor, Mahk, and Odesser were scoping out the various bars and restaurants for the likes of pirates. They were currently sitting in some slum bar. There were plenty of drunks about. The three aliens, looking well out of place, sat at a table together as Dalmor had taken the liberty of ordering himself a few drinks.
The Breen made a series of long noises as he spoke. The Cardassian responded, “It’s called blending in. And in a bar, people are expected to drink and enjoy themselves.”
“I’m sure your suit blends in perfectly with this location.” The Reman rolled his eyes at the former Cardassian spies choice of attire. “You look like a man who has been playing around in too many Human spy holonovels.”
Dalmor finished one of his mugs and looked at Odesser, “I have yet to encounter a situation that gave one an excuse to ignore a sense of fashion.” He smirked at the Reman. “It might do you some good to try something different than that dreary thing you’re wearing.”
Odesser scowled at Dalmor. “And tell me, just how are we supposed to spot a… you know, here? It’s not as if they are going to be wearing a sign.”
“Try paying attention.” Dalmor said in a wide eyed expression.
Just then, nearly everyone in the bar turned to face the entrance as a shabby looking man entered the establishment. He walked with a swagger built off of confidence and cockiness. The man was grimy and his hair greasy. Although neither Odesser or Mahk had noticed, it had become blatantly clear to Dalmor that this was just the man he was looking for. This was a Human, but he wore Romulan military boots.
Dalmor stood up immediately and began walking to intercept the man at the bar. The Reman and Breen, confused, both followed.
As the group neared the man they heard the conversation he was having with the bar tender now.
“I thought I told you to not come back here!” The burly Orion bartender shouted at the Human.
The Human had a sway in his stance as he regarded the green man. He squinted as he spoke, “I was hoping we could put all that behind us, mate.” The Human spoke with a rather curious accent.
“She was my daughter!” The Orion shouted over the bar.
“To be fair, I hadn’t even the slightest inclination she was of relation.” The Human began to slowly back up.
“Out!” Was the simple reply from the bartender.
The Human began to leave but his path was blocked by the Cardassian and his allies.
“Oh, pardon me, sir.” Dalmor said with his slick smile across his face.
The man merely patted Dalmor on the shoulder and replied, “Think nothing of it.” The Human tried to side step the Cardassian when he found his path blocked by the Breen. The Human stopped and looked about the alien group before him. He began to sway once more as his eyes squinted yet again. “If this is about your freighter I borrowed without your permission, I’m terribly sorry. I fully intended to give it back.” He poked Odesser in the chest with a limp finger, “You should take it up with that ugly Ferengi that was here last week.”
Mahk made a bunch of loud noises. Dalmor followed his comment, “Yes, what are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t your freighter then?” The man asked.
“What freighter?” Odesser asked with a questioned look on his face.
“What freighter?” The Human echoed his question with sincerity.
“That… that was my question.” Odesser was lost which kept him from getting angry.
“What question?” The Human was either drunk, stupid, or really smart. He had the three of them confused.
“About the freighter!” Odesser shouted at him. The Reman was becoming frustrated at talking in circles. “We don’t have a freighter!” The Human looked completely baffled, as if he had just stumbled into this conversation with no point of reference to what the Reman was saying. The Reman shouted once more, “You… you were talking about some freighter.” He had grown angry at how the Human had got himself lost in his own words.
The Human smiled, “No I wasn’t.” He started to turn to excuse himself from the situation when Dalmor put his hand on the Humans shoulder and lightly kept him in place.
“You’ll have to forgive my friends.” Dalmor started in. “We’ve been out of work for some time and we’ve been hoping to cross some ones path who might know where we can find a job running some cargo.”
“Well then, that sounds like a might sad story. I be letting you go so you can find that person then.” The Human smirked as he attempted to leave but was blocked once more by the Breen. “You three are beginning to put a damper on me night.”
Dalmor spoke up once more hoping his gift of gab would sway the individual into divulging some information. “I couldn’t help but notice those wonderful boots you’re wearing.” The entire group quickly looked down at the Humans footwear. “We’ve heard that the Romulans are hiring people out here. People willing to run cargo for them.”
The Human got a sour look on his face. “Aye. But something tells me you three aren’t the type to be running cargo.”
Mahk made a long statement in his usual Breen tones to which the Humans expression barely changed. It invoked a response from the Human none the less, “A girl you say. Such a tragic story. But I highly doubt that’n they be just lettin’ her go to you should you show up there. Besides, they don’t exactly approve of me anymore.” He was responding to the Breen’s tale of an imprisoned love. Mahk obviously figured that this man was unlikely to help them spring an imprisoned Starfleet Captain.
“So, you know that there is a prison. And you know where it is then.” Odesser deduced this from the man’s response.
The Human swayed slightly in his stance before responding, “Suppose I do. What’s in it for me?”
“We’ll pay handsomely.” Dalmor informed the man.
“And you can keep whatever you find along the way.” Odesser added.
“That does sound enticing.” The Human replied. “But as I mentioned, the Rommies be not liking me all too much anymore. Not after that, uh, well never mind that. Anyhow, they tend to remember men like me.” The man smirked as he brushed his mustache with his fingers.
Dalmor questioned, “And who exactly are you?”
“Why, I’m Captain Sti Guff.” The Human said with a giant smile upon his face expecting the three to have heard of him.
“A Captain, you say. So… you have a ship then?” Dalmor seemed rather pleased at their sudden change in luck. Not only was this man clearly a pirate but he had also been working with the Romulans at the most likely place Captain Dewey is being held.
The Human leaned close to the Cardassian, “Not at the moment as it were. But I’m assuming you fine gentlemen have means of transportation.”
The Breen chimed in to which Odesser followed up, “Yes, and a shuttle.” The Human gave them a serious look.
Dalmor smiled hoping they had just enough to get Guff’s help and echoed Odesser’s comment, “And a shuttle.”
THE GALAXY'S RECKONING
Sub-Marshal Numitor walked down one of the halls to the complex serving to oversee the unsanctioned prison on the hot planet. He walked slowly, as he usually did, because he was a man who had lost all motivation. As he passed some guards they quickly snapped to attention. Numitor just ignored them and continued walking towards his office. He hadn’t put in as many hours on this day as he should. Though, that was frequent as of late. He didn’t want to be stuck here anymore. Nothing here was going according to his plan. Nothing had worked out.
As the Sub-Marshal neared his office, a young guard came running up to him. He was out of breath when he spoke to his superior, “Sir, Sub-Marshal, sir.” The guard was stumbling over his words as he was clearly nervous. Numitor wasn’t sure what the young Romulan was worried about.
“What? This had better be important, Centurion.” Numitor figured it was some squabble amongst the prisoners again. Numitor didn’t care. There wasn’t a lot he cared about these days.
“Sub-Marshal. There…” The guard was still nervous. He knew it was about to get ugly, “the men you hired. They’re… burning… something in the landing bay.” The guard had witnessed something that was obviously so disturbing that he had trouble even speaking it, his fear of Numitor’s reaction was unwarranted but understood.
Numitor said nothing, he began rapidly walking towards the prisons landing bay. The guard walked with the Sub-Marshal, that is to say he walked to the same destination just several paces behind his commanding officer and falling behind the closer they got to the landing bay.
The large doors to the bay swooshed open as the annoyed Sub-Marshal approached. A whiff of smoke lingered in the air. The landing bay itself was gigantic. It had plenty of room to house several dozen shuttles, fighters, and small sized vessels. The bay was mostly empty on this day though. Only six or so shuttles and one freighter.
There was something out of place though. Something Numitor had never expected to see. Piled so high that the rooftop bay doors were open to fit it was a pyramid of bars of Gold Pressed Latnium. Several smaller piles were scattered around as well. Numitor watched as more open crates were beamed down near the pyramid.
Around the enormous amount of GPL stood several followers of Sark. They were all armed. Some were taking inventory. The others were firing their phasers and disruptors at the piles of GPL. They were melting down the pyramid. The liquid form of currency dripped and spilled down into the trenches built in to the floor of the landing bay. The trenches were there for mechanics to use to preform maintenance on vessels from underneath them. Now, they were used as flow streams for the melted GPL.
Multiple vats of a foul smelling liquid chemical sat around near the trenches. Numitor couldn’t place the smell of the chemical to identify it. A few of the devout followers of Sark carefully poured the contents of the vats into the trenches. There were some of Sark’s followers standing above the trenches with long rods. They stirred the mix of liquefied GPL and the unpleasant chemical from the vats. The combination of the two liquids made a cracking sound as the substances in the trenches turned a dark brown color and began to flake down to a thick dusty mixture. Sark was having his people change the chemical composition of GPL and breaking it down to something worthless.
Numitor rushed towards one of Sark’s Officers. Numitor shouted, “Hey!” He walked closer to the Vulcan female but the out of place woman ignored Numitor and continued to keep a tally on her PADD. “Hey! What are you people doing!?” No one paid any attention to Numitor. They were unconcerned and unthreatened by his presence. “I said, what is going on here!?” He grabbed the Vulcan woman by the shoulder and spun her around. She looked at him for a very brief moment and raised her eyebrow in curiosity. She then turned back to supervise the destruction of the precious currency and type into her PADD.
Numitor spun around and saw the young guard that had informed him that something was going on here. The Centurion was standing near the doors. Numitor sped towards him. “Where is Sark!?”
The young Romulan was speechless. He just stood there with a terrified look on his face. Numitor neared him as he saw another one of Sark’s Officers enter the bay. “You!” The Sub-Marshal pointed at him, “Outside, with me!”
Numitor and his prison guard exited the landing bay and stood in the hallways as Sark’s Officer slowly followed. The doors to the bay shut. “Where is, Sark!? Get him here now!” Numitor spun to face Sark’s Officer, “I want him here right now!”
From around the corner came a voice, “Then you shall speak to him.” Sark rounded the corner. The mad Vulcan stood there and regarded the group of three standing in the hallway. “There is no need to raise your voice, Sub-Marshal.”
“You!” Numitor shouted at Sark. “What is going on here!?”
The out of time Captain crept closer to Numitor as he cocked an eyebrow, “Our plans are proceeding as intended.”
“Oh yeah?” Numitor’s scathing response flew from his mouth, “Do I look like I’m running the Romulan government right now? Your little plot to capture Dewey and unite the Romulan people while crumbling the Federation… it didn’t work, Sark. No one cares! And now you have my police and guards going around the sectors rounding people up. And you’ve sent the Tal Shiar on a witch hunt for that fictional Klingon Dilithium bank. How exactly is that supposed to help me gain control of the government!? And now you’re burning down millions of bars of Gold Pressed Latnium!”
Sark simply gazed at Numitor with an expressionless look. The Vulcan showed no emotion, which was not exactly normal for this particular Vulcan.
The angered Romulan then turned to look at his guard and Sark’s dedicated disciple. “You two, get out of here.”
Sark looked to his Officer, “You may stay.” The crazed Vulcans gaze slowly drifted towards the young Romulan guard who responded by scampering off down the hall.
“No.” The sub-Marshal said in defiance. He turned to look back at Sark’s unnamed follower, “I’m in command here…” The Romulan meant to continue his words, but Sark placed his hand strategically on the man’s shoulder near his neck. Numitor froze in place.
“Do…” Sark started in as he slowly spun Numitor around to face him, “You really believe you have the ability to… give orders in this situation?” The psychopath stared deeply into the eyes of Numitor.
A look of slight shock drifted over the Sub-Marshals face. He had no idea how to respond to this madness. “But I… we paid you a fortune.”
Sark tilted his head slightly out of earnest confusion as his eyes squinted, “And you believe this puts you in charge?”
Numitor began breathing nervously as the Vulcan kept his hand in place ready to subdue him at any given moment. Numitor spoke softly now, “What is this?”
Sark gently pulled Numitor closer so that their faces were only a few inches from each other. “Your monetary compensation and facilities have been important to us… until now.” Sark released Numitor from his grip, but the Romulan stayed in place.
“What are you?” Numitor whispered. He didn’t yet fully understand what was going on.
Sark wasted no time in responding, “I’m the Galaxy’s solution to the governmental problems plaguing all the worlds. Here to end the decadence and stop the oppression.” Sark took a deep breath and continued, “I bring disarray to disrupt society and lawfulness so that everywhere and everyone… is equal.”
“You, you’re insane.” Numitor forced himself to speak even though it came out as more of a whimpered whisper.
“No!” Sark responded loudly with a smile upon his face. “I’m the only one left in this life still thinking logically.” Sark took one step backwards from the Sub-Marshal and explained things for him. His tone was decidedly much more colorful now, not the usual monotone attributed to Vulcans. He spoke lively, “Money is what has ruined your people, not the loss of your world. You require so much from so many others. So, I, uh, offered my services to you. In exchange you nearly bankrupted your people paying me in Gold Pressed Latnium… and your military began robbing others to supplement the payment I demanded. I have used what I needed, and saved some for later. The rest… is unimportant to me, but very important to our plan.” Numitor watched in horror as the crazed Captain revealed his plan. “The sum of nearly 87% of what the Galaxy has given to your people is, right now, in the process of being turned to dust. Valueless dust.” Sark slowly clasped his hands behind his back. “The loss of so much will destroy the market as a whole for the entire Galaxy.”
Numitor looked as if he was about to plead with Sark, but the deranged man was not yet done explaining things. “You may rest easy, Sub-Marshal. Your failed government will not be the only ones to suffer. The Tal Shiar were not sent on a ‘witch hunt’ as you put it. Just last night they found, and raided, the Klingon Empires key Dilithium storage facility. And as your Warbirds triumphantly vacated Klingon territory,” Sark raised his hand to chest height and squeezed it into a fist as the knuckles cracked, “my people liberated it from their possession.” The Vulcan returned to his usual thoughtful stance. “The Klingon Empire possessed nearly 62% of all the useful Dilithium in the known Galaxy. All the major factions trade in it, just like Gold Pressed Latnium. And just like with Gold Pressed Latnium, my people have been using their monetary means, which you provided, to acquire as much of the tradable assets as possible… which brings even more damage to the, now lost, two currency systems.”
Sub-Marshal Numitor stood there confused at what he was hearing. “Lost?”
“Indeed. Once we had placated your Tal Shiar, we…” Sark searched for the words, “pushed their ships into the nearest star.” Numitor’s jaw dropped. “And with them… over 79% of the Klingon Empires Dilithium reserves vanished in the ball of fire. That is where we are sending the remainder of the, uh, my Gold Pressed Latnium.”
“You’ll destroy two entire economies.” Sark expressed in an aghast voice.
“Yes.” Sark didn’t feel the need to explain further on what had been done. It was obvious.
The major factions in the Galaxy traded in Gold Pressed Latnium and Dilithium. They are the blood in the veins of the very systems that prop up civilizations. Sark didn’t just cut the veins, he sliced open an artery. Numitor could only imagine what was happening right now with the exchange system as people were seeing the value of their currencies destroyed. The prices would soar while the actual value of items would dramatically decrease. It would upset the entire system. Prices on everything would be skewed to the point where nothing will be worth anything and no one will be able to afford even the most common and cheap items in a short amount of time.
The entire system will be in an upheaval. Meanwhile, Numitor knew, the governments would cling to what is left with their dying breath to try and buy what they need to maintain functionality. The Sub-Marshal was high enough up in the Romulan military to understand that every government’s contingency plan in an economic crisis like this would be to acquire as much of what is left as possible and that means there will be virtually nothing left for the common individual. Common everyday people will need to develop a new means of currency that is accepted throughout the Galaxy, and that takes quite a bit of time to happen.
The immediate effect of Sark’s actions will be that everyone who had any significant stock, claim, or amount, of these currencies will be rich. Those who didn’t will find themselves poor and unable to afford anything. The only ones likely to have any significant amount will be the governments. Numitor knew all too well that when governments ride high on riches while the people dwell in poverty that a revolution will take place. It is the natural order of things.
“But…” The Sub-Marshal was trying to wrap his mind around the madness, “Why?”
Sark raised an eyebrow then shrugged, “Because.” The two man locked eyes for what seemed like forever for Numitor. He had no response for what had been done. “The Federation will jump at the chance to rescue everyone. They will spend the only remaining currency that has any value… Energy Credits. They believe they can restore peace by throwing money at the problem.” Sark took a deep breath and tipped his head back slightly as he closed his eyes, “They will be wrong.”
Numitor wanted to speak but had no clue what to say to all of this. He finally found the courage to say something, “Everyone will be poor. No one will be able to buy anything.”
“That is the point, Sub-Marshal.” Sark spoke while returning to his normal stance. “The people of this Galaxy will be forced to fend for themselves seeing and knowing that their governments will no longer be able to provide for them. They will throw off the chains of their oppressors and take what is rightfully theirs.”
“But nothing will have value. What are they to take? How is anyone to survive?” Numitor nearly sounded as if he was pleading.
“That is not for us to decide, Sub-Marshal.” Sark explained in his unsympathetic tone. Sark turned and began to walk away. He stopped and turned slightly. Though, not enough to actually look at Numitor. “You should relax.” The eccentric Vulcan took a moment to finish his words. “A change is on the horizon.”
Numitor could only imagine what kind of change. He knew that the people of this Galaxy will not accept all the wealth belonging to the governments. War was bad enough with the Federation and the Klingon Empire, now both sides will have to deal with their own people revolting against them in due time. All while the Romulan people languish and wait for help… help that no individual can any longer afford and that no government will be willing to spend. The only thing left to prop up society was Energy Credits, and it sounded as if Sark had a plan for that as well.
Sub-Marshal Numitor walked down one of the halls to the complex serving to oversee the unsanctioned prison on the hot planet. He walked slowly, as he usually did, because he was a man who had lost all motivation. As he passed some guards they quickly snapped to attention. Numitor just ignored them and continued walking towards his office. He hadn’t put in as many hours on this day as he should. Though, that was frequent as of late. He didn’t want to be stuck here anymore. Nothing here was going according to his plan. Nothing had worked out.
As the Sub-Marshal neared his office, a young guard came running up to him. He was out of breath when he spoke to his superior, “Sir, Sub-Marshal, sir.” The guard was stumbling over his words as he was clearly nervous. Numitor wasn’t sure what the young Romulan was worried about.
“What? This had better be important, Centurion.” Numitor figured it was some squabble amongst the prisoners again. Numitor didn’t care. There wasn’t a lot he cared about these days.
“Sub-Marshal. There…” The guard was still nervous. He knew it was about to get ugly, “the men you hired. They’re… burning… something in the landing bay.” The guard had witnessed something that was obviously so disturbing that he had trouble even speaking it, his fear of Numitor’s reaction was unwarranted but understood.
Numitor said nothing, he began rapidly walking towards the prisons landing bay. The guard walked with the Sub-Marshal, that is to say he walked to the same destination just several paces behind his commanding officer and falling behind the closer they got to the landing bay.
The large doors to the bay swooshed open as the annoyed Sub-Marshal approached. A whiff of smoke lingered in the air. The landing bay itself was gigantic. It had plenty of room to house several dozen shuttles, fighters, and small sized vessels. The bay was mostly empty on this day though. Only six or so shuttles and one freighter.
There was something out of place though. Something Numitor had never expected to see. Piled so high that the rooftop bay doors were open to fit it was a pyramid of bars of Gold Pressed Latnium. Several smaller piles were scattered around as well. Numitor watched as more open crates were beamed down near the pyramid.
Around the enormous amount of GPL stood several followers of Sark. They were all armed. Some were taking inventory. The others were firing their phasers and disruptors at the piles of GPL. They were melting down the pyramid. The liquid form of currency dripped and spilled down into the trenches built in to the floor of the landing bay. The trenches were there for mechanics to use to preform maintenance on vessels from underneath them. Now, they were used as flow streams for the melted GPL.
Multiple vats of a foul smelling liquid chemical sat around near the trenches. Numitor couldn’t place the smell of the chemical to identify it. A few of the devout followers of Sark carefully poured the contents of the vats into the trenches. There were some of Sark’s followers standing above the trenches with long rods. They stirred the mix of liquefied GPL and the unpleasant chemical from the vats. The combination of the two liquids made a cracking sound as the substances in the trenches turned a dark brown color and began to flake down to a thick dusty mixture. Sark was having his people change the chemical composition of GPL and breaking it down to something worthless.
Numitor rushed towards one of Sark’s Officers. Numitor shouted, “Hey!” He walked closer to the Vulcan female but the out of place woman ignored Numitor and continued to keep a tally on her PADD. “Hey! What are you people doing!?” No one paid any attention to Numitor. They were unconcerned and unthreatened by his presence. “I said, what is going on here!?” He grabbed the Vulcan woman by the shoulder and spun her around. She looked at him for a very brief moment and raised her eyebrow in curiosity. She then turned back to supervise the destruction of the precious currency and type into her PADD.
Numitor spun around and saw the young guard that had informed him that something was going on here. The Centurion was standing near the doors. Numitor sped towards him. “Where is Sark!?”
The young Romulan was speechless. He just stood there with a terrified look on his face. Numitor neared him as he saw another one of Sark’s Officers enter the bay. “You!” The Sub-Marshal pointed at him, “Outside, with me!”
Numitor and his prison guard exited the landing bay and stood in the hallways as Sark’s Officer slowly followed. The doors to the bay shut. “Where is, Sark!? Get him here now!” Numitor spun to face Sark’s Officer, “I want him here right now!”
From around the corner came a voice, “Then you shall speak to him.” Sark rounded the corner. The mad Vulcan stood there and regarded the group of three standing in the hallway. “There is no need to raise your voice, Sub-Marshal.”
“You!” Numitor shouted at Sark. “What is going on here!?”
The out of time Captain crept closer to Numitor as he cocked an eyebrow, “Our plans are proceeding as intended.”
“Oh yeah?” Numitor’s scathing response flew from his mouth, “Do I look like I’m running the Romulan government right now? Your little plot to capture Dewey and unite the Romulan people while crumbling the Federation… it didn’t work, Sark. No one cares! And now you have my police and guards going around the sectors rounding people up. And you’ve sent the Tal Shiar on a witch hunt for that fictional Klingon Dilithium bank. How exactly is that supposed to help me gain control of the government!? And now you’re burning down millions of bars of Gold Pressed Latnium!”
Sark simply gazed at Numitor with an expressionless look. The Vulcan showed no emotion, which was not exactly normal for this particular Vulcan.
The angered Romulan then turned to look at his guard and Sark’s dedicated disciple. “You two, get out of here.”
Sark looked to his Officer, “You may stay.” The crazed Vulcans gaze slowly drifted towards the young Romulan guard who responded by scampering off down the hall.
“No.” The sub-Marshal said in defiance. He turned to look back at Sark’s unnamed follower, “I’m in command here…” The Romulan meant to continue his words, but Sark placed his hand strategically on the man’s shoulder near his neck. Numitor froze in place.
“Do…” Sark started in as he slowly spun Numitor around to face him, “You really believe you have the ability to… give orders in this situation?” The psychopath stared deeply into the eyes of Numitor.
A look of slight shock drifted over the Sub-Marshals face. He had no idea how to respond to this madness. “But I… we paid you a fortune.”
Sark tilted his head slightly out of earnest confusion as his eyes squinted, “And you believe this puts you in charge?”
Numitor began breathing nervously as the Vulcan kept his hand in place ready to subdue him at any given moment. Numitor spoke softly now, “What is this?”
Sark gently pulled Numitor closer so that their faces were only a few inches from each other. “Your monetary compensation and facilities have been important to us… until now.” Sark released Numitor from his grip, but the Romulan stayed in place.
“What are you?” Numitor whispered. He didn’t yet fully understand what was going on.
Sark wasted no time in responding, “I’m the Galaxy’s solution to the governmental problems plaguing all the worlds. Here to end the decadence and stop the oppression.” Sark took a deep breath and continued, “I bring disarray to disrupt society and lawfulness so that everywhere and everyone… is equal.”
“You, you’re insane.” Numitor forced himself to speak even though it came out as more of a whimpered whisper.
“No!” Sark responded loudly with a smile upon his face. “I’m the only one left in this life still thinking logically.” Sark took one step backwards from the Sub-Marshal and explained things for him. His tone was decidedly much more colorful now, not the usual monotone attributed to Vulcans. He spoke lively, “Money is what has ruined your people, not the loss of your world. You require so much from so many others. So, I, uh, offered my services to you. In exchange you nearly bankrupted your people paying me in Gold Pressed Latnium… and your military began robbing others to supplement the payment I demanded. I have used what I needed, and saved some for later. The rest… is unimportant to me, but very important to our plan.” Numitor watched in horror as the crazed Captain revealed his plan. “The sum of nearly 87% of what the Galaxy has given to your people is, right now, in the process of being turned to dust. Valueless dust.” Sark slowly clasped his hands behind his back. “The loss of so much will destroy the market as a whole for the entire Galaxy.”
Numitor looked as if he was about to plead with Sark, but the deranged man was not yet done explaining things. “You may rest easy, Sub-Marshal. Your failed government will not be the only ones to suffer. The Tal Shiar were not sent on a ‘witch hunt’ as you put it. Just last night they found, and raided, the Klingon Empires key Dilithium storage facility. And as your Warbirds triumphantly vacated Klingon territory,” Sark raised his hand to chest height and squeezed it into a fist as the knuckles cracked, “my people liberated it from their possession.” The Vulcan returned to his usual thoughtful stance. “The Klingon Empire possessed nearly 62% of all the useful Dilithium in the known Galaxy. All the major factions trade in it, just like Gold Pressed Latnium. And just like with Gold Pressed Latnium, my people have been using their monetary means, which you provided, to acquire as much of the tradable assets as possible… which brings even more damage to the, now lost, two currency systems.”
Sub-Marshal Numitor stood there confused at what he was hearing. “Lost?”
“Indeed. Once we had placated your Tal Shiar, we…” Sark searched for the words, “pushed their ships into the nearest star.” Numitor’s jaw dropped. “And with them… over 79% of the Klingon Empires Dilithium reserves vanished in the ball of fire. That is where we are sending the remainder of the, uh, my Gold Pressed Latnium.”
“You’ll destroy two entire economies.” Sark expressed in an aghast voice.
“Yes.” Sark didn’t feel the need to explain further on what had been done. It was obvious.
The major factions in the Galaxy traded in Gold Pressed Latnium and Dilithium. They are the blood in the veins of the very systems that prop up civilizations. Sark didn’t just cut the veins, he sliced open an artery. Numitor could only imagine what was happening right now with the exchange system as people were seeing the value of their currencies destroyed. The prices would soar while the actual value of items would dramatically decrease. It would upset the entire system. Prices on everything would be skewed to the point where nothing will be worth anything and no one will be able to afford even the most common and cheap items in a short amount of time.
The entire system will be in an upheaval. Meanwhile, Numitor knew, the governments would cling to what is left with their dying breath to try and buy what they need to maintain functionality. The Sub-Marshal was high enough up in the Romulan military to understand that every government’s contingency plan in an economic crisis like this would be to acquire as much of what is left as possible and that means there will be virtually nothing left for the common individual. Common everyday people will need to develop a new means of currency that is accepted throughout the Galaxy, and that takes quite a bit of time to happen.
The immediate effect of Sark’s actions will be that everyone who had any significant stock, claim, or amount, of these currencies will be rich. Those who didn’t will find themselves poor and unable to afford anything. The only ones likely to have any significant amount will be the governments. Numitor knew all too well that when governments ride high on riches while the people dwell in poverty that a revolution will take place. It is the natural order of things.
“But…” The Sub-Marshal was trying to wrap his mind around the madness, “Why?”
Sark raised an eyebrow then shrugged, “Because.” The two man locked eyes for what seemed like forever for Numitor. He had no response for what had been done. “The Federation will jump at the chance to rescue everyone. They will spend the only remaining currency that has any value… Energy Credits. They believe they can restore peace by throwing money at the problem.” Sark took a deep breath and tipped his head back slightly as he closed his eyes, “They will be wrong.”
Numitor wanted to speak but had no clue what to say to all of this. He finally found the courage to say something, “Everyone will be poor. No one will be able to buy anything.”
“That is the point, Sub-Marshal.” Sark spoke while returning to his normal stance. “The people of this Galaxy will be forced to fend for themselves seeing and knowing that their governments will no longer be able to provide for them. They will throw off the chains of their oppressors and take what is rightfully theirs.”
“But nothing will have value. What are they to take? How is anyone to survive?” Numitor nearly sounded as if he was pleading.
“That is not for us to decide, Sub-Marshal.” Sark explained in his unsympathetic tone. Sark turned and began to walk away. He stopped and turned slightly. Though, not enough to actually look at Numitor. “You should relax.” The eccentric Vulcan took a moment to finish his words. “A change is on the horizon.”
Numitor could only imagine what kind of change. He knew that the people of this Galaxy will not accept all the wealth belonging to the governments. War was bad enough with the Federation and the Klingon Empire, now both sides will have to deal with their own people revolting against them in due time. All while the Romulan people languish and wait for help… help that no individual can any longer afford and that no government will be willing to spend. The only thing left to prop up society was Energy Credits, and it sounded as if Sark had a plan for that as well.
BREAKING NEWS
Captain Savel, the current Captain of the USS Gladiator, walked into her ready room. She had given the Bridge to her First Officer, Commander Carllet. The crew understood that their female Vulcan Captain often preferred to get work done in solitude much like Captain Dewey did. However, on this day, it was not normal work. A communication came through from Task Force: Argo’s headquarters. The order was for all senior officers to immediately watch the current news broadcast.
Captain Savel sat down behind the desk in her ready room and tapped into the display to see what was going on. The screen flashed on and the new Captain watched as a female reporter spoke.
“Across the sectors many Federation citizens woke up this morning… rich. Don’t go on a spending frenzy though. Economist say ‘it won’t last.’ In fact, it’s about to get worse than ever.”
