CONTINUED: Predatory Instincts

The starship captain then made a more detailed study of the establishment’s décor. To his amazement there were dozens of exotic weapons hanging on the walls from all over the galaxy. The weapon that caught and held his attention was roughly half moon shaped and occupied a prominent spot over huge mirror behind the bar. It was a Klingon Bat’leth: a blade type weapon used primarily in the fighting of duels.

“Where did that come from?” asked the human guest while pointing above the mirror.

“I don’t know. It’s been there for over fifty years, or so I’ve been told. If Commander Tolkan were here he could tell you. He’s been coming to this bar since the days of James T. Kirk.”

Picard was tempted to bring up the fact that he had some experiences of his own concerning Kirk, but he had precious little time to get what he wanted from Donatra.

“Commander, are you aware that Admiral Alidar Jarok was received by my old ship the Enterprise D?”

A shadow fell across the continence of the attractive Romulan female.

“Captain Picard, that is name you should not banter about in a place like this. It would be counter productive at a time when our two governments have this opportunity to establish a meaningful dialogue.

Picard lowered his voice but refused to be warned off.

“He was deceived into thinking that the Romulan Empire was planning to launch an all out offensive against the Federation.”

“I know that Captain, and if we had gone to war, each and every warbird commander would have been cursing the policy makers under their breaths. Under their breaths Captain, because our portion is obedience. Therefore, he who shall not be named was rightly condemned by his peers. Even his daughter will not mention his name.”

The human nodded and leaned farther over the table .

“Yes, about her daughter: I was given a letter that is meant for her. I was wondering if perhaps you could deliver it for me.”

“I probably could, but I would advise waiting a few months Captain. When the people of Romulus learn that they owe their very lives to a crew of humans, it might remove a portion of the stain that has been placed on a traitor’s name.”

“I hope so Commander. I am of the opinion that there is a fine line between duty and honor. The high ranking officer who came aboard my ship was a very brave man. Technically he was a traitor, but he was worthy of our respect, because he had the courage to stand alone.”

“We will never know if his actions were motivated by conviction or perhaps plain and simple resentment, Captain. After all, he was given what you Earthlings call a backwater assignment before he deserted.”

“Then I will be delivering the letter because a father asked me to,” said Picard. “A last request need not be anything more than that.”

“Oh what cruel cuts are perpetrated in the name of Starfleet honor,” said a familiar voice behind the human.

Picard twisted around and was slightly alarmed to find a blonde haired Romulan woman standing just behind him.

“A wife deserted her husband in the name of honor. She takes a father’s child away from him in the name of honor. An out-worlder will rip open an old wound by forcing a Romulan girl to reexamine her family’s shame. So many follies committed in the name of human honor.”

Picard gazed up into a countenance that was a painful reminder of a woman who had died too young. A shipmate and member of a younger generation who had been zealous in her defense of her adopted culture. The result of which was now standing before him with a very pleased look on her face.

“I hope you’re not expecting any parades in your honor Captain. I’m afraid you’ll be too indisposed for that sort of thing.”

“Something tells me you are not referring to the wine that was ordered. No matter. It’s good to see you again Sela. Are you acquainted with Commander Donatra?”

“We’ve never met, but for years I’ve heard references to a blonde haired operative who supposedly works for the Tal Shiar,” the warbird commander stated with a hint of animosity.

“Which is why I am one of the privileged few who is now aware of your valiant efforts Commander Donatra,” Sela responded with a brittle smile. “I don’t doubt that you will be amply rewarded for your valor---however I was informed that you did not ask Admiral Jezzeen for permission to bring Captain Picard to the planet’s surface. I’m sure that will be overlooked under the circumstances.”

“Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” asked the Starfleet captain.

“I would indeed, but I must borrow our hero from Earth before he becomes fettered with celebrity status. We need to have him undergo a physical examination. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“My ship’s sickbay was not damaged in battle,” said Picard. “Once you have explained to me precisely what it is you are looking for, Sela, I will see to it that the desired medical data is delivered to you before the ship is towed out of the system.”

“Really Captain, do I need to explain to you of all people how I operate? I leave nothing to chance, and trust no one. I need to have my own medical staff collect the data, which then may or may not become classified information.”

“A hint would be appreciated,” said Picard while smiling at the unhappy looking waiter as he hastily placed the drinks on the table.

“I will mention that which you already know. Shinzon was cloned from you.”

“Without my consent or knowledge,” Picard stated with all pretenses of civility now at an end.

“Do you think that makes you something special?” Sela almost growled.

“You implied that you are going to take me somewhere. I can hardly stop you Sela, but I informed my first officer that I would return to the ship within a couple of hours. If I return late, you will be the next subject of an examination.”

