“You certainly know how to welcome a guy.”  Captain Peter Crawford raised his cup of black tea in salute to the Mackenzie’s captain, Wren Walton.  They were sitting in her ready room while her XO, Commander Park Seoyeon, looked on from the couch.  She busied herself with a PADD with mission reports and department updates.

Wren sipped her hot tea with a sly smile, “It’s been a few days, Pete.  Discussing the situation in person seemed like the better choice.”

Crawford scoffed, “Calling this ‘a situation’ is being too kind.  This is bad.”  He set his cup aside and scrolled through his PADD, “Starfleet hasn’t had reliable communication from the Alahans for a while – our tactical and security teams seem to think they played the long game here – started small, ingratiating themselves with the locals and taking control slowly but surely…until they had a heavy cruiser in place to lock it all up for themselves.”  He amended, “Now with two heavy cruisers in place.”

Walton sighed a long sigh, her annoyance with the situation growing.  “Park had an idea…but it’s shakey now with two heavy cruisers in play.” She explained the XO’s plan of acquiring several small Syndicate-like ships, dressing the part, and heading down to the planet for sabotage and reconnaissance.  She finished with, “It’s hazardous – the moment they detect the Mack or even the Oly, the gig is up.  Mix in the chances of the team getting made in the middle of their mission – it’s a lot of risk.”

Park spoke from the couch, “I ran a few scenarios with security just before this meeting…not many favorable outcomes in the simulations.  Chief Pearce is usually the first to fly a shuttle into a Black Hole.  She was uncharacteristically resistant to the suggestion.”  The commander shrugged, “The worst part is…I don’t disagree with her.  Scans of the colony and the surrounding area are mostly rough terrain with many high rock structures.  It’s a mess.”

Wren looked to both of them, “Then what the hell do we do?  Our chances against one heavy cruiser are pretty good…but two will push us around a little.  They won’t negotiate, and we have nothing they want.” Crawford didn’t have an answer and was about to say just that when the confused voice of Oscar Reede interrupted their thoughts.

“Bridge to Captain Walton…the USS K’Ehleyr just dropped out of warp and hailed us.”

Walton’s eyes widened, “That’s our task force flagship…which can only mean a few things.”

Crawford chuckled, “I think Fontana took my report more seriously than I expected him to.”

Wren stood and replied to Reede, “We’re on our way, Mr. Reede.”  She walked through the door and onto the bridge, “Put them onscreen.”  The viewscreen changed to the view of the K’Ehleyr’s bridge.  Captain Geronimo Fontana stood in front of the center chair, and Captain Karrik stood to his right, hands gently clasped behind his back.

Fontana gave a slight nod, “Captains.  I thought it might be helpful to lend some weight and gravitas to the situation.  We’ve been tracking The Syndicate’s incursions into Deneb.”

Walton wasn’t sure what to say, but she knew as Squadron Commander, replying to her Task Force Commander was solely on her shoulders.  “Welcome to the Deneb system, Captain Fontana.  Captain Karrik…it is agreeable to see you again.”  The middle-aged Vulcan indicated a nod to her.  She continued, “We were speculating on a plan to sneak into the colony disguised as Syndicate operatives…but with two heavy cruisers…we weren’t sure the risk was worth it.”

Geronimo agreed, “We would agree.”  He turned to Karrik.

The Vulcan captain continued, “We’ve been discussing an idea.  It would still allow for your plan to take place, but it would allow for us to be in place to oversee your situation.”  He tapped at a PADD, “I’m sharing the details with you now.  The idea is that you would supply yourself with ships disguised as Syndicate operatives.  You would land and begin to infiltrate.  Within an hour of your landing, the K’Ehleyr would arrive under the auspices of a negotiation for turning the colony over to the Syndicate through a documented treaty.  Having the Task Force Commanding Officer on the flagship would lend…Captain Fontana used the word ‘gravitas,’ I believe.”

Walton read through the plan as Karrik spoke.  She was impressed.  The Mack and Oly would leave the sector and hang back beyond the detection range of the colony.  They would also use deception in assisting a nearby colony as if their Task Force CO had ordered them away.  Wren suggested, “We could reach out to our Harris Transport contacts – they’ve got ships operating in and around Deneb that they’d be willing to donate to the cause.”

Karrik mentioned, “We need to modify them heavily to reflect a Syndicate origin.  My engineering team stands ready.”

Wren smiled, “I think my chief would be thrilled to the moons and back to be asked to work with your teams, Captain Karrik.”

Fontana looked to Karrik and those on the viewscreen, “Make your call, Captain Walton.  Put a team together that has Mackenzie and the Olympic crew…but I will hold you to no captains or commanders.  They know enough about our upper command as it is.  Subtly is the name of the game.  K’Ehleyr out.”  The screen returned to the view of the stars.  The crew broke up and began the work to get ready for the mission.

 The race to save the Alahans Colony was on.

Engineering teams had worked over the two aging transport ships after their generous donation by Harris Transport.  Ensign Gabriela Castillo adjusted the worn seat in the cockpit, grumbling about the lack of…well, everything.  “It's been a while since I flew something like this.”

Quartermaster Henry Wyatt stepped into the cramped cockpit, eyeing the ancient console, “The good news is they'll believe that we're broke space pirates scraping our way across the galaxy.  Emphasis on the scrape.”  He'd seen his share of shuttles and transports in his lifetime.  Harris Transport had found some real winners in a nearby sector.  “What are we calling this old girl?”