“That’s right, Miranda.” The older male Andorian, sitting next to her, spoke up. “It’s been noticed, over the last several months, that the remnants of the Romulan Star Empire were stocking up on Gold Pressed Latnium. Many of the goods and materials they still possessed were being sold for GPL and many individual Romulans were only accepting large payments in GPL for expensive items. This chart here shows that despite being a broken government, the Romulans possessed nearly half of the Gold Pressed Latnium in the Galaxy. Now, that might have seemed like a good thing for them but now officials are saying… it’s gone.” The Andorian adjusted himself in his seat.
“Yes.” The woman started in. “Romulan officials are saying that someone had been funneling this money into an account of unknown origin. Most had suspected it was a reserve fund in case of another catastrophe or that it was being saved to rebuild the Romulan military. However, it’s now known that that account, whatever it was for, has been completely withdrawn from.”
The Andorian picked up, “What that means for anyone who has Gold Pressed Latnium is that the value of it just skyrocketed. And the same has just happened to Dilithium. However, it’s being reported that the Dilithium didn’t just vanish into a black hole as GPL seems to of have. The Klingon Defense Force released a statement today stating that 14 Tal Shiar ships raided a secret Klingon compound just the other day.”
The Human female jumped in, “And what they stole was the Imperial Governments strategic reserve of Dilithium. The Klingon Empire has had a string of excellent luck this last year, they acquired more than half of the Galaxy’s tradable Dilithium. They had been storing it and distributing it lightly to stimulate their economy. However, now all that is lost.”
“Starfleet Intelligence said,” The Andorian took this as his chance to jump in, “That no one outside of the Klingon Council should have been privy to the whereabouts of the Dilithium facility and it’s very unlikely the broken Tal Shiar would have gained this information without help from the inside. Starfleet Intelligence has also commented on the fact that the vessels used to raid the Klingon facility must have suffered a navigational error and drifted into the H’Atoria star.”
“Sounds like good news for anyone with GPL and Dilithium, but that is not the case our experts say.” The woman picked it back up. “Essentially, when something is rare it becomes more valuable. However, in this case, with these being intergalactic currencies, meaning they are not local currencies accepted on only 1 or a couple planets, that people are less likely to spend them now that they are so rare to come across again. The overall price of items that charge for GPL and DIL has gone down now that the currencies are more valuable, but people just aren’t spending.”
The Andorian spoke up, “That’s because it’s not a matter of the currencies just being held someplace and not being spent, it’s the fact that nearly half of all the GPL and DIL in the Galaxy no longer exist. People aren’t as quick to spend it because they know it is unlikely they’ll get it back. Not to mention, the Federation, Klingon Empire, and what’s left of the Romulan government are hot on the trail of rebuilding their stock piles of these currencies so they have tradable assets to afford the materials they need to stay afloat.”
“Fortunately, for the Federation,” The woman informed, “We have the Galaxy’s largest supply of Energy Credits. This means that even though two out of the three main currencies are crushed, citizens still have the ability to afford their way of life. And we can see, already, the panic on the exchange. Citizens across the sectors are trading their ever valuable GPL and DIL for simple Energy Credits. “
The Andorian adjusted his seating before he spoke, “Energy Credits are… the new number one currency for everyone everywhere now that the governments of the Galaxy are buying up and stock piling Gold Pressed Latnium… and Dilithium. You can see here from the Exchange display what things are currently looking like.”
“But for right now, with this current shock to the system, the current value of both the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire has plummeted. Pretty much the only thing any everyday person has of value right now… is Energy Credits. Eventually, economists say, the governments will be the majority holders of GPL and DIL and the average person may never even see or own a single bar of Gold Pressed Latnium or any Dilithium. And people are catching on to this fast. Citizens across the sectors will need to find a new way to buy goods and services… and right now, that way is Energy Credits.” The Human female reminded the viewers.
The Andorian’s tone was very gloomy, “We asked the Federation, the Breen, the Klingon Empire, and the Romulan government if they believe the market will ever recover from this devastating loss. They have all… declined to respond. However, the Ferengi have been more than vocal about their outrage. They know, probably better than most, just what this means for a tradable asset such as Gold Pressed Latnium… the sole currency their people currently use. And it won’t be of much value… when people only accept Energy Credits. The Ferengi Ambassador to the Romulans accused them of trying to ‘manually tip’ the monetary scale to eradicate the Ferengi Alliance.”
The woman suddenly got a pleasant look on her face, “And in other news, the Galaxy’s fastest… chicken? Scientist are reporting that they…”
Captain Savel, the current Captain of the USS Gladiator, walked into her ready room. She had given the Bridge to her First Officer, Commander Carllet. The crew understood that their female Vulcan Captain often preferred to get work done in solitude much like Captain Dewey did. However, on this day, it was not normal work. A communication came through from Task Force: Argo’s headquarters. The order was for all senior officers to immediately watch the current news broadcast.
Captain Savel sat down behind the desk in her ready room and tapped into the display to see what was going on. The screen flashed on and the new Captain watched as a female reporter spoke.
“Across the sectors many Federation citizens woke up this morning… rich. Don’t go on a spending frenzy though. Economist say ‘it won’t last.’ In fact, it’s about to get worse than ever.”
“That’s right, Miranda.” The older male Andorian, sitting next to her, spoke up. “It’s been noticed, over the last several months, that the remnants of the Romulan Star Empire were stocking up on Gold Pressed Latnium. Many of the goods and materials they still possessed were being sold for GPL and many individual Romulans were only accepting large payments in GPL for expensive items. This chart here shows that despite being a broken government, the Romulans possessed nearly half of the Gold Pressed Latnium in the Galaxy. Now, that might have seemed like a good thing for them but now officials are saying… it’s gone.” The Andorian adjusted himself in his seat.
“Yes.” The woman started in. “Romulan officials are saying that someone had been funneling this money into an account of unknown origin. Most had suspected it was a reserve fund in case of another catastrophe or that it was being saved to rebuild the Romulan military. However, it’s now known that that account, whatever it was for, has been completely withdrawn from.”
The Andorian picked up, “What that means for anyone who has Gold Pressed Latnium is that the value of it just skyrocketed. And the same has just happened to Dilithium. However, it’s being reported that the Dilithium didn’t just vanish into a black hole as GPL seems to of have. The Klingon Defense Force released a statement today stating that 14 Tal Shiar ships raided a secret Klingon compound just the other day.”
The Human female jumped in, “And what they stole was the Imperial Governments strategic reserve of Dilithium. The Klingon Empire has had a string of excellent luck this last year, they acquired more than half of the Galaxy’s tradable Dilithium. They had been storing it and distributing it lightly to stimulate their economy. However, now all that is lost.”
“Starfleet Intelligence said,” The Andorian took this as his chance to jump in, “That no one outside of the Klingon Council should have been privy to the whereabouts of the Dilithium facility and it’s very unlikely the broken Tal Shiar would have gained this information without help from the inside. Starfleet Intelligence has also commented on the fact that the vessels used to raid the Klingon facility must have suffered a navigational error and drifted into the H’Atoria star.”
“Sounds like good news for anyone with GPL and Dilithium, but that is not the case our experts say.” The woman picked it back up. “Essentially, when something is rare it becomes more valuable. However, in this case, with these being intergalactic currencies, meaning they are not local currencies accepted on only 1 or a couple planets, that people are less likely to spend them now that they are so rare to come across again. The overall price of items that charge for GPL and DIL has gone down now that the currencies are more valuable, but people just aren’t spending.”
The Andorian spoke up, “That’s because it’s not a matter of the currencies just being held someplace and not being spent, it’s the fact that nearly half of all the GPL and DIL in the Galaxy no longer exist. People aren’t as quick to spend it because they know it is unlikely they’ll get it back. Not to mention, the Federation, Klingon Empire, and what’s left of the Romulan government are hot on the trail of rebuilding their stock piles of these currencies so they have tradable assets to afford the materials they need to stay afloat.”
“Fortunately, for the Federation,” The woman informed, “We have the Galaxy’s largest supply of Energy Credits. This means that even though two out of the three main currencies are crushed, citizens still have the ability to afford their way of life. And we can see, already, the panic on the exchange. Citizens across the sectors are trading their ever valuable GPL and DIL for simple Energy Credits. “
The Andorian adjusted his seating before he spoke, “Energy Credits are… the new number one currency for everyone everywhere now that the governments of the Galaxy are buying up and stock piling Gold Pressed Latnium… and Dilithium. You can see here from the Exchange display what things are currently looking like.”
“But for right now, with this current shock to the system, the current value of both the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire has plummeted. Pretty much the only thing any everyday person has of value right now… is Energy Credits. Eventually, economists say, the governments will be the majority holders of GPL and DIL and the average person may never even see or own a single bar of Gold Pressed Latnium or any Dilithium. And people are catching on to this fast. Citizens across the sectors will need to find a new way to buy goods and services… and right now, that way is Energy Credits.” The Human female reminded the viewers.
The Andorian’s tone was very gloomy, “We asked the Federation, the Breen, the Klingon Empire, and the Romulan government if they believe the market will ever recover from this devastating loss. They have all… declined to respond. However, the Ferengi have been more than vocal about their outrage. They know, probably better than most, just what this means for a tradable asset such as Gold Pressed Latnium… the sole currency their people currently use. And it won’t be of much value… when people only accept Energy Credits. The Ferengi Ambassador to the Romulans accused them of trying to ‘manually tip’ the monetary scale to eradicate the Ferengi Alliance.”
The woman suddenly got a pleasant look on her face, “And in other news, the Galaxy’s fastest… chicken? Scientist are reporting that they…”
DRIZZLE
“Oh, save that.” D’Jaen said to Dewey. The scruffy Human held a large tin box in his hands. He just looked at it, confused, wondering why she would want it. The two were starting their turn of harvesting the minerals from the prison crater. D’Jaen and Dewey had been working together all the time for a while now. Their company to each other helped pass the time. Dewey held onto the can as they slowly walked to their place to begin work.
“It’s just trash. What are you going to do with it?” Dewey asked. It’s not as if either of them had much to keep in it.
“It floats. We can put some of our sleep gear in it.” D’Jaen started to trail off as she realized her infatuated fellow prisoner had no clue what one would need a floatable tin can for in a desert crater. The Romulan women stopped walking and bit her lip for a second before she started to explain, “Every year around this time…”
D’Jaen’s explanation was quickly cut off by the sound of twisting metal and shouts of panic.
Dewey could see, past his love interest, that one of the lifts that hauls up the mined rocks had stopped before it reached the top of the crater. The lift was shaking and stuttering, as if the engines were still trying to force it upward but something was preventing it. A few of the rocks tumbled off the platform and fell below which sent a bunch of the prisoners fleeing for fear of being struck by smaller rocks or crushed if one of the larger boulders fell.
One of the Romulan Centurions was trying to crank on something on the lift. To reach it, he had to lay on his stomach at the top of the crater to get his arms low enough to reach the dilapidated lift. But the Centurion was to far forward and off balance, when he tried to get even closer the rocks holding him up gave way. The Romulan tumbled through the air as he plummeted towards the prison floor. He bounced off the crater wall as he fell and landed most ungracefully. Dewey could see the guard was still moving and that the lift was becoming more and more unstable.
In a dash, the adventure seeking Human pushed passed D’Jaen without speaking a word. He sprinted to the Romulan’s location while others ran away. As Dewey got closer he had to dodge a few of the small rocks falling through the air. He could see the Centurion rolling in pain as dust and debris fell around him.
As soon as Dewey reached the fallen guard, the scruffy man grabbed hold of the Romulans collar. Months of smashing rocks and moving them made Dewey’s grip tight. He knew that despite the Centurions injuries, staying in this location was not acceptable. He had to move him. Dewey began pulling the injured guard to safety. In an instant, without realizing what happened, everything went black.
Dewey slowly woke up on a crude bench. The sounds of the place seemed distant to Dewey, his vision was blurred. An old Romulan stood over him checking his pulse. Dewey’s head throbbed as if there was a warp core in his head going critical. He began to sit up and the old Romulan gently helped him.
“You’re a very stupid man, aren’t you?” The Romulan was clearly crusty beyond just appearances. “Rushing over to save one of the men that keeps a gun on you all day to make sure you stay in this hole.” Dewey’s head was hurting so bad he could barely look at the man. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a rock hit you in the head first then you tried to save him.”
“Is he alright?” Dewey asked about the guard. He wasn’t sure why he tried to save him. He supposed he just didn’t feel right leaving someone to die like that.
“He’ll be fine.” Said a deep voice from behind Dewey. Dewey swore his mind had to be playing tricks on him. The Human slowly turned to see the exact person he knew the voice belonged to.
“Captain?” Was all Dewey could muster to say. Completely baffled and unsure if this was some delusion he was suffering from a blow to the head.
The Klingon stood there and continued. He was curious about the state of his former First Officer, “I’m more concerned about you.” The Klingon hobbled over and sat next to Dewey. He explained to the injured Human that a rock had hit him in the head rendering him unconscious and that his friend, the older Romulan known as Nimmer, treated him. “If you hadn’t gone and gotten yourself hurt, it’s likely I never would have known you were here.”
Dewey didn’t know what to say. The Klingon was Morg son of Morric, Dewey’s former Captain aboard the USS Gladiator. The two men talked for some time about how they found themselves stuck here. Captain Morg explained that when the Naussicans captured him (“Evil Design” chapter in this story) that he was deposited here. Dewey explained, but avoided the fine details, of how he ended up in here.
“What about the Gladiator?” Morg asked still curious of his former ship.
“She was pretty beat up last time I was there.” Dewey stood up to pace around to gauge his ability to function from his injury. “But she’s still around. She’s still making a difference.” Dewey was able to speak proudly of the ship. The Gladiator wasn’t the fastest, the strongest, the toughest, or even the oldest. But somehow, the ship always finds itself at the center of what is going on. For all its flaws it was, and remains, a well renowned ship for being in the right place at the right time.
Thinking of the old battleship opened up a flood gate of images to the Human’s mind. He thought about the ship through her years and how much she has changed and all she had been through.
His time as the First Officer with Carllet as the Chief Science Officer (who was now the new XO unbeknownst to him) on the Gladiator.
The inner workings of the ship.
And a slew of other thoughts that forced their way to the front of Dewey’s mind. He instantly became homesick.
Dewey quickly reminded himself that that wasn’t his home any more. He didn’t belong there. All that was in the past. No matter how fond his memories were of serving on the Gladiator, and commanding her, that journey has ended. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Nimmer, the one that had both helped and insulted Dewey just moments ago, came over to the Klingon and the Human.
“Your lady friend keeps asking about you.” The crusty Romulan said to Dewey. “And you,” He said now looking at Morg, “Some more people brought by supplies that will help keep you afloat.”
“Afloat?” Dewey asked. He had taken a seat on the ground from being slightly dizzy but too stubborn to mention that to anyone. “Why does everyone keep mentioning the need to float in a desert?”
“I guess you haven’t been here long enough to know better.” The older Romulan stated.
“See those clouds.” Morg pointed while looking in the distance. Dewey turned slightly to acknowledge them. “Every year around this time a storm hits. It pours for days and days. Floods the whole crater.”
“Last year,” Nimmer started explaining in a depressed voice, “three hundred fifty eight prisoners drowned. The weak, the old, the exhausted, the ones that don’t know how to swim. It gets difficult being in neck deep water for a week or so.”
Dewey thought about that for a moment. It would seem this place, as cruel as he truly understood it to be, is not as simple living as he had willfully commanded himself to believe. The struggle to survive was still prevalent no matter how routine this place appeared.
“Oh, save that.” D’Jaen said to Dewey. The scruffy Human held a large tin box in his hands. He just looked at it, confused, wondering why she would want it. The two were starting their turn of harvesting the minerals from the prison crater. D’Jaen and Dewey had been working together all the time for a while now. Their company to each other helped pass the time. Dewey held onto the can as they slowly walked to their place to begin work.
“It’s just trash. What are you going to do with it?” Dewey asked. It’s not as if either of them had much to keep in it.
“It floats. We can put some of our sleep gear in it.” D’Jaen started to trail off as she realized her infatuated fellow prisoner had no clue what one would need a floatable tin can for in a desert crater. The Romulan women stopped walking and bit her lip for a second before she started to explain, “Every year around this time…”
D’Jaen’s explanation was quickly cut off by the sound of twisting metal and shouts of panic.
Dewey could see, past his love interest, that one of the lifts that hauls up the mined rocks had stopped before it reached the top of the crater. The lift was shaking and stuttering, as if the engines were still trying to force it upward but something was preventing it. A few of the rocks tumbled off the platform and fell below which sent a bunch of the prisoners fleeing for fear of being struck by smaller rocks or crushed if one of the larger boulders fell.
One of the Romulan Centurions was trying to crank on something on the lift. To reach it, he had to lay on his stomach at the top of the crater to get his arms low enough to reach the dilapidated lift. But the Centurion was to far forward and off balance, when he tried to get even closer the rocks holding him up gave way. The Romulan tumbled through the air as he plummeted towards the prison floor. He bounced off the crater wall as he fell and landed most ungracefully. Dewey could see the guard was still moving and that the lift was becoming more and more unstable.
In a dash, the adventure seeking Human pushed passed D’Jaen without speaking a word. He sprinted to the Romulan’s location while others ran away. As Dewey got closer he had to dodge a few of the small rocks falling through the air. He could see the Centurion rolling in pain as dust and debris fell around him.
As soon as Dewey reached the fallen guard, the scruffy man grabbed hold of the Romulans collar. Months of smashing rocks and moving them made Dewey’s grip tight. He knew that despite the Centurions injuries, staying in this location was not acceptable. He had to move him. Dewey began pulling the injured guard to safety. In an instant, without realizing what happened, everything went black.
Dewey slowly woke up on a crude bench. The sounds of the place seemed distant to Dewey, his vision was blurred. An old Romulan stood over him checking his pulse. Dewey’s head throbbed as if there was a warp core in his head going critical. He began to sit up and the old Romulan gently helped him.
“You’re a very stupid man, aren’t you?” The Romulan was clearly crusty beyond just appearances. “Rushing over to save one of the men that keeps a gun on you all day to make sure you stay in this hole.” Dewey’s head was hurting so bad he could barely look at the man. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a rock hit you in the head first then you tried to save him.”
“Is he alright?” Dewey asked about the guard. He wasn’t sure why he tried to save him. He supposed he just didn’t feel right leaving someone to die like that.
“He’ll be fine.” Said a deep voice from behind Dewey. Dewey swore his mind had to be playing tricks on him. The Human slowly turned to see the exact person he knew the voice belonged to.
“Captain?” Was all Dewey could muster to say. Completely baffled and unsure if this was some delusion he was suffering from a blow to the head.
The Klingon stood there and continued. He was curious about the state of his former First Officer, “I’m more concerned about you.” The Klingon hobbled over and sat next to Dewey. He explained to the injured Human that a rock had hit him in the head rendering him unconscious and that his friend, the older Romulan known as Nimmer, treated him. “If you hadn’t gone and gotten yourself hurt, it’s likely I never would have known you were here.”
Dewey didn’t know what to say. The Klingon was Morg son of Morric, Dewey’s former Captain aboard the USS Gladiator. The two men talked for some time about how they found themselves stuck here. Captain Morg explained that when the Naussicans captured him (“Evil Design” chapter in this story) that he was deposited here. Dewey explained, but avoided the fine details, of how he ended up in here.
“What about the Gladiator?” Morg asked still curious of his former ship.
“She was pretty beat up last time I was there.” Dewey stood up to pace around to gauge his ability to function from his injury. “But she’s still around. She’s still making a difference.” Dewey was able to speak proudly of the ship. The Gladiator wasn’t the fastest, the strongest, the toughest, or even the oldest. But somehow, the ship always finds itself at the center of what is going on. For all its flaws it was, and remains, a well renowned ship for being in the right place at the right time.
Thinking of the old battleship opened up a flood gate of images to the Human’s mind. He thought about the ship through her years and how much she has changed and all she had been through.
His time as the First Officer with Carllet as the Chief Science Officer (who was now the new XO unbeknownst to him) on the Gladiator.
The inner workings of the ship.
And a slew of other thoughts that forced their way to the front of Dewey’s mind. He instantly became homesick.
Dewey quickly reminded himself that that wasn’t his home any more. He didn’t belong there. All that was in the past. No matter how fond his memories were of serving on the Gladiator, and commanding her, that journey has ended. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Nimmer, the one that had both helped and insulted Dewey just moments ago, came over to the Klingon and the Human.
“Your lady friend keeps asking about you.” The crusty Romulan said to Dewey. “And you,” He said now looking at Morg, “Some more people brought by supplies that will help keep you afloat.”
“Afloat?” Dewey asked. He had taken a seat on the ground from being slightly dizzy but too stubborn to mention that to anyone. “Why does everyone keep mentioning the need to float in a desert?”
“I guess you haven’t been here long enough to know better.” The older Romulan stated.
“See those clouds.” Morg pointed while looking in the distance. Dewey turned slightly to acknowledge them. “Every year around this time a storm hits. It pours for days and days. Floods the whole crater.”
“Last year,” Nimmer started explaining in a depressed voice, “three hundred fifty eight prisoners drowned. The weak, the old, the exhausted, the ones that don’t know how to swim. It gets difficult being in neck deep water for a week or so.”
Dewey thought about that for a moment. It would seem this place, as cruel as he truly understood it to be, is not as simple living as he had willfully commanded himself to believe. The struggle to survive was still prevalent no matter how routine this place appeared.
INTEGRITY
Wrot’Ka had fallen off the cliff and bounced off the face of it a time or two before he skidded down the steep dirty slope near the bottom. The Klingon was sore from his fall but he understood it was all thanks to pure luck. Had he paid attention, he never would have fallen like that. The deposed General also realized had he been just a few meters to the left or right he likely would be unable to move, or even breathe, right now.
He muscled his way back to his feet, grunting along the way. The warrior limped off farther into the dark hoping to put even more distance between him and his foe. Wrot’Ka jogged for what seemed half a world before stopping.
The Klingon looked around. He wasn’t tired or even that short of breath. His body ached from the beating he just took at the hands of Subject 13 and his irresponsible fall. What hurt the most right now, the thing that stopped him dead in his tracks, was his pride.
Wrot’Ka thought to himself, Have I really fallen so far, referring to his situation rather than his actual physical mishap, that I must retreat from my enemy? The Klingons face twisted at disgust for himself.
“Klingons do not retreat.” He muttered to himself.
Wrot’Ka hurried about gathering rocks, and vines, and branches. He had amassed an impressive collection in an extremely short amount of time. Time was, after all, extremely important. Subject 13 could show up at any moment. This is unless Subject 13 saw what Wrot’Ka saw. A lone individual standing in the jungle. The General wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he forced the thought out of his mind and focused on the task at hand.
There were large rocks and smaller sharp rocks. He had large long thick vines and smaller thinner vines as well. He used one of the smaller sharp rocks to shave and sharpen some of the branches. In his quest to acquire useful resources, Wrot’Ka also discovered a type of rock that looked and acted similar to a flint rock. The injured Klingon used it to build a fire. A dangerous move, but necessary for his plan.
The Klingon, with his hand made primitive tools, set about making spears, a rudimentary knife, and a series of traps. Wrot’Ka knew the traps would do little more than anger the creature if it were to walk into one. The General’s intent was not to kill it with some cheap trick, but rather to make the traps act as a funnel to move the creature where he wanted it. He intended to kill Subject 13 with his bare hands.
In the far off distance, Wrot’Ka heard Subject 13’s roar. As if it was fighting another opponent. Although the warrior was well aware that the monster had the advantage over him in every aspect, he did not want some other individual stealing his glory. Wrot’Ka sped up his work.
The Klingons blood burned hot as the thought of the kill pushed him to work harder and faster. He quickly set up his simple obstacles to push the creature where he wanted it. His spears, though few, were nearly as sharp as his Bat’Leth use to be. And his stone knife, a cruel rugged thing, was sure to slice the foul beast’s thick exterior.
Wrot’Ka had not known how much time had passed. He believed, but was uncertain, that the stars moved across the sky in a most unusual way. As if the planet was not on a normal, or stable, rotation. That didn’t matter just this moment. The time was right. He was ready.
The Klingon grabbed a nearby branch and shoved it into the fire. Once the branch and leafs were ablaze, he climbed back up the cliff face he had early fallen from. He stood there for a moment as he surveyed the jungle. He tried to spot his prey.
Wrot’Ka razed the burning branch above his head and took a deep breath. He let out a warriors battle cry that echoed through the valley. He took one more deep breath as his lungs filled to the point where they nearly burst, Wrot’Ka roared once more.
He was sending out a challenge. He was calling out Subject 13. Wrot’Ka was confident. He was ready. This will be his final battle against his greatest foe. The General will prove his worth to those that judged him in the afterlife. He will earn his place in Sto’Vo’Kor and leave this wretched place.
Wrot’Ka had fallen off the cliff and bounced off the face of it a time or two before he skidded down the steep dirty slope near the bottom. The Klingon was sore from his fall but he understood it was all thanks to pure luck. Had he paid attention, he never would have fallen like that. The deposed General also realized had he been just a few meters to the left or right he likely would be unable to move, or even breathe, right now.
He muscled his way back to his feet, grunting along the way. The warrior limped off farther into the dark hoping to put even more distance between him and his foe. Wrot’Ka jogged for what seemed half a world before stopping.
The Klingon looked around. He wasn’t tired or even that short of breath. His body ached from the beating he just took at the hands of Subject 13 and his irresponsible fall. What hurt the most right now, the thing that stopped him dead in his tracks, was his pride.
Wrot’Ka thought to himself, Have I really fallen so far, referring to his situation rather than his actual physical mishap, that I must retreat from my enemy? The Klingons face twisted at disgust for himself.
“Klingons do not retreat.” He muttered to himself.
Wrot’Ka hurried about gathering rocks, and vines, and branches. He had amassed an impressive collection in an extremely short amount of time. Time was, after all, extremely important. Subject 13 could show up at any moment. This is unless Subject 13 saw what Wrot’Ka saw. A lone individual standing in the jungle. The General wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he forced the thought out of his mind and focused on the task at hand.
There were large rocks and smaller sharp rocks. He had large long thick vines and smaller thinner vines as well. He used one of the smaller sharp rocks to shave and sharpen some of the branches. In his quest to acquire useful resources, Wrot’Ka also discovered a type of rock that looked and acted similar to a flint rock. The injured Klingon used it to build a fire. A dangerous move, but necessary for his plan.
The Klingon, with his hand made primitive tools, set about making spears, a rudimentary knife, and a series of traps. Wrot’Ka knew the traps would do little more than anger the creature if it were to walk into one. The General’s intent was not to kill it with some cheap trick, but rather to make the traps act as a funnel to move the creature where he wanted it. He intended to kill Subject 13 with his bare hands.
In the far off distance, Wrot’Ka heard Subject 13’s roar. As if it was fighting another opponent. Although the warrior was well aware that the monster had the advantage over him in every aspect, he did not want some other individual stealing his glory. Wrot’Ka sped up his work.
The Klingons blood burned hot as the thought of the kill pushed him to work harder and faster. He quickly set up his simple obstacles to push the creature where he wanted it. His spears, though few, were nearly as sharp as his Bat’Leth use to be. And his stone knife, a cruel rugged thing, was sure to slice the foul beast’s thick exterior.
Wrot’Ka had not known how much time had passed. He believed, but was uncertain, that the stars moved across the sky in a most unusual way. As if the planet was not on a normal, or stable, rotation. That didn’t matter just this moment. The time was right. He was ready.
The Klingon grabbed a nearby branch and shoved it into the fire. Once the branch and leafs were ablaze, he climbed back up the cliff face he had early fallen from. He stood there for a moment as he surveyed the jungle. He tried to spot his prey.
Wrot’Ka razed the burning branch above his head and took a deep breath. He let out a warriors battle cry that echoed through the valley. He took one more deep breath as his lungs filled to the point where they nearly burst, Wrot’Ka roared once more.
He was sending out a challenge. He was calling out Subject 13. Wrot’Ka was confident. He was ready. This will be his final battle against his greatest foe. The General will prove his worth to those that judged him in the afterlife. He will earn his place in Sto’Vo’Kor and leave this wretched place.
CHAMPIONS OF FATE PART 1
Dewey sunk beneath the water just for a second as a large splash crashed over his head made by the panicking prisoners. He was standing on the tips of his toes just to keep his jaw above the water. The rain was pouring down like he had never experienced before in his life. People were screaming and shouting. Bursts of weapon discharges were heard as stray shots hit the scaffold the guards walked across and caused sparks to rain down in the chaos of the crater.
Dewey could barely keep his head above water as he was trying to keep his unconscious former Captain from drowning. The water splashed up his nose and washed into his mouth as the Human frantically tried to breathe while using every muscle in his body to prop the limp Klingon up. He continually adjusted his grip, but nothing seemed to work.
The Human tried calling out for D’Jaen, but she didn’t answer back. He began to panic more so now. He was slightly concerned over the quick rise, and now depth, of the water. He grew worried over Morg being knocked out. He was more confused than bothered when the shots rang out. It wasn’t until he cried out for the woman he had fallen in love for, only to realize she was nowhere to be found, did the man truly start to panic.
Dewey had to dip below the surface of the water to get a lower grip on the Klingons body to lift him up. The Human was already short of breath and his muscles tired from the constant swim and weight of Morg. Now, in an act of desperation to keep one of the former Captains of the USS Gladiator literally afloat, Dewey had to submerge himself to raise Morg up and risk his own life for the Captain he feels he let down so many years ago.
Swarms of prisoners splashed around in terror as some floated, face down, and others made a futile attempt at climbing out of the depths of this soggy hell.
“D’Jaen!” Dewey bellowed at the top of his lungs once his head breached the murky water’s surface. Though, the man could hardly be heard over the screams of his fellow prisoners, the shots zipping across above them, the massive unreal downpour that flooded the crater, and the persistent splashes that lapped at his mouth. Dewey tried again and again to call out to D’Jaen, but it was of no use. She wasn’t in the crater. And with each frantic yell, Dewey became more and more fatigued. His grip was slowly slipping on his Klingon mentor. The water was rising. Dewey could swim or float if he wished. However, the stubborn man would be damned before he let his Captain be taken from him again for his lack of effort.