“Because eventually the Romulan High Command will be forced to acknowledge you as a hero?” Sela asked incredulously. “You can’t be serious Picard. The government has enjoyed absolute control over the media services for centuries. We don’t have to show our gratitude to you. Every Romulan who participated in the battle against Shinzon is already assigned to off world duty. Let a few of the spacefarers like Donatra buy you drinks at a star base somewhere. That is all the notoriety you will get from the Romulans.”

“Not so very long ago I shared your obvious contempt for Starfleet officers,” Donatra admitted, “but now I must insist that I be allowed to accompany Picard to whatever holding facility he is bound for.”

The blonde woman’s back stiffened, but she cast a wary eye at all the officers that were watching them.

“You overstep your bounds Commander, but I will allow you to tag along. After all, this medical examination will not reveal anything you haven’t seen before.”

The blonde haired Romulan smirked at her own private joke and gestured toward the exit.

“Unless of course you prefer the formality of a security detail. That would delay us at least five minutes.”

Picard rose to his feet and Donatra fell into step along side him. Once they were outside the bar Sela took out her communicator and called for a beam up. As if reading her thoughts Donatra placed a precautionary arm around the human.

“You don’t trust me?” Sela asked with a grin. “I don’t doubt that you are destined for greatness, Donatra. Please stay in touch with me in the future.”

“I’ll do that---as an admiral,” promised the dark haired woman.

A moment later they all materialized in a waiting room that contained reading viewers and comfortable chairs. Obviously that meant they were not in a satrap. They were already facing a huge pair of doors made of artificial wood that swung open three seconds after materialization was completed. Donatra immediately relaxed when she recognized one of the three physicians that stood inside the examination room.

“Commander Donatra, what are you doing here?” the oldest of the three doctors inquired.

“She’s testing the limits of her winning streak, Dr. Polimot. Now will you quickly assure her that we don’t have a chamber of horrors here so that we can get this evaluation over with?”

The young warbird commander suddenly felt a bit embarrassed for thinking the worst of Sela. Anyone associated with the chief medical supervisor of the 3^rd Fleet couldn’t possibly be that bad.

“Um---this is all very classified Donatra, but you needn’t be concerned for the human; presuming that you are concerned for him. Did you capture him?”

“Doctor…” pressed the impatient Sela.

“Yes, um, Donatra please wait in the outer room. This won’t take long and then we’ll talk.”

“IF I allow it,” Sela barked at the other woman’s backside.

Once the doors were closed behind the commander, Sela gestured for Picard to take his place on the examination table.

“I don’t need to disrobe?” queried the human.

“I wouldn’t allow it so close to dinner time,” growled Sela, “now come on Picard, let’s get this over with.”

Picard grinned at the woman’s dour expression and tried to get comfortable on a surface that was not designed with the patient’s feelings in mind. With a ghost of a smile Sela then took out a small control mechanism and delivered the prisoner’s first surprise. The hard flat surface of the table suddenly molded to the shape of Picard’s legs, buttocks, back and shoulders. Then restraining bars rolled out from underneath the table and effectively pinned the subject in place.

The captain still wasn’t positive he was in trouble until Sela pushed another pressure plate and the three holo-deck doctors disappeared. The most disturbing development of all presented itself when an entire wall slid away revealing a pair of technicians with their own prisoner on a rolling table. The subject on the other table was considerably more relaxed than Picard, because the former’s brain didn’t quite operate the same as the latter’s. The other prisoner was a Borg, and in no time at all Picard found himself being hooked up to the cyborg utilizing micro passages through the skull that Dr. Crusher had left intact.

“We lost nearly three-hundred of our own capturing this specimen,” said Sela, “but it was worth it. You see Captain, this is no ordinary Borg. This particular unit was functioning in the warp drive section of a Borg ship when it was taken. Do you know what that means?”

“In all likelihood you are planning to gain engineering technology that will make your ships much faster than ours. Assuming that you now have the technology to link my mind with this Borg, do you honestly think I will cooperate?”

“The theory is that we don’t need your cooperation, only your identity. Three years ago we started asking this Borg just one question: how do you create a warp configuration that will enable a ship to slip through space at maximum speed? I have been told by our behavior modification people that the Borg mind is really quite fascinating, but I suppose you would have an entirely different adjective for it. In any case about five weeks ago we stumbled onto the right method of getting a response from the cyborg. The problem is, just as a computer will not give up it’s data until an access code is utilized, this Borg won’t answer the all important question until someone identifies himself as a fellow Borg.”

Picard’s laugh was long and genuine, even while the technicians were laser scanning his skull so that the micro patch could be properly positioned.

“Could you possibly have overlooked the fact that even if you could flim flam this Borg out of the information that you seek, you would need a Borg ship to make use of the data. This Borg is no more capable of utilizing a Romulan ship design than Worf’s adopted cat.”

“I am well aware of that, and we have in fact a replica of a Borg cube ship that is capable of warp flight. But we can’t generate the speeds that we need.”