Castillo clicked the switches and felt surprised at the system's response, “I say we call this one Grandma.  Reminds me of mine. Stubborn and refuses to die.  My mother would prefer her to take that last trip sooner.”  She laughed at the amused look from Wyatt, “They've never gotten along for very long.  It's why they live across the country from each other…but Grandma figured out how to use her personal transporter a month ago without needing her nurse's authorization code.”

Henry mused, “I suppose that went as well as Kirk and Khan's second meeting?”

The Chief Flight Control Officer nodded gravely, “And there's no nebula to hide in for either of them.  It makes me glad I'm here…and not there.  The messages I get are quite enough.”  She clicked a few more switches as the flickering displays confirmed the sputtering warp engines were coming online, “They did a great job making this thing barely workable.”

Wyatt sighed, “Well, as long as they get us back home in one piece, I'm happy.”  He returned his attention to the tiny cabin with his checklist.

“This isn't going to end well.”  On the other shuttle, Chief Medical Officer Henry Longfellow had strapped himself into his seat in the cabin and was staring at the low ceiling, musing about his life ending in a transport that was older than him.  To his right, Chief Communications Officer Oscar Reede was trying not to listen to the man too much.  His graduation from the academy was coming at the end of the month.  He very much wanted to live to see that day.

“Doc, has anyone told you are a pessimist?”  Reede was practicing his breathing, but he couldn't hold his tongue.  Longfellow had been complaining since they'd stepped aboard the shuttle, and he'd kept it up once they'd left the shuttle bay, and now, as they were sitting alone in space with the other transport to keep them company, he was starting to understand why some cadets joked about throwing annoying officers out of airlocks.

Henry smiled, “I prefer cynical pessimist, thankyouverymuch.”  He tapped at the metal floor with his feet, “You are not the first and certainly not the last.”  Despite how tightly he had strapped himself into the seat, he managed a shrug, “I'll be the one putting y'all together, so I've earned my griping, cadet.”

Chief Counselor Juliet Woodward cast a scowl at Longfellow as she took the seat across from him, “We've talked about this, Henry.”

“We did.  I remember our conversation.”

“And?”

He pursed his lips, “I'm a work in progress, counselor.”

Woodward grumbled, “Well, work harder, Doc.”  She returned to the checklists while Chief Of Security Seraphina Pearce worked in the cockpit.  She could hear her cursing the tight space and didn't blame her.  Transport and pirate shuttles rarely featured the amenities of Starfleet-level comfort.  No wonder the folks who served on these ships were always pissed or upset at something.

Pearce squeezed out of the cockpit, irritated, “I will shoot the goddamned idiot who thought this was a good idea.”

Longfellow mused, “They're probably dead, Chief.”

The security chief stared at him, her annoyances bubbling, “Then I'll dig the bastard up and shoot ‘em again.  You see that insanity?” She gestured forcefully back where she had come, “I’m liable to blow this thing up when we're done with it.”

Juliet raised her hands to quiet the contention, “I'm not wearing my referee shirt.  Can we get on our way?”

Seraphina sighed, “We need to devise a name for the ship.  The other crew is calling theirs ‘Grandma.’  Whatever we come up with must make sense and connect to our backstory.”

Longfellow offered, “The Other Grandma?”  He rolled his eyes at the accusing stares, “We're not a family company…we're scrabbling on the floor when it comes to making ends meet.  Creativity isn't going to be high on the list of a company trying to survive.  Besides, Grandpa would be too convenient.”

Pearce wasn't mad about the idea, “That's…not the worst thing you've said all day, doc.”  The others nodded their heads after a moment of contemplation. “I'll input it into the computer.  Grandma is ready, so we will head straight for the colony.  It'll take us an hour or so to get there with these low-end warp engines.  Get familiar with your story and history…and be ready to roll out when we land.  We've got a lot to prove in a very short amount of time.”  She returned to the cockpit, cursing as she forced herself into the position.  “Hold onto…well, whatever you can!”

It had been a small base once with a single landing pad and a four-way main intersection where traffic traveled down a short distance.  That had been hundreds of years ago.  Alahans Colony was now sprawling with districts and multiple landing pads dotting the rocky and rough terrain.  It had an oxygen atmosphere thanks to the forests that dotted the other side of the planet.  Settlers had attempted to travel and explore them but quickly discovered the trees and animals were ferocious and deadly.  For whatever reason, the site chosen for the colony had remained free of attacks from wandering wildlife.

The two transports sat on the two pads on the western end of the colony, waiting for the inspection.  They’d been informed their background check had come back clear.  Suddenly, there was a knock on the transport Grandma’s door.  Henry Wyatt had been designated as the leader of their ragtag group of pirates. He’d chosen the name John Crane.  He slid through the cabin and slammed the big red button as klaxons rang out, the hatch slowly creaking its way to the ground, where it hit with a groan.  Wyatt stepped forward, “John Crane, Crane Enterprises.”

The leader of the inspection group waved him out, “Everybody out so we can do the inspection.  We don’t have a lot of time.” The Other Grandma’s crew had spilled out of their ship and stood listlessly as the inspectors boarded it hastily.  Henry Longfellow looked around nonchalantly but caught Wyatt’s glance.  They’d agreed he’d be the second in command. Given the age and appearance of both men, it seemed natural they’d be the aging leaders of a crew on their last legs.  They’d also agreed that if things went south quickly, there wouldn’t be time to think of anything other than getting out.