40 MINUTES EARLIER
Sub-Marshal Numitor rounded the corner inside the military complex located on the desolate planet. It was the wet season here so most of the guards who held rank reserved the right to stay inside while the newer/lesser ranked guards were forced to still conduct business as usual in the torrential downpour.
As Numitor approached his office one of the young Romulan Uhlans walked towards him from down the hall. Once the Uhlan was in front of the Sub-Marshal’s office door, he stopped and snapped to attention. The echo from his shinny boots rippled down the hall. The Uhlan waited for Numitor to get closer before speaking.
“Shaoi kon, Sub-Marshal!” The Uhlan sounded off whilst issuing a sharp quick salute by clenching his fist to his chest and raising his elbow up in an almost Third Reich style salute.
Numitor simply stopped and looked, uncaring, at the Uhlan. The Sub-Marshal did not return the salute nor did he even speak.
“Sub-Marshal…” The young Uhlan waited but his superior said nothing. The fresh Romulan continued, “Sub-Marshal, the woman you requested… she is ready.” Numitor nodded and began to turn away, but the Uhlan had more information, “There is also a Ferengi merchant ship that has just landed with supplies. And another shuttle has landed with aliens requesting shipping work, my Sub-Marshal.”
Numitor let out a sigh. “Pay the Ferengi and get him out of here. Ensure his navigation records are erased once he is far enough away. I’m tired of dealing with these gypsies.” Numitor looked down at his boots for a second before returning his gaze to his subordinate. “Tell the aliens looking for work to look elsewhere. We have…” The Sub-Marshal paused for a moment and reconsidered his options, “No, just kill them. Better to not leave anyone holding a grudge against this place.”
“Yes, my Sub-Marshal.” The Uhlan responded. He waited as Numitor just looked at him with an expressionless face.
Finally, Numitor raised his eyebrows, “That’s all. Go away.”
The Uhlan once again rendered his salute to his superior officer and shouted, “Hail, Empress Sela!”
Numitor was unimpressed. Mostly due to his unsavory situation in their collapsed government. Numitor was no longer sure who his allegiance belonged too. The time was quickly approaching for when Numitor would have to pick the side that was most likely to win this struggle for the Romulan government. Numitor decided to give a very generic response in an unenthused tone an issuing only a dismissive hand wave instead of a salute, “Long live the Empire.” The Sub-Marshal turned and walked into his office.
D’Jaen was seated in the Sub-Marshal’s dining room. She was wearing a beautiful dress provided to her by the guards. The Romulan woman was reluctant to wear it, but she had it explained to her that she had no choice. There were two guards nearby who snapped to attention once their Sub-Marshal entered.
Numitor strolled in and motioned for the guards to leave. Lesser disciplined guards might have hesitated at such an unusual order to leave a “convicted” criminal alone with the commanding officer of the base, but these two obviously knew better than to question any order issued by Sub-Marshal Numitor.
As the guards left, Numitor grabbed a bottle of Romulan Ale and the (half empty) bottle of Earth Whiskey he had once held for Captain Dewey. He stopped and looked slightly to the ceiling, “Computer…” he waited for the chime to ensure the computer was ready for his query, “Play the glorious Anthem of the Romulans.” As ordered, the computer began playing the Anthem for the Romulan Star Empire. A beautiful melody to any Romulan ears which sings of intellect and pride amongst their “superior” race.
(Romulan Anthem sung in the Romulan Language to help set the mood)
He casually walked over to D’Jaen. “This song always reminds me of better days. Drink?”
D’Jaen had been watching Numitor the entire time he had been in the room, her head moving ever so subtly as he walked about. As he grew closer to her she fixed her gaze on no particular spot on the wall. When asked about the drink she calmly responded, “No, but thanks for the offer.”
“Is there no cause for a celebratory drink?” Numitor asked as he poured himself some of the Earth Whiskey. He waited for a response that would not come from D’Jaen. “Surely, you can appreciate the Anthem of our people, and what better way to do so then to partake in a drink.”
“What is there to celebrate?” D’Jaen scoffed.
Numitor sipped at the whiskey which he had grown all too fond of lately. He took a deep breath before saying, “You could be out in the rain with the rest of the criminals.” He walked behind the seated woman and asked once more, “You sure you don’t want a drink? Your… mate is rather fond of this particular bottle.”
Meanwhile, in the landing bay of the Romulan prison, Dewey’s unlikely rescuers were adjusting their plan, accordingly, to get Dewey. They had just landed their shuttle under the pretext that they were looking for work. Romulan guards, off in the distance, walked towards the group of them.
Dalmor stood next to the Human Pirate, Sti Guff. Major Serat, Mahk, Ixer, and Odesser all lingered in the back. Dalmor had the gift of gab and Guff knew the inner workings of the system. So they were going to spearhead this operation.
Dalmor whispered to Guff, “Just stay calm. See if you can arrange a meeting to draw a few of them away.”
“I cann’it be going all be me one-some, mate.” Guff said back. “There’s no way they’d leave all of you unattended as it were.”
Dalmor forced a smile on his face as the guards drew near. He quietly said, “Let me handle that.”
“All of you, come with us.” The one guard said in a stern voice.
“So, you’re hiring then? Excellent. We…” Dalmor began to work his words but was silenced.
“Quiet!” The Romulan guard yelled. He drew his sidearm and pointed it at Dalmor. “Come with us now.” The rest of the guards also brandished their weapons as a show of force.
The Human Pirate and Cardassian looked at each other. “Plan B it is then.” The smart-remarked Guff said.
Major Serat let out a tyrannosaurus rex like roar that frightened even some of his own cohorts and likely blew out an eardrum or two. At that instant, the enormous Gorn drew out his custom designed dual Phaser pistols. Odesser reached behind his cape and brought his Disruptor Split Beam Rifle out and quickly discharged a shot at one of the guards which sent the Romulan flying backwards. Mahk kicked open a crate at his feet and knelt down to toss up a weapon to Ixer who immediately began going berserk throughout the landing bay. Mahk grabbed a weapon to begin firing at the Romulans before finding some sort of cover in the landing bay.
(Music to set the tone)
Dalmor capitalized on the confusion from the guard in front of him and snatched the Romulan’s weapon out of his hand. As Dalmor wrestled the Romulan off balance to use him as a shield, he opened up his coat to grab his concealed autocarbine and started opening up on his friend’s captors.
Sti Guff realized he was the only man in the room without a gun and began frantically, yet in a slightly calm way, running around for cover as energy beams darted about the landing bay and caused sparks to fly off the walls, crates, and shuttles as they missed their targets.
A few Romulan guards were picked off here and there. The Breen, Mahk, was huddled down behind a crate. He made a bunch of loud tones to Serat who was nearby and responded, “Stop complaining and start killing!”
Dalmor shouted to Odesser. Both men were trying to be as skinny as they could get behind a small support beam. Green energy bolts flew so close to them that they could feel the heat. “This isn’t exactly how I expected us to be greated.” The Cardassian protested.
“They’re sending in reinforcements!” Odesser shouted back.
Alarms were sounding, weapons firing, Romulans and the rescuers alike were communicating amongst each other so they could maneuver and more accurately engage their enemies.
The water was getting higher and higher in the crater. Dewey, Morg, and Nimmer stayed close together as panic began to overtake their fellow prisoners. The rain had caused the water level to raise up to Dewey’s chest now. It was the first time he had anything remotely close to a shower since he had been captured.
Dewey looked around for D’Jaen, but couldn’t find her. She had left several minutes ago to ensure no one was looting what little belongings they had while Dewey stayed with Morg. D’Jaen hadn’t returned yet. Dewey began to worry. He wondered if she had gotten hurt somehow in all the turmoil.
The Human stayed with Morg, though. Dewey had learned that his Klingon mentor had suffered a debilitating wound to his leg years ago from being captured. It was hard for Morg to get around. If the water level got high enough, he would need help to survive.
Fights were breaking out amongst the prisoners over petty things. People were frantic. Some tried climbing out to no avail. Either they would slip and fall or get shot by one of the Romulan guards. Hundreds of prisoners were screaming in terror and yelling for help from unsympathetic guards.
“Tell me what he has told you!” Numitor screamed in D’Jaen’s face. The Romulan Anthem that once blared over the speakers to the room was now replaced with alert sirens while cautionary lights blinked rapidly on nearby consoles. Numitor had quickly issued the order to take the intruders alive so that he could figure out who they were and why they were here. Tie up any loose ends.
“What does it matter.” She calmly responded. The Sub-Marshal had been going on and on about the safety and security of the Romulan people and how any secrets Dewey may have shared with her would only enrich both her life and the prosperity of her people.
In truth, Numitor was reaching. He was trying to find something, anything, he could use to show his usefulness to the Tal Shiar. Or maybe even hold onto the information for himself to show those hippies living on New Romulus that he can be trusted and isn’t anything like the Tal Shiar. Either way, information was crucial for his career, where ever that may be at this point. And the Sub-Marshal was tired of waiting for answers to drop in his lap. Surely Dewey’s love interest must know something.
“Maybe if I drag him in here and start torturing you in front of him he’ll cough up what I want!” Numitor was starting to reach the depths of his own character. Even for him, this sort of act was barbaric in nature and not something he had ever used before. But he was desperate.
D’Jaen remained calm and said nothing. Numitor was getting more and more frustrated, “Or perhaps if I start subjecting him to pain... you’ll start talking!” D’Jaen looked at Numitor with a scowl.
Dewey sunk beneath the water just for a second as a large splash crashed over his head made by the panicking prisoners. He was standing on the tips of his toes just to keep his jaw above the water. The rain was pouring down like he had never experienced before in his life. People were screaming and shouting. Bursts of weapon discharges were heard as stray shots hit the scaffold the guards walked across and caused sparks to rain down in the chaos of the crater.
Dewey could barely keep his head above water as he was trying to keep his unconscious former Captain from drowning. The water splashed up his nose and washed into his mouth as the Human frantically tried to breathe while using every muscle in his body to prop the limp Klingon up. He continually adjusted his grip, but nothing seemed to work.
The Human tried calling out for D’Jaen, but she didn’t answer back. He began to panic more so now. He was slightly concerned over the quick rise, and now depth, of the water. He grew worried over Morg being knocked out. He was more confused than bothered when the shots rang out. It wasn’t until he cried out for the woman he had fallen in love for, only to realize she was nowhere to be found, did the man truly start to panic.
Dewey had to dip below the surface of the water to get a lower grip on the Klingons body to lift him up. The Human was already short of breath and his muscles tired from the constant swim and weight of Morg. Now, in an act of desperation to keep one of the former Captains of the USS Gladiator literally afloat, Dewey had to submerge himself to raise Morg up and risk his own life for the Captain he feels he let down so many years ago.
Swarms of prisoners splashed around in terror as some floated, face down, and others made a futile attempt at climbing out of the depths of this soggy hell.
“D’Jaen!” Dewey bellowed at the top of his lungs once his head breached the murky water’s surface. Though, the man could hardly be heard over the screams of his fellow prisoners, the shots zipping across above them, the massive unreal downpour that flooded the crater, and the persistent splashes that lapped at his mouth. Dewey tried again and again to call out to D’Jaen, but it was of no use. She wasn’t in the crater. And with each frantic yell, Dewey became more and more fatigued. His grip was slowly slipping on his Klingon mentor. The water was rising. Dewey could swim or float if he wished. However, the stubborn man would be damned before he let his Captain be taken from him again for his lack of effort.
40 MINUTES EARLIER
Sub-Marshal Numitor rounded the corner inside the military complex located on the desolate planet. It was the wet season here so most of the guards who held rank reserved the right to stay inside while the newer/lesser ranked guards were forced to still conduct business as usual in the torrential downpour.
As Numitor approached his office one of the young Romulan Uhlans walked towards him from down the hall. Once the Uhlan was in front of the Sub-Marshal’s office door, he stopped and snapped to attention. The echo from his shinny boots rippled down the hall. The Uhlan waited for Numitor to get closer before speaking.
“Shaoi kon, Sub-Marshal!” The Uhlan sounded off whilst issuing a sharp quick salute by clenching his fist to his chest and raising his elbow up in an almost Third Reich style salute.
Numitor simply stopped and looked, uncaring, at the Uhlan. The Sub-Marshal did not return the salute nor did he even speak.
“Sub-Marshal…” The young Uhlan waited but his superior said nothing. The fresh Romulan continued, “Sub-Marshal, the woman you requested… she is ready.” Numitor nodded and began to turn away, but the Uhlan had more information, “There is also a Ferengi merchant ship that has just landed with supplies. And another shuttle has landed with aliens requesting shipping work, my Sub-Marshal.”
Numitor let out a sigh. “Pay the Ferengi and get him out of here. Ensure his navigation records are erased once he is far enough away. I’m tired of dealing with these gypsies.” Numitor looked down at his boots for a second before returning his gaze to his subordinate. “Tell the aliens looking for work to look elsewhere. We have…” The Sub-Marshal paused for a moment and reconsidered his options, “No, just kill them. Better to not leave anyone holding a grudge against this place.”
“Yes, my Sub-Marshal.” The Uhlan responded. He waited as Numitor just looked at him with an expressionless face.
Finally, Numitor raised his eyebrows, “That’s all. Go away.”
The Uhlan once again rendered his salute to his superior officer and shouted, “Hail, Empress Sela!”
Numitor was unimpressed. Mostly due to his unsavory situation in their collapsed government. Numitor was no longer sure who his allegiance belonged too. The time was quickly approaching for when Numitor would have to pick the side that was most likely to win this struggle for the Romulan government. Numitor decided to give a very generic response in an unenthused tone an issuing only a dismissive hand wave instead of a salute, “Long live the Empire.” The Sub-Marshal turned and walked into his office.
D’Jaen was seated in the Sub-Marshal’s dining room. She was wearing a beautiful dress provided to her by the guards. The Romulan woman was reluctant to wear it, but she had it explained to her that she had no choice. There were two guards nearby who snapped to attention once their Sub-Marshal entered.
Numitor strolled in and motioned for the guards to leave. Lesser disciplined guards might have hesitated at such an unusual order to leave a “convicted” criminal alone with the commanding officer of the base, but these two obviously knew better than to question any order issued by Sub-Marshal Numitor.
As the guards left, Numitor grabbed a bottle of Romulan Ale and the (half empty) bottle of Earth Whiskey he had once held for Captain Dewey. He stopped and looked slightly to the ceiling, “Computer…” he waited for the chime to ensure the computer was ready for his query, “Play the glorious Anthem of the Romulans.” As ordered, the computer began playing the Anthem for the Romulan Star Empire. A beautiful melody to any Romulan ears which sings of intellect and pride amongst their “superior” race.
(Romulan Anthem sung in the Romulan Language to help set the mood)
He casually walked over to D’Jaen. “This song always reminds me of better days. Drink?”
D’Jaen had been watching Numitor the entire time he had been in the room, her head moving ever so subtly as he walked about. As he grew closer to her she fixed her gaze on no particular spot on the wall. When asked about the drink she calmly responded, “No, but thanks for the offer.”
“Is there no cause for a celebratory drink?” Numitor asked as he poured himself some of the Earth Whiskey. He waited for a response that would not come from D’Jaen. “Surely, you can appreciate the Anthem of our people, and what better way to do so then to partake in a drink.”
“What is there to celebrate?” D’Jaen scoffed.
Numitor sipped at the whiskey which he had grown all too fond of lately. He took a deep breath before saying, “You could be out in the rain with the rest of the criminals.” He walked behind the seated woman and asked once more, “You sure you don’t want a drink? Your… mate is rather fond of this particular bottle.”
Meanwhile, in the landing bay of the Romulan prison, Dewey’s unlikely rescuers were adjusting their plan, accordingly, to get Dewey. They had just landed their shuttle under the pretext that they were looking for work. Romulan guards, off in the distance, walked towards the group of them.
Dalmor stood next to the Human Pirate, Sti Guff. Major Serat, Mahk, Ixer, and Odesser all lingered in the back. Dalmor had the gift of gab and Guff knew the inner workings of the system. So they were going to spearhead this operation.
Dalmor whispered to Guff, “Just stay calm. See if you can arrange a meeting to draw a few of them away.”
“I cann’it be going all be me one-some, mate.” Guff said back. “There’s no way they’d leave all of you unattended as it were.”
Dalmor forced a smile on his face as the guards drew near. He quietly said, “Let me handle that.”
“All of you, come with us.” The one guard said in a stern voice.
“So, you’re hiring then? Excellent. We…” Dalmor began to work his words but was silenced.
“Quiet!” The Romulan guard yelled. He drew his sidearm and pointed it at Dalmor. “Come with us now.” The rest of the guards also brandished their weapons as a show of force.
The Human Pirate and Cardassian looked at each other. “Plan B it is then.” The smart-remarked Guff said.
Major Serat let out a tyrannosaurus rex like roar that frightened even some of his own cohorts and likely blew out an eardrum or two. At that instant, the enormous Gorn drew out his custom designed dual Phaser pistols. Odesser reached behind his cape and brought his Disruptor Split Beam Rifle out and quickly discharged a shot at one of the guards which sent the Romulan flying backwards. Mahk kicked open a crate at his feet and knelt down to toss up a weapon to Ixer who immediately began going berserk throughout the landing bay. Mahk grabbed a weapon to begin firing at the Romulans before finding some sort of cover in the landing bay.
(Music to set the tone)
Dalmor capitalized on the confusion from the guard in front of him and snatched the Romulan’s weapon out of his hand. As Dalmor wrestled the Romulan off balance to use him as a shield, he opened up his coat to grab his concealed autocarbine and started opening up on his friend’s captors.
Sti Guff realized he was the only man in the room without a gun and began frantically, yet in a slightly calm way, running around for cover as energy beams darted about the landing bay and caused sparks to fly off the walls, crates, and shuttles as they missed their targets.
A few Romulan guards were picked off here and there. The Breen, Mahk, was huddled down behind a crate. He made a bunch of loud tones to Serat who was nearby and responded, “Stop complaining and start killing!”
Dalmor shouted to Odesser. Both men were trying to be as skinny as they could get behind a small support beam. Green energy bolts flew so close to them that they could feel the heat. “This isn’t exactly how I expected us to be greated.” The Cardassian protested.
“They’re sending in reinforcements!” Odesser shouted back.
Alarms were sounding, weapons firing, Romulans and the rescuers alike were communicating amongst each other so they could maneuver and more accurately engage their enemies.
The water was getting higher and higher in the crater. Dewey, Morg, and Nimmer stayed close together as panic began to overtake their fellow prisoners. The rain had caused the water level to raise up to Dewey’s chest now. It was the first time he had anything remotely close to a shower since he had been captured.
Dewey looked around for D’Jaen, but couldn’t find her. She had left several minutes ago to ensure no one was looting what little belongings they had while Dewey stayed with Morg. D’Jaen hadn’t returned yet. Dewey began to worry. He wondered if she had gotten hurt somehow in all the turmoil.
The Human stayed with Morg, though. Dewey had learned that his Klingon mentor had suffered a debilitating wound to his leg years ago from being captured. It was hard for Morg to get around. If the water level got high enough, he would need help to survive.
Fights were breaking out amongst the prisoners over petty things. People were frantic. Some tried climbing out to no avail. Either they would slip and fall or get shot by one of the Romulan guards. Hundreds of prisoners were screaming in terror and yelling for help from unsympathetic guards.
“Tell me what he has told you!” Numitor screamed in D’Jaen’s face. The Romulan Anthem that once blared over the speakers to the room was now replaced with alert sirens while cautionary lights blinked rapidly on nearby consoles. Numitor had quickly issued the order to take the intruders alive so that he could figure out who they were and why they were here. Tie up any loose ends.
“What does it matter.” She calmly responded. The Sub-Marshal had been going on and on about the safety and security of the Romulan people and how any secrets Dewey may have shared with her would only enrich both her life and the prosperity of her people.
In truth, Numitor was reaching. He was trying to find something, anything, he could use to show his usefulness to the Tal Shiar. Or maybe even hold onto the information for himself to show those hippies living on New Romulus that he can be trusted and isn’t anything like the Tal Shiar. Either way, information was crucial for his career, where ever that may be at this point. And the Sub-Marshal was tired of waiting for answers to drop in his lap. Surely Dewey’s love interest must know something.
“Maybe if I drag him in here and start torturing you in front of him he’ll cough up what I want!” Numitor was starting to reach the depths of his own character. Even for him, this sort of act was barbaric in nature and not something he had ever used before. But he was desperate.
D’Jaen remained calm and said nothing. Numitor was getting more and more frustrated, “Or perhaps if I start subjecting him to pain... you’ll start talking!” D’Jaen looked at Numitor with a scowl.
EVIL BEGETS VIRTUE
The albino looking monstrosity burrowed through the jungle until it found the opening where Wrot’Ka was just moments ago. The beast sniffed the air, but it could not detect the Klingon. Subject 13 began looking around as it sensed a trap. It could see the nearby fire still flickering.
(Music to set the tone)
Wrot’Ka waited in the water close by. He remained submerged up to his nose to avoid detection. He gripped his spear in his hand tightly. He waited for just the right moment as the foul creature searched about for signs of the General. Slowly, the Warrior rose up out of the water. His motions were silent. He brought the spear above his head as he positioned it to throw. Subject 13 was oblivious to the Generals actions as it’s back was turned to the water. 13 noticed a couple of the rudimentary traps Wrot’Ka had set.
The beast uncovered one of the small pitfalls Wrot’Ka had hastily engineered. Subject 13 grunted and continued looking about. Unbeknownst to him Wrot’Ka was striking a near perfect spear throwing pose. The Klingons arm cut through the air as the spear flew through the still night. The crude spear flew straight and true towards its target.
Wrot’Ka was not aiming for Subject 13. Affixed to the end of the spear was the same type of rock the General had used to start the fire. He had found more like it and shaved and ground them down all over a set of dry sticks and leaves. As the spear struck the exact spot Wrot’Ka had aimed for, the conspicuous pile of dry jungle parts burst into flames. As this happened, Wrot’Ka went completely underwater and swam for shore.
Subject 13 spun to see what the ruckus was. He caught a glimpse of a burning trail that led to more piles which, in turn, exploded in sequence. Eventually, the mammoth found himself surrounded by flames. With each explosion a jungle vine was burnt to the point it lost integrity. With that, large logs snapped into place around the burning trap. The logs themself had been set up in an almost reverse tension trap style so that once the jungle vines had been severed the logs would pop into place. Each log had multiple sharp sticks tied to it.
The beast was nearly completely trapped. There was only one open spot for it to escape from. Even for the superior creature that Subject 13 was, this all happened so fast.
Wrot’Ka had reached the shore. He crawled, like an alligator, towards the circle of fire. Once he was close enough, the Klingon jumped to his feet. He sprinted the short distance leapt through the air and through the fire.
General Wrot’Ka landed on his feet in a crouched position. The cunning warrior plunged his hand into the sand and pulled on a vine. This set the last couple logs, with sharp sticks, into place. Subject 13 was on the opposite side of the trap. The pale abomination and the Klingon Warrior glared at each other as they slowly began circling the inside of the trap. Both combatants moved in the same direction at the same pace. They were like two caged animals about to fight to the death.
Subject 13 made a loud roar like that of lion. Wrot’Ka was unshaken, he merely revealed his sharp toothy Klingon grin. If anything, Subject 13 was the one who was more disturbed at the situation than Wrot’Ka. The Klingon looked all too thrilled for this battle.
“You fool! Now you are trapped with me!” Subject 13 yelled at Wrot’Ka. The Klingon was not intimidated. The light from the flames flickered off of the two rivals in the crisp night air.
Wrot’Ka stopped and stood up straight and pointed at his opponent. “This is where you die!”
Like two rams on a mountain side, Wrot’Ka and Subject 13 slammed into each other. Subject 13 had the height, weight, and muscle advantage over Wrot’Ka and the General knew this. The Klingon went to work quickly on the beasts legs by driving his shoulder into 13’s knee. This hit only phased the creature for a short time.
Like two competitors in the arenas of ancient time, the two men fought. Quick and hard punches were landed by both sides as elbows and knees connected with torsos and limps alike. Subject 13 was stunned by the ferocity of the Warrior’s strikes and the rapid pace at which they came.
Wrot’Ka fought like he had never fought before. This was not just a battle for glory or honor. It was not a simple battle in which his life was on the line. This was a war for who he is and what he stands for. Not once did Wrot’Ka consider using the sharpened knife on his opponent. This fight must be honorable. The Klingon was determined to achieve a clean victory or a glorious defeat.
Subject 13 was not so shocked that he was unable to land several vicious hits. Blood flew from Wrot’Ka’s mouth and nose. But every now and then the Klingon landed a hard punch or knee to just the right spot on the disgraceful figure.
As the slugfest continued with no clear winner on either side, Subject 13 tried grabbing hold of Wrot’Ka and picking him up in a bear-hug. 13 started to squeeze the life out of Wrot’Ka as the General yelled out in pain.
Quickly, Wrot’Ka starting punching the beast in its eye. It didn’t take many hits before the Klingon felt his knuckle connect with the soft spongy organic material that had to be the things actual eyeball. Instantly, Subject 13 dropped Wrot’Ka and it stumbled backwards.
The deserted General wasted no time as he rushed for his enemy and tackled him to the ground. Wrot’Ka landed ontop of 13 and began pummeling him with fists of rage that could only belong to that of a true Klingon Warrior.
Subject 13 pushed Wrot’Ka off him and quickly got to it’s feet. When Wrot’Ka tried to rush it again, the foul monster picked the Klingon up and flung him at the cage that kept them in. Somehow Wrot’Ka’s torso smashed into the perfect spot of the logs. A spot he accidentally left without any spikes. However, one of the long sharpened sticks punctured all the way through General’s upper leg. As Wrot’Ka burst through the flames and wooden contraptions he had set, he landed hard on the jungle floor. The beast lunged after the Klingon he had hunted for years.
The sun was starting to come up over the horizon as both Klingon and beast continued to physically punish one another. Neither party was content with fleeing. Both were determined to kill the other.
Now, Wrot’Ka was at a disadvantage having suffered such a severe wound to his leg. Wrot’Ka still fought with all the intensity of a young Warrior. The Klingon connected with several stiff punches to the face of Subject 13 and a double handed strike to it’s abdomen. The colossal returned with a violent punch to the Klingon’s head and a hard knee to Wrot’Ka’s gut.
As Wrot’Ka doubled over in pain, Subject 13 raised it’s arms above it’s head and was preparing to hammer Wrot’Ka down into the jungle dirt. Realizing that he must move or face instant defeat, Wrot’Ka summersaulted beneath Subject 13’s legs. Once the Warrior was behind his opponent, he leapt onto it’s back. Wrot’Ka wrapped his arm around the neck of the creature.
Subject 13 could go a long time without any air, far longer than Wrot’Ka could ever hope to hold on for, and the Klingon was counting on it. The giant began whipping around side to side to shake Wrot’Ka off. The Klingon remained limber for a moment as he let their bodies gain momentum. Then, on one of the beast’s turns, Wrot’Ka stiffened his body and threw his weight against the turn.
The sound was like that of a shuttle slamming into huge tree. The crunch sound almost echoed through the jungle. Subject 13 went limp and fell to the ground, it’s face was down in the dirt while it’s chest pointed towards the sky. Wrot’Ka had broken Subject 13’s neck. The Klingon was victorious.
Wrot’Ka knelt over the body of his enemy. He waited to see if there was any movement. After several long moments had passed, the General knew he was victorious.
A glorious fight. An honorable finish. Wrot’Ka stood up and placed his boot on the carcass of his greatest opponent. The Klingon looked to the morning sky and raised his arms as he let out a loud victorious roar befitting the mightiest of Klingon Warriors.
After that, he waited. He waited some more. Nothing happened. Nothing changed but the sky. Wasn’t this why he was sent here? Did he not prove his worth to now enter Sto’Vo’Kor? The General looked around confused. Surely he would not be made to suffer here for eternity. Wrot’Ka couldn’t understand what was going on.
Suddenly, there was some one clapping behind Wrot’Ka. The Klingon, startled at first, rapidly spun around to see who was there. General Wrot’Ka’s face turned to one of pure loathing as spit flew from his mouth as he shouted, “YOU!”
The albino looking monstrosity burrowed through the jungle until it found the opening where Wrot’Ka was just moments ago. The beast sniffed the air, but it could not detect the Klingon. Subject 13 began looking around as it sensed a trap. It could see the nearby fire still flickering.
(Music to set the tone)
Wrot’Ka waited in the water close by. He remained submerged up to his nose to avoid detection. He gripped his spear in his hand tightly. He waited for just the right moment as the foul creature searched about for signs of the General. Slowly, the Warrior rose up out of the water. His motions were silent. He brought the spear above his head as he positioned it to throw. Subject 13 was oblivious to the Generals actions as it’s back was turned to the water. 13 noticed a couple of the rudimentary traps Wrot’Ka had set.
The beast uncovered one of the small pitfalls Wrot’Ka had hastily engineered. Subject 13 grunted and continued looking about. Unbeknownst to him Wrot’Ka was striking a near perfect spear throwing pose. The Klingons arm cut through the air as the spear flew through the still night. The crude spear flew straight and true towards its target.
Wrot’Ka was not aiming for Subject 13. Affixed to the end of the spear was the same type of rock the General had used to start the fire. He had found more like it and shaved and ground them down all over a set of dry sticks and leaves. As the spear struck the exact spot Wrot’Ka had aimed for, the conspicuous pile of dry jungle parts burst into flames. As this happened, Wrot’Ka went completely underwater and swam for shore.