“A replica based on who’s standards? I think you’ll be doing test modifications for years to come. You’ll probably disappear in a wormhole effect. But at least it will render you harmless to the Federation for a long time. Permanently if your engineers mess up too badly.”

“I acknowledge the risks Captain. Now if you will please remain quiet for a few moments….”

Picard was about to issue another warning when he felt a familiar mental hailing. It did not overwhelm his sense of self and it was reassuring to discover that the Borg by himself had no influence on the human will. The captain steadfastly refused to answer the hail and presumed for a while that the experimental contact would be fruitless. After a minute or so one of the technicians nodded his head in satisfaction studying his specially designed tricorder.

“The subject was deceived into thinking that he was passing data on to Captain Picard. We now have that data, but only time will tell if it will be of any use to you Ma’am.”

“Yes. Well my dear Captain, I suppose I’d better get you back out to Donatra. She is entitled to her admiration of you. But of course someday, she’ll realize that equal partnerships in life are an illusion. One must dominate over another.”

Picard let out a small sigh and said, “I should think that you would want to erase my memory, Sela. I am now privy to some extraordinary information. Even though I am of the opinion that you are going to worm hole yourself into another dimension.”

“Ready, willing and able, Picard. I shall heed your advice just as quickly as my mother would have.”

Captain Jean-Luc Picard stared straight into Sela’s eyes.

“I am glad that you chose this opportunity to pick my brain, Young Lady. It gives me the opportunity to share an observation: You are always angry, and you will remain that way for as long as you continue to deny what you are.”

“And what is that?” the woman asked flatly.

“The product of respect.”

Sela was pretty sure she didn’t like where this was going but she felt compelled to hear the captain out.

“Could we please come to the point?”

“Your mother was not an Orion animal woman. Your father did not secure for himself a sexual play thing.”

Without thinking Sela slapped Picard across the face.

Picard took it without flinching and said, “He respected her strength and indomitable spirit; that same strength of will that made it impossible for her to remain on this planet.”

“Her escape plan was idiotic,” declared Sela.

“No, it was a long shot gamble. Very much like building a Borg ship and flying it into a pin prick of space. Good luck with that Dearie.”

Sela then wordlessly signaled for the memory erasing procedure to commence. She was tempted to send the old man back to grade school, but she wanted him totally lucid for when the big surprise finally came; and it would come before the gratitude of the masses could spoil everything.

The Defiant Class space vessel hurled into the Romulan Neutral Zone like a fire arrow launched to reach the top of a massive castle keep. The ship had few decks, but ninety-nine percent of it was built for heavy combat. It’s warp signature would read like a fast but lightly armed scout ship and that would work in the crew’s favor. In the command chair a slightly distrustful Captain turned once again to face that portion of the bridge that was tied into the engineering section. The engineering officer was named Michael Lu, and he was very young for someone in his position. Not exactly skeleton crew material.

Before launching and going to warp, the U.S.S. Goshawk had spent some forty-eight hours preparing to break in a new engine. It’s captain had received only seven of its expected forty-two crewpersons when the dock commander gave the order to launch immediately. It was an unheard of order, but one that was followed with alacrity since the crew was certain it was just some sort of drill. Now they knew the truth of their situation and they were sweating because their powerful but relatively small vessel had been ordered into the Neutral Zone in order to intercept a ship that was moving too fast to be Romulan. In fact there was only one known technology that could account for the speed of the long range sensor bogey: that which belonged to the nightmare like Borg.

“The intermix temperatures just won’t settle down, sir. They keep jumping in and out of tolerance every time we try and match the intruder’s speed,” reported young Lu.

The captain scowled at the still empty viewing screen.

“There will be no engagement unless it is at warp nine point six.”

“Then our only hope is to talk them into slowing down sir,” Lu responded bluntly.

That was an empty hypothetical and the captain knew it. The Borg did not thrive on conversation and thus far they were maintaining a perfect record of simply destroying all picket vessels that were bold enough to confront them. Then suddenly the hated image appeared, and everyone gazed unhappily at what looked like a cube shaped piece of space debris, but was instead a lethally advanced space craft. Only the captain perceived something that might be to their advantage and he quickly brought it to everyone’s attention.

“That vessel features a confining hull within the cube base frame. That is most unusual.”

“That’s not all Captain, I’m reading metal alloys that match up perfectly with what we get when we scan Romulan ships,” stated one of the few crewpersons who was not wet behind the ears.

Lt. Senior Grade Curt Russell was on tactical and Worf would be depending on him heavily.

“Why do you suppose the Borg would assimilate a Romulan hull design? Their metallurgy is inferior to the containment force shields that the Borg normally use.”

“Let us ask them, before they pass us by to pursue bigger fish,” said the Captain. “Hailing frequencies open.”

“Open sir,” responded Russel.

“This is Captain Worf of the U.S.S. Goshawk. Be informed that Captain Jean Luc Picard is once again serving in his original capacity and has shown us how to turn you unnatural creatures off like a light switch. Keep your distance from us if you know what is good for you.”