“Your shipment is heavy.”  Wyatt looked up, and as Crane gave a sheepish look, “I didn’t want to disappoint you, fellas.  We’re trying to make ends meet…and I didn’t wanna come up short.  Consider it a donation in kind.”

The rough-looking human scowled as he mulled it over.  He settled with, “We’ll transport it to the boss and see what he says.  Your appointment with him is in two hours.  Don’t be late.”  He handed a collection of devices, “Put these on.  Everyone on Alahans wears one.  We restrict access.  Test us and find out how much it hurts to piss off the Syndicate.”  Not waiting for questions, the man and his large entourage sauntered off and around a corner.”

Wyatt waited a moment and pulled the group close, keeping his voice low.  “Understand everything we do and say from here on out will be recorded, observed, reported, and analyzed.  The Syndicate are not light workers.  They’ve probably already scanned us, photographed us, and are running all our backgrounds.  Stay on target.”  Each of them nodded.  The El-Aurian had experienced the Syndicate as a bystander. He’d watched others learn their lessons the hard way, usually soaked in their own sick and blood.  “Let’s see who we can chat up on our way.  Walk casual.  Huffington’s got our asses covered.”  He glanced at Seraphina Pearce, who glowered at him.  She’d been given the name Tara Huffington.

She muttered, “I hate you.”  It was partially in character.  Huffington’s story was that she was the head of Crane Enterprises security and hadn’t gotten a steady paycheck in a while.  She wasn’t happy with her arrangement and was looking for options.

Wyatt/Crane growled, “Well, I don’t love you either, so up your shaft.  Let’s move.”

Henry Longfellow moved along with the group.  He’d retained his medical label; only he was given the name Lucas Merryweather.  And he was playing the role of an overworked medical doctor with a cranky side.  He planned on leaning into the cranky as therapy.  Oscar Reede walked beside him, eyes wide.  This was part of his character, the rookie Patrice Ramirez.  He’d been picked up on the last stop as temporary payment from their last job.  The story was that the client had been short credits, and Ramirez/Reede was holding the place of the money until it was delivered.  The other part was the abject terror that Reede was feeling.

On the side of Reede walked Julie Woodward.  She’d been gifted the name Ricki Brownlee and was part engineer, cook, and enforcer.  Her boxing with Kondo had become an asset as they had worked to structure the mission.  In front of them walked Gabriela Castillo, also known as Tessica Trunow.  She was the primary pilot who was given the job of training Reede/Ramirez with the second transport.  They were getting along, mostly, but there was conflict between them in the mission briefing.

They’d dressed in roughed-up leather jackets, stained shirts, dirty pants, and boots that hadn’t been shined in decades.  They’d worked on messing with their hair and skin to ensure nobody would give them a spare look.  Spare looks would lead to closer looks.  And they needed to get an understanding of Alahans Colony before too long.  Wyatt, as Crane, pointed to a bar after they’d walked a reasonable distance, said, “Let’s get us a drink.  Stay on target.”

As they walked towards the bar bodies on the rooftops shifted into place while bystanders adjusted their course just slightly.  If the order to strike was to come, they needed to be ready.

The bar was loud and full. There were workers mixed in with citizens together with pirates.  It smelled of sour sweat and sick blood, a recipe Henry Wyatt did not enjoy.  He’d each crew pair off into the large room to see if they could listen to anything or strike up a conversation.  The theme of the mission was ‘casual’, and the directive from Captain Walton emphasized that very idea.  They didn’t need to be in a bar fight, street fight, or any fight.  Everyone had to play their roles.  He’d partnered with Gabriela Castillo, aka Tessica Trunow.  They sat at a table at the far end, two rust-colored beers in front of them.  He spoke low enough for her to hear him, “Drink slow.”  The effect of actual alcohol wasn’t something they were willing to test.

They sat for a few minutes until two raggedy civilians sat roughly down on the other end of the table.  Their faces were caked with dirt and muck.  They sucked on their beers, eyes closing in relief at the taste of freedom, even for a moment.  They eyed the two newcomers and commenced ignoring them.  Wyatt waited a few moments before he cracked, “Y’all look like hell burned over.” The two snapped their heads to stare at him, lips tight.  What were mere seconds felt like hours as pause pushed from pregnant to foreboding until the two of them smiled and laughed at the joke.

They raised their dirty glasses to the two, “You don’t look much better.  What awful hole did you crawl out of?”

Wyatt smiled, “A desperate hole.  This is our last chance to break even and maybe see free daylight with all the money we’re owed, and we owe.”  He hoped this would resonate with them.  It did.  They slid closer.

“Tell me about it,” the older of the two spoke low, “This place changed about six months ago.  We’ve been trying to get off this rock…without success.”  

The younger, her face littered with scars, nodded.  “It gets worse each day.  We think they will take everything of worth…and burn it to the ground.”

Castillo felt her heart beat harder as she asked, “How do you….?”  She was shushed as two guards entered the main door, strolling through the room.  The conversations stopped or slowed while the armed thugs gave the crowd hard looks until they climbed the stairs and disappeared into the upper floors.

The young woman looked to her friend, and he gave her a slight nod to continue, “I overheard some of the upper guards talking about cleansing the ground with fire…I saw some packing up last night…they’ve all been rougher with us recently.”

Gabriela locked eyes with Wyatt and continued commiserating with the two new friends.