Subject 13 spun to see what the ruckus was. He caught a glimpse of a burning trail that led to more piles which, in turn, exploded in sequence. Eventually, the mammoth found himself surrounded by flames. With each explosion a jungle vine was burnt to the point it lost integrity. With that, large logs snapped into place around the burning trap. The logs themself had been set up in an almost reverse tension trap style so that once the jungle vines had been severed the logs would pop into place. Each log had multiple sharp sticks tied to it.
The beast was nearly completely trapped. There was only one open spot for it to escape from. Even for the superior creature that Subject 13 was, this all happened so fast.
Wrot’Ka had reached the shore. He crawled, like an alligator, towards the circle of fire. Once he was close enough, the Klingon jumped to his feet. He sprinted the short distance leapt through the air and through the fire.
General Wrot’Ka landed on his feet in a crouched position. The cunning warrior plunged his hand into the sand and pulled on a vine. This set the last couple logs, with sharp sticks, into place. Subject 13 was on the opposite side of the trap. The pale abomination and the Klingon Warrior glared at each other as they slowly began circling the inside of the trap. Both combatants moved in the same direction at the same pace. They were like two caged animals about to fight to the death.
Subject 13 made a loud roar like that of lion. Wrot’Ka was unshaken, he merely revealed his sharp toothy Klingon grin. If anything, Subject 13 was the one who was more disturbed at the situation than Wrot’Ka. The Klingon looked all too thrilled for this battle.
“You fool! Now you are trapped with me!” Subject 13 yelled at Wrot’Ka. The Klingon was not intimidated. The light from the flames flickered off of the two rivals in the crisp night air.
Wrot’Ka stopped and stood up straight and pointed at his opponent. “This is where you die!”
Like two rams on a mountain side, Wrot’Ka and Subject 13 slammed into each other. Subject 13 had the height, weight, and muscle advantage over Wrot’Ka and the General knew this. The Klingon went to work quickly on the beasts legs by driving his shoulder into 13’s knee. This hit only phased the creature for a short time.
Like two competitors in the arenas of ancient time, the two men fought. Quick and hard punches were landed by both sides as elbows and knees connected with torsos and limps alike. Subject 13 was stunned by the ferocity of the Warrior’s strikes and the rapid pace at which they came.
Wrot’Ka fought like he had never fought before. This was not just a battle for glory or honor. It was not a simple battle in which his life was on the line. This was a war for who he is and what he stands for. Not once did Wrot’Ka consider using the sharpened knife on his opponent. This fight must be honorable. The Klingon was determined to achieve a clean victory or a glorious defeat.
Subject 13 was not so shocked that he was unable to land several vicious hits. Blood flew from Wrot’Ka’s mouth and nose. But every now and then the Klingon landed a hard punch or knee to just the right spot on the disgraceful figure.
As the slugfest continued with no clear winner on either side, Subject 13 tried grabbing hold of Wrot’Ka and picking him up in a bear-hug. 13 started to squeeze the life out of Wrot’Ka as the General yelled out in pain.
Quickly, Wrot’Ka starting punching the beast in its eye. It didn’t take many hits before the Klingon felt his knuckle connect with the soft spongy organic material that had to be the things actual eyeball. Instantly, Subject 13 dropped Wrot’Ka and it stumbled backwards.
The deserted General wasted no time as he rushed for his enemy and tackled him to the ground. Wrot’Ka landed ontop of 13 and began pummeling him with fists of rage that could only belong to that of a true Klingon Warrior.
Subject 13 pushed Wrot’Ka off him and quickly got to it’s feet. When Wrot’Ka tried to rush it again, the foul monster picked the Klingon up and flung him at the cage that kept them in. Somehow Wrot’Ka’s torso smashed into the perfect spot of the logs. A spot he accidentally left without any spikes. However, one of the long sharpened sticks punctured all the way through General’s upper leg. As Wrot’Ka burst through the flames and wooden contraptions he had set, he landed hard on the jungle floor. The beast lunged after the Klingon he had hunted for years.
The sun was starting to come up over the horizon as both Klingon and beast continued to physically punish one another. Neither party was content with fleeing. Both were determined to kill the other.
Now, Wrot’Ka was at a disadvantage having suffered such a severe wound to his leg. Wrot’Ka still fought with all the intensity of a young Warrior. The Klingon connected with several stiff punches to the face of Subject 13 and a double handed strike to it’s abdomen. The colossal returned with a violent punch to the Klingon’s head and a hard knee to Wrot’Ka’s gut.
As Wrot’Ka doubled over in pain, Subject 13 raised it’s arms above it’s head and was preparing to hammer Wrot’Ka down into the jungle dirt. Realizing that he must move or face instant defeat, Wrot’Ka summersaulted beneath Subject 13’s legs. Once the Warrior was behind his opponent, he leapt onto it’s back. Wrot’Ka wrapped his arm around the neck of the creature.
Subject 13 could go a long time without any air, far longer than Wrot’Ka could ever hope to hold on for, and the Klingon was counting on it. The giant began whipping around side to side to shake Wrot’Ka off. The Klingon remained limber for a moment as he let their bodies gain momentum. Then, on one of the beast’s turns, Wrot’Ka stiffened his body and threw his weight against the turn.
The sound was like that of a shuttle slamming into huge tree. The crunch sound almost echoed through the jungle. Subject 13 went limp and fell to the ground, it’s face was down in the dirt while it’s chest pointed towards the sky. Wrot’Ka had broken Subject 13’s neck. The Klingon was victorious.
Wrot’Ka knelt over the body of his enemy. He waited to see if there was any movement. After several long moments had passed, the General knew he was victorious.
A glorious fight. An honorable finish. Wrot’Ka stood up and placed his boot on the carcass of his greatest opponent. The Klingon looked to the morning sky and raised his arms as he let out a loud victorious roar befitting the mightiest of Klingon Warriors.
After that, he waited. He waited some more. Nothing happened. Nothing changed but the sky. Wasn’t this why he was sent here? Did he not prove his worth to now enter Sto’Vo’Kor? The General looked around confused. Surely he would not be made to suffer here for eternity. Wrot’Ka couldn’t understand what was going on.
Suddenly, there was some one clapping behind Wrot’Ka. The Klingon, startled at first, rapidly spun around to see who was there. General Wrot’Ka’s face turned to one of pure loathing as spit flew from his mouth as he shouted, “YOU!”
CHAMPIONS OF FATE PART 2
(Music to set the tone)
An explosion rocked the area as large chunks of a wall, fire, and smoke spewed from the compound overseeing the crater. Many prisoners bellow screamed in horror not knowing what was going on.
Odesser, a master of improvised explosives, had a series of pre-made bombs to use incase their situation dissolved into what it was right this moment. They needed an exit from the landing bay, and the Reman’s years of experience as a terrorist came in handy for that. While the others covered his movements he placed enough explosives along the one wall so they could get out.
Sti Guff, the Pirate, really had no interest in any of this. So, he did what pirates do. He stole the closest shuttle. It just happened to be the one that he and his new found friends arrived on. Realizing they were now without a means to escape, Dewey’s rescuers were clearly more nervous now than ever.
Major Serat couldn’t have cared less about no longer having a means to leave this place. He ordered his cohorts out the hole and into the open. As the group made a tactical break for the rainy desert, the colossal Gorn was struck in the arm by one of the Romulan guard’s weapons fire as he was making his way out.
It had clearly been some time since any of these Romulans had faced a Gorn. Gorn physiology was not complex but it was one of the more endurable among space faring species. Being shot with a stun setting did little more than sting and provide a slight numbing sensation for a moment. To stun a Gorn most weapons had to be placed on a near low level kill setting for most other species. Feeling the shot to his arm only enraged the already unruly one-eyed gigantic cold blooded murderous lizard.
Ixer, the crazed Jem’Hadar, was running around the bay much like an Apache Warrior from Earth. He wielded a sharp sword and a thick pipe he picked up from the debris caused by the explosion. He moved throughout the packs of Romulans like a mad man, slicing and bludgeoning his way through their ranks.
More and more guards convened on the unlikely group of heroes. The fighting became more and more intense as both sides were starting to revert to hand to hand combat.
Major Serat was swinging his scaly tree trunk like arms and clotheslining Romulans like he was playing rugby. His giant fists were slammed into the faces of a couple guards which rendered them either unconscious or dead on impact. He hoped the later. At one point, the Gorn picked up a Centurion and hurled him. The guard went flying through the air and landed into a group of his fellow Romulans. The Major had even resorted to jumping through the air and biting the Romulans. A sight that would have left even the most disciplined guard shaking in fear.
Dalmor moved through the open rainy desert like your standard special operations operative as he kept himself as small a target as possible by keeping his elbows in and bent slightly at the waist as he walked, quickly, towards the pit. His shots were few, but deadly accurate. Guards in towers were dispatched by his superb aim while entire groups were disabled by the former Cardassian spy as he picked alternative shots such as at generators which exploded and not only took out a handful of guards but also obscured the view of any behind the smoldering piece of equipment.
The Breen pilot was a bit too trigger happy and had already burned through his supply of power packs for his weapon. He discarded it and relied solely on his ability to quickly rush between cover and chuck grenades at the Romulans.
Odesser was at home in the chaos. He enjoyed, too much, the sight of Romulans being killed. He walked calmly behind his group as he took slow aimed shots at the very type of men he used to take pleasure in terrorizing.
“Then you can drown for all I give a damn!” Numitor shouted as he back handed the bottle of Earth Whiskey off the table. The bottle clattered across the floor as its contents splashed out of the top. The Sub-Marshal violently grabbed hold of D’Jaens hair, on top of her head, and dragged her out of her seat. D’Jaen let out a yelp and tried to resist, but Numitor dragged her along towards the door.
“Stop! No!” D’Jaen pleaded. It didn’t matter to Numitor, he had had enough. The whole place was going belly up, to include his prominent career, and he was willing to make as many people suffer as possible.
Dewey was having trouble keeping Morg’s face out of the water. The Klingon had been struck in the head by falling debris from the explosion just moments ago which knocked him out cold.
Nimmer was running around trying to tend to the wounded as Dewey continually nearly drowned trying to save his former Klingon Captain.
A Romulan guard had fallen into the crater and caused a huge splash and even injured some prisoners as he landed on them. If it wasn’t for the water, he surely would have died from the fall. However, Dewey soon realized that the guard was dead from being shot before he even fell into the pit.
Dalmor and Mahk had found themselves pinned down behind a few crates as shots scorched their cover and flew ever so close to the two. Then, out of nowhere, Ixer came running through the latest line of Romulan guards. His strikes were vicious. It was certainly a Romulan morale destroyer watching the crazed Jam’Hadar veteran smash his way through their comrades.
Dalmor poked his head out just enough to spot Serat and Odesser. “Get inside!” The Cardassian shouted. “We need to ambush them!” Dalmor didn’t have time to explain but he knew they understood his order. The Reman had enough small explosive charges on him that would make for plenty of nasty boobie traps along the way for the guards that followed them.
The Gorn and Reman did as instructed and sprinted towards the building. They were too far ahead to double back and re-enter the hole they had made. Serat was running full speed and slammed his shoulder into one of the doors. It burst open as if it had been hit with a torpedo.
As some of the guards clearly broke off to follow them, Dalmor and the Breen were able to continue their trek towards the pit where it was obvious the prisoners were being held.
As they grew closer, Dalmor motioned to Mahk to start up some of the lifts that were parked at the top of the craters edge. The Cardassian ensured that all the attention was on him as he darted across the open. Dalmor drew the guard’s fire and Mahk sprinted from lift to lift and lowered them to the captives below. A few shots were so close to Dalmor that they actually singed his coat.
The old spy dove for cover. He quickly discarded the dead energy cell to his weapon and reloaded. As soon as his weapon was operational he returned fire.
D’Jaen struggled against Numitor’s tug of her hair as he dragged her down the hall. She could hear weapons fire as the Sub-Marshal stopped. Both of them were confused at what was going on. D’Jaen tried to turn her body so she could see but her eyes were teary from the pain of nearly having her scalp slowly peeled off.
Numitor tossed the women into a corner and pulled out his pistol. He took aim as he waited for whoever the intruders were to round the corner. Numitor watched in shock as the Uhlan who greated just a short while ago flew violently into the wall and dropped to the floor motionless just a few meters in front of the Sub-Marshal.
Numitor heard an ear piercing prehistoric like roar and a crunch sound as if someone had just suffered a bone crunching bite. Then, he saw the towering Gorn walk around the corner. Numitor took aim and fired. His shot hit the huge lizard square in the chest.
Major Serat stumbled backwards a bit before regaining his composure. Serat looked right into the eyes of Numitor and let out his trademark thunderous dinosaur like reverberation before he began quickly walking towards the Romulan in charge.
The Sub-Marshal looked at his pistol and uttered a curse in his native tongue, along the lines of a fornicator of matriarchs, as he fumbled in his attempt to adjust the output setting to his weapon. Before the Sub-Marshal realized it, the Major was right in front of him and smacked the weapon out of Numitor’s hand with brutal force.
The Romulan’s hand throbbed in pain. But, that pain was soon forgotten as the Gorn gripped Numitor’s neck and lifted him up off the ground with one hand. Serat began to squeeze the lift out of Numitor. The veins in the Romulan’s head and neck started to bulge and air was cut off to the Sub-Marshal.
A gentle hand was placed on Serat’s shoulder. It was Odesser. “Not this one.” The Reman said in a calm voice. “He lives.” Just then, one of the many small explosive boobie traps Odesser had emplaced went off down the hall and took out several guards.
Serat dropped Numitor and the Romulan fell to the ground as he gasped for the air to return to his body. Both the Gorn and Odesser then saw the frightened D’Jaen cowering next to some consoles.
Dewey saw many of the prisoners scrambling for the multiple lifts that had been lowered. He tried dragging Morg over to one of them, but every few steps Dewey tripped from the uneven surface of the crater and every time he and the Klingon dipped below the water. Dewey was trying, with all his might, to keep Morg above the water. The Human was fatigued though. As he took another step, he both tripped and lost his grip on Morg. Both men fell and were nearly trampled on by prisoners in a hurry to escape.
Dewey came up to catch his breath and realized his former Captain was still underwater. Quickly, the Human plunged back into the water as he felt around for Morg. Just as he finally found the Klingon, Morg was pulled away from his reach. Suddenly, hands wrapped around Dewey’s chest and yanked him up.
When Dewey was above the water he let out a deep breath and quickly inhaled some fresh air. It was then he saw Mahk hoisting up the Klingon. When Dewey looked over his shoulder, he realized it was Dalmor who had pulled him up.
The group made their way to one of the lifts that had been lowered again for more prisoners to get out of the hole. Many prisoners tried to pile on but some slipped off or were shot off by guards. Nimmer had lucked out and made his way to them just in time to get on the lift as it started to rise up out of the depths of water filled pit.
Nimmer started to check the vitals of Morg while Mahk tried to hold onto one of the prisoners who had slipped off the lift. Shots smacked off the lift and crater wall as Romulan guards desperately tried to stop as many escaping prisoners as possible. Another prisoner was hit and flew off the lift which was now in the process of rising to the surface edge of the crater. Dalmor let out a few more shots which were true to his aim.
“Remember how to use one of these?” Dalmor said to Dewey as he reached into his coat and pulled out an old style Type 1 Phaser that he handed to Dewey. Without a word, Dewey grabbed it. The Human took aim and tried to fire, but nothing happened. Dewey looked at the weapon for a second and remembered to disengage the safety. He tried once more, this time with success as he hit one of the few Romulan guards left.
Once the lift reached its destination, the party got off. Nimmer was still treating Morg’s wound. “I got him, go!” The old Romulan shouted at Dewey and his rescuers. Ixer was seen still running amok as he chased the last of the Romulan guards off. It looked as if the outside was secure.
The Breen, Cardassian, and Human, made their way into the same building Odesser and Serat had gone into. As they were charging in, they could still hear a few shots. Another small explosion was heard just ahead of them as they swept through the hall tactically.
Mahk hung in the back until he picked a weapon off from a dead Romulan guard. Dewey and Dalmor walked with their weapons up and ready to engage anyone they saw. As they rounded one of the many turns in the hall, they saw Serat standing there with a Centurion held above his head with two hands. The Major dropped the Romulan down onto his bulky Gorn knee which folded the guard in two. The Romulan was motionless on the cold floor.
“Serat!” Dalmor shouted to get his attention quickly and avoid any of the lizard’s blind rage. Mahk made a series of tones and Serat just looked at the group and point to a door as he huffed and puffed at exhaustion starting to affect even his giant physic.
The Gorn led the way. As they approached the door, one last guard stepped out from another room right in front of Serat. The major grabbed the Centurions weapon and yanked it out of his hand. He held it like a baseball bat and swung it at the wall. The group watched as the weapon shattered into dozens of pieces. The Gorn then grabbed the Romulan by the throat with just one hand and, in a twirl, sent the unfortunate guard soaring through the air above Dewey’s head. None of them needed to watch to know the Romulan would not get up from his landing.
The door opened before the group to reveal a small court yard. Dewey could see D’Jaen sitting on the wet ground. There was a fearful Ferengi cowering by one of the nearby statues. In the middle of it all was Odesser standing over the kneeling Numitor.
“I… I told you. It was just…” Numitor tried to explain but was silenced by Odesser who kicked him in the head. The Romulan was already bloodied and bruised. Now, Numitor laid on the ground and moaned in pain. The Reman dropped his knee to the Sub-Marshals chest and pulled a knife from his belt. He was about to plunge it into the chest of Numitor when D’Jaen let out a shriek.
“No!” She yelled. Odesser stopped and looked at her in disgust. “Has… hasn’t there been enough death here already?” She pleaded to Dewey.
Dewey, who has yet to speak a word since being pulled from the pit, quietly walked up to where Odesser and Numitor were. He motioned for the Reman to get up. Odesser did as Dewey wished and sheathed his blade.
“Where is Sark?” Dewey demanded.
Numitor just chuckled as he tried to respond, “I have no, I don’t know. He… he left. Weeks ago.” The Romulan was having trouble speaking as his green copper-based blood trickled from his lips.
Dewey snatched Numitor by the collar and hoisted him to his feet, but as Dewey let the Sub-Marshal go the Romulan fell down to his knees. Clearly, the Romulan had been beaten senseless by Serat and Odesser. “Why was he even helping you?” Dewey was harsh with his words and wanted answers.
“He… I don’t, I don’t know.” Numitor’s words were slurred and he fluctuated between speaking at a normal volume and a near mutter. “Said he, he could help. Wanted… money.” The Romulan spit up some blood as he slowly shook his head from side to side. His entire body swayed, having been struck in the head so hard and often left the Sub-Marshal with an unreliable sense of balance.
“Where did he go?” Dalmor asked now as he curiously tried to figure out where this menace to his friend had scampered off to.
Numitor let out a sigh and a brief laugh. He figured he’d only get beaten for his honest answer but gave it anyways, “No clue. Said, said his… plan change, changed… or something.” The beaten man licked his lips with his blood soaked tongue. “Betray… he betrayed us. Said he could, could help us get you. That you’d give up, give up information.” The Sub-Marshal began laughing as his blood filled smile directed itself at Dewey. Numitor continued through his laughing, “Was never his plan.” The Romulan spit some of his green blood on the ground. “Never… he never was going to help. He just… wants to burn the Galaxy down.”
“Well,” Dalmor started, “you shouldn’t play with fire, Sub-Marshal.” The Cardassian began to raise his weapon at the Romulan but Dewey put his hand on it and lowered it.
“No.” Dewey ordered. “He lives. We leave.” Dewey knelt down in front of the busted Sub-Marshal. “Did you hear me? I said we’re leaving you here. No one is coming back to this place. You’ll rot here for the rest of your life… just as you had planned for every one of your so-called prisoners.”
(Music to set the tone)
An explosion rocked the area as large chunks of a wall, fire, and smoke spewed from the compound overseeing the crater. Many prisoners bellow screamed in horror not knowing what was going on.
Odesser, a master of improvised explosives, had a series of pre-made bombs to use incase their situation dissolved into what it was right this moment. They needed an exit from the landing bay, and the Reman’s years of experience as a terrorist came in handy for that. While the others covered his movements he placed enough explosives along the one wall so they could get out.
Sti Guff, the Pirate, really had no interest in any of this. So, he did what pirates do. He stole the closest shuttle. It just happened to be the one that he and his new found friends arrived on. Realizing they were now without a means to escape, Dewey’s rescuers were clearly more nervous now than ever.
Major Serat couldn’t have cared less about no longer having a means to leave this place. He ordered his cohorts out the hole and into the open. As the group made a tactical break for the rainy desert, the colossal Gorn was struck in the arm by one of the Romulan guard’s weapons fire as he was making his way out.
It had clearly been some time since any of these Romulans had faced a Gorn. Gorn physiology was not complex but it was one of the more endurable among space faring species. Being shot with a stun setting did little more than sting and provide a slight numbing sensation for a moment. To stun a Gorn most weapons had to be placed on a near low level kill setting for most other species. Feeling the shot to his arm only enraged the already unruly one-eyed gigantic cold blooded murderous lizard.
Ixer, the crazed Jem’Hadar, was running around the bay much like an Apache Warrior from Earth. He wielded a sharp sword and a thick pipe he picked up from the debris caused by the explosion. He moved throughout the packs of Romulans like a mad man, slicing and bludgeoning his way through their ranks.
More and more guards convened on the unlikely group of heroes. The fighting became more and more intense as both sides were starting to revert to hand to hand combat.
Major Serat was swinging his scaly tree trunk like arms and clotheslining Romulans like he was playing rugby. His giant fists were slammed into the faces of a couple guards which rendered them either unconscious or dead on impact. He hoped the later. At one point, the Gorn picked up a Centurion and hurled him. The guard went flying through the air and landed into a group of his fellow Romulans. The Major had even resorted to jumping through the air and biting the Romulans. A sight that would have left even the most disciplined guard shaking in fear.
Dalmor moved through the open rainy desert like your standard special operations operative as he kept himself as small a target as possible by keeping his elbows in and bent slightly at the waist as he walked, quickly, towards the pit. His shots were few, but deadly accurate. Guards in towers were dispatched by his superb aim while entire groups were disabled by the former Cardassian spy as he picked alternative shots such as at generators which exploded and not only took out a handful of guards but also obscured the view of any behind the smoldering piece of equipment.
The Breen pilot was a bit too trigger happy and had already burned through his supply of power packs for his weapon. He discarded it and relied solely on his ability to quickly rush between cover and chuck grenades at the Romulans.
Odesser was at home in the chaos. He enjoyed, too much, the sight of Romulans being killed. He walked calmly behind his group as he took slow aimed shots at the very type of men he used to take pleasure in terrorizing.
“Then you can drown for all I give a damn!” Numitor shouted as he back handed the bottle of Earth Whiskey off the table. The bottle clattered across the floor as its contents splashed out of the top. The Sub-Marshal violently grabbed hold of D’Jaens hair, on top of her head, and dragged her out of her seat. D’Jaen let out a yelp and tried to resist, but Numitor dragged her along towards the door.
“Stop! No!” D’Jaen pleaded. It didn’t matter to Numitor, he had had enough. The whole place was going belly up, to include his prominent career, and he was willing to make as many people suffer as possible.
Dewey was having trouble keeping Morg’s face out of the water. The Klingon had been struck in the head by falling debris from the explosion just moments ago which knocked him out cold.
Nimmer was running around trying to tend to the wounded as Dewey continually nearly drowned trying to save his former Klingon Captain.
A Romulan guard had fallen into the crater and caused a huge splash and even injured some prisoners as he landed on them. If it wasn’t for the water, he surely would have died from the fall. However, Dewey soon realized that the guard was dead from being shot before he even fell into the pit.
Dalmor and Mahk had found themselves pinned down behind a few crates as shots scorched their cover and flew ever so close to the two. Then, out of nowhere, Ixer came running through the latest line of Romulan guards. His strikes were vicious. It was certainly a Romulan morale destroyer watching the crazed Jam’Hadar veteran smash his way through their comrades.
Dalmor poked his head out just enough to spot Serat and Odesser. “Get inside!” The Cardassian shouted. “We need to ambush them!” Dalmor didn’t have time to explain but he knew they understood his order. The Reman had enough small explosive charges on him that would make for plenty of nasty boobie traps along the way for the guards that followed them.
The Gorn and Reman did as instructed and sprinted towards the building. They were too far ahead to double back and re-enter the hole they had made. Serat was running full speed and slammed his shoulder into one of the doors. It burst open as if it had been hit with a torpedo.
As some of the guards clearly broke off to follow them, Dalmor and the Breen were able to continue their trek towards the pit where it was obvious the prisoners were being held.
As they grew closer, Dalmor motioned to Mahk to start up some of the lifts that were parked at the top of the craters edge. The Cardassian ensured that all the attention was on him as he darted across the open. Dalmor drew the guard’s fire and Mahk sprinted from lift to lift and lowered them to the captives below. A few shots were so close to Dalmor that they actually singed his coat.
The old spy dove for cover. He quickly discarded the dead energy cell to his weapon and reloaded. As soon as his weapon was operational he returned fire.
D’Jaen struggled against Numitor’s tug of her hair as he dragged her down the hall. She could hear weapons fire as the Sub-Marshal stopped. Both of them were confused at what was going on. D’Jaen tried to turn her body so she could see but her eyes were teary from the pain of nearly having her scalp slowly peeled off.
Numitor tossed the women into a corner and pulled out his pistol. He took aim as he waited for whoever the intruders were to round the corner. Numitor watched in shock as the Uhlan who greated just a short while ago flew violently into the wall and dropped to the floor motionless just a few meters in front of the Sub-Marshal.
Numitor heard an ear piercing prehistoric like roar and a crunch sound as if someone had just suffered a bone crunching bite. Then, he saw the towering Gorn walk around the corner. Numitor took aim and fired. His shot hit the huge lizard square in the chest.
Major Serat stumbled backwards a bit before regaining his composure. Serat looked right into the eyes of Numitor and let out his trademark thunderous dinosaur like reverberation before he began quickly walking towards the Romulan in charge.
The Sub-Marshal looked at his pistol and uttered a curse in his native tongue, along the lines of a fornicator of matriarchs, as he fumbled in his attempt to adjust the output setting to his weapon. Before the Sub-Marshal realized it, the Major was right in front of him and smacked the weapon out of Numitor’s hand with brutal force.
The Romulan’s hand throbbed in pain. But, that pain was soon forgotten as the Gorn gripped Numitor’s neck and lifted him up off the ground with one hand. Serat began to squeeze the lift out of Numitor. The veins in the Romulan’s head and neck started to bulge and air was cut off to the Sub-Marshal.
A gentle hand was placed on Serat’s shoulder. It was Odesser. “Not this one.” The Reman said in a calm voice. “He lives.” Just then, one of the many small explosive boobie traps Odesser had emplaced went off down the hall and took out several guards.
Serat dropped Numitor and the Romulan fell to the ground as he gasped for the air to return to his body. Both the Gorn and Odesser then saw the frightened D’Jaen cowering next to some consoles.
Dewey saw many of the prisoners scrambling for the multiple lifts that had been lowered. He tried dragging Morg over to one of them, but every few steps Dewey tripped from the uneven surface of the crater and every time he and the Klingon dipped below the water. Dewey was trying, with all his might, to keep Morg above the water. The Human was fatigued though. As he took another step, he both tripped and lost his grip on Morg. Both men fell and were nearly trampled on by prisoners in a hurry to escape.
Dewey came up to catch his breath and realized his former Captain was still underwater. Quickly, the Human plunged back into the water as he felt around for Morg. Just as he finally found the Klingon, Morg was pulled away from his reach. Suddenly, hands wrapped around Dewey’s chest and yanked him up.
When Dewey was above the water he let out a deep breath and quickly inhaled some fresh air. It was then he saw Mahk hoisting up the Klingon. When Dewey looked over his shoulder, he realized it was Dalmor who had pulled him up.
The group made their way to one of the lifts that had been lowered again for more prisoners to get out of the hole. Many prisoners tried to pile on but some slipped off or were shot off by guards. Nimmer had lucked out and made his way to them just in time to get on the lift as it started to rise up out of the depths of water filled pit.
Nimmer started to check the vitals of Morg while Mahk tried to hold onto one of the prisoners who had slipped off the lift. Shots smacked off the lift and crater wall as Romulan guards desperately tried to stop as many escaping prisoners as possible. Another prisoner was hit and flew off the lift which was now in the process of rising to the surface edge of the crater. Dalmor let out a few more shots which were true to his aim.
“Remember how to use one of these?” Dalmor said to Dewey as he reached into his coat and pulled out an old style Type 1 Phaser that he handed to Dewey. Without a word, Dewey grabbed it. The Human took aim and tried to fire, but nothing happened. Dewey looked at the weapon for a second and remembered to disengage the safety. He tried once more, this time with success as he hit one of the few Romulan guards left.
Once the lift reached its destination, the party got off. Nimmer was still treating Morg’s wound. “I got him, go!” The old Romulan shouted at Dewey and his rescuers. Ixer was seen still running amok as he chased the last of the Romulan guards off. It looked as if the outside was secure.
The Breen, Cardassian, and Human, made their way into the same building Odesser and Serat had gone into. As they were charging in, they could still hear a few shots. Another small explosion was heard just ahead of them as they swept through the hall tactically.
Mahk hung in the back until he picked a weapon off from a dead Romulan guard. Dewey and Dalmor walked with their weapons up and ready to engage anyone they saw. As they rounded one of the many turns in the hall, they saw Serat standing there with a Centurion held above his head with two hands. The Major dropped the Romulan down onto his bulky Gorn knee which folded the guard in two. The Romulan was motionless on the cold floor.
“Serat!” Dalmor shouted to get his attention quickly and avoid any of the lizard’s blind rage. Mahk made a series of tones and Serat just looked at the group and point to a door as he huffed and puffed at exhaustion starting to affect even his giant physic.