Then the captain turned back to Russell and said, “Close channel.”

“Sir, the Borg ship is slowing down, but only to warp nine point one,” reported tactical.

“That is all we will need. Helmsman, prepare to ram that ship on my command.”

The recently graduated cadet taking the order was named Benjamin Nelson and he had just turned twenty-one years of age.

“Aye sir,” the young man responded with a growing ice barb in his stomach.

Worf scanned the faces of the crew people around him. The bridge was smaller than what he was accustomed to and having everyone close at hand was an advantage. He was tempted to apologize for what was about to happen. He had been placed in temporary command of the small ship for the express purpose of breaking in an engine. Now just forty-eight hours later he required their deaths.

For him it would be relatively easy. He was a Klingon, and he feared old age far more than he feared passing on. In fact as a veteran of space exploration, he chose to look upon death as just one more unknown to be approached with a clear and inquisitive frame of mind. But there was no way to know for certain what an inexperienced bridge crew would do when the hardest of all orders was given. At least he didn’t have to contend with the question of why so much courage and dedication was needed.

When Starfleet lost most of its capital ships at Wolf 359, there was no way to keep such a calamity from friends and loved ones back on Earth. In fact the only reason the Romulans didn’t take advantage of the situation was because they had no idea where these terrifying Borg monsters might strike next. So the entire citizenry of Earth came to an understanding: The Borg would be stopped by any means necessary. Kamikaze tactics would not be considered extremist. That was fine with Worf, but he secretly regretted that young humans should have to have such a thing forced upon them.

“Interception course plotted and ready to implement,” the helmsman stated thickly.

Worf noted that the young man’s back was now showing sweat stains down the middle.

The Klingon’s face turned to stone and he then sat all the way back in his command chair.

“Execute.”

“What a choice of words,” thought the tactical officer who would have nothing to do but wait for his rear end to get smashed through his brain at multi light speed.

The little ship banked hard to port and flashed in towards it’s target, but halfway there the sensor operator got one hell of a surprise.

“Captain, the target vessel has turned one-hundred and eighty degrees about. I’m not sure we can catch him sir.”

“Engineering, I am not asking for more power, but do everything you can to avoid a power fall off. I wish to keep pace with the target vessel,” Worf said to the man on his left.

Everyone (except Worf) displayed visible signs of relief. Once the captain was reasonably certain that the enemy vessel wasn’t going to suddenly turn and attack, he activated his ship wide intercom that only had to reach three currently manned decks.

“As you all know, the ability to face death is not praised onboard a Klingon vessel. Courage is taken for granted by its commander and even the lowest ranking person on board would be expected to act well in a crisis. Never the less I wish it known that I am very impressed with this temporary crew. The fact that most of you fear death more than a Klingon is to your credit. The greater the fear, the greater the level of courage that is then required. That is why I am honored to serve with humans. Do not be concerned with your lack of experience. I am not concerned. We will continue to do well. Worf out.”

Ten minutes late the tactical officer shook his head and said, “We might have a problem sir. I sent out our status report to Star Base Nineteen and they responded with a request that we confirm our last report. Fact is sir, they’re have trouble believing that we are actually chasing a Borg ship. Maybe they even think that our report is some sort of trick.”

“Ask them if they would like us to send them probe data,” said the Klingon. “Perhaps with a video showing us all waving at the camera.”

The tactical officer stifled a grin and kept his hands off the board.

“I was being facetious,” the captain stated a moment later. “Send the next such inbound message directly to my chair.”

“Aye sir,” responded Russell, who then looked around to see if anyone was grinning.

No one was.

Sub-commander Simbree was very good at taking orders. Most Romulan officers fell into that category but Simbree truly excelled beyond measure. She never asked why a Borg cube ship had been constructed, much less where it had been built or by whom. She spent three months learning the particulars of the vessel and waited very patiently for Special Operative Sela to finally explain what the cube ship would be used for. Naturally that would come after the ship had completed its warp drive tests.

Simbree was understandably impressed with the ship’s speed, but kept conversation with the senior engineers to a minimum. That was another one of her orders. Give the technicians a free hand and don’t bother them until the test flight commences. But there was just one small problem that didn’t fit into Simree’s marching orders. Namely what to do if Starfleet manages to peep into their space with a long range sensor program that is sensitive to high warp signatures.

Sela had to blame herself for that. With so much instability within the Romulan government, Starfleet Command was supposed to ignore the Neutral Zone for a time and give the frontier vessels a bit for privacy. Now Sela had to face the fact that the Federation had been alerted to the presence of a Borg ship in the Neutral Zone. That was the rough equivalent to yelling FIRE! in a crowded theater.

On the other hand, it would take days for the humans to assemble a fleet, and if their scout vessel were to disappear in the meantime, no one would doubt that the Borg was responsible. So the blonde haired Romulan now had a logical reason to snuff out the lives of a few Starfleet personnel. Such work always found her ready, willing and able.