Juliet Woodward led Oscar Reede to the opposite side of the bar, eying the stairway where the two guards had ascended.  They could hear a conversation going on above them.

A high-pitched voice groused, “The boss called.  We’ve got to move up the evacuation.  Long-range sensors have a Task Force Flagship or something on the way.”

A low lumbering bass rumbled, “People are already starting to notice our moving of stuff.  He’s suddenly afraid of Starfleet and the Federation?  Come on…this man ordered the Mackenzie put in the ground.”

Another high-pitched response, “You miss where I said Flag Ship?  Get the shit together and on its way to the evacuation pads.  Move up the extermination and slaving protocols.  Now.”

Woodward and Reede inched back and slipped into a suddenly empty table where they sat and grasped the left-behind beers as a tall Romulan thundered down the stairs, snarled at them, and pounded through the bar and out into the cold air.  Reede’s eyes widened as he could no longer hide his feelings as he whispered, “They said…”

Woodward shushed him, “They said a lot of things.  Come on, follow me.”  She grabbed his arm and pulled him along as she climbed the stairs, eyes cautiously scanning the landing above.

Seraphina Pearce and Henry Longfellow were standing outside enjoying some recently acquired cigars.  It had taken Pearce longer to get used to them.  She twisted it in her fingers, “It’s amazing something like this doesn’t get banned outright.”

Longfellow chuckled, “As a doctor, I cannot recommend them for long-term use.  Much of the disease and ailments of the past stemmed from the unmoderated use of such things.  Every so often, it is helpful to remind oneself why such vices were treasured and even protected during crackdowns by the security forces of the day.”  He puffed contentedly until the main door blasted open, and a tall Romulan stalked out, his tongue sharp with words from the saltier side of his language.  He stared at them, angry.  

Pearce wondered if he was about to use them as a stress relief from whatever had pushed him to the edge.  She relaxed a little as he spat on the ground before them and walked off.  “Think one of our people pissed him off?”

Henry shook his head, “I know our crew.  If we’d pissed him off, we’d have pissed off everyone in there.  You’d be seeing bodies getting thrown out of windows.  No, he’s angry for another reason.”  He turned his head to track where the angered agent was headed, “We could follow him, see what we can find out?”

Seraphina gave him a warning look, “You know how this place works.  I guarantee you there are eyes all along his path.  We follow, they’ll follow, and then we’ll be lost in the mess of this place.” Longfellow mouthed, ‘They’, and she nodded, gesturing to the shadows on the rooftops and the edges of the darkness in the ally across the way.  “We’ve been followed since we landed.  I think they’re pretty standard in Syndicate towns – they suspect even the best pirate producers.  Everybody gets followed, and everybody gets eyes put on them.”  She observed, “I was talking to our boss…he said they’ve got a direct line back to their boss.  The guy can decide to cut his losses and cut us in the end.  Not a lotta honor in a Syndicate town.”

A new voice broke through, “There’s still some honor in this town.  You just gotta find it.”  There was a sigh from the shadows and a few thumps sounded from the rooftops around them.  A short and old Romulan stepped out of the shadows, a cruel smile crossing her lips, “Or it’s gotta find you.”  She glanced around, “We have fifteen minutes before the ones we killed are noticed.  The bar is clean.  Come with me.”

Longfellow frowned, “Your face is familiar…who are you?”

The sixty-one-year-old Romulan grinned as she motioned them to follow her, “Commander Thasaz, Hazard Team Rose.  Lots to explain.”

“We’ve been working here about three months.” Thasaz stood in the bar, the Starfleet officers incognito, and the gathered workers standing and sitting together as the Romulan woman caught up with their new friends to the situation.  “We were assigned to do undercover work from Fourth Fleet, and we’ve managed to stay under the radar.  That won’t last for long.”  She motioned to the outside, where they’d made their theatric entrance.

Juliet Woodward and Oscar Reede stood to the side, eyeing the Klingon they’d run into when they’d made it to the top of the stairs.  He’d stared at them in disbelief and had half-heartedly pulled his blaster.  Shortly after, an old face from Woodward’s start on the USS Edinburgh vaunted up the steps to intervene. Thasaz’s lips had exploded into a joyful smile, and she’d given the chief counselor a running hug.  It was a surreal moment for Woodward.  She still couldn’t believe the old Chief Science Officer was standing before her.  Thasaz continued, “Klasgs here was our first investment.  He’s kept this part of town mostly safe from the upper levels of the Syndicate, but it’s starting to get more complicated.  They will abandon this place…and plan on burning it to the ground.  We have maybe 48 hours.”

Klasgs grunted, “I was thankful they showed up.  I ended up here because I’m supposed to be proving myself to The Syndicate…and so far, it’s working.  I don’t want to end up like the others who failed to succeed.  I just want out of here.”

Henry Wyatt pushed off the wall, “You’re not the first Klingon to tire of the blood.  So what do we do?  The Task Force Flagship is due within minutes to start their part of the mission.”

Thasaz smiled as she answered, “We’ve been looking for ways to push their panic button, and that will do the trick.  As much as Rigilia postures, he still reports to someone.  They don’t have patience for people who kill the bottom line.  Calling attention to their operation out here was his daughter’s first mistake, and threatening the Olympic was his second.  They’re nervous, and when Rigilia gets nervous, he makes mistakes.”  She checked her watch, “Five minutes.  My people will have disposed of the bodies, but we’ll have a patrol here to follow up.  We’ve repositioned the cameras in this area to point away from the bar, and they didn’t seem to notice.  The hotel next door is our safe house – we can put you all up in there overnight.”