The Gorn led the way. As they approached the door, one last guard stepped out from another room right in front of Serat. The major grabbed the Centurions weapon and yanked it out of his hand. He held it like a baseball bat and swung it at the wall. The group watched as the weapon shattered into dozens of pieces. The Gorn then grabbed the Romulan by the throat with just one hand and, in a twirl, sent the unfortunate guard soaring through the air above Dewey’s head. None of them needed to watch to know the Romulan would not get up from his landing.
The door opened before the group to reveal a small court yard. Dewey could see D’Jaen sitting on the wet ground. There was a fearful Ferengi cowering by one of the nearby statues. In the middle of it all was Odesser standing over the kneeling Numitor.
“I… I told you. It was just…” Numitor tried to explain but was silenced by Odesser who kicked him in the head. The Romulan was already bloodied and bruised. Now, Numitor laid on the ground and moaned in pain. The Reman dropped his knee to the Sub-Marshals chest and pulled a knife from his belt. He was about to plunge it into the chest of Numitor when D’Jaen let out a shriek.
“No!” She yelled. Odesser stopped and looked at her in disgust. “Has… hasn’t there been enough death here already?” She pleaded to Dewey.
Dewey, who has yet to speak a word since being pulled from the pit, quietly walked up to where Odesser and Numitor were. He motioned for the Reman to get up. Odesser did as Dewey wished and sheathed his blade.
“Where is Sark?” Dewey demanded.
Numitor just chuckled as he tried to respond, “I have no, I don’t know. He… he left. Weeks ago.” The Romulan was having trouble speaking as his green copper-based blood trickled from his lips.
Dewey snatched Numitor by the collar and hoisted him to his feet, but as Dewey let the Sub-Marshal go the Romulan fell down to his knees. Clearly, the Romulan had been beaten senseless by Serat and Odesser. “Why was he even helping you?” Dewey was harsh with his words and wanted answers.
“He… I don’t, I don’t know.” Numitor’s words were slurred and he fluctuated between speaking at a normal volume and a near mutter. “Said he, he could help. Wanted… money.” The Romulan spit up some blood as he slowly shook his head from side to side. His entire body swayed, having been struck in the head so hard and often left the Sub-Marshal with an unreliable sense of balance.
“Where did he go?” Dalmor asked now as he curiously tried to figure out where this menace to his friend had scampered off to.
Numitor let out a sigh and a brief laugh. He figured he’d only get beaten for his honest answer but gave it anyways, “No clue. Said, said his… plan change, changed… or something.” The beaten man licked his lips with his blood soaked tongue. “Betray… he betrayed us. Said he could, could help us get you. That you’d give up, give up information.” The Sub-Marshal began laughing as his blood filled smile directed itself at Dewey. Numitor continued through his laughing, “Was never his plan.” The Romulan spit some of his green blood on the ground. “Never… he never was going to help. He just… wants to burn the Galaxy down.”
“Well,” Dalmor started, “you shouldn’t play with fire, Sub-Marshal.” The Cardassian began to raise his weapon at the Romulan but Dewey put his hand on it and lowered it.
“No.” Dewey ordered. “He lives. We leave.” Dewey knelt down in front of the busted Sub-Marshal. “Did you hear me? I said we’re leaving you here. No one is coming back to this place. You’ll rot here for the rest of your life… just as you had planned for every one of your so-called prisoners.”
LOST IN SECTOR SPACE
Numitor chuckled, “You think I care anymore.” The Romulan became defiant and wanted to make his position clear, “I wouldn’t tell you anything anyways. I don’t owe you anything.” Numitor spit some more blood on the soggy desert floor once more. Dewey had nothing more to say. As the Human stood up, he noticed numerous shuttles leaving the planet. Fleeing guards and escaping prisoners he figured.
Mahk made a couple noises to which Odesser turned to look at him, “Not true.” The Reman pointed at the Ferengi, “He sold me his freighter.”
“For how much?” Dalmor questioned but wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Odesser paused for a moment only to finally answer, “His life.”
Everyone in the courtyard returned inside the building except Sub-Marshal Numitor. He just sat there on his knees. The once renowned and highly respected detective had been reduced to this.
As the group returned to the landing bay, they saw plenty of prisoners trying to get shuttles up and running to get off this planet. Nimmer was helping Morg, who was now awake, walk towards the group who also met up with Ixer just now.
“How many people will fit onto the freighter?” D’Jaen asked as she walked holding Dewey’s hand.
Serat shrugged, “Fifty… seventy five maybe.” The Gorn looked at Dewey and D’Jaen. “Why?”
“These people…” Dewey looked around, “We need to help as many as possible.” The Gorn was none to enthused by Dewey’s compassionate nature.
“He’s right.” Morg said. The Klingon was looking better now. “Let’s get them loaded up.” Morg felt at home giving orders once more.
The group of unlikely heroes and the people they rescued stayed silent. Dewey and D’Jaen walked hand in hand to the freighter and boarded it. The rest went to work getting the ship operational and herding people inside.
Once they had seen to the remainder of the prisoners getting loaded into shuttles or onto the freighter, they waited to ensure everyone was getting out of here. Then, the freighter lifted off from the planet.
Numitor watched as the freighter took to flight and began rising through the rain. The Sub-Marshal closed his eyes as he watched Dewey leave with any chance the Romulan had at a future.
They all took up positions on the Ferengi freighter that were to their skill set. D’Jaen stood by Dewey while Dalmor and Ixer talked. Dalmor, never one to pass up his chance to dress classically, had taken the liberty to change. Nimmer came to the bridge too. He wanted to check on Morg who was poised in the middle of the freighters Bridge.
Mahk made a bunch of noises questioning what heading he should lay in. The Bridge quickly fell silent. It was a tough call to make.
Dalmor really had no allegiance to anyone other than Dewey. Ixer was too crazy to fully think out where he’d like to go. Serat had sworn a blood oath to Dewey so he would go where ever the Human wished. Mahk couldn’t care less so long as where ever they go he gets to fly. Odesser had no love for life. D’Jaen had no desire to return to anything Romulan in nature. Dewey felt backstabbed by the very people he swore to protect, he was ready to never see them again. Morg obviously felt abandoned since no one came looking for him in all these years.
No one spoke up. No one knew what to say. Not a one of them knew where they wanted to go, but they could all feel that none of them wanted to go “home.” And from what any of them had gathered from the other prisoners, this was a popular opinion.
Dewey spun in his chair, “Captain,” He addressed Morg, “Not much is known out past the Eridan Belt.” Dewey left it at that. He knew his former/new Captain would understand.
“Very well. Let’s go see what we can find.” Morg said as the Breen typed in the heading. The freighter slowly took off into the vast unknown.
It wasn’t long before they detected a derelict ship. It was just floating out there in the emptiness. As the freighter got closer. power slowly came back on to the derelict ship. They realized what ship it was.
“Captain…” Dewey paused in disbelief for a moment before spinning around in his seat, “It’s the USS Courage… NCC-1699.” Dewey knew the ship was the very one Sark commanded so long ago. Dewey, along with the rest of Starfleet, assumed the ship was destroyed. How was it here? More importantly, who was on it?
Numitor chuckled, “You think I care anymore.” The Romulan became defiant and wanted to make his position clear, “I wouldn’t tell you anything anyways. I don’t owe you anything.” Numitor spit some more blood on the soggy desert floor once more. Dewey had nothing more to say. As the Human stood up, he noticed numerous shuttles leaving the planet. Fleeing guards and escaping prisoners he figured.
Mahk made a couple noises to which Odesser turned to look at him, “Not true.” The Reman pointed at the Ferengi, “He sold me his freighter.”
“For how much?” Dalmor questioned but wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Odesser paused for a moment only to finally answer, “His life.”
Everyone in the courtyard returned inside the building except Sub-Marshal Numitor. He just sat there on his knees. The once renowned and highly respected detective had been reduced to this.
As the group returned to the landing bay, they saw plenty of prisoners trying to get shuttles up and running to get off this planet. Nimmer was helping Morg, who was now awake, walk towards the group who also met up with Ixer just now.
“How many people will fit onto the freighter?” D’Jaen asked as she walked holding Dewey’s hand.
Serat shrugged, “Fifty… seventy five maybe.” The Gorn looked at Dewey and D’Jaen. “Why?”
“These people…” Dewey looked around, “We need to help as many as possible.” The Gorn was none to enthused by Dewey’s compassionate nature.
“He’s right.” Morg said. The Klingon was looking better now. “Let’s get them loaded up.” Morg felt at home giving orders once more.
The group of unlikely heroes and the people they rescued stayed silent. Dewey and D’Jaen walked hand in hand to the freighter and boarded it. The rest went to work getting the ship operational and herding people inside.
Once they had seen to the remainder of the prisoners getting loaded into shuttles or onto the freighter, they waited to ensure everyone was getting out of here. Then, the freighter lifted off from the planet.
Numitor watched as the freighter took to flight and began rising through the rain. The Sub-Marshal closed his eyes as he watched Dewey leave with any chance the Romulan had at a future.
They all took up positions on the Ferengi freighter that were to their skill set. D’Jaen stood by Dewey while Dalmor and Ixer talked. Dalmor, never one to pass up his chance to dress classically, had taken the liberty to change. Nimmer came to the bridge too. He wanted to check on Morg who was poised in the middle of the freighters Bridge.
Mahk made a bunch of noises questioning what heading he should lay in. The Bridge quickly fell silent. It was a tough call to make.
Dalmor really had no allegiance to anyone other than Dewey. Ixer was too crazy to fully think out where he’d like to go. Serat had sworn a blood oath to Dewey so he would go where ever the Human wished. Mahk couldn’t care less so long as where ever they go he gets to fly. Odesser had no love for life. D’Jaen had no desire to return to anything Romulan in nature. Dewey felt backstabbed by the very people he swore to protect, he was ready to never see them again. Morg obviously felt abandoned since no one came looking for him in all these years.
No one spoke up. No one knew what to say. Not a one of them knew where they wanted to go, but they could all feel that none of them wanted to go “home.” And from what any of them had gathered from the other prisoners, this was a popular opinion.
Dewey spun in his chair, “Captain,” He addressed Morg, “Not much is known out past the Eridan Belt.” Dewey left it at that. He knew his former/new Captain would understand.
“Very well. Let’s go see what we can find.” Morg said as the Breen typed in the heading. The freighter slowly took off into the vast unknown.
It wasn’t long before they detected a derelict ship. It was just floating out there in the emptiness. As the freighter got closer. power slowly came back on to the derelict ship. They realized what ship it was.
“Captain…” Dewey paused in disbelief for a moment before spinning around in his seat, “It’s the USS Courage… NCC-1699.” Dewey knew the ship was the very one Sark commanded so long ago. Dewey, along with the rest of Starfleet, assumed the ship was destroyed. How was it here? More importantly, who was on it?
WHAT THE Q
“Why are you here!?” Wrot’Ka demanded answers. The sweat and water glistened off his tough skin as the sun grew higher in the morning sky. The Klingon walked towards this irritating being that had stopped clapping once he saw how frustrated the General was.
“I wanted to watch the fight, my good General.” Q sat on a log and spoke with a smile. This Q, for whatever reason, particularly enjoyed mocking Wrot’Ka and frequently appeared to him with slight Klingon ridges and a KDF uniform on. Q once mentioned that he did this to invoke a more friendly response from Wrot’Ka. “Friendly” Was not in Wrot’Ka’s vocabulary though.
“Are you responsible for this!?” Wrot’Ka walked closer to Q. If it was possible to beat a Q to death Wrot’Ka would gladly do it.
Q kept his smile and stood up slowly while pointing to the dead body of Subject 13, “Oh no, I had no part in it. That victory was all yours, General.”
Wrot’Ka stomped his foot into the ground and kicked dirt, leaves, and twigs at the omnipotent character. “I mean here!”
“Oh… oh?” Q was slightly confused. “You mean… this place? Am I responsible for it?” Q wasn’t sure what to make of the whole situation. It made perfect sense to him. He had often lamented how low the intelligence was among this Galaxy’s current population.
“You may have god-like powers,” Wrot’Ka was talking very loudly. His breath was labored from the animosity he held for Q and now the thought that the Continuum may possibly control the afterlife, “But you are no god. You do not decide who enters Sto’Vo’Kor…” The Klingon intended on continuing but stopped once Q began speaking again.
“Oh, my.” Q said quietly as he slowly walked around Wrot’Ka. The Klingon stood in place as he awaited the eventual heckling from Q that was customary. Q spoke louder this time as he started to laugh, “Oh, my. You really have no IDEA what is going on here, do you?” Q waited for a response from the General but the angered Klingon did little more than breathe and blink. “You have no idea!” Q laughed even harder now as Wrot’Ka clenched his fist.
The Klingon would have swung at Q if he thought for a second that he would actually hit him. “Then enlighten me, Q.” The Klingons words were spoken with true abhorrence.
Q was still laughing, “You thought…” the menace composure himself, “Wait, didn’t you once tell me you don’t believe in that silly mambo jumbo Gre’Thor garbage?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” The Klingon was losing his patience fast.
“And you think this is the afterlife?” Q asked in very serious tone. The Warrior remained silent and only stared at Q. A smile formed on Q’s face, “Suppose it is. What will you do next?”
Wrot’Ka had no clue how to respond to that. “I figured… you’d tell me.”
Q chuckled, “Oh, General. You are in for such a surprise.”
“Is this part of that test then!? From that absurd trial?” Wrot’Ka was speaking of an event that happened about 5 years ago when he found himself in some bogus court room set up by Q. Q had mentioned that Wrot’Ka, and all Klingons for that matter, was on trial and needed to prove that the Klingon Empire were worthy conquerors. Quite the opposite from what Wrot’Ka had read some cowardly Federation Captain had endured many decades ago.
Q thought for a moment, “No… not a test. But you can count on me evaluating how you handle this.” The all-powerful being was enjoying how confused the Klingon was. Q shouted , “Maybe you are dead.” Q leaned in close and whispered into Wrot’Ka’s ear, “Maybe not.” The supreme entity started to walk away then turned to look at the Klingon, “Either way… you better start acting accordingly, General.”
In his traditional flash, Q was gone. No sooner did Q vanish that three Klingon men came jogging out from the dense jungle tree line. The group of them were dressed in simple clothes that hadn’t been washed in some time. One of them had a bow on his back with a quiver. They trotted up to Wrot’Ka as they admired the dead Subject 13’s body along the way.
“You… you killed the monster?” The one Klingon asked. Wrot’Ka, still clueless as to what was going on, simply nodded his head to confirm he was the one. The simple Klingon man pointed at Wrot’Ka and shouted to his buddies, “He killed the monster! The monster is dead!” The three Klingons joyfully cheered at the demise of Subject 13 which they knew as the monster.
Wrot’Ka stood there, mouth open, trying to figure out what was going on. One of the other Klingons came up to him, “Many a men have tried to do what you did here. We cannot thank you enough. Tell me, hunter, what is your name?”
The General thought for a moment and decided to leave his rank out of this, “I am Wrot’Ka… son of Krett.”
“Why are you here!?” Wrot’Ka demanded answers. The sweat and water glistened off his tough skin as the sun grew higher in the morning sky. The Klingon walked towards this irritating being that had stopped clapping once he saw how frustrated the General was.
“I wanted to watch the fight, my good General.” Q sat on a log and spoke with a smile. This Q, for whatever reason, particularly enjoyed mocking Wrot’Ka and frequently appeared to him with slight Klingon ridges and a KDF uniform on. Q once mentioned that he did this to invoke a more friendly response from Wrot’Ka. “Friendly” Was not in Wrot’Ka’s vocabulary though.
“Are you responsible for this!?” Wrot’Ka walked closer to Q. If it was possible to beat a Q to death Wrot’Ka would gladly do it.
Q kept his smile and stood up slowly while pointing to the dead body of Subject 13, “Oh no, I had no part in it. That victory was all yours, General.”
Wrot’Ka stomped his foot into the ground and kicked dirt, leaves, and twigs at the omnipotent character. “I mean here!”
“Oh… oh?” Q was slightly confused. “You mean… this place? Am I responsible for it?” Q wasn’t sure what to make of the whole situation. It made perfect sense to him. He had often lamented how low the intelligence was among this Galaxy’s current population.
“You may have god-like powers,” Wrot’Ka was talking very loudly. His breath was labored from the animosity he held for Q and now the thought that the Continuum may possibly control the afterlife, “But you are no god. You do not decide who enters Sto’Vo’Kor…” The Klingon intended on continuing but stopped once Q began speaking again.
“Oh, my.” Q said quietly as he slowly walked around Wrot’Ka. The Klingon stood in place as he awaited the eventual heckling from Q that was customary. Q spoke louder this time as he started to laugh, “Oh, my. You really have no IDEA what is going on here, do you?” Q waited for a response from the General but the angered Klingon did little more than breathe and blink. “You have no idea!” Q laughed even harder now as Wrot’Ka clenched his fist.
The Klingon would have swung at Q if he thought for a second that he would actually hit him. “Then enlighten me, Q.” The Klingons words were spoken with true abhorrence.
Q was still laughing, “You thought…” the menace composure himself, “Wait, didn’t you once tell me you don’t believe in that silly mambo jumbo Gre’Thor garbage?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” The Klingon was losing his patience fast.
“And you think this is the afterlife?” Q asked in very serious tone. The Warrior remained silent and only stared at Q. A smile formed on Q’s face, “Suppose it is. What will you do next?”
Wrot’Ka had no clue how to respond to that. “I figured… you’d tell me.”
Q chuckled, “Oh, General. You are in for such a surprise.”
“Is this part of that test then!? From that absurd trial?” Wrot’Ka was speaking of an event that happened about 5 years ago when he found himself in some bogus court room set up by Q. Q had mentioned that Wrot’Ka, and all Klingons for that matter, was on trial and needed to prove that the Klingon Empire were worthy conquerors. Quite the opposite from what Wrot’Ka had read some cowardly Federation Captain had endured many decades ago.
Q thought for a moment, “No… not a test. But you can count on me evaluating how you handle this.” The all-powerful being was enjoying how confused the Klingon was. Q shouted , “Maybe you are dead.” Q leaned in close and whispered into Wrot’Ka’s ear, “Maybe not.” The supreme entity started to walk away then turned to look at the Klingon, “Either way… you better start acting accordingly, General.”
In his traditional flash, Q was gone. No sooner did Q vanish that three Klingon men came jogging out from the dense jungle tree line. The group of them were dressed in simple clothes that hadn’t been washed in some time. One of them had a bow on his back with a quiver. They trotted up to Wrot’Ka as they admired the dead Subject 13’s body along the way.
“You… you killed the monster?” The one Klingon asked. Wrot’Ka, still clueless as to what was going on, simply nodded his head to confirm he was the one. The simple Klingon man pointed at Wrot’Ka and shouted to his buddies, “He killed the monster! The monster is dead!” The three Klingons joyfully cheered at the demise of Subject 13 which they knew as the monster.
Wrot’Ka stood there, mouth open, trying to figure out what was going on. One of the other Klingons came up to him, “Many a men have tried to do what you did here. We cannot thank you enough. Tell me, hunter, what is your name?”
The General thought for a moment and decided to leave his rank out of this, “I am Wrot’Ka… son of Krett.”
LAND OF THE LOST AND BROKEN
Wrot’Ka limped along through the land with the one he had spoken to right after Q had pestered him. The young man said his name was Loteg and offered to bring the General to his city while the other two Klingons, that had traveled with Loteg, took off to complete their hunt for food. Wrot’Ka and his new companion had ventured far without a single break to rest until now. The scenery had changed from jungle, to plains, and now to a gradually thickening forest.
Wrot’Ka sat on a rock as he tended to the wooden spike still impaled in his leg. It was not his only wound, but it was the most severe. Loteg stood not far off relieving himself on a tree.
“It’s not far now.” Loteg said as he made himself decent again while walking over to the battered Wrot’Ka.
“Good.” Wrot’Ka had said. He was about to ask about the presence of a physician at the city. He had hoped there would be bloodwine, a communications array, and some antibiotics. The General had no chance to ask any of this as the boy was eager to flap at the mouth as he had done this entire trek.
“What, are you tired already?” Loteg asked while smiling. The young man was full of energy. Wrot’Ka looked up from his injured leg and quietly glared at the boy with a sense of aggravation. Wrot’Ka was not tired, but his legs were fatigued from injury and fight. Loteg jubilantly giggled and started walking again; Wrot’Ka slowly got up and followed.
They traveled little more than another hour when Loteg pointed, “There it is. Killhorn. My village.”
Wrot’Ka looked up and saw what the boy had pointed to. Village!? Wrot’Ka thought to himself. It looked like some primitive war scene in a holodeck. Brick walls, small holes that were likely windows, two or three rooftops were visible over the vast walls. This was not what Wrot’Ka had expected, and his face revealed his shock and annoyance of the place. At least the name was acceptable. “Killhorn. That is a… good name for a village. Where does the name come from?”
“There was an ancient beast that roamed the forest here. It had massive horns.” Loteg explained as Wrot’Ka listened. “It slaughtered dozens of hunters.” Wrot’Ka light out a disappointed groan at the thought of fellow Klingons naming an area after such devastating defeat.
The two continued until they reached the wall and then followed it towards an entrance.
“Up ahead, that’s Knight Rew. He commands our Army.” Loteg was not short for words this entire trip. Wrot’Ka was looking forward to getting inside the walls and hopefully out of this place.
But where is this place? Wrot’Ka was still very confused. Subject 13, Q, and ancient castle like structure. Where was he? What was going on?
“Who is this?” The ranking Knight, Rew, asked as Wrot’Ka and Loteg stopped before the gate. The Knight did not look pleased.
“This is Wrot’Ka.” Loteg informed the Knight. “He’s a son of.” The boy said smiling. Wrot’Ka looked at his travel partner with curiosity.
Rew, the Knight, stepped closer to the two. “He looks like garbage. A spy, no doubt.” Rew spit on the ground right in front of Wrot’Ka’s feet.
“Rew…” Loteg started in, “He slew the beast! The one which ate Lady Ha’tel!” Loteg was unable to conceal the excitement in his voice. “I saw it with my own eyes, Rew.” The young hunter patted Wrot’Ka on his shoulder which induced a slight wince from the pain already plaguing the General’s body. “He is entitled to the King’s reward.”
Wrot’Ka noticed the primitive nature of the whole situation. Everything from the stitched dirty clothes, swords instead of Bat’Leths, bows and arrows, and dirt trails. The lost General was even more confused as to where he was now let alone what was going on here. What sort of test is this? He wondered in reference to being sentenced to prove his honor.
Though the lead Knight, Rew, was no happy about letting Wrot’Ka through the gate, he obliged. He accompanied the duo inside the walls. Wrot’Ka was taken aback by the sights. Brick and mud buildings, livestock running loose, iron working being conducted. It looked nearly like ancient Qo’NoS.
Wrot’Ka was taken to the local doctor who proceeded to remove the stake from his leg and dress the wound. The shack was unsanitary and the doctor looked more like a farmer than a physician. The doctors ability, or rather the lack there of, to dress the wound made Wrot’Ka believe that even he possessed more medical knowledge than this dirty simpleton.
Once the business of Wrot’Ka’s injuries had been tended to, Rew escorted the two to a large building.
By order of Rew, Wrot’Ka’s hands were bound behind his back. Once inside, paintings and fancy curtains hung about. They entered a large hall and their footsteps echoed throughout. There were more guards standing about who granted entrance to another room.
As Wrot’Ka was escorted into the large chamber, he could see two men standing near a modest throne.
“And what business do you people have to disrupt the King and I?” The one shouted at them as the neared the throne.
The King, stood up and took a few steps forward. “Who is this man?”
Rew, Loteg, and the others who had escorted Wrot’Ka into this place knew to kneel. Wrot’Ka did not. “He calls himself Wrot’Ka son of Krett, your majesty.”
The King looked at the bound Wrot’Ka with intrigue. “A son of.” The King had a true sense of nobility about him when he spoke. “Then you are a traditionalist. Where do you hail from, son of?”
Wrot’Ka had no idea how to answer the King. He was not ready to speak of his rank. The General opted to withhold as much information about himself as possible until he better understood the situation. There was no telling what trouble he might cause revealing his true origin. “I… come from a far off land. In the mountain passes.”
“Then why are you here?” The other Klingon who was standing off to side had asked. He was clearly not pleased at his presence.
“You must forgive the Governor. He is weary.” The King excused the man and explained to Wrot’Ka, “ We have had troubles with outsiders recently. The harlot, magician, and the demon. We fear they were sent by Warlord Brull. How do I know he did not send you?”
Wrot’Ka spoke with his usual confident Klingon tone. His deep scratchy voice let loose the fiction as if it were fact, “I do not know of any man named Brull. Nor am I any of the things that have troubled you. I am just a hunter. A hunter without a home.”
“No home, you say.” The King was interested in the General’s story now. “Destroyed?” Wrot’Ka nodded at the King’s question. “And what of your family?” The Klingon King waited but Wrot’Ka responded with nothing more than squinted eyes. “I hope you have not come here looking for revenge, hunter.”
Wrot’Ka let loose a deep sigh, “The revenge I crave can be found… nowhere near here.” The Warrior was thinking of the Federation and their cowardice ways which have brought them to war with the Empire. The floodgate was now open to Wrot’Ka’s memories and hate. He couldn’t shake thinking about how Starfleet had killed his Father’s fleet. How cowards left and right had made hit and run attacks on his House. He thought of fighting that Federation ship which bested him. Wrot’Ka assumed he was dead. But this is not the afterlife he had heard so much about.
“He bested the best, my Lord. I saw him do it with my own eyes.” Loteg was eager to inform his King of the deed Wrot’Ka accomplished. “Wrot’Ka killed it with his bare hands… no sword.”
“An impressive feat.” The Governor spoke up. “All the more reason to not trust him. He…” The King raised his hand and silenced the Governor.
The King stepped down from the throne and motioned for the guards to unchain Wrot’Ka. “This Kingdom owes you a debt that I’m afraid I cannot pay in full right now.” The King took Wrot’Ka’s hand and shook it as a thank you to him. “The barbarian horde, Brull’s Soldiers, they continue to raid and raze our lands. We have not the means to trade food or goods until next season now least I starve my own people.” The depression in the King’s voice was easily detected by Wrot’Ka. The Warrior kept his mouth shut for fear of reminding the man that he is a Klingon and should worry less about trade and more about spilling the blood of those that come begging for war. “Loteg,” The King ordered, “You will share your home with this man.” The King turned his attention to Wrot’Ka, “You will let us feed you and take care of you for now until such time as I can properly reward you for ridding our land of that creature most foul.”
As the group left the royal chamber Wrot’Ka could not help but think of how dishonorable this King was. A reward that he could not give, ordering another to house him, the obvious fear of another ruler. What land is this? This is madness and I will have no part of it. The General thought to himself. He intended to get some sleep and then quickly find a way out of here.
As they walked towards Loteg’s residence, Wrot’Ka looked back at where the King’s building was. He saw a woman perched up in a tower. She was watching them. The Warrior knew she was not a royal member just from the simple garb she wore. So, who was she and why was she watching them?
Wrot’Ka limped along through the land with the one he had spoken to right after Q had pestered him. The young man said his name was Loteg and offered to bring the General to his city while the other two Klingons, that had traveled with Loteg, took off to complete their hunt for food. Wrot’Ka and his new companion had ventured far without a single break to rest until now. The scenery had changed from jungle, to plains, and now to a gradually thickening forest.
Wrot’Ka sat on a rock as he tended to the wooden spike still impaled in his leg. It was not his only wound, but it was the most severe. Loteg stood not far off relieving himself on a tree.
“It’s not far now.” Loteg said as he made himself decent again while walking over to the battered Wrot’Ka.
“Good.” Wrot’Ka had said. He was about to ask about the presence of a physician at the city. He had hoped there would be bloodwine, a communications array, and some antibiotics. The General had no chance to ask any of this as the boy was eager to flap at the mouth as he had done this entire trek.
“What, are you tired already?” Loteg asked while smiling. The young man was full of energy. Wrot’Ka looked up from his injured leg and quietly glared at the boy with a sense of aggravation. Wrot’Ka was not tired, but his legs were fatigued from injury and fight. Loteg jubilantly giggled and started walking again; Wrot’Ka slowly got up and followed.
They traveled little more than another hour when Loteg pointed, “There it is. Killhorn. My village.”
Wrot’Ka looked up and saw what the boy had pointed to. Village!? Wrot’Ka thought to himself. It looked like some primitive war scene in a holodeck. Brick walls, small holes that were likely windows, two or three rooftops were visible over the vast walls. This was not what Wrot’Ka had expected, and his face revealed his shock and annoyance of the place. At least the name was acceptable. “Killhorn. That is a… good name for a village. Where does the name come from?”
“There was an ancient beast that roamed the forest here. It had massive horns.” Loteg explained as Wrot’Ka listened. “It slaughtered dozens of hunters.” Wrot’Ka light out a disappointed groan at the thought of fellow Klingons naming an area after such devastating defeat.
The two continued until they reached the wall and then followed it towards an entrance.
“Up ahead, that’s Knight Rew. He commands our Army.” Loteg was not short for words this entire trip. Wrot’Ka was looking forward to getting inside the walls and hopefully out of this place.
But where is this place? Wrot’Ka was still very confused. Subject 13, Q, and ancient castle like structure. Where was he? What was going on?
“Who is this?” The ranking Knight, Rew, asked as Wrot’Ka and Loteg stopped before the gate. The Knight did not look pleased.
“This is Wrot’Ka.” Loteg informed the Knight. “He’s a son of.” The boy said smiling. Wrot’Ka looked at his travel partner with curiosity.
Rew, the Knight, stepped closer to the two. “He looks like garbage. A spy, no doubt.” Rew spit on the ground right in front of Wrot’Ka’s feet.