“How far behind you are they?” she asked the electronic image of Simbree.

“They could be within torpedo range in sixteen minutes if we were to reduce speed to warp nine point five,” said the woman on the warbird bridge screen.

“Very good. Maintain your present course. I’ll have Commander Teklar plot a rendezvous that will keep us well away from our own trade routes. Be ready to go to battle stations the moment I’ve beamed aboard.”

The woman on the bridge viewer bowed ever so slightly and disappeared.

“You intend to destroy the Federation craft with the cube ship?” Telklar asked an instant later.

“They are approaching our side of the Neutral Zone. I’ve done all that I can to keep the other warbirds out of this sector but it has shrunk considerably with our new technologies. We must destroy this invader with a minimum of fuss. Besides, it is the perfect opportunity to test our weaponry at a record breaking speed.”

“Yes, but going into battle with a ship that is barely tested for warp travel---“

“Yes, I know it is a gamble Commander, but we are talking about a scout ship, not a starship. Would it be better to learn of some design flaw while in battle with a ship the size of ours?”

“You speak of battle, Ma’am, I am referring specifically to high warp problems. Those concerns can be addressed without going into battle. I suggest you let this ship engage the enemy so that The Cube can be spared the possibility of battle damage.”

“And if you fail to damage the scout ship immediately after de-cloaking, will you be able to go to warp nine point five long enough to run down your mouse? He might even be able to loose a few probes that would report that he was attacked by a warbird, even with you jamming his communications. No, I will supervise The Cube’s performance in combat and if we are fortunate, we will collect a prisoner or two.”

“As you wish,” said the commander, who knew better than to engage his superior in a prolonged debate. “Best speed to The Cube, Helmsman.”

Sela then headed for her guest quarters. With any luck she would be on The Cube for a very long time. Oh yes indeed, a very long time.

Worf had been entertaining a hope. He had been hoping that the inexplicable Borg retreat would provoke a Romulan response and then once again the Romulans and Starfleet could joint forces against a common foe. But when the cube shaped vessel turned about, it became painfully obvious that the fight was going to be one on one. Every heart on the bridge began to pump harder and the captain was once again forced to prepare for a suicide run. But as the Borg was closing the distance between them, the tactical officer brought up something very thought provoking.

“Sir, all communications are being jammed.”

“Odd---they have never bothered to employ such a tactic with a small vessel,” muttered the captain.

“That’s not all sir. The jamming signal appears to be Romulan in make up. Of course its possible that they assimilated a Romulan vessel at some point and gained that portion of their communications technology, but that seems unlikely.”

“Agreed,” responded the captain. “Their primary use for us has always been slave labor. Most of our devices are too primitive to bother with.”

“Ready to ram them on your order sir,” the helmsman piped up.

“Very good, but do not telegraph our intentions Mr. Nelson. Do not implement a collision course until I give the command.”

“Aye sir, and I can only hope to join Starfleet in the next life and make commander the next time around.”

Worf beamed at the young man’s gallows humor and said, “Anything under the rank of admiral would be good. The important thing is to stay on a deep space vessel. Who wants to inventory toilet paper on a star base?”

Everyone grinned at that, and it made the waiting a bit more bearable. Worf’s only concern now that he trusted his crew was that they would be able to take enemy blows while closing to effective ramming range. Could their ablative hull armor stand up long enough to get them that close? The answer drew nearer as beads of sweat collected on frightened young bodies.

Worf’s last thought before the shields were hit was that Picard must have truly hated having non-combatants on board the Enterprise while facing moments like this. Then the bridge vibrated as if a giant was standing on the top of the saucer section with a fifty ton hammer. In truth, it was a most encouraging sensation.

“Is that it?” someone asked incredulously.

“Sir, our shields are only down about sixteen percent,” reported the bridge engineer with a half grin.

“I don’t get it,” muttered Russell, “are they having problems on their end?”

“Helm, shear off to starboard. Now,” the captain ordered.

Nelson had no idea what was happening but he was more than willing to comply. But that happiness only lasted a few seconds, since his captain had but one thing on his mind.

“It is time to utilize our superior maneuverability Mr. Nelson. Loop over the top of our pursuer and drop down beneath him.”

The young man swallowed hard. Not only was he being ordered to do something extremely difficult, he was also being told to grab the tiger by the tail. The ship took another hit but that only brought the shields down to sixty percent. Not waiting for any more encouragement the little spacecraft abruptly performed a roll that was roughly half the size of Worf’s home solar system.

“Ready on tactical,” the captain commanded in his usual baritone- bass.

“Nice thing about a cube is it doesn’t make you feel like a back shooter,” the weapons officer found himself joking.

Worf almost smiled at that. Truly, this crew was shaping up nicely. Now if only his hunch would prove right.