Seraphina Pearce raised her hand, “What do we do tomorrow?”

Thasaz gave her a nod, “Once we get settled next door, we’ll plot and plan.  We need to move and reset the bar to keep the illusion.  Three minutes!”  The gathered patrons stood and went to work as the Starfleet crew, in disguise, was led next door.

The sounds of a patrol platoon filtered in through the open windows of each hotel room.  The shouted questions were greeted with equal shouted answers, and a great debate filled the next hour as the conversation and investigation continued.  A belated report on bodies found halfway across the city was handed to the group’s leader. He ordered his group to move and threatened everyone around him with death should they find implications that they were involved.  The streets around the bar and hotel were soon cleared, and Thasaz gathered her new and old friends in the second-floor lobby, comfortable couches and chairs granting them some relief amid the chaos.  She relayed, “They’re going to find the bodies burned to death inside one of our alleged safe houses.  We haven’t used it in months, but it’ll put enough suspicion on them to trigger an investigation into them and not us.  This situation will have resolved itself by the time they talk to us.”  She pointed to the hand-drawn map, “Our plan is to sneak into the castle and stop them from blowing this place up.”

She explained that The Syndicate had two ships capable of torpedo and phaser fire.  They also had smaller shuttles equipped with bomb-dropping mechanisms that they intended to use to create a flash fire scenario that would roll the explosive fire through the crowded alleyways and tight streets.  “Our mission is to sabotage the shuttles to explode when their engines start.”

Wyatt frowned, “What about the two Syndicate ships?”

Thasaz chuckled, “That’s the fun part.  We’re going to replace the launchers with fake replacements.”

Pearce scoffed, “And how…”

The Romulan raised her hand to stop her, “We’re going to use our greatest weapon.  I’m considered somewhat of a trustworthy person in The Syndicate.  Given how our records were modified, the background checks came up with many criminal activities and terrible things attributed to my name…which is how they like it.  I’ve got access to the main compound where the two ships are held.  I will need one of you to accompany me as a new trainee.”

Pearce raised her eyebrows as most of the crew turned their eyes to her, “What…you’re serious.”

Wyatt explained, “Given the history we provided your character, it would make sense that you’d throw in with The Syndicate.  Thasaz offered you a good wage to sell out your crew to the boss…and so you’re on your way to do just that.”

The security chief considered it.  She sighed, “I suppose that works.”  She looked to the Romulan, “You have a plan, I assume?”  Thasaz did.  She related that she’d been put in charge of upgrading the two ship’s weapons systems. She’d recently acquired them from a recent transport.

“It’ll look official to sensors and scans.  There won’t be enough time to test it.  They’ll take off, try and torch the place..only to find out they’ve been had.  Shuttles will explode, and that’ll be the end of it.”  She asked if there were any questions.  There were none.  “Then let’s go to blowing shit up.”

The morning came early for Seraphina Pearce and Thasaz.  Both were slurping their coffee as the fiery sun broke over the horizon.  “It’s a pretty little corner of space,” Thasaz mused as they walked out the kinks from the rough beds they’d bunked in the night previous.  “And yet, they still find a way to make some pretty damn good coffee.”  Pearce agreed.  The beds hadn’t been a surprise.  The coffee was.  She’d asked, and the short answer had been the beans grew in a large field on the other side of the planet, about one hundred yards from the infested forests.  Thasaz continued, “It’s one thing The Syndicate could never figure out – how to take over the coffee harvest.  The animals and plants in the forests were actively hostile to anyone but the original crew.  So, they were allowed to continue.  It’s part of why we’re fighting to save this place.  A corner of space with such a bright spot shouldn’t be burned out just for the hell of it.”

They rounded a corner and continued walking.  Pearce lowered her voice as they left the relative safety of the protected sector, “I heard you were on the Edinburgh.”  

The Romulan smiled as if she’d told a joke but answered, equaling the volume of the security chief, “For a short time.  I came aboard on the Erigone before her.  Commander Harris was a good friend.”  She lapsed into silence as they trudged to the left and down the main drag towards the headquarters building The Syndicate had claimed as their own.  She continued, “It hurt me to hear the news of his death and how he had been taken from us.  I am glad they captured the Devore bastard.  I would have killed him outright.”

They passed a few guards who gave Thasaz the nod.  Pearce asked quietly, “Then how in the hell did you get to be a commander of a Hazard Team?”

A shrug, “Needs must, I suppose.  I was a known quantity, and my ability to…how’d that captain phase it…take to it like a fish to water.  It was an odd phrase and a human one at that, so it made some sense.”

“You almost sound Vulcan.”

Thasaz chuckled at that, “We are two species at opposing ends of each other.  Closer than we know and farther because we know.  Logic and Violence…the tension goes back generations beyond history and understanding.”

It was Pearce’s turn to chuckle, “And that sounds almost human.”

The Romulan mused, “As big as the universe is and as far apart as we pretend we are…we’re closer to each other in means and manners.  It’s been called the Universal truth…or some shit like that.  I’m a science officer, not a philosopher.”  They turned another corner, and she went silent as she read the guard’s positioning, “They look tense.  Your ship must have arrived.  Let’s see how they’re feeling about me today.”

Pearce’s eyes nearly went wide, “I thought you said they trusted you?”