“Rew…” Loteg started in, “He slew the beast! The one which ate Lady Ha’tel!” Loteg was unable to conceal the excitement in his voice. “I saw it with my own eyes, Rew.” The young hunter patted Wrot’Ka on his shoulder which induced a slight wince from the pain already plaguing the General’s body. “He is entitled to the King’s reward.”
Wrot’Ka noticed the primitive nature of the whole situation. Everything from the stitched dirty clothes, swords instead of Bat’Leths, bows and arrows, and dirt trails. The lost General was even more confused as to where he was now let alone what was going on here. What sort of test is this? He wondered in reference to being sentenced to prove his honor.
Though the lead Knight, Rew, was no happy about letting Wrot’Ka through the gate, he obliged. He accompanied the duo inside the walls. Wrot’Ka was taken aback by the sights. Brick and mud buildings, livestock running loose, iron working being conducted. It looked nearly like ancient Qo’NoS.
Wrot’Ka was taken to the local doctor who proceeded to remove the stake from his leg and dress the wound. The shack was unsanitary and the doctor looked more like a farmer than a physician. The doctors ability, or rather the lack there of, to dress the wound made Wrot’Ka believe that even he possessed more medical knowledge than this dirty simpleton.
Once the business of Wrot’Ka’s injuries had been tended to, Rew escorted the two to a large building.
By order of Rew, Wrot’Ka’s hands were bound behind his back. Once inside, paintings and fancy curtains hung about. They entered a large hall and their footsteps echoed throughout. There were more guards standing about who granted entrance to another room.
As Wrot’Ka was escorted into the large chamber, he could see two men standing near a modest throne.
“And what business do you people have to disrupt the King and I?” The one shouted at them as the neared the throne.
The King, stood up and took a few steps forward. “Who is this man?”
Rew, Loteg, and the others who had escorted Wrot’Ka into this place knew to kneel. Wrot’Ka did not. “He calls himself Wrot’Ka son of Krett, your majesty.”
The King looked at the bound Wrot’Ka with intrigue. “A son of.” The King had a true sense of nobility about him when he spoke. “Then you are a traditionalist. Where do you hail from, son of?”
Wrot’Ka had no idea how to answer the King. He was not ready to speak of his rank. The General opted to withhold as much information about himself as possible until he better understood the situation. There was no telling what trouble he might cause revealing his true origin. “I… come from a far off land. In the mountain passes.”
“Then why are you here?” The other Klingon who was standing off to side had asked. He was clearly not pleased at his presence.
“You must forgive the Governor. He is weary.” The King excused the man and explained to Wrot’Ka, “ We have had troubles with outsiders recently. The harlot, magician, and the demon. We fear they were sent by Warlord Brull. How do I know he did not send you?”
Wrot’Ka spoke with his usual confident Klingon tone. His deep scratchy voice let loose the fiction as if it were fact, “I do not know of any man named Brull. Nor am I any of the things that have troubled you. I am just a hunter. A hunter without a home.”
“No home, you say.” The King was interested in the General’s story now. “Destroyed?” Wrot’Ka nodded at the King’s question. “And what of your family?” The Klingon King waited but Wrot’Ka responded with nothing more than squinted eyes. “I hope you have not come here looking for revenge, hunter.”
Wrot’Ka let loose a deep sigh, “The revenge I crave can be found… nowhere near here.” The Warrior was thinking of the Federation and their cowardice ways which have brought them to war with the Empire. The floodgate was now open to Wrot’Ka’s memories and hate. He couldn’t shake thinking about how Starfleet had killed his Father’s fleet. How cowards left and right had made hit and run attacks on his House. He thought of fighting that Federation ship which bested him. Wrot’Ka assumed he was dead. But this is not the afterlife he had heard so much about.
“He bested the best, my Lord. I saw him do it with my own eyes.” Loteg was eager to inform his King of the deed Wrot’Ka accomplished. “Wrot’Ka killed it with his bare hands… no sword.”
“An impressive feat.” The Governor spoke up. “All the more reason to not trust him. He…” The King raised his hand and silenced the Governor.
The King stepped down from the throne and motioned for the guards to unchain Wrot’Ka. “This Kingdom owes you a debt that I’m afraid I cannot pay in full right now.” The King took Wrot’Ka’s hand and shook it as a thank you to him. “The barbarian horde, Brull’s Soldiers, they continue to raid and raze our lands. We have not the means to trade food or goods until next season now least I starve my own people.” The depression in the King’s voice was easily detected by Wrot’Ka. The Warrior kept his mouth shut for fear of reminding the man that he is a Klingon and should worry less about trade and more about spilling the blood of those that come begging for war. “Loteg,” The King ordered, “You will share your home with this man.” The King turned his attention to Wrot’Ka, “You will let us feed you and take care of you for now until such time as I can properly reward you for ridding our land of that creature most foul.”
As the group left the royal chamber Wrot’Ka could not help but think of how dishonorable this King was. A reward that he could not give, ordering another to house him, the obvious fear of another ruler. What land is this? This is madness and I will have no part of it. The General thought to himself. He intended to get some sleep and then quickly find a way out of here.
As they walked towards Loteg’s residence, Wrot’Ka looked back at where the King’s building was. He saw a woman perched up in a tower. She was watching them. The Warrior knew she was not a royal member just from the simple garb she wore. So, who was she and why was she watching them?
THE LION’S DEN
The escapees held their breath as they awaited the results of the scan. As it turned out, the USS Courage was completely abandoned, which seemed odd. Then again, Captain Sark was not a normal individual. So, in a way, leaving his ship completely void of any personnel almost makes sense.
The Ferengi freighter they were on had no real armament. It was also not very fast or tough. Even though this old Constitution class starship was out of date, it still stood a better chance at survival in the unknown than the freighter. The living conditions were surely better.
Captain Morg ordered a boarding party over. D’Jaen was none too pleased that Dewey volunteered himself. She could tell that he was trying to impress his once, and new, Captain. Her and Dewey talked about the situation before in the dark nights in the crater. How he always blamed himself about what had happened to Captain Morg. She worried Dewey’s need to rectify that mistake he made so many years ago, which both she and Morg agreed was no mistake at all and was ultimately unavoidable and in no way his fault, might put him in a situation where she could lose him. None the less, she knew it was his way to boldly go into situations he knew little about. It was his nature, and partially would attracted her to him so much.
Dewey, Major Serat, Dalmor, and Ixer beamed aboard the USS Courage. The lights were dim and there were only a few consoles on. The ship had obviously been set to automation and respond when someone was close.
Dalmor postulated, “Tucked away in the middle of nowhere, with nothing of interest around draw anyone’s attention… probably figured there was no need to worry about anyone boarding her.”
“Or he doesn’t need it anymore.” The enormous Gorn chimmed in. His words were true enough, but why ditch the ship? It was rumored that Sark had captured the saucer section of a Galaxy class ship a few years ago. But even a rickety Constitution class had to fair better, simply for the ability of warp if nothing else, than the beat up saucer section of Galaxy class ship.
The group set about, carefully, checking the ship. Dewey stressed the need for caution. There was no way to tell if the mad Vulcan and his insane followers had rigged up some traps for any would-be hijackers.
To cover more ground, they split up in twos. Dewey and Dalmor stuck together while the Major had, begrudgingly, accepted Ixer as his teammate.
“Anything?” Dewey asked, in an almost quiet voice, to Dalmor.
“Not really.” The Cardassian replied. “No life signs, no movement.”
Serat and the paranoid Jem’Hadar set about exploring the ship. Serat was thorough in his inspection for signs of (recent) activity. However, the pair saw nothing that indicated that the ship had been occupied in some time.
As Serat and Ixer traversed the corridor of the Courage, they came upon a grisly sight. Eventually, Dewey and Dalmor would observe similar signs of mayhem on their journey through the ill-fated ship.
The terrifying marks of the deranged crew varied in levels of appall. The happenings aboard a ship that had ventured to a place no one has ever been to, or should ever go to, and returned had made even the ship itself seem mad.
Random torn uniforms tossed about the rooms and corridors. Claw/fingernail scratch marks across the walls. Dried up blood stains splattered about. Smashed consoles. Burn marks from fire or even phasers. Lights smashed and broken. Bulk heads ripped apart.
Both groups had discovered horrific sights at random locations. Dead and decaying bodies of Starfleet officers from the ships era. A few of the bodies looked fairly well preserved, leading them to believe that these people had died recently. Some had died from self-inflicted wounds, such as the one Engineering Officer that Dalmor had discovered laying in a bed soaked, then dried, in the blood from the man’s wrists. There were others which had clearly suffered the deathly wrath of other crew members.
Insanity, on this level, would turn friends against each other and rivals into allies. It was a wonder no one had blown the ship up with everyone on board. Perhaps someone had tried. It was hard to tell. This crew, even the Vulcans, had been turned into something savage. Something wild. Something inhumane.
“What would make a people do this?” Dalmor asked while covering his nose with his arm. The stench of decaying bodies in one of the rooms was too much to bare for him.
Dewey, unaffected by the smell, calmly looked about. “No one knows. I doubt even they know. Where they went… what they experienced…” Dewey couldn’t find the words to finish his thought.
The only thing that was known about the fate of the USS Courage, and her crew, was that they encountered an “Unknown Event” in 2267 in the Delta Volanis Cluster. It was assumed that all hands on board were lost and the ship destroyed. Then, in 2372, Sark and various members of his crew were spotted on the planet Nimbus III. If their deranged behavior wasn’t odd enough, the fact that none of them appeared to have aged a day was. Now, here was the ship in surprisingly good condition considering what it had been through (whatever that was) and the fact that the ship was over 150 years old.
Once the Courage was deemed safe, many of the former prisoners beamed over. They decided that they would get the ship operational and make it their new home. Though, it was clear that there was a large mess that needed to be cleaned up and a lot of work to be done.
In total, they had packed 91 individuals into that tiny Ferengi freighter. Some had no interest in calling a Federation starship their home. So, Morg agreed to part ways. 52 men and women decided to make the Courage their new home. The rest departed in the freighter for parts unknown. Morg, along with the rest who had any knowledge of the USS Courage, knew that Starfleet wouldn’t be looking for a ship, which they thought was destroyed, on the farthest most corner of Romulan space.
The ones who adopted the Courage set about restoring power. Morg took his place on the Bridge with a few others while Dewey and D’Jaen had picked their room, as did others, and went to work cleaning up whatever needed it. They now had showers, beds, replicators. Life was looking pretty good right about now.
The door chime to Dewey and D’Jaen’s room sounded. The door opened to reveal Major Serat. He said nothing at first as he regarded the couple with his one good eye. The Gorn could not remember the last time he had seen Dewey happy. Serat was not a fan of the group’s decision to just take off rather than return home. However, the Major owed Dewey his life and that meant he would follow the Human anywhere. “Come with me.” The Gorn turned and walked away not giving Dewey any time to decline.
D’Jaen stayed behind as Serat and Dewey walked through the scarred interior. The two friends were silent. Dewey wasn’t sure where Serat was taking. Serat, hoping to sway the Human’s choice to leave the Federation, wanted him to see true madness.
They arrived at the Captain’s Quarters. The door was ajar, but the bulk Gorn quickly adjusted it. Dewey just stood there for a moment. His home, Dewey thought. The residence of true malevolence. Dewey’s heart rate sped up. Everything about Sark made him nervous. The man looked to the Major for advice. Serat simply nodded.
Dewey entered slowly. He looked about. The bed was unmade. The monitor smashed in. There were fist marks all over the walls. A slashed Vulcan painting hung on the wall. Dewey walked over to a mirror on one of the walls.
The mirror had been smashed right in the center. Specs of dried, green, blood dotted the center of the break. Dewey squared off with the mirror and gazed deeply into it. As he did, he could feel insanity stare right back into him. His own image, splintered into several different pieces, gave way to freighting thoughts and emotions. A fractured reality of a broken mind belonging to a disturbed man. Dewey saw in the mirror what no one else could see in Sark.
Dewey noticed Serat move into position behind him. The Gorn remained silent. “Why show my this place?” Dewey asked while looking at the many images of the Major in the mirror.
“You needed to see it. To know who Captain Sark is. You must understand him if you are…” As Serat explained, Dewey turned around to face him.
“I don’t need to understand him. There is nothing to understand.” Dewey spoke in a nearly confident voice, but the Gorn knew the man too well. Dewey walked past the giant Gorn, “He’s not my problem anymore.” Dewey exited the Captain’s Quarters and left Serat standing there facing the mirror.
The Gorn was motionless as his friend departed. He knew about the rivalry between Sark and Dewey. How, at nearly every encounter, Sark had bested Dewey’s attempt to apprehend him. Serat was well informed on Dewey’s undercover time spent in Sark’s terrorist group, Nu’Tri, and the horrors he had witnessed. He knew that what happened shook the Human, but he expected the man had an urge, a need, to put an end to Sark’s rein of chaos. He did not predict that Dewey would be so quick to walk away. Serat came to realize that Dewey now had something he never had before. And now the Human was not so quick to jeopardize what he had, what he so longed for. A love.
Dewey walked back towards his new quarters. Still disturbed at the sights in Sark’s room, the man tried to shake the thoughts. Something was nagging him though. Why abandon the ship? Why now? After all these years, obviously the ship meant something to him. Why throw it away?
The escapees held their breath as they awaited the results of the scan. As it turned out, the USS Courage was completely abandoned, which seemed odd. Then again, Captain Sark was not a normal individual. So, in a way, leaving his ship completely void of any personnel almost makes sense.
The Ferengi freighter they were on had no real armament. It was also not very fast or tough. Even though this old Constitution class starship was out of date, it still stood a better chance at survival in the unknown than the freighter. The living conditions were surely better.
Captain Morg ordered a boarding party over. D’Jaen was none too pleased that Dewey volunteered himself. She could tell that he was trying to impress his once, and new, Captain. Her and Dewey talked about the situation before in the dark nights in the crater. How he always blamed himself about what had happened to Captain Morg. She worried Dewey’s need to rectify that mistake he made so many years ago, which both she and Morg agreed was no mistake at all and was ultimately unavoidable and in no way his fault, might put him in a situation where she could lose him. None the less, she knew it was his way to boldly go into situations he knew little about. It was his nature, and partially would attracted her to him so much.
Dewey, Major Serat, Dalmor, and Ixer beamed aboard the USS Courage. The lights were dim and there were only a few consoles on. The ship had obviously been set to automation and respond when someone was close.
Dalmor postulated, “Tucked away in the middle of nowhere, with nothing of interest around draw anyone’s attention… probably figured there was no need to worry about anyone boarding her.”
“Or he doesn’t need it anymore.” The enormous Gorn chimmed in. His words were true enough, but why ditch the ship? It was rumored that Sark had captured the saucer section of a Galaxy class ship a few years ago. But even a rickety Constitution class had to fair better, simply for the ability of warp if nothing else, than the beat up saucer section of Galaxy class ship.
The group set about, carefully, checking the ship. Dewey stressed the need for caution. There was no way to tell if the mad Vulcan and his insane followers had rigged up some traps for any would-be hijackers.
To cover more ground, they split up in twos. Dewey and Dalmor stuck together while the Major had, begrudgingly, accepted Ixer as his teammate.
“Anything?” Dewey asked, in an almost quiet voice, to Dalmor.
“Not really.” The Cardassian replied. “No life signs, no movement.”
Serat and the paranoid Jem’Hadar set about exploring the ship. Serat was thorough in his inspection for signs of (recent) activity. However, the pair saw nothing that indicated that the ship had been occupied in some time.
As Serat and Ixer traversed the corridor of the Courage, they came upon a grisly sight. Eventually, Dewey and Dalmor would observe similar signs of mayhem on their journey through the ill-fated ship.
The terrifying marks of the deranged crew varied in levels of appall. The happenings aboard a ship that had ventured to a place no one has ever been to, or should ever go to, and returned had made even the ship itself seem mad.
Random torn uniforms tossed about the rooms and corridors. Claw/fingernail scratch marks across the walls. Dried up blood stains splattered about. Smashed consoles. Burn marks from fire or even phasers. Lights smashed and broken. Bulk heads ripped apart.
Both groups had discovered horrific sights at random locations. Dead and decaying bodies of Starfleet officers from the ships era. A few of the bodies looked fairly well preserved, leading them to believe that these people had died recently. Some had died from self-inflicted wounds, such as the one Engineering Officer that Dalmor had discovered laying in a bed soaked, then dried, in the blood from the man’s wrists. There were others which had clearly suffered the deathly wrath of other crew members.
Insanity, on this level, would turn friends against each other and rivals into allies. It was a wonder no one had blown the ship up with everyone on board. Perhaps someone had tried. It was hard to tell. This crew, even the Vulcans, had been turned into something savage. Something wild. Something inhumane.
“What would make a people do this?” Dalmor asked while covering his nose with his arm. The stench of decaying bodies in one of the rooms was too much to bare for him.
Dewey, unaffected by the smell, calmly looked about. “No one knows. I doubt even they know. Where they went… what they experienced…” Dewey couldn’t find the words to finish his thought.
The only thing that was known about the fate of the USS Courage, and her crew, was that they encountered an “Unknown Event” in 2267 in the Delta Volanis Cluster. It was assumed that all hands on board were lost and the ship destroyed. Then, in 2372, Sark and various members of his crew were spotted on the planet Nimbus III. If their deranged behavior wasn’t odd enough, the fact that none of them appeared to have aged a day was. Now, here was the ship in surprisingly good condition considering what it had been through (whatever that was) and the fact that the ship was over 150 years old.
Once the Courage was deemed safe, many of the former prisoners beamed over. They decided that they would get the ship operational and make it their new home. Though, it was clear that there was a large mess that needed to be cleaned up and a lot of work to be done.
In total, they had packed 91 individuals into that tiny Ferengi freighter. Some had no interest in calling a Federation starship their home. So, Morg agreed to part ways. 52 men and women decided to make the Courage their new home. The rest departed in the freighter for parts unknown. Morg, along with the rest who had any knowledge of the USS Courage, knew that Starfleet wouldn’t be looking for a ship, which they thought was destroyed, on the farthest most corner of Romulan space.
The ones who adopted the Courage set about restoring power. Morg took his place on the Bridge with a few others while Dewey and D’Jaen had picked their room, as did others, and went to work cleaning up whatever needed it. They now had showers, beds, replicators. Life was looking pretty good right about now.
The door chime to Dewey and D’Jaen’s room sounded. The door opened to reveal Major Serat. He said nothing at first as he regarded the couple with his one good eye. The Gorn could not remember the last time he had seen Dewey happy. Serat was not a fan of the group’s decision to just take off rather than return home. However, the Major owed Dewey his life and that meant he would follow the Human anywhere. “Come with me.” The Gorn turned and walked away not giving Dewey any time to decline.
D’Jaen stayed behind as Serat and Dewey walked through the scarred interior. The two friends were silent. Dewey wasn’t sure where Serat was taking. Serat, hoping to sway the Human’s choice to leave the Federation, wanted him to see true madness.
They arrived at the Captain’s Quarters. The door was ajar, but the bulk Gorn quickly adjusted it. Dewey just stood there for a moment. His home, Dewey thought. The residence of true malevolence. Dewey’s heart rate sped up. Everything about Sark made him nervous. The man looked to the Major for advice. Serat simply nodded.
Dewey entered slowly. He looked about. The bed was unmade. The monitor smashed in. There were fist marks all over the walls. A slashed Vulcan painting hung on the wall. Dewey walked over to a mirror on one of the walls.
The mirror had been smashed right in the center. Specs of dried, green, blood dotted the center of the break. Dewey squared off with the mirror and gazed deeply into it. As he did, he could feel insanity stare right back into him. His own image, splintered into several different pieces, gave way to freighting thoughts and emotions. A fractured reality of a broken mind belonging to a disturbed man. Dewey saw in the mirror what no one else could see in Sark.
Dewey noticed Serat move into position behind him. The Gorn remained silent. “Why show my this place?” Dewey asked while looking at the many images of the Major in the mirror.
“You needed to see it. To know who Captain Sark is. You must understand him if you are…” As Serat explained, Dewey turned around to face him.
“I don’t need to understand him. There is nothing to understand.” Dewey spoke in a nearly confident voice, but the Gorn knew the man too well. Dewey walked past the giant Gorn, “He’s not my problem anymore.” Dewey exited the Captain’s Quarters and left Serat standing there facing the mirror.
The Gorn was motionless as his friend departed. He knew about the rivalry between Sark and Dewey. How, at nearly every encounter, Sark had bested Dewey’s attempt to apprehend him. Serat was well informed on Dewey’s undercover time spent in Sark’s terrorist group, Nu’Tri, and the horrors he had witnessed. He knew that what happened shook the Human, but he expected the man had an urge, a need, to put an end to Sark’s rein of chaos. He did not predict that Dewey would be so quick to walk away. Serat came to realize that Dewey now had something he never had before. And now the Human was not so quick to jeopardize what he had, what he so longed for. A love.
Dewey walked back towards his new quarters. Still disturbed at the sights in Sark’s room, the man tried to shake the thoughts. Something was nagging him though. Why abandon the ship? Why now? After all these years, obviously the ship meant something to him. Why throw it away?
BELATED OVERTURE
Wrot’Ka sat up in a rush, breathing deep. He awoke from his deep sleep to the sound of livestock outside and the sound of two people talking. The lack of any electronics combined with the uneven pattern in which the sun rose and fell made it impossible to tell how long he had been asleep for. He did feel well rested though. He wasn’t sure how long he had been awake for before, but it seemed like eternity.
He was housed in small barn-like structure where he made a bed out of straw. The Klingon Warrior was battered and bruised otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with such comforts.. Loteg, the young Klingon who had been ordered by the King to house Wrot’Ka, offered him the comforts of his home. Wrot’Ka did not want to stay inside the house. The General felt that it was best to keep these people at arms distance so that none of them could develop any sort of attachment to him. Wrot’Ka was going to get out of this place as soon as he can figure out where he is.
As the once powerful and mighty General stood up, he stretched and cracked numerous joints in his body. He brushed off a few strands of the straw and slowly walked over to the closed door of the primitively built barn.
“No, Jel’Hew!” Loteg spoke in a loud whisper to the woman. “I told you he’s sleeping. You can’t go in there.” He was trying to stop the woman from entering the small wooden den.
“I’m not going to wake him. I’m just curious, that’s all. I wonder if he’s like the others.” Jel’Hew was the woman who watched the group from her perched position not so very long ago. She watched the group enter the village and was instantly curious about the stranger Loteg now kept.
Wrot’Ka pushed open the door and was brought back to the reality of the situation he was in. A walled in village with children and animals running around. Loteg and Jel’Hew were startled at first at the sight of the freshly awakened Warrior.
“I am thirsty.” Wrot’Ka said in his usual deep scratchy voice as he straightened his clothes. It quickly occurred to him that he was not dealing with his Warriors and crew, these were simple farm people. Even though Wrot’Ka truly had no desire to make pleasantries, he also understood the concept of being diplomatic. He quickly followed up his order, “Do you have any water… to spare.”
“Uh, uh.” Loteg was nervous. He wasn’t use to taking orders, and before now Wrot’Ka had been far too tired to act in such an authoritarian nature. “Yeah. Let me go get some.” As the young Klingon walked away he shot Jel’Hew a wide eyed look.
Once Loteg was out of ear shot, the curious woman started doing what she had truly come here to do. “They say your name is Wrot’Ka.” She paused for a second as the General locked eyes with her and barely moved. “I hear that you are a traditionalist.” Wrot’Ka remained silent. The woman, slightly uneasy at the Klingon’s reluctance to speak, fidgeted with her dress. “Why… did you slay the albino beast?”
Wrot’Ka took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. He had never been one for conversation and he also knew that there could be unexpected danger in revealing his full identity and background. “I am a hunter. He was my prey.”
“The Warlord Brull will not be happy you killed his beast. It’s said that he had to sacrifice ten of his best Soldiers to the Ice Demon to have her create the beast.” The woman prodded.
Wrot’Ka squinted his eyes at her in slight annoyance at her misconception of Subject 13. That albino beast she spoke of was a concoction of Klingon scientists under his command. “That thing was not natural but it was not conceived by magic.”
Jel’Hew smirked, “For a traditionalist you seem rather skeptical of the fabled tales.” She looked at the ground briefly, “Why were you hunting the beast near here though? Obviously you come from far off… I was told you’ve never even heard of Warlord Brull and had no idea our village was here. What brought you out from your remote location?” She was curious that much was certain to Wrot’Ka.
“All things dishonorable deserve death.” Just as the words left his mouth it dawned on Wrot’Ka that perhaps that is how he found himself here from all those ill-conceived plots that went against everything in his Klingon nature. He had to be dead after all. Not in Sto’Vo’Kor, not exactly Gre’Thor, just some in-between life that he was now relegated to.
Jel’Hew was perplexed at the General’s response. She had opened her mouth to respond but said nothing as small convoy of covered wagons passed them on the nearest village trail. The wagons were being pulled by stocky bull-like horses with ram horns. In the wagons were wooden and simple. What was in them was what caught Jel’Hew, Wrot’Ka, and the returning Loteg’s attention. Old women and young children crying and yelling about something.
Wrot’Ka was the only one from the group to step closer towards the trail. He was in arms reach of the few wagons that passed. Jel’Hew and Loteg just stood there frozen for reasons Wrot’Ka could not understand. The General’s expression on his face was both disgust for the sight of Klingons crying and confusion as to what would cause them to be this way.
This does not bode well. The Klingon Warrior thought to himself as he watched the last wagon pass and the convoy make its way towards the King’s building.
Wrot’Ka sat up in a rush, breathing deep. He awoke from his deep sleep to the sound of livestock outside and the sound of two people talking. The lack of any electronics combined with the uneven pattern in which the sun rose and fell made it impossible to tell how long he had been asleep for. He did feel well rested though. He wasn’t sure how long he had been awake for before, but it seemed like eternity.
He was housed in small barn-like structure where he made a bed out of straw. The Klingon Warrior was battered and bruised otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with such comforts.. Loteg, the young Klingon who had been ordered by the King to house Wrot’Ka, offered him the comforts of his home. Wrot’Ka did not want to stay inside the house. The General felt that it was best to keep these people at arms distance so that none of them could develop any sort of attachment to him. Wrot’Ka was going to get out of this place as soon as he can figure out where he is.
As the once powerful and mighty General stood up, he stretched and cracked numerous joints in his body. He brushed off a few strands of the straw and slowly walked over to the closed door of the primitively built barn.
“No, Jel’Hew!” Loteg spoke in a loud whisper to the woman. “I told you he’s sleeping. You can’t go in there.” He was trying to stop the woman from entering the small wooden den.
“I’m not going to wake him. I’m just curious, that’s all. I wonder if he’s like the others.” Jel’Hew was the woman who watched the group from her perched position not so very long ago. She watched the group enter the village and was instantly curious about the stranger Loteg now kept.
Wrot’Ka pushed open the door and was brought back to the reality of the situation he was in. A walled in village with children and animals running around. Loteg and Jel’Hew were startled at first at the sight of the freshly awakened Warrior.
“I am thirsty.” Wrot’Ka said in his usual deep scratchy voice as he straightened his clothes. It quickly occurred to him that he was not dealing with his Warriors and crew, these were simple farm people. Even though Wrot’Ka truly had no desire to make pleasantries, he also understood the concept of being diplomatic. He quickly followed up his order, “Do you have any water… to spare.”
“Uh, uh.” Loteg was nervous. He wasn’t use to taking orders, and before now Wrot’Ka had been far too tired to act in such an authoritarian nature. “Yeah. Let me go get some.” As the young Klingon walked away he shot Jel’Hew a wide eyed look.
Once Loteg was out of ear shot, the curious woman started doing what she had truly come here to do. “They say your name is Wrot’Ka.” She paused for a second as the General locked eyes with her and barely moved. “I hear that you are a traditionalist.” Wrot’Ka remained silent. The woman, slightly uneasy at the Klingon’s reluctance to speak, fidgeted with her dress. “Why… did you slay the albino beast?”
Wrot’Ka took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. He had never been one for conversation and he also knew that there could be unexpected danger in revealing his full identity and background. “I am a hunter. He was my prey.”
“The Warlord Brull will not be happy you killed his beast. It’s said that he had to sacrifice ten of his best Soldiers to the Ice Demon to have her create the beast.” The woman prodded.
Wrot’Ka squinted his eyes at her in slight annoyance at her misconception of Subject 13. That albino beast she spoke of was a concoction of Klingon scientists under his command. “That thing was not natural but it was not conceived by magic.”
Jel’Hew smirked, “For a traditionalist you seem rather skeptical of the fabled tales.” She looked at the ground briefly, “Why were you hunting the beast near here though? Obviously you come from far off… I was told you’ve never even heard of Warlord Brull and had no idea our village was here. What brought you out from your remote location?” She was curious that much was certain to Wrot’Ka.
“All things dishonorable deserve death.” Just as the words left his mouth it dawned on Wrot’Ka that perhaps that is how he found himself here from all those ill-conceived plots that went against everything in his Klingon nature. He had to be dead after all. Not in Sto’Vo’Kor, not exactly Gre’Thor, just some in-between life that he was now relegated to.
Jel’Hew was perplexed at the General’s response. She had opened her mouth to respond but said nothing as small convoy of covered wagons passed them on the nearest village trail. The wagons were being pulled by stocky bull-like horses with ram horns. In the wagons were wooden and simple. What was in them was what caught Jel’Hew, Wrot’Ka, and the returning Loteg’s attention. Old women and young children crying and yelling about something.
Wrot’Ka was the only one from the group to step closer towards the trail. He was in arms reach of the few wagons that passed. Jel’Hew and Loteg just stood there frozen for reasons Wrot’Ka could not understand. The General’s expression on his face was both disgust for the sight of Klingons crying and confusion as to what would cause them to be this way.
This does not bode well. The Klingon Warrior thought to himself as he watched the last wagon pass and the convoy make its way towards the King’s building.