“Quantum torpedoes, all tubes, fire.”

The little ship barked out as much destructive energy as that of a full sized starship. The bridge viewing screen showed energy blossoms rising off of Romulan shields for an instant, then quickly fading into nothingness. Only the tactical officer was treated to something hopeful.

“Sir, I think their rear shield is buckling. I wouldn’t have expected that from a single salvo.”

“Not against Borg shielding, but against Romulan shields, we might hope for as much,” stated the Captain.

“Sir, they’re pulling away from us now. They’ve jumped to warp nine point six.”

“Maintain pursuit, perhaps their engines will be strained.”

“Sir---did you say that cube is using Romulan shield technology?” asked the tactical officer.

“Yes, and for a very good reason: it is in fact a Romulan vessel.”

“Glory halleluiah!” thought everyone on the bridge except the Klingon.

“Captain, at this speed our warp signature is bound to be picked up by other Romulan ships within a few hours. Whoever those guys are up ahead, they would probably like nothing more than to lure us deep into Romulan space where reinforcements would ruin our day.”

That assessment came from the engineer, who was not a regular bridge officer, but he wasn’t a novice either.

“I have no intention of tracking that cube ship all the way to Romulus. I appreciate the fact that my captaincy would work against us if we were to be hailed.”

“Sir, we were told that you’re a hero now, because you helped save Romulus against that Reman dictator.”

“That information has not yet been distributed to the entire Romulan fleet, and it would not surprise me if the Romulans chose to be selective in regard to who they will show their gratitude to.”

Everyone on the bridge understood what their captain was talking about. Romulans hated Klingons. Nothing would change that for a very long time.

“Yes Captain. I didn’t mean to step out of bounds sir,” said the engineer.

“You did not. You are the ranking subordinate on the bridge, and on a ship this size, we employ less protocol than on a starship. Now I want you to make one last attempt to reach warp nine point six. The blows we took from the Romulan torpedoes may have shaken the flux currents into alignment.”

“Don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that sir,” the engineer said in a respectful tone.

“Neither have I, but my adopted father’s great grandfather used to say: Anything mechanical---give it a good bash.”

Everyone on the bridge stifled a chuckle and maintained their stations. The engineer electronically ordered the men below deck to put the peddle to the metal once more, knowing that if it failed, it would be a good time to turn about and head back to friendly stars. At first there was the usual silence, then suddenly the deck plates began to vibrate and a familiar humming sound seemed to grow from all quarters of the bridge. The engineer was both pleased and amused by this, but the tactical and helm officers were mindful of the fact that now their warrior captain would be less inclined to retreat.

“We have achieved warp nine point six, Captain,” the engineer confirmed.

“Very good,” said the captain. “Now let us see if we can encourage them to turn around.”

On the fleeing cube ship, Sela was absolutely livid. The scout ship she thought to destroy had turned out to be a deceptively small but extremely well equipped engine of war. She had agreed to turn about and leave the field to the intruding vessel only because she was confident that it would also reverse course and allow the Romulans to pick the time and place for the next combat. But the insufferably arrogant intruder was charging at high warp speed into the very heart of Romulan space, and the captain of the intruding vessel was none other than Picard’s very own pet Klingon Worf.

It was more than she could bear. It was more than any Romulan could bear.

“I want warp nine point seven,” she growled at the aft tactical viewer.

“The necessary calculations for near maximum intermix are only theoretical,” responded the Empire’s best engineer, Peccan Jhaldak.

“How can they be theoretical if they were given to you by a Borg who actually experienced the results?” the woman asked with a dangerous look.

“We must match the engine’s output with our own unique warp bubble configuration,” the old and very tired engineer explained. “We can start out with 9.61 and gradually work up to your desired goal. But without the benefit of simulator testing, we could slip into a worm hole at any point of acceleration. The logical thing for you to do is call in the warbird for assistance.”

“I will do that when and if we find ourselves incapable of defeating a vessel that is only one percent of our size,”

“Then you mean to turn about and attack,” Simbree said from her place beside the command chair.

“Once we are out of range of their tactical sensors, yes. So we must accelerate beyond their electronic vision, since we do not possess the luxury of a cloaking device.”

With a brief sigh of resignation the gray haired engineer retreated to his console and linked up with his engineering brothers just two decks below the bridge. Most of the ship’s mass had been designed to function outboard, meaning there was no hull to enclose the vast majority of it. Temporary force shields could be activated in order to perform maintenance chores without the need of environmental suits, but most of the time the cube components were exposed to the icy cold of space.

The pressurized core of the cube ship consisted of forty-two decks but half of those levels amounted to little more than a catwalk around the all important warp core. Hundreds of engineers were given separate monitoring responsibilities so that the ship would not be dependent on a computer to asses and respond to any abnormalities that might occur during high warp testing. The engineers had been one big happy family until the blonde came to take command. Not for the first time Sela was doing what she was known for: sacrificing safety to the god of haste.