“Have you met The Syndicate?  Trust is an economic factor around here – the value changes on the hour as it’s traded between ears, lips, and hands.  Come on.  Live a little.”

As she stubbornly followed Thasaz, Seraphine muttered, “Or we die a lot.  A lot of dying.”

“Updated reports from the field, Captain.”  The ensign handed Wren Walton a PADD before he headed back to his department a few decks below.  They’d been assigned as a subterfuge to a struggling colony.  The trouble was it was a struggling colony using both the Mackenzie and the Olympic’s services and crews.  It was helping to keep their minds off the away team in Alahans Colony.

Park Seoyeon, the executive officer, had taken over the science console and reported, “Science and medical teams have completed the survey work and immunization interviews.  85% of the population lacks the antigen needed to defend against the Khos Flu, never mind the Masa Pneumonia.  They’re building a vaccine.”

Walton finished her thought, “But that takes time…and we’re starting to run up against that damned clock.”  She tapped her fingers on the arm of the command chair, “Let’s…”

The assistant communications chief, a new cadet, spoke up, his eyes wide with worry.  “Captain Walton, we’re being hailed by someone from Starfleet Prison Security…a Commander Anastasia Wheeler.  Priority channel for you and Commander Park…and Captain Crawford.  He’s on his way over.”

Wren glanced at Park, “This should be interesting.  Mr. Kondo, you have the CONN.”  She walked from the bridge to her ready room and waited until the doors closed before she said, “Who the hell do we know in prison?”  The XO shrugged, shifted to the couch by the windows, and sat.  Walton slid behind her desk, confused and concerned.

Captain Peter Crawford stepped into the room and sat before Walton, “All I know is Starfleet Security.”

Wren spoke, “I worked with Wheeler a few years ago.  She’s a solid security officer through and through.  If she’s calling, something is up.”  She tapped her console, “Put her through.”

The large screen on the wall powered on, and a message regarding the channel’s priority and high level of encryption was followed by a young-looking face that was tense and serious.  “Captains.  I wish I were calling with better news.  Since the Frontier Fleet incident, we’ve been cleaning up the Borg and Changeling issues.”  Her hands played with the PADD in front of her.  Her eyes searched the display before returning her attention to them, “In the confusion of the attacks, several facilities were compromised.  One of them concerns you, Captain Crawford.  And a Carolyn Crawford.”

Crawford’s face had gone pale, and his long sigh was full of fear, “Shit.”  The other two faces in the room were confused, so he attempted to explain, “A long time ago, on the USS Denver, I ran into my double from another universe.  He had a daughter before I did, and she was along for the ride.  Her father vanished into the wind at the end of the mission, and she was carted off to a facility to ensure she never saw daylight again.  She was…sixteen then?  That makes her about…43?”

Wheeler continued, “Captain Crawford is correct.  She escaped, and our investigation showed she was working with one of our senior officers at the facility who was…a Changeling.  We are unsure of her current location, but she was tracked toward Romulan space.  We haven’t had anything since 2374 regarding her father.  I know you’ve been asking every year…and I have nothing new to share.  We think he’s dead.”  She tapped at her console, “The other item involves another prisoner – who has connections with the crew of the Mackenzie…the Edinburgh…and the Erigone.”

Wren leaned forward as the realIzation became evident with each named starship, “You’ve gotta be shitting me, Ana.  Patra?”  Park sat up.  She had read the reports.  She had heard the stories from those who had chosen to stay on the Mackenzie.

“He was working with the same senior officer.  We’ve had a team reviewing the footage that survived and interviewing other prisoners.  I suspect the two of them worked together.  Carolyn Crawford had been here since 2374, and Patra was a recent addition to the mix.  There’s considerable evidence this was a cooperative escape operation.  We tracked Patra heading towards Syndicate space.”

Walton groaned, “Which is why you’re calling.  When did this happen?”

Wheeler grimaced, “Frontier Day.  And before you tell me to shove it up my shaft, hear me, Wren.  I was transferred here because of this shit show.  We’ve been working through every staff member and trying to control an unstable population.  Changelings and Borg working together make it hard to sort through records, reports, and a hijacked sensor system.”  She took a breath, “We don’t think he’s coming for you or the Olympic.  What little surveillance could be recovered suggests that Patra and Carolyn are probably looking for new friends.  There have been no reports from Patra’s old friends.  They’re usually the loudest klaxon.”

Park was aghast, “Commander, I read the reports on Patra.  His psychological profile is filled with revenge.  Could this be a fake out?”

“You’re not wrong to ask.  Our psych team had been interviewing him regularly, and his vision for his future once he landed with us never returned to revenge.  He wanted to find a new empire, a new world, or a new destiny.  He was looking for a fresh start…and to be clear, that start would feature criminal activity and violent acts to get what he wanted.  Patra was not reformed and did not make attempts to do so.”  She held her hands apologetically, “I wish I had better news.  You’ve got the Mackenzie there with the Olympic and Captain Fontana at Alahans Colony.  He will lick his wounds, plot, and plan a longer game.”

Wren grumbled, “Then he’ll come for us or the Olympic.”

Anastasia nodded, “There’s a chance his old ways will return. Like I said…I wish I had better news, Wren.  Stay safe.”  The channel closed, and the room fell into a deep silence as Walton and Crawford stared at each other.

Crawford was first, “I need to speak to my daughter, Captain Walton.”

“Done.  We’ll need as much information as possible on the other one.”