WANDERING MINDS
The new rebel crew of the USS Courage were enjoying their new home. Many of the former prisoners now roamed freely, ate large meals, and showered daily. They had taken the time to clean up the horrific mess Sark’s crew had caused. Everyone had settled into their chosen rooms and helped keep the ship operational as they could.
The ship was moving through the stars at a slow Warp 3. The ship just didn’t have the power to do much more without burning the systems out. Captain Morg had assumed the role of the leader of the group. Dewey was content with given advice and ideas, he even helped delegate work to people with the proper skills. Overall, Dewey hadn’t done much. He helped them decide a course and get the ship moving. Once that was in all that had been implemented, he hadn’t stepped foot back on the Bridge of the Courage.
D’Jaen and Dewey had taken the time to tidy up their room. Since they moved in, the couple had spent most of their days in the room enjoying the company of each other while shutting out the rest of the universe.
It seemed that just about every other night the crew had come up with a reason to hold some sort of celebration whether it be for holidays past, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, or because it’s Tuesday. The crew repeatedly found reason to enjoy their new found freedom. This was one of the few instances where both Dewey and D’Jaen had left the confines of their domain and were mingling with the rest of the dissident crew.
Many of the former prisoners had conjugated near one of the lounges. When they initially boarded the ship they had found a few cases of a variety of alcohol. The crew put the fun fluid to quick use. Tonight there was an overabundance of whine and a few cases of something called Kuegie. Some of the Romulan crew members explained that Kuegie was a rare, and expensive, alcohol usually reserved for the elites of their society. It smelt like freshly cut grass, looked like water, tasked like peanut butter chocolate, and flowed like cough syrup. It also put the bulk of the drinkers three sheets to the wind before they had even finished their first glass.
Music played as the people delved into funny antics, enjoyable stories, games, and dancing. Most of everyone was enjoying themselves. Dewey and D’Jaen had dressed in some classy clothes, as did the others, that they had found stowed in several of the Courage’s former crew’s quarters. There was food and drink being served and consumed like none of them imagined they would ever enjoy again when they were in the prison.
A number of the crew were dancing to classical music being played in the lounge. D’Jaen and Dewey were among the laughing bunch enjoying the music. “I can’t wait to see how lively this group gets when there is a real reason to celebrate.” Dewey mentioned to his Romulan love interest as they slowly moved to the music.
“Isn’t the fact that we are alive and free reason enough?” D’Jaen asked while enjoying the festivities.
“I suppose.” Dewey responded while thinking, “Still… I wouldn’t mind getting off this ship.”
D’Jaen smiled and thought about her chance to go shopping. Not that spending money was all that fun or that she had much to spend, but she knew Dewey’s birthday was coming up soon and she wanted to get him something. “Well, Captain Morg did say we’d be arriving at Graden II here in a few days.” Her eyebrows raised briefly, “Should be fun.”
Dewey chuckled as they maneuvered their dance around the others, “Oh yes, a lawless planet. Lots of fun.”
“Yeah but they’ll have the best stuff in the Galaxy.” D’Jaen wasn’t too worried. Graden II for all its lack of any real government meant that no one would try and arrest them. It also meant no one would likely be looking for them there. And anyone going down to the planet could easily grab something from the ships armory to protect themselves.
“You know,” Dewey started in as he was about to ruin the moment, “A few from our group are likely not going to return to the ship. They’ll want to stay there.”
D’Jaen sighed slightly and looked into Dewey’s eyes, “True… but we don’t need a lot of people to run the ship. We can still hop from system to system. Explore. Help out others.” Her dreams were enough to make the Human smile. He liked the idea of just bouncing around from place to place.
Captain Morg had entertained the couple’s notion of being nothing more than simple travelers. Helping those they could, relaxing, and seeing a side to the Galaxy few ever have. The old Klingon knew he had no future in Starfleet, he had been detained to long and there were security protocols in place that prevented officers from returning to duty after having been held prisoner as long as he was. There’s too much of a chance they have been flipped/turned or brainwashed and so forth.
As Dewey and D’Jaen danced their way around the lounge, someone had retracted the covers to the windows. The sight revealed the beautiful open range of space slowly zipping past the ship. Dewey’s eyes caught the wonderful scenery outside the ship, his dancing slowed down.
“Something wrong?” D’Jaen was confused why her lover had suddenly lost interest in her company.
Dewey hadn’t even heard her. It wasn’t that the music or people were too loud, his mind just wasn’t there anymore. As much as D’Jaen held his heart, Dewey often felt his thoughts drifting to the stars and wondering what was going on back there.
Dewey had slept well at the prison camp, he was always tired from the work. He had slept well most of the time since they made the USS Courage their new home. But lately he had difficulties falling asleep and staying asleep. His thoughts usually focused on Sark and what the mastermind might be up to. He thought about Task Force: Argo, about his daughter who he never made amends with, and about the Gladiator and how it and the crew were doing. No one was able to get the ship’s communications network working yet which meant they couldn’t even get news about back home. Seeing the stars fly past the Courage now was just another reminder of things left unknown and unresolved in Dewey’s life. The Human tried to push past the thoughts and bring himself back to enjoying his new life with the woman he had fallen for.
The new rebel crew of the USS Courage were enjoying their new home. Many of the former prisoners now roamed freely, ate large meals, and showered daily. They had taken the time to clean up the horrific mess Sark’s crew had caused. Everyone had settled into their chosen rooms and helped keep the ship operational as they could.
The ship was moving through the stars at a slow Warp 3. The ship just didn’t have the power to do much more without burning the systems out. Captain Morg had assumed the role of the leader of the group. Dewey was content with given advice and ideas, he even helped delegate work to people with the proper skills. Overall, Dewey hadn’t done much. He helped them decide a course and get the ship moving. Once that was in all that had been implemented, he hadn’t stepped foot back on the Bridge of the Courage.
D’Jaen and Dewey had taken the time to tidy up their room. Since they moved in, the couple had spent most of their days in the room enjoying the company of each other while shutting out the rest of the universe.
It seemed that just about every other night the crew had come up with a reason to hold some sort of celebration whether it be for holidays past, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, or because it’s Tuesday. The crew repeatedly found reason to enjoy their new found freedom. This was one of the few instances where both Dewey and D’Jaen had left the confines of their domain and were mingling with the rest of the dissident crew.
Many of the former prisoners had conjugated near one of the lounges. When they initially boarded the ship they had found a few cases of a variety of alcohol. The crew put the fun fluid to quick use. Tonight there was an overabundance of whine and a few cases of something called Kuegie. Some of the Romulan crew members explained that Kuegie was a rare, and expensive, alcohol usually reserved for the elites of their society. It smelt like freshly cut grass, looked like water, tasked like peanut butter chocolate, and flowed like cough syrup. It also put the bulk of the drinkers three sheets to the wind before they had even finished their first glass.
Music played as the people delved into funny antics, enjoyable stories, games, and dancing. Most of everyone was enjoying themselves. Dewey and D’Jaen had dressed in some classy clothes, as did the others, that they had found stowed in several of the Courage’s former crew’s quarters. There was food and drink being served and consumed like none of them imagined they would ever enjoy again when they were in the prison.
A number of the crew were dancing to classical music being played in the lounge. D’Jaen and Dewey were among the laughing bunch enjoying the music. “I can’t wait to see how lively this group gets when there is a real reason to celebrate.” Dewey mentioned to his Romulan love interest as they slowly moved to the music.
“Isn’t the fact that we are alive and free reason enough?” D’Jaen asked while enjoying the festivities.
“I suppose.” Dewey responded while thinking, “Still… I wouldn’t mind getting off this ship.”
D’Jaen smiled and thought about her chance to go shopping. Not that spending money was all that fun or that she had much to spend, but she knew Dewey’s birthday was coming up soon and she wanted to get him something. “Well, Captain Morg did say we’d be arriving at Graden II here in a few days.” Her eyebrows raised briefly, “Should be fun.”
Dewey chuckled as they maneuvered their dance around the others, “Oh yes, a lawless planet. Lots of fun.”
“Yeah but they’ll have the best stuff in the Galaxy.” D’Jaen wasn’t too worried. Graden II for all its lack of any real government meant that no one would try and arrest them. It also meant no one would likely be looking for them there. And anyone going down to the planet could easily grab something from the ships armory to protect themselves.
“You know,” Dewey started in as he was about to ruin the moment, “A few from our group are likely not going to return to the ship. They’ll want to stay there.”
D’Jaen sighed slightly and looked into Dewey’s eyes, “True… but we don’t need a lot of people to run the ship. We can still hop from system to system. Explore. Help out others.” Her dreams were enough to make the Human smile. He liked the idea of just bouncing around from place to place.
Captain Morg had entertained the couple’s notion of being nothing more than simple travelers. Helping those they could, relaxing, and seeing a side to the Galaxy few ever have. The old Klingon knew he had no future in Starfleet, he had been detained to long and there were security protocols in place that prevented officers from returning to duty after having been held prisoner as long as he was. There’s too much of a chance they have been flipped/turned or brainwashed and so forth.
As Dewey and D’Jaen danced their way around the lounge, someone had retracted the covers to the windows. The sight revealed the beautiful open range of space slowly zipping past the ship. Dewey’s eyes caught the wonderful scenery outside the ship, his dancing slowed down.
“Something wrong?” D’Jaen was confused why her lover had suddenly lost interest in her company.
Dewey hadn’t even heard her. It wasn’t that the music or people were too loud, his mind just wasn’t there anymore. As much as D’Jaen held his heart, Dewey often felt his thoughts drifting to the stars and wondering what was going on back there.
Dewey had slept well at the prison camp, he was always tired from the work. He had slept well most of the time since they made the USS Courage their new home. But lately he had difficulties falling asleep and staying asleep. His thoughts usually focused on Sark and what the mastermind might be up to. He thought about Task Force: Argo, about his daughter who he never made amends with, and about the Gladiator and how it and the crew were doing. No one was able to get the ship’s communications network working yet which meant they couldn’t even get news about back home. Seeing the stars fly past the Courage now was just another reminder of things left unknown and unresolved in Dewey’s life. The Human tried to push past the thoughts and bring himself back to enjoying his new life with the woman he had fallen for.
HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
The USS Courage plugged along to its destination, Graden II, at it’s slow warp speed. Many of the new rebel crew members marveled at how well kept the old equipment onboard was. There was plenty of new equipment installed on the ship such as weapons, shields, memory core, and so forth.
Mahk, the Breen dissident, was quite handy with a hyperspanner. His diligence paid off and the communications equipment for the ship was once again operational. However, Dalmor wanted to check it first. He had his reasons which he kept from the Breen. It wasn’t easy convincing Mahk to not let anyone know the equipment was working, harder still was getting him to route it strictly to a private room for his viewing only. Mahk wasn’t thrilled about it, but the Cardassian had not led him astray yet. So, the handy Breen obliged.
Dalmor wasn’t greedy, he was cautious. He had accumulated the names of most of the people on the ship at this point. There were still a few he didn’t have the full names of, but he had the ones that struck him as the most important ones to check. The curious Cardassian quickly went to work in his private office doing thorough background checks which is something a computer needs to connect to a network to do for up to date information.
His search turned up curious finds. Murders, robbery, but the former spy wasn’t concerned about any of that. Dalmor had actually shut off the console and was about to leave when he stopped. He stood there deep in thought for a long moment. He didn’t like the thoughts he was having, he didn’t like what he just realized.
The Cardassian spy sat back down and returned to checking things out. There was actually something that stood out, something that actually didn’t make any sense. For a moment, he actually wondered if he was just being too paranoid. As he checked the one record, he realized something was up. It seemed too much like a plant.
The Romulan Star Empire is infamous for its total control over its people. The military, police, and government (as if they were even separate entities in Romulan society) kept in-depth records from birth to death on all of its citizens. Societal Nomenclature, medical records, employment history/military service, political views, education, and virtually everything else a person will do and experience in a lifetime. Even then, there were often gaps in records especially for those that resort to a criminal life or have long strings of unemployment.
Dalmors fingers drummed on the desk as he looked over the record that didn’t sit well. It was more complete than any of the others. Oh, it had its gaps, and typos, just like any other. Though, they were fewer and farther between than all of the others. The retired spy didn’t like that. So he tried doing a search through the data banks of classified portions of the Romulan Star Empire’s records. It wasn’t hard, a shattered people with a military in shambles couldn’t afford the money or manpower needed to ensure individuals with Dalmor’s skills couldn’t get in and peek around at things not meant for outsider eyes.
He tried different combinations of the given Societal Nomenclature, rearranging the birth date, even the given names of the individual that raised flags for him. He wasn’t coming up with anything, he wasn’t sure if that bothered him more or quelled his lingering suspicion.
He started doing just a random search with a few specific parameters. He had the idea that searching the Imperial Police files, the very department Sub-Marshal Numitor reigned in, would yield the results he wanted… or rather the results he didn’t want.
It took a few hours. Then, he found it. The same person with a different name and different background. Very close, many similarities, but slightly different background information. Obviously it was meant for ease for the plant to remember their story. The name was completely different, and the occupation was clearly not what anyone had been told or led to believe, but it was absolutely the same person. Dalmor sighed, but not a sigh of relief.
The Cardassian closed his eyes. He found exactly what he figured he’d find and exactly what he hoped he was wrong about. It made sense the more he thought about it. Maybe that’s what happened, his memories and natural suspicion poked at his subconscious. Now he looked long and hard at the record and image before him.
Aendeh (Major) Sa’Merith of the Imperial Police, an undercover agent with an impressive list of awards and accomplishments. It was an elaborate play that Dalmor was sure only someone as intelligent as Numitor could develop. This agent was in the perfect spot to get all the information the Sub-Marshal had wanted.
Dalmor almost couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure if he was mad, sad, or just generally upset. The very person this group had come to trust the most was an Imperial undercover agent hidden among the prisoners to gain information that the Star Empire could use as leverage.
The former Cardassian spy would have to act carefully with this information. Dalmor wondered, What if there were more agents onboard that I over looked? He knew this game in the shadows usually ended with someone being blinded by the truth. Dalmor wasn’t sure how Dewey would feel finding out the woman he had fallen in love with, D’Jaen, was actually a ranking member within the Imperial Police.
It does explain why Numitor had D’Jaen in his office and was questioning her when they arrived to free Dewey. It also explains why she hadn’t been brutally beaten like most that were interrogated at Numitor’s behest. She was his plant. She was there to gain their trust, to gain Dewey’s trust, gather information and relay it to Numitor. If it wasn’t about to cause chaos, and likely hysterical disbelief from Dewey, Dalmor could almost appreciate the devious plot and remarkably good play by the Sub-Marshal.
Dalmor began to wonder if perhaps she had betrayed Numitor and was actually in love with Dewey. Then again, Dalmor himself had gone as far as to get married to one of his marks to get information he was after. Then, it dawned on him how much information Dewey may have accidentally coughed up to her. He was fortunate that the Cardassian was the only one currently able to access the ships communication. Once its accessible to the rest of the crew, who knows what secrets D’Jaen has uncovered about Starfleet and this group that she will transmit to her handlers. Surely she will be all too happy to give up their location if she has gathered everything she needs/thinks she can get from Dewey.
Dalmor decided he would have to tell his friend, no matter how painful or dangerous it would be.
The USS Courage plugged along to its destination, Graden II, at it’s slow warp speed. Many of the new rebel crew members marveled at how well kept the old equipment onboard was. There was plenty of new equipment installed on the ship such as weapons, shields, memory core, and so forth.
Mahk, the Breen dissident, was quite handy with a hyperspanner. His diligence paid off and the communications equipment for the ship was once again operational. However, Dalmor wanted to check it first. He had his reasons which he kept from the Breen. It wasn’t easy convincing Mahk to not let anyone know the equipment was working, harder still was getting him to route it strictly to a private room for his viewing only. Mahk wasn’t thrilled about it, but the Cardassian had not led him astray yet. So, the handy Breen obliged.
Dalmor wasn’t greedy, he was cautious. He had accumulated the names of most of the people on the ship at this point. There were still a few he didn’t have the full names of, but he had the ones that struck him as the most important ones to check. The curious Cardassian quickly went to work in his private office doing thorough background checks which is something a computer needs to connect to a network to do for up to date information.
His search turned up curious finds. Murders, robbery, but the former spy wasn’t concerned about any of that. Dalmor had actually shut off the console and was about to leave when he stopped. He stood there deep in thought for a long moment. He didn’t like the thoughts he was having, he didn’t like what he just realized.
The Cardassian spy sat back down and returned to checking things out. There was actually something that stood out, something that actually didn’t make any sense. For a moment, he actually wondered if he was just being too paranoid. As he checked the one record, he realized something was up. It seemed too much like a plant.
The Romulan Star Empire is infamous for its total control over its people. The military, police, and government (as if they were even separate entities in Romulan society) kept in-depth records from birth to death on all of its citizens. Societal Nomenclature, medical records, employment history/military service, political views, education, and virtually everything else a person will do and experience in a lifetime. Even then, there were often gaps in records especially for those that resort to a criminal life or have long strings of unemployment.
Dalmors fingers drummed on the desk as he looked over the record that didn’t sit well. It was more complete than any of the others. Oh, it had its gaps, and typos, just like any other. Though, they were fewer and farther between than all of the others. The retired spy didn’t like that. So he tried doing a search through the data banks of classified portions of the Romulan Star Empire’s records. It wasn’t hard, a shattered people with a military in shambles couldn’t afford the money or manpower needed to ensure individuals with Dalmor’s skills couldn’t get in and peek around at things not meant for outsider eyes.
He tried different combinations of the given Societal Nomenclature, rearranging the birth date, even the given names of the individual that raised flags for him. He wasn’t coming up with anything, he wasn’t sure if that bothered him more or quelled his lingering suspicion.
He started doing just a random search with a few specific parameters. He had the idea that searching the Imperial Police files, the very department Sub-Marshal Numitor reigned in, would yield the results he wanted… or rather the results he didn’t want.
It took a few hours. Then, he found it. The same person with a different name and different background. Very close, many similarities, but slightly different background information. Obviously it was meant for ease for the plant to remember their story. The name was completely different, and the occupation was clearly not what anyone had been told or led to believe, but it was absolutely the same person. Dalmor sighed, but not a sigh of relief.
The Cardassian closed his eyes. He found exactly what he figured he’d find and exactly what he hoped he was wrong about. It made sense the more he thought about it. Maybe that’s what happened, his memories and natural suspicion poked at his subconscious. Now he looked long and hard at the record and image before him.
Aendeh (Major) Sa’Merith of the Imperial Police, an undercover agent with an impressive list of awards and accomplishments. It was an elaborate play that Dalmor was sure only someone as intelligent as Numitor could develop. This agent was in the perfect spot to get all the information the Sub-Marshal had wanted.
Dalmor almost couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure if he was mad, sad, or just generally upset. The very person this group had come to trust the most was an Imperial undercover agent hidden among the prisoners to gain information that the Star Empire could use as leverage.
The former Cardassian spy would have to act carefully with this information. Dalmor wondered, What if there were more agents onboard that I over looked? He knew this game in the shadows usually ended with someone being blinded by the truth. Dalmor wasn’t sure how Dewey would feel finding out the woman he had fallen in love with, D’Jaen, was actually a ranking member within the Imperial Police.
It does explain why Numitor had D’Jaen in his office and was questioning her when they arrived to free Dewey. It also explains why she hadn’t been brutally beaten like most that were interrogated at Numitor’s behest. She was his plant. She was there to gain their trust, to gain Dewey’s trust, gather information and relay it to Numitor. If it wasn’t about to cause chaos, and likely hysterical disbelief from Dewey, Dalmor could almost appreciate the devious plot and remarkably good play by the Sub-Marshal.
Dalmor began to wonder if perhaps she had betrayed Numitor and was actually in love with Dewey. Then again, Dalmor himself had gone as far as to get married to one of his marks to get information he was after. Then, it dawned on him how much information Dewey may have accidentally coughed up to her. He was fortunate that the Cardassian was the only one currently able to access the ships communication. Once its accessible to the rest of the crew, who knows what secrets D’Jaen has uncovered about Starfleet and this group that she will transmit to her handlers. Surely she will be all too happy to give up their location if she has gathered everything she needs/thinks she can get from Dewey.
Dalmor decided he would have to tell his friend, no matter how painful or dangerous it would be.
THE NOBILITY OF TYRANTS
Loteg had run off to see what was going on in the village. He and Jel’Hew were obviously concerned with having seeing the weeping convoy enter. They had wondered what was going on. However, it was not uncommon that criminals would take advantage of turmoil. So, Loteg had asked his guest, Wrot’Ka, to watch his place while they were gone for a couple hours.
The General paced around inside Loteg’s modest cabin. He was growing more and more impatient. It was clear to Wrot’Ka that an arriving convoy full of crying women and screaming children was dangerous foreboding. The Warrior had no desire to stay with the village of Killhorn. Loteg informed him that the village stretched beyond the tall walls. There were farms and rural living outside. There were also several other similar villages populating the land. Wrot’Ka didn’t care though. He just wanted answers as to why he was here and what this place was.
The planets strange rotation was impossible for Wrot’Ka to understand or predict. It was now night time again after having been day for only a few hours. Wrot’Ka was busy lighting the lanterns to illuminate the cabin as he heard talking outside. He peered out the window and saw Loteg pleading with Jel’Hew.
“You have to go.” Loteg had his hands on the woman’s shoulders as he was trying to stress his point. “It won’t be safe.”
Jel’Hew had an angered look about her, “This place is my home. I’m not running away!”
Loteg dropped his arms, “Think of Gett’Le.” He was speaking of her son which Wrot’Ka had only found out about in passing as the two had left earlier. “There is plenty of land to live off of. Let Brull have this place. We…” The young man’s feelings betrayed him and he tried to recover, “You and, and, everyone else can rebuild a life somewhere else.” Loteg was desperate to get Jel’Hew to leave but for reasons yet unknown to Wrot’Ka.
Jel’Hew let out an frustrated sigh and stormed off into the dark. Loteg slowly walked up the steps and entered the cabin.
“What was that about?” Wrot’Ka asked in his usual straight to the point tone.
Loteg was caught off guard as if he had forgotten Wrot’Ka was in his home. He made his way to his bedroom as he explained what was going on. “The King has ordered the evacuation of Killhorn. Warlord Brull demolished one of our sister villages and the King believes we are next.” The young man was hurrying about as he packed his bags.
Wrot’Ka stood in the doorway to the bedroom and regarded Loteg as he would a coward running away from a fight. “That woman wants to stay. You seemed awfully intent on getting her out of here.” Wrot’Ka folded his arms as he awaited the young man’s response.
“I don’t want to see her hurt or killed…” Loteg stopped to look directly at Wrot’Ka, “And that’s exactly what will happen to her once Brull lays siege to our village if we are still here.” The young man went back to packing his bags.
Wrot’Ka let out a sigh, he understood now Loteg’s true fear. “You care for her.” Loteg shot him a look. “She doesn’t know, does she?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Loteg responded. “I’m just a simple hunter.” He buried his hurt feelings as he continued to frantically pack his things.
Wrot’Ka stepped into the bedroom and took his usual command stance. The General spoke with his usual confident scratchy voice as he advised the young man, “If you want to impress her, then you can start by defending your home.” He stepped even closer to Loteg. The young man wasn’t paying attention to him as he continued to stuff his belongings into bags. Wrot’Ka, in one swift and harsh swing, smacked the current bag out of Loteg’s hands. “No woman will respect a coward. Do not run from a fight… hold your ground and defy your enemy.”
Loteg wanted to impress Jel’Hew, he had loved her from afar for some time now. Most of the town had shunned her, as Loteg explained, given her situation. She was the illegitimate daughter of the King, but that was only rumors that no one seemed to really know. As for her son, the rumors also stated that his father was also the King. The thought of the incest relationship in this primitive place almost made sense to Wrot’Ka but also disgusted him. Still, he could see how the thrown away daughter of a King would try to get into her father’s good graces by doing what she did. The fact that it occurred at all, let alone that the King denied relationship to either Jel’Hew or her son, gave the General that much more reason to dislike the King.
After a brief talk of courage, adventure, glory, and honor, Loteg was convinced to stay in Killhorn while the others fled. Wrot’Ka didn’t need to give a sterling speech to sway the young man to do something heroic in order to be in good standing with Jel’Hew. The two Klingons decided they would watch over the empty town and stand up to Warlord Brull.
The sun had risen again after such a short period of darkness. Wrot’Ka and Loteg ventured into the center of Killhorn to view the current happenings. Many of the locals had fled already while others were only moments away from surrendering their homes to an enemy who isn’t even here yet. As the two walked the near completely abandoned village, Wrot’Ka noticed an elderly man just sitting on a bench. The General walked towards the old man while Loteg walked elsewhere.
“Why do you not flee with the others?” Wrot’Ka asked the aged man. He was hoping to hear some semblance of Klingon Honor spouted from elder.
The old wrinkly Klingon slowly responded, “I am too old to go on such a journey. Besides, this is my home.”
“Then you will fight.” Wrot’Ka spoke with pride. He assumed the old man wished to die on his feet.
The old Klingon chuckled, “Oh, no. I welcome death. At least with the barbarian horde commanded by the Warlord I can rest assured that I will not be made to suffer. Death will be swift.”
A disgusted look swept across Wrot’Ka’s face. “This land deserves better than any of you can provide.” Wrot’Ka began to walk off but stopped to look back at the old man who now hung his head low. The General was about to sling another insult back at the old man but he couldn’t find the words. To see such broken spirit in a Klingon was a thing of woe.
Loteg was arguing with the Knight Rew. “We should stay and fight. It is the honorable thing to do. We must…”
Loteg’s words were cut brief by the approaching King. “You wish to stay? It will be your death.” The King looked at the Knight Rew, “If fools wish to perish in a futile attempt to protect this lost land then do not stop them.”
Jel’Hew and Wrot’Ka approached, each from different directions, at a rapid pace. Jel’Hew was the first to speak. “I want to stay. This is our home, Brull has no right to this land.”
“We will build our Kingdom elsewhere, handmaiden. This deathly act of defiance will serve no purpose but your own bloody end.” The King spoke sternly while he mounted his elegant carriage which awaited him by the group. “This is just land. Our home is where we make it. Besides, if…”
“This is not just land. This is your land. Your home.” Wrot’Ka’s scratchy voice cut through the tension in the air like a finely sharpened Bat’Leth. “Any Klingon who runs away from his home, abandons his home, has no home.”
“Brave words… from a simple mountain hunter. I should have you killed.” The King looked down his nose at the Klingon Warrior.
“If you are so confident that this Warlord named Brull is truly unstoppable, then simply leave my fate to him, King. I will not leave. I will show you what courage and honor looks like.” Wrot’Ka had taken a powerful stance both verbally and physically. His chest was puffed out and chin held high as his words laid waste to the King’s cowardice.
The King let out a deep breath and look about in his carriage at the various elite passengers he had before returning his look to Wrot’Ka, “Very well, hunter. Enjoy your death… it is obvious that is what you are seeking.”
As the elaborately painted and decorated carriage began to pull away, the General punched the side of it to get the cowards attention, “When the horde is held back, and this village secure, it will not be yours. It will only belong to the strong who stay to hold it. Remember that, King, if you try to return I will have no less mercy on you than I will at these invading barbarians.” The King tried his best to ignore Wrot’Ka as he rode off.
Loteg, the Knight Rew, Jel’Hew, and Wrot’Ka stood together as they watched the King and his cowardly. “What now?” Asked the woman.
“Now… you ride with your people.” Wrot’Ka spoke as he slowly turned to face her. She started to protest but the General would have nothing of it, “Your people lack a true leader. You are strong willed. They will need your guidance. We will ride to you when this is over so that you can return.” Wrot’Ka took a slow step backwards to look at both Loteg and Rew, “As for you two… we will need weapons and Warriors.”
“Most of the militia fled already.” Loteg informed his new friend that the numbers were not on their side.
“And I do not yet trust you with a blade.” The Knight Rew was still cautious of Wrot’Ka. “However…” Rew was not a fan of the King, and he did believe that they should fight for their home even if it meant death, “I will stand by your side. They will not take our Kingdom without a fight.”
Wrot’Ka looked about this group, “Then this land stands a chance yet.” The General slammed his fist on his chest, “Qa’Pla.”
Loteg had run off to see what was going on in the village. He and Jel’Hew were obviously concerned with having seeing the weeping convoy enter. They had wondered what was going on. However, it was not uncommon that criminals would take advantage of turmoil. So, Loteg had asked his guest, Wrot’Ka, to watch his place while they were gone for a couple hours.
The General paced around inside Loteg’s modest cabin. He was growing more and more impatient. It was clear to Wrot’Ka that an arriving convoy full of crying women and screaming children was dangerous foreboding. The Warrior had no desire to stay with the village of Killhorn. Loteg informed him that the village stretched beyond the tall walls. There were farms and rural living outside. There were also several other similar villages populating the land. Wrot’Ka didn’t care though. He just wanted answers as to why he was here and what this place was.
The planets strange rotation was impossible for Wrot’Ka to understand or predict. It was now night time again after having been day for only a few hours. Wrot’Ka was busy lighting the lanterns to illuminate the cabin as he heard talking outside. He peered out the window and saw Loteg pleading with Jel’Hew.
“You have to go.” Loteg had his hands on the woman’s shoulders as he was trying to stress his point. “It won’t be safe.”
Jel’Hew had an angered look about her, “This place is my home. I’m not running away!”
Loteg dropped his arms, “Think of Gett’Le.” He was speaking of her son which Wrot’Ka had only found out about in passing as the two had left earlier. “There is plenty of land to live off of. Let Brull have this place. We…” The young man’s feelings betrayed him and he tried to recover, “You and, and, everyone else can rebuild a life somewhere else.” Loteg was desperate to get Jel’Hew to leave but for reasons yet unknown to Wrot’Ka.
Jel’Hew let out an frustrated sigh and stormed off into the dark. Loteg slowly walked up the steps and entered the cabin.