“We have warp nine point seven,” the acting chief engineer announced after it became so.

“Go to warp nine point eight then,” Sela directed predictably.

“Give me ten minutes to improve the forward curves on the warp bubble. The whole thing is herniating on the downward arch.”

“I will not travel any closer to Romulus at this speed. You have thirty seconds to comply with my order.”

“Must I remind you that you haven’t the authority to force me to act against my better judgment?” asked the old man.

“It is so,” Sela responded with a slight nod.

Then in the blink of an eye her disruptor pistol was in her hand and the muzzle was pointed at the chief engineer.

“On the other hand Jhaldak, if I kill you, I will be forgiven because only cowards find fault with my instructions.”

The old man actually grinned at that. What was any of this to him anyway? His wife and two sons were dead and he wasn’t really looking forward to retirement. So perhaps it truly was a good time to roll the dice and then wait to see if the blonde would die as well as the dock workers who had been forced to construct the cube under unsafe conditions.

“Configuring flow rate for warp nine point eight,” he said in a slightly mocking tone.

Sela’s expression remained neutral as the first two minutes of the experiment ticked by. Then slowly that well known look of confidence returned to her face. With everything apparently functioning normally the woman smiled at the helm officer and commanded him to bring the ship about.

“Sub-commander Simbree, I want you manning the tactical station. I’m all done underestimating our opponent.”

Simbree would have been flattered if not for the fact that the enemy commander was a thick skulled Klingon. The only thing that really mattered was that now she was the First Officer on the fastest ship in the Romulan Fleet. (Even though it didn’t officially exist.)

“The added speed should have an interesting effect on our weaponry,” clucked Sela. “Like throwing a stone from a fast moving hover vehicle.”

Jhaldak ignored the woman and focused on an engineering anomaly the likes of which he had never seen before. A strange inexplicable pressure was mounting on the warp bubble and the engineer could not account for its source.

“Optimum weapons range in two minutes at this speed,” stated the officer manning the sensor station.

“Disruptors at full power---but I have a red light on the quantum particle scale.” Simbree reported.

“I can explain that,” said Jhaldak, “pressure is building on the exterior of our warp bubble.”

“Then why haven’t we received word from one of your worker bees down below?” asked Sela.

“Because their job is to focus on the Borg warp core design, not concern themselves with what is going on outside the ship.”

“Well, we shall sort the whole thing out after we’ve pulverized the enemy. Prepare to fire on my order.”

“That may not be possible,” said the engineer.

Sela was about to accuse the engineer of displaying unwarranted pessimism when suddenly the stars on the viewing screen were replaced by a kaleidoscope image that was similar to a wormhole tunnel except there was no corresponding light-sound phenomenon taking place within the ship.

“Are the controls locked?” Sela asked, while fully expecting the answer to be yes.

“Negative. We can reduce speed at any time,” responded the engineer.

“Alright, damn it, take us out of warp!” Sela snarled at this latest setback.

The stars obediently returned and Sela immediately ordered a tactical sweep of the area behind them.

“No sign of the Federation vessel,” reported the sensor operator.

Sela and Simbree exchanged puzzled glances. Even at warp nine point eight, they should have remained within sensor range after such a short run.

“Perhaps they have a cloaking device,” ventured the engineer.

“That is not their way,” the blonde haired woman said flatly. “Besides, how does such a small vessel carry such heavy weaponry and still have room for cloaking technology? No, I am inclined to think that our sensors are in disarray.”

After a moment the helm officer nodded slightly and said, “Yes, Commander, our instrumentation is not to be trusted. My navigational readings are faulty in the extreme. They indicate that we are now in the Werelarian system, which is clearly impossible.”

“Not necessarily,” put in the first officer. “The phenomenon we just experienced may very well have placed us in a different sector. It was not a worm hole as we understand such things, but it very well may have taken us for a ride.”

“I favor the theory that our instrumentation is malfunctioning,” said Jhaldak. “Even our chronometers are messed up.”

“Long range sensors are also providing us with false data,” said the science officer. “The Wollarian system should be showing a string of DHT solar projectors and that is one more thing that alludes us.”

Sela wasn’t really the most imaginative person in the Romulan Empire, but that day her imagination made up for what she had been lacking in patience.

“A temporal vortex. That could explain everything.”

Jhaldak quietly sat himself down and reviewed all the engineering date for the last few minutes. Sela left him alone while helping herself to the communications console. Placing a private listening receiver in one ear, she began to monitor the most active frequencies used by the Empire. Simbree placed herself closer to the com station but willed herself not to ask the question that was on everyone’s mind. After twenty agonizing minutes Sela removed the ear piece and stared at the nearest bulkhead in numbed wonder.

“Yes, I believe we actually did it,” the engineer finally stated.