He pushed out of the chair, “Send me everything you can on Patra.  We all have a long afternoon of reading ahead of us.”  He left the ready room.

It was Park’s turn to stare at her captain, “What the hell just happened?”

Walton wasn’t quite sure, “If we run into him, Sey…we’re going to have to kill him, aren’t we?” The XO didn’t answer.  They remained silent, in thought, until the hourly reports came in from the bridge.

Carolyn Crawford sat in the meeting room, her hands gripping a cup of hot tea, her eyes nervously darting from the cup to her father to the ground to the ceiling and back again.  “This…is crazy.”

Captain Peter Crawford sat in the other lounge chair directly across from her, his hands gripping a stiff Synthehol drink. “That’s understating a bit, kid.”  She rolled her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “They think my alternate is dead.”  He watched the steam climb and vanish in the air, “I think…I’m finally accepting that he is gone.”

His daughter agreed, “It’s nice to know at least one of them is off the sensors for good.”  She flitted her eyes to meet his, “What the hell are we going to do when she comes for us?”

He didn’t answer right away.  Crawford’s mind was asking the same question.  The last time he had seen her had been July 22, 2374, in the Denver’s brig.  She’d been a furious ball of rage then.  He wasn’t sure what twenty-seven years in the custody of high-security officers would have done to her.  Much of Starfleet’s efforts were focused on reformation.  Given the terse updates he had received every year, she wasn’t keen on reforming.  In that, he realized she was the perfect muse for Patra.  “The Oly won’t ever go outside Federation space without an escort.  She’s not foolish.”

Carolyn asked, “And what about me?”

Pete shook his head, “She doesn’t know about you.  She can try and push around Captain Walton and her crew.  They’re a tough bunch.”

She agreed, “I’ve felt safe here…like I felt safe on the Mercy and the Zebulon Pike.  She’s threatening my home.”  Her eyes narrowed, “That doesn’t make me happy.”  She asked her father, “Would you rather she have died?”

He wasn’t sure.  “I was young then, Car.  I believed in the ideas of the Federation and Starfleet…I still do.  But there’s this part of me over the years that’s started to wonder…if true evil exists without hope for redemption…should we have the choice to stop it forever?”  He took a sip from his cup and thought for a moment longer.  There were heavy consequences and choices that they were discussing.  “One of my professors at the Academy used to tell us his first step to any problem was to sit in it…and he would say, ‘this is where I’m sitting”, to say he was still thinking and hadn’t made up his mind.  Then, when he’d sat in it enough, he would take a stand and tell us, ‘this is where I stand,’ to say he’d made the final decision on the problem he’d been working through.”  Peter took a deep breath, “I’m still sitting in that decision 24 years ago.  Should I have pushed her more?  Crossed some lines to get the answers we needed?”  He took a long, last drink from his cup, “She’s out there, Car…but we’ll be ready for her.  And so will you.  We’ll make sure of it.

They remained there, catching up and cracking jokes.  The laughter helped heal them both, and restored a sense of hope for what was coming.

The guards were tense and barked orders at Thasaz and Seraphina Pearce with little care.  The security chief could see the anger in their eyes.  There was something else in the mix as they endured an extended search.  There was fear in the mix.  They pushed and pulled the replacement equipment on carts through the secured headquarters area.  Pearce watched more and more of The Syndicate crew moving faster and faster.  She spoke to Thasaz using her Syndicate name, “Pathas…this may not go as had hoped.”

The Romulan operative gave a terse nod, “We may need to loosen the plan.  Let's get to the two ships at least.”  They continued down the path and turned the corner, heading for the nearest Syndicate ship.  Thasaz asked one of those running, “What's going on?”

The panicked young man sputtered, “Rigilia's talking with some Task Force Commando or something.  He's ordering us to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.”  He took off running before she could ask a second question.

Thasaz asked, “Is your Captain Geronimo really that scary?” Pearce's blank look was her answer. “Then what's with all the sound and fury?”  She grabbed another runner, “What's with all the running?”

This one stopped, did his best to catch his breath, and seemed thankful for the break.  He gulped air until he could speak, "Rigilia's boss has ordered us off and out.  You can stash the new upgrades," he nodded to the carts, “…we're leaving the place intact.”  He put his hands, “Look, if I could make sense of this Syndicate Shit, I'd be a lot richer and on a lot better planet than this one.”  With that, he scampered away.

Pearce blinked.  Three times.  "That means…we don't need to blow up the shuttles.  Or anything."  She looked around, “What the hell changed when the K'Ehleyr arrived?  It certainly wasn't Fontana…and what I know of Karrik, he's not a mad Vulcan ready to throw down.”  She glanced up at the sky and into space beyond, “What in the hell is going on?”

Thasaz slipped out her communicator and sent a message to the other team to gather at the transport ships instead and be ready to run away.  “I'm not sure.”

One of the higher-ranked Syndicate officers bounded up to them, “Pathas, they need to see you and your new friend at the hall.  Now.”  His right hand rested on his blaster while his left hung close to a short sword in its sheath.

Thasaz gave Peace a warning look and led her forward as the man took up the rear.

“You've been found out, Starfleet.”  Captain Hensa Rigilia stood on the elevated platform where a makeshift throne had been constructed.  She stood in front of it, hands on hips.  “Or should I say traitor Thasaz.”  She spat at the ground and shouted a few Romulan insults from the dais.