“What was that about?” Wrot’Ka asked in his usual straight to the point tone.
Loteg was caught off guard as if he had forgotten Wrot’Ka was in his home. He made his way to his bedroom as he explained what was going on. “The King has ordered the evacuation of Killhorn. Warlord Brull demolished one of our sister villages and the King believes we are next.” The young man was hurrying about as he packed his bags.
Wrot’Ka stood in the doorway to the bedroom and regarded Loteg as he would a coward running away from a fight. “That woman wants to stay. You seemed awfully intent on getting her out of here.” Wrot’Ka folded his arms as he awaited the young man’s response.
“I don’t want to see her hurt or killed…” Loteg stopped to look directly at Wrot’Ka, “And that’s exactly what will happen to her once Brull lays siege to our village if we are still here.” The young man went back to packing his bags.
Wrot’Ka let out a sigh, he understood now Loteg’s true fear. “You care for her.” Loteg shot him a look. “She doesn’t know, does she?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Loteg responded. “I’m just a simple hunter.” He buried his hurt feelings as he continued to frantically pack his things.
Wrot’Ka stepped into the bedroom and took his usual command stance. The General spoke with his usual confident scratchy voice as he advised the young man, “If you want to impress her, then you can start by defending your home.” He stepped even closer to Loteg. The young man wasn’t paying attention to him as he continued to stuff his belongings into bags. Wrot’Ka, in one swift and harsh swing, smacked the current bag out of Loteg’s hands. “No woman will respect a coward. Do not run from a fight… hold your ground and defy your enemy.”
Loteg wanted to impress Jel’Hew, he had loved her from afar for some time now. Most of the town had shunned her, as Loteg explained, given her situation. She was the illegitimate daughter of the King, but that was only rumors that no one seemed to really know. As for her son, the rumors also stated that his father was also the King. The thought of the incest relationship in this primitive place almost made sense to Wrot’Ka but also disgusted him. Still, he could see how the thrown away daughter of a King would try to get into her father’s good graces by doing what she did. The fact that it occurred at all, let alone that the King denied relationship to either Jel’Hew or her son, gave the General that much more reason to dislike the King.
After a brief talk of courage, adventure, glory, and honor, Loteg was convinced to stay in Killhorn while the others fled. Wrot’Ka didn’t need to give a sterling speech to sway the young man to do something heroic in order to be in good standing with Jel’Hew. The two Klingons decided they would watch over the empty town and stand up to Warlord Brull.
The sun had risen again after such a short period of darkness. Wrot’Ka and Loteg ventured into the center of Killhorn to view the current happenings. Many of the locals had fled already while others were only moments away from surrendering their homes to an enemy who isn’t even here yet. As the two walked the near completely abandoned village, Wrot’Ka noticed an elderly man just sitting on a bench. The General walked towards the old man while Loteg walked elsewhere.
“Why do you not flee with the others?” Wrot’Ka asked the aged man. He was hoping to hear some semblance of Klingon Honor spouted from elder.
The old wrinkly Klingon slowly responded, “I am too old to go on such a journey. Besides, this is my home.”
“Then you will fight.” Wrot’Ka spoke with pride. He assumed the old man wished to die on his feet.
The old Klingon chuckled, “Oh, no. I welcome death. At least with the barbarian horde commanded by the Warlord I can rest assured that I will not be made to suffer. Death will be swift.”
A disgusted look swept across Wrot’Ka’s face. “This land deserves better than any of you can provide.” Wrot’Ka began to walk off but stopped to look back at the old man who now hung his head low. The General was about to sling another insult back at the old man but he couldn’t find the words. To see such broken spirit in a Klingon was a thing of woe.
Loteg was arguing with the Knight Rew. “We should stay and fight. It is the honorable thing to do. We must…”
Loteg’s words were cut brief by the approaching King. “You wish to stay? It will be your death.” The King looked at the Knight Rew, “If fools wish to perish in a futile attempt to protect this lost land then do not stop them.”
Jel’Hew and Wrot’Ka approached, each from different directions, at a rapid pace. Jel’Hew was the first to speak. “I want to stay. This is our home, Brull has no right to this land.”
“We will build our Kingdom elsewhere, handmaiden. This deathly act of defiance will serve no purpose but your own bloody end.” The King spoke sternly while he mounted his elegant carriage which awaited him by the group. “This is just land. Our home is where we make it. Besides, if…”
“This is not just land. This is your land. Your home.” Wrot’Ka’s scratchy voice cut through the tension in the air like a finely sharpened Bat’Leth. “Any Klingon who runs away from his home, abandons his home, has no home.”
“Brave words… from a simple mountain hunter. I should have you killed.” The King looked down his nose at the Klingon Warrior.
“If you are so confident that this Warlord named Brull is truly unstoppable, then simply leave my fate to him, King. I will not leave. I will show you what courage and honor looks like.” Wrot’Ka had taken a powerful stance both verbally and physically. His chest was puffed out and chin held high as his words laid waste to the King’s cowardice.
The King let out a deep breath and look about in his carriage at the various elite passengers he had before returning his look to Wrot’Ka, “Very well, hunter. Enjoy your death… it is obvious that is what you are seeking.”
As the elaborately painted and decorated carriage began to pull away, the General punched the side of it to get the cowards attention, “When the horde is held back, and this village secure, it will not be yours. It will only belong to the strong who stay to hold it. Remember that, King, if you try to return I will have no less mercy on you than I will at these invading barbarians.” The King tried his best to ignore Wrot’Ka as he rode off.
Loteg, the Knight Rew, Jel’Hew, and Wrot’Ka stood together as they watched the King and his cowardly. “What now?” Asked the woman.
“Now… you ride with your people.” Wrot’Ka spoke as he slowly turned to face her. She started to protest but the General would have nothing of it, “Your people lack a true leader. You are strong willed. They will need your guidance. We will ride to you when this is over so that you can return.” Wrot’Ka took a slow step backwards to look at both Loteg and Rew, “As for you two… we will need weapons and Warriors.”
“Most of the militia fled already.” Loteg informed his new friend that the numbers were not on their side.
“And I do not yet trust you with a blade.” The Knight Rew was still cautious of Wrot’Ka. “However…” Rew was not a fan of the King, and he did believe that they should fight for their home even if it meant death, “I will stand by your side. They will not take our Kingdom without a fight.”
Wrot’Ka looked about this group, “Then this land stands a chance yet.” The General slammed his fist on his chest, “Qa’Pla.”
RANDOM ACT OF VIOLENCE
Dalmor walked briskly through the hallways of the USS Courage as he looked for his friend, Dewey. Even Dalmor was unsure how he would go about informing his friend that the woman he loves is actually with the Romulan Imperial Police.
Dalmor tried Dewey’s room, but he wasn’t there. He looked all over but couldn’t find the man. Did D’Jaen dispose of him already? Was Dewey a liability to her mission now? The former spy from the Cardassian Union’s Obsidian Order started to grow concerned. The Breen wasn’t likely to keep the fact that the communications network was now back up and running a secret much longer. Time was crucial.
Dalmor’s eyes caught an image out one of the windows to the ship. He realized they had entered orbit over Graden II while he was doing his search for that dreadful information. The old Cardassian swiftly walked to the nearest turbolift that would take him to the only operational transporter room on this ship. He knew that’s where they would be going.
As the doors opened Dalmor observed one of the former prisoners operating the transporter console. On the transporter pad stood Ixer, Dewey, D’Jaen, and a couple other prisoners they liberated from that hole they were kept in. Dalmor froze. He knew the implications if D’Jaen got to the planet’s surface and was able to make contact with one of her contacts within the Romulan Imperial Police.
“You’re a little late.” Dewey said with a slight smile on his face. “I tried to find you, we’re beaming down to the one of the cities to have a look around.” Unfortiuntly for Dalmor, this was the only transporter room they had been able to get up and running. Even then, it required constant adjustment due to a tricky trip in the power output, it required about 45 minutes to calm down before it could be used again. So, any trips they wanted to make would be few and far between. Still, one of the Ferengi prisoners that they rescued was a keen transporter mechanic. He assured them it was safe to use, just that it was slow to come about.
Dalmor wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I, uh… can I talk to you a minute?”
“I don’t want to hold people up. We have shifts laid out so people can get down to the planet and get back up safely. Can it wait?” Dewey didn’t figure it was anything of real importance.
Dalmor wanted to be careful how he approached this situation. He figured there was no need to show his hand just yet, it was better to try and tell Dewey away from his love so they could formulate a plan. “Not really, no.” Dalmor spoke with a fake smile on his face.
“Well,” Dewey started in as he looked about the group. Dalmor was hoping his friend would step off the transporter pad. “Is it an emergency?” Dewey had no clue what was going on.
D’Jaen piped in, “I sure hope nothing is wrong with the work being done on the communications network.” She gave a normal look to Dalmor quickly before looking back to Dewey, “I was really hoping it’d be up and running by now.” She let loose a passive smile.
Dalmor knew that look. That completely benign, innocent look. It annoyed him to no end. He had seen the look hundreds of times before as he practiced it in the mirror when he was a spy. “Nothing is wrong with the communications network… just a slight set back. Should be up and running by the time you return.” Dalmor was slightly confident that if she was waiting for the ships ability to send and receive transmissions that she wouldn’t try it on the planet. Though, he couldn’t be sure why she wouldn’t try there. It would seem it would be safer. Perhaps she had no intention of leaving Dewey’s side while there to further solidify their relationship and make it harder for the Human to believe the truth if she was ever found out.
“Alright then.” Dewey said believing it was settled. “We’ll speak once I’m back.” Dewey gave a nod to the former prisoner operating the controls and the group was beamed down to the planet.
Dalmor looked around unsure who he should tell about this information. That dress. He thought to himself. If Dewey wasn’t so blinded by love he’d be able to see it isn’t normal for her to wear that dress again. She got it from Sub-Marshal Numitor. It should bother both of them to have her wear it again.
Dewey, D’Jaen, and Ixer walked around one of the many markets in the run down city they had beamed down to on Graden II. Dewey asked Ixer to accompany them. Even though he would draw unwanted attention the fact that he was a Jem’Hadar would hopefully convince any would be muggers to choose someone else to mess with. Still, Ixer kept his distance as Dewey and D’Jaen looked around while holding hands.
“You know,” D’Jaen spoke softly over the busy crowds around, “Where I come from, when two people are as close as you and I…” She seemed to wait as if hoping Dewey would pick up on what she was saying, “Usually they take a step to make it more official. Even legal.” She smirked at Dewey as he returned the look. A small hovercraft drove past. It looked like a cargo lift with seats and a flat metallic front to shield the driver.
Dewey had thought about it. Marriage. He wasn’t sure how D’Jaen felt though. He also didn’t want to screw everything up by rushing it. Though, one could hardly consider it rushing. They had spent nearly every single minute of their lives together for the last six months. He felt a connection to D’Jaen that he has never felt before. A true love. “Well, where I come from that requires a piece of jewelry.”
“Oh! Make it a surprise.” She said wide eyed and excited. She seemed awfully eager to jump headlong into this and Dewey certainly didn’t object. “I’ll look around elsewhere while you try to find something pretty.”
“Are you sure?” Dewey seemed slightly surprised. D’Jaen’s desire to commit like this was, dare he think it, almost suspicious. Another hovercraft went by, this time at a fast speed. It seemed as if the place had a ton of them darting around for faster travel than by foot for the locals.
“Absolutely!” She exclaimed while hopping up to give him a kiss. “Now go.” She shooed him. “It’s not like we have a great transporter and can wait all day. Besides, now you have my hopes.” She had a big innocent smile on her face. “And you better do it properly. It’s bad enough I already know it’s coming.”
Dewey could hardly believe what was going on. He was just as excited as D’Jaen appeared to be, he just did a little better job containing himself. “Alright. Just be careful walking around.” Dewey gave a wave to Ixer to motion him towards them. “Have Ixer keep you company so you are safe.”
“Oh.” D’Jaen looked slightly caught off guard. “That, uh, that won’t really be necessary. I’ll be ok.” She put another smile on her face.
“Yeah, I don’t know about this place. Just let him follow you. Alright?” Dewey didn’t want to take the chance that something would happen to her.
D’Jaen’s smile got a little smaller but still remained. She nodded her head. “Ok.” As Ixer approached she motioned her head in the direction she was traveling while Dewey gave a simple hand wave to Ixer.
Ixer and D’Jaen took off in one direction while Dewey walked in the other. Dewey started looking around at the various street vendors. He saw a few nice necklaces, rings, and bracelets. He asked a few of the vendors about prices. Nothing really excited him, nothing seemed just right.
Dewey wanted to find the perfect thing for her because, in his mind, she was the perfect thing for him. He had only ever felt this way once before in his life and back then he hadn’t found the courage to ever tell her. So, they both went their separate ways in life. This time it was different. This time he didn’t need to say how he felt because it was obvious, to him, they both felt the same way. D’Jaen was the one thing Dewey had spent his entire life looking for. Happiness. Not adventure. Not something unknown. Plain and simple happiness. Beauty, mentally and physically, and serenity even. Dewey continued to look for something that suited D’Jaen’s perfection in his eyes.
D’Jaen walked along casually looking at some of the street vendor’s supplies. Ixer kept his distance but not by a lot. As D’Jaen strolled along she periodically glanced back, nonchalantly, to see where Ixer was. She wasn’t doing anything over suspicious, but if Dalmor saw how she was acting he’d have a conniption. The Romulan woman’s ability to keep track of her Jem’Hadar friend were rather elaborate. She used reflections from plates and windows to see where he was.
The conspiracy driven Ixer was easily distracted, and D’Jaen was taking note of this. For whatever reason, the woman seemed intent on ditching the Jem’Hadar. She waited for the proper moment. As Ixer was distracted one more time by two hovercrafts nearly colliding, D’Jaen slipped down a populated alleyway.
D’Jaen maneuvered through the crowd to reach a different street. Once there, D’Jaen started looking around at the various shops for something particular. This street was decidedly much less populated. D’Jaen entered and exited a few shops. She started to move with a faster pace. She figured it wouldn’t be long before either Dewey or Ixer noticed she was missing.
As D’Jaen exited one of the enclosed shops she bumped shoulders with two Dopterians. “Oh! Excuse me, sorry.” D’Jaen said as she tried to hurry past them. Her departure was halted by two more Dopterians.
The four Dopterians circled around her. One of them spoke up, “Oh, don’t worry about it pretty lady. You can make it up by having a drink with us.”
D’Jaen gave an annoyed smirk, “Sorry, I’m really in a hurry.”
“So are we.” One of the other Dopterians said. “But you slowed us down now. Don’t be so rude. Come with us.”
D’Jaen tried to maintain a polite smile on her face, “Gentlemen, I really have to go. I apologize, but thanks for the offer.”
As D’Jaen tried to leave, one of them grabbed her by the arm and raised his voice. “You’re not being very nice! Maybe we should go someplace private where you can make nice to all of us.”
“You’re… hurting me.” D’Jaen struggled against the squeeze on her arm. She knew how to take care of herself, but she was trying to deescalate this situation without violence. Besides, there were four of them and she was all by herself now that she ditched Ixer.
“Well, you’re hurting my feelings, miss.” They all chuckled at the ones response. “You really ought to make it up to me.” The group of Dopterians let out another laugh. This area of the city seemed rather void of passersby, and D’Jaen was starting to get the feeling this was a very bad idea being here all alone.
“My boyfriend won’t appreciate…” She started to explain, hoping that maybe she could scare them off.
“Boyfriend!?” The one laughed. “Don’t worry about him. We won’t tell him.” One of the other Dopterians grabbed her other arm and pulled her close against her will.
Without warning, one of their heads was cracked open. The Dopterian fell to the ground as the group turned to notice the visibly angered Jem’Hadar standing with a slender and sturdy pipe in his hand. Ixer swung again and hit another Dopterian in the shoulder.
One of the Dopterians pulled out a hand held weapon. It was a crude thing made of metal and moving parts. It obviously wasn’t an energy based weapon, it was a hastily homemade projectile firearm.
Unbeknownst to D’Jaen, while she was searching about on her own, Ixer had doubled back to find Dewey after he realized he lost track of her. Both he and the Human started to searching for her. Ixer found her first.
Dewey was obviously worried. He didn’t know where D’Jaen was or if something had happened to her. He and Ixer had agreed to split up. Ixer was to check the next street over while Dewey searched the market street. Dewey had moved so quickly through the area that anyone who hadn’t received the proper skills of observation techniques wouldn’t have soaked in the details enough and may have over looked D’Jaen at one of the shops. Dewey, however, had the experience and training to look for people in this manner. The Human was confident his love wasn’t here.
Dewey darted down one of the alleyways to the street where he had sent Ixer to search. As the Human neared the end of the alley, he heard a loud scream. He knew the voice was D’Jaen’s. Then he heard a gunshot. Dewey froze in fear of what was happening. Another gunshot rang out. Then two more back to back.
The former Starfleet Captain couldn’t remember the last time he froze like this out of fear. All his life he was taught to react in a crisis, not think about it. He pushed his fear of what was going on down deep and started sprinting towards the street. As he reached it, he looked around. He saw two Dopterians running past him. When Dewey looked to where they had run from, he saw D’Jaen and Ixer lying on the ground across the street.
Dewey nearly gasped. “D’Jaen!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.
When he captained the Gladiator he was known for leaping before looking. His luck had always been there for him though. Without paying any real attention to his surroundings, Dewey ran to D’Jaen laying on the ground. He didn’t make it very far. The Human had barely taken a few running steps onto the street when he was drilled by a speeding hovercraft.
The vehicle slammed into Dewey with tremendous force. He rolled up onto the metallic shield protecting the driver. Then, as the vehicle came to a sudden halt sending the passengers lunging forward in their seats, Dewey was tossed from the shield. His body bouncing and skidding down the rugged street. His limbs and head smacking off the rough surface at high velocity.
As Dewey’s body came to a stop, he rolled onto his back to look over at D’Jaen crying out in pain as she was curled up across the street. Ixer wasn’t moving, he just laid there motionless. Dewey tried to get up, but the pain throughout his body prevented him from doing much of anything other than bleed from the back of his head. The Human briefly slipped into unconsciousness.
Dalmor walked briskly through the hallways of the USS Courage as he looked for his friend, Dewey. Even Dalmor was unsure how he would go about informing his friend that the woman he loves is actually with the Romulan Imperial Police.
Dalmor tried Dewey’s room, but he wasn’t there. He looked all over but couldn’t find the man. Did D’Jaen dispose of him already? Was Dewey a liability to her mission now? The former spy from the Cardassian Union’s Obsidian Order started to grow concerned. The Breen wasn’t likely to keep the fact that the communications network was now back up and running a secret much longer. Time was crucial.
Dalmor’s eyes caught an image out one of the windows to the ship. He realized they had entered orbit over Graden II while he was doing his search for that dreadful information. The old Cardassian swiftly walked to the nearest turbolift that would take him to the only operational transporter room on this ship. He knew that’s where they would be going.
As the doors opened Dalmor observed one of the former prisoners operating the transporter console. On the transporter pad stood Ixer, Dewey, D’Jaen, and a couple other prisoners they liberated from that hole they were kept in. Dalmor froze. He knew the implications if D’Jaen got to the planet’s surface and was able to make contact with one of her contacts within the Romulan Imperial Police.
“You’re a little late.” Dewey said with a slight smile on his face. “I tried to find you, we’re beaming down to the one of the cities to have a look around.” Unfortiuntly for Dalmor, this was the only transporter room they had been able to get up and running. Even then, it required constant adjustment due to a tricky trip in the power output, it required about 45 minutes to calm down before it could be used again. So, any trips they wanted to make would be few and far between. Still, one of the Ferengi prisoners that they rescued was a keen transporter mechanic. He assured them it was safe to use, just that it was slow to come about.
Dalmor wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I, uh… can I talk to you a minute?”
“I don’t want to hold people up. We have shifts laid out so people can get down to the planet and get back up safely. Can it wait?” Dewey didn’t figure it was anything of real importance.
Dalmor wanted to be careful how he approached this situation. He figured there was no need to show his hand just yet, it was better to try and tell Dewey away from his love so they could formulate a plan. “Not really, no.” Dalmor spoke with a fake smile on his face.
“Well,” Dewey started in as he looked about the group. Dalmor was hoping his friend would step off the transporter pad. “Is it an emergency?” Dewey had no clue what was going on.
D’Jaen piped in, “I sure hope nothing is wrong with the work being done on the communications network.” She gave a normal look to Dalmor quickly before looking back to Dewey, “I was really hoping it’d be up and running by now.” She let loose a passive smile.
Dalmor knew that look. That completely benign, innocent look. It annoyed him to no end. He had seen the look hundreds of times before as he practiced it in the mirror when he was a spy. “Nothing is wrong with the communications network… just a slight set back. Should be up and running by the time you return.” Dalmor was slightly confident that if she was waiting for the ships ability to send and receive transmissions that she wouldn’t try it on the planet. Though, he couldn’t be sure why she wouldn’t try there. It would seem it would be safer. Perhaps she had no intention of leaving Dewey’s side while there to further solidify their relationship and make it harder for the Human to believe the truth if she was ever found out.
“Alright then.” Dewey said believing it was settled. “We’ll speak once I’m back.” Dewey gave a nod to the former prisoner operating the controls and the group was beamed down to the planet.
Dalmor looked around unsure who he should tell about this information. That dress. He thought to himself. If Dewey wasn’t so blinded by love he’d be able to see it isn’t normal for her to wear that dress again. She got it from Sub-Marshal Numitor. It should bother both of them to have her wear it again.
Dewey, D’Jaen, and Ixer walked around one of the many markets in the run down city they had beamed down to on Graden II. Dewey asked Ixer to accompany them. Even though he would draw unwanted attention the fact that he was a Jem’Hadar would hopefully convince any would be muggers to choose someone else to mess with. Still, Ixer kept his distance as Dewey and D’Jaen looked around while holding hands.
“You know,” D’Jaen spoke softly over the busy crowds around, “Where I come from, when two people are as close as you and I…” She seemed to wait as if hoping Dewey would pick up on what she was saying, “Usually they take a step to make it more official. Even legal.” She smirked at Dewey as he returned the look. A small hovercraft drove past. It looked like a cargo lift with seats and a flat metallic front to shield the driver.
Dewey had thought about it. Marriage. He wasn’t sure how D’Jaen felt though. He also didn’t want to screw everything up by rushing it. Though, one could hardly consider it rushing. They had spent nearly every single minute of their lives together for the last six months. He felt a connection to D’Jaen that he has never felt before. A true love. “Well, where I come from that requires a piece of jewelry.”
“Oh! Make it a surprise.” She said wide eyed and excited. She seemed awfully eager to jump headlong into this and Dewey certainly didn’t object. “I’ll look around elsewhere while you try to find something pretty.”
“Are you sure?” Dewey seemed slightly surprised. D’Jaen’s desire to commit like this was, dare he think it, almost suspicious. Another hovercraft went by, this time at a fast speed. It seemed as if the place had a ton of them darting around for faster travel than by foot for the locals.
“Absolutely!” She exclaimed while hopping up to give him a kiss. “Now go.” She shooed him. “It’s not like we have a great transporter and can wait all day. Besides, now you have my hopes.” She had a big innocent smile on her face. “And you better do it properly. It’s bad enough I already know it’s coming.”
Dewey could hardly believe what was going on. He was just as excited as D’Jaen appeared to be, he just did a little better job containing himself. “Alright. Just be careful walking around.” Dewey gave a wave to Ixer to motion him towards them. “Have Ixer keep you company so you are safe.”
“Oh.” D’Jaen looked slightly caught off guard. “That, uh, that won’t really be necessary. I’ll be ok.” She put another smile on her face.
“Yeah, I don’t know about this place. Just let him follow you. Alright?” Dewey didn’t want to take the chance that something would happen to her.
D’Jaen’s smile got a little smaller but still remained. She nodded her head. “Ok.” As Ixer approached she motioned her head in the direction she was traveling while Dewey gave a simple hand wave to Ixer.
Ixer and D’Jaen took off in one direction while Dewey walked in the other. Dewey started looking around at the various street vendors. He saw a few nice necklaces, rings, and bracelets. He asked a few of the vendors about prices. Nothing really excited him, nothing seemed just right.
Dewey wanted to find the perfect thing for her because, in his mind, she was the perfect thing for him. He had only ever felt this way once before in his life and back then he hadn’t found the courage to ever tell her. So, they both went their separate ways in life. This time it was different. This time he didn’t need to say how he felt because it was obvious, to him, they both felt the same way. D’Jaen was the one thing Dewey had spent his entire life looking for. Happiness. Not adventure. Not something unknown. Plain and simple happiness. Beauty, mentally and physically, and serenity even. Dewey continued to look for something that suited D’Jaen’s perfection in his eyes.
D’Jaen walked along casually looking at some of the street vendor’s supplies. Ixer kept his distance but not by a lot. As D’Jaen strolled along she periodically glanced back, nonchalantly, to see where Ixer was. She wasn’t doing anything over suspicious, but if Dalmor saw how she was acting he’d have a conniption. The Romulan woman’s ability to keep track of her Jem’Hadar friend were rather elaborate. She used reflections from plates and windows to see where he was.
The conspiracy driven Ixer was easily distracted, and D’Jaen was taking note of this. For whatever reason, the woman seemed intent on ditching the Jem’Hadar. She waited for the proper moment. As Ixer was distracted one more time by two hovercrafts nearly colliding, D’Jaen slipped down a populated alleyway.
D’Jaen maneuvered through the crowd to reach a different street. Once there, D’Jaen started looking around at the various shops for something particular. This street was decidedly much less populated. D’Jaen entered and exited a few shops. She started to move with a faster pace. She figured it wouldn’t be long before either Dewey or Ixer noticed she was missing.
As D’Jaen exited one of the enclosed shops she bumped shoulders with two Dopterians. “Oh! Excuse me, sorry.” D’Jaen said as she tried to hurry past them. Her departure was halted by two more Dopterians.
The four Dopterians circled around her. One of them spoke up, “Oh, don’t worry about it pretty lady. You can make it up by having a drink with us.”
D’Jaen gave an annoyed smirk, “Sorry, I’m really in a hurry.”
“So are we.” One of the other Dopterians said. “But you slowed us down now. Don’t be so rude. Come with us.”
D’Jaen tried to maintain a polite smile on her face, “Gentlemen, I really have to go. I apologize, but thanks for the offer.”
As D’Jaen tried to leave, one of them grabbed her by the arm and raised his voice. “You’re not being very nice! Maybe we should go someplace private where you can make nice to all of us.”
“You’re… hurting me.” D’Jaen struggled against the squeeze on her arm. She knew how to take care of herself, but she was trying to deescalate this situation without violence. Besides, there were four of them and she was all by herself now that she ditched Ixer.
“Well, you’re hurting my feelings, miss.” They all chuckled at the ones response. “You really ought to make it up to me.” The group of Dopterians let out another laugh. This area of the city seemed rather void of passersby, and D’Jaen was starting to get the feeling this was a very bad idea being here all alone.
“My boyfriend won’t appreciate…” She started to explain, hoping that maybe she could scare them off.
“Boyfriend!?” The one laughed. “Don’t worry about him. We won’t tell him.” One of the other Dopterians grabbed her other arm and pulled her close against her will.
Without warning, one of their heads was cracked open. The Dopterian fell to the ground as the group turned to notice the visibly angered Jem’Hadar standing with a slender and sturdy pipe in his hand. Ixer swung again and hit another Dopterian in the shoulder.
One of the Dopterians pulled out a hand held weapon. It was a crude thing made of metal and moving parts. It obviously wasn’t an energy based weapon, it was a hastily homemade projectile firearm.
Unbeknownst to D’Jaen, while she was searching about on her own, Ixer had doubled back to find Dewey after he realized he lost track of her. Both he and the Human started to searching for her. Ixer found her first.
Dewey was obviously worried. He didn’t know where D’Jaen was or if something had happened to her. He and Ixer had agreed to split up. Ixer was to check the next street over while Dewey searched the market street. Dewey had moved so quickly through the area that anyone who hadn’t received the proper skills of observation techniques wouldn’t have soaked in the details enough and may have over looked D’Jaen at one of the shops. Dewey, however, had the experience and training to look for people in this manner. The Human was confident his love wasn’t here.
Dewey darted down one of the alleyways to the street where he had sent Ixer to search. As the Human neared the end of the alley, he heard a loud scream. He knew the voice was D’Jaen’s. Then he heard a gunshot. Dewey froze in fear of what was happening. Another gunshot rang out. Then two more back to back.
The former Starfleet Captain couldn’t remember the last time he froze like this out of fear. All his life he was taught to react in a crisis, not think about it. He pushed his fear of what was going on down deep and started sprinting towards the street. As he reached it, he looked around. He saw two Dopterians running past him. When Dewey looked to where they had run from, he saw D’Jaen and Ixer lying on the ground across the street.
Dewey nearly gasped. “D’Jaen!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.
When he captained the Gladiator he was known for leaping before looking. His luck had always been there for him though. Without paying any real attention to his surroundings, Dewey ran to D’Jaen laying on the ground. He didn’t make it very far. The Human had barely taken a few running steps onto the street when he was drilled by a speeding hovercraft.
The vehicle slammed into Dewey with tremendous force. He rolled up onto the metallic shield protecting the driver. Then, as the vehicle came to a sudden halt sending the passengers lunging forward in their seats, Dewey was tossed from the shield. His body bouncing and skidding down the rugged street. His limbs and head smacking off the rough surface at high velocity.
As Dewey’s body came to a stop, he rolled onto his back to look over at D’Jaen crying out in pain as she was curled up across the street. Ixer wasn’t moving, he just laid there motionless. Dewey tried to get up, but the pain throughout his body prevented him from doing much of anything other than bleed from the back of his head. The Human briefly slipped into unconsciousness.