Pearce's eyes went wide at the revelation and wider still as the Romulan to her left cackled.  “And where is your father, Hensa?  For all his talk and bluster…he's probably left you to clean up the last of the trash.”  She spat on the ground, “You're nothing more than a trash collector.”

Seraphina whispered, “Why are you insulting her?”

Thasaz scoffed as she kept her eyes glued to Hensa, “I haven't insulted her, Lieutenant.  I've started with irritating.  I'll work my way up to insulting.  Eventually, we'll get to tell each other our mothers were born backward in a Vulcan graveyard with a Klingon nursemaid.  Then we'll get to threats…and maybe we might throw a punch of two.  Do I have that right, Hensa?  You never were one for striking while the phaser fire was hot.”

Hensa's fists were balled into fists of fury, and her once placid face rippled with rage, “I would wipe this unworthy floor with your boiled blood. You're nothing more than a Hevam-yikh.”

Pearce's translator kicked in, and her eyes widened even more, “She just called you…”

Thasaz chuckled, entertained, “She put the derogatory term for humans together with the same for aliens and non-Romulans.  She gets points for creativity.  You haven't tried to shoot me, Hensa.  What's the message you've been told to deliver?”

Her face bloomed a new shade of anger as her hands twitched near the dual holsters at her side.  Pearce's hands drifted to her blasters, wondering if this crazy Syndicate operative would actually try and shoot either of them…or both.

“I was ordered to give you this," and she tossed a device across the room, and it clattered across the floor, coming to a rest at Thasaz's feet.  “You won this round by default, Starfleet.  That's two rounds you've taken.  There won't be a third.”  She tapped a button on her uniform and vanished into a blaze of yellow transporter.  The rest of the Syndicate crew did the same.  The rumbling of ships departing began to shake the building.

Pearce turned to find Thasaz reading, a deep scowl growing across her face.  She muttered a few Romulan curses before moving on to the human ones.  Finished reading, she shoved the device into the hands of the security chief, who started to read as she ran to catch up with her partner, “What does this mean?  I've heard the name of Patra in the reports…and Crawford is an officer on the Mack.  Thasaz…wait!”

The older Romulan stopped at the door, letting out a long sigh. “The first is someone I am well acquainted with.  I came to work with Commander Harris on his first assignment because of Patras.  As for the Carolyn Crawford in that message…it is not ours.  As for what it means…nothing good, Lieutenant.  Nothing good at all.  Tell the team to stand down from the transports.  Let's get to helping this colony restore some sense of order.” Pearce moved to ask another question, but Thasaz shook her head, “There will be a time to answer your questions, Pearce.  These people deserve our time and effort.  Come, let's get some good out of an awful day."

“…the elections are officially underway, and our teams have reported no significant issues.  The cult has refused to participate, but their senior leadership is starting to peel off.  They’re down to around 500 members as of the last count.  Most of the ones coming down from the mountain were tired, hungry, and annoyed at the constant singing and shouting they were doing.”  Charlie Hargraves was on the main screen of the bridge of the USS Mackenzie.  “Our work in the remaining towns and cities is proceeding well.  Chief Katsumi and her team have three of the five power plants running.  The other two should be online within a few more days.”  He tapped through his PADD, “That’s all I have for now, Captain.  I understand you’ll be heading back to us soon?”

Captain Wren Walton hoped that was the case, “We’re still working to undo the damage The Syndicate did here.  The Olympic’s engineering team and the K’Ehleyr’s support are helping that move along.  Current projections have us back to Janoor by the 9th at best and the 10th at worst.”  She tapped at her console on her chair, “You received the latest update?”

Hargraves had, “We’re working on our end to extend planet and orbital sensors to see what we can see, Captain.  So far, we’re all clear.  I’ll keep you updated.”  They finished the report, and the channel closed.  Walton stood from her chair, adjusting her uniform as she did, “Commander Park, you have the CONN.”

Her XO stood from her chair, watching Walton walk into her ready room.  She was usually invited.

Walton secured the ready room and found her way to the long couch under the massive windows.  She lay full length on it, feeling the last few days and hours of revelations pushing and pulling.  With the help of Thasaz and the records they found buried in the computing systems on Alahans, they’d pieced together that Patras had taken charge of Rigilia’s group quite recently. As far as they could theorize, the Patras would have reviewed the personnel files upon taking command.  Thasaz’s face wouldn’t have been missed, even disguised, by someone like Patras.

He now knew she was with the Mackenzie. It wouldn’t take long to connect that to the Olympic, and Peter Crawford.  The added layer was the alternate Carolyn Crawford.  What was her part and goal in all this?  Was she truly going to try and kill Peter?  They were confident she didn’t know about Prime Carolyn.  Yet it wouldn’t take much work to troll publicly available information and news reports.  “Goddamn…everything,”  Walton muttered as she stared at the ceiling, contemplating what was next for them.  There was plenty of work to be done in the Deneb system for the Mackenzie Squadron.

She blew out her frustrations in a long sigh.  She stretched long on the couch and forced herself to sit up.  The ready room was silent, and she hated silence.  “Computer, play Anastasia Montana’s latest album.”  There was a beep, and her ready room was filled with the warm guitar strumming of her favorite folk singer.  The music helped soothe her nerves until she could wander to the desk, sit down, and start compiling reports.  The music played on, and she found her rhythm as the aching tones of Montana wove between the sour guitar twangs.

“In the hills of the hollow, my soul reaches for the sky, hopeful to not wallow, believing that the tears will dry…”