“I have confirmation,” Sela said evenly. “There is nothing out there but subspace chatter. I made out references to technologies used approximately five-hundred years ago.”

“Perhaps you are merely hearing a radio signal that was transmitted long ago and has only reached this area now,” speculated the science officer.

Sela didn’t think much of that theory but nothing could be ruled out at this point in time.

“Sela opened the appropriate hailing frequencies and said, “Warbird Janseen, are you receiving. This is Sela, authorizing you to break communications silence and respond.”

“When were those DHT projectors strung out around Werelaria?” asked the engineer.

The science officer had to consult with his computer but that didn’t take very long.

“Eighty-three years ago.”

“So---apparently we’ve gone back in time, somewhere between eighty and five-hundred years,” Sela mused. “Can’t you calculate the year by the position of the stars?”

“If you’re willing to trust what the computer is telling us,” answered the science officer.

“I’m going to pay heed to it until we reach Wollaria at least.”

“Why go there, Commander?” asked Simbree.

“We started to mechanize that planet one-hundred and twenty years ago. If we find nothing from Romulus on the surface of that world, we’ll know for certain that we have gone back in time. If that is the case, we will still be bound to serve the Empire while marooned in the past. I propose that we then acquire something that is in abundance on Werelaria.”

“Precious stones? Why will we need that?” queried the science officer.

“Because in the past, most cultures throughout the known galaxy valued precious stones.”

“Commander Sela, if you have point to make, I do wish you would get to it,” Jhaldak said with a minimum of respect.

“We’re going to mine a supply of gems and then we’re going to Earth where we will buy ourselves a few key government officials,” explained the blonde haired woman. “Then we may be able to alter their future to our advantage.”

“But---if we truly have gone back in time, wouldn’t it be easier to just conquer the planet?” asked Simbree.

“And then what, Sub-commander? Would you like to become a mother and then assign your offspring to guard against our worst possible fear?”

The woman turned a slightly darker shade of green.

“Forgive me Commander, but I do not understand.”

“If we were to conquer the Earth, we would make them understand that there are other worlds out in space. We would unit them centuries early, and fill them with a resolve to be like us. How would we discourage that, Sub-commander? I tell all of you that we would have to obliterate all human life on the planet. Is that how you would repay Picard for what he did just a while ago?”

“I am surprised that you would even bring up the subject,” said Jhaldak.

“Do not be. I am not a monster, even though I seem like one to people who come against the Empire.”

“Yet I am certain that the sub-commander is wondering what you would do with these Earth governments of the past,” said Jhaldak. “How would a covert program of large scale bribery benefit the Romulan Empire in the future?”

“As you all know, the Empire’s Public Information Service contains very little knowledge of Earth history. I on the other hand have collected a great deal of information through sources that would no longer be of interest to any of you since we are now stuck in the past. The only thing that matters is that I carry the data chips with me wherever I go, so that I can study them on my free time. My plan is to hire local Earth bureaucrats to track down families of key historical figures. Specifically, the ancestors of men and women who made significant contributions to early space exploration programs.”

“But having them killed would not guarantee success,” the old man pointed out.

“We may have to kill a few of them, but we could also look into the possibility of sterilization. In any case, I plan to devote at least a year to this project. Then we can indulge ourselves in a bit of exploring. I always wondered what that would be like.”

“Do I have your permission to go down to the main engineering deck and talk this all out with my people face to face?” asked Jhaldak.

“You do. By the way, how much food do we have onboard?”

“About a three week supply.”

“Then we’ll have to load up on our favorite vegetables before leaving home space,” Sela reasoned. “I have no intention of subsisting on fried chicken.”

Half the bridge crew silently wondered what chicken was and the other half pondered the possible meaning of fried.

Worf’s newfound optimism was vanishing before his eyes. When he realized that the Borg cube was actually a Romulan construct, he concluded that his ship had a real chance to prevail against the mysterious beings who wished him harm. But when the image of a temporal vortex expanded out from the cube, he just barely had enough courage to act on the horrible assumption that the Romulans had acquired the dreaded science of time travel.

“What’s happening?” asked Lu.

Worf ignored him and barked, “Helm proceed into that anomaly.”

With his heart in his stomach young Nelson complied and took their little vessel through the portal even as it was closing around them. Russell had the cube solidly fixed on his tactical monitor and primed all weapons for the order to fire. The order never came, and more surprisingly, the target winked off the bridge viewer at precisely the same instant it disappeared from Russell’s tactical viewer.

“Sir—“

“Do not alter course,” ordered Worf.

“Begging your pardon Captain, but navigation is an immediate concern,” stated Nelson. “According to my star display, we’re now in an entirely different sector.”

“Within Romulan space?”

“I think so sir. Star references on this side of the Neutral Zone are a bit sketchy.”

“Any sign of the cube Mr. Russel?”

“Negative sir, and I don’t believe they pulled that disappearing act with their warp drive.”

“You are quite correct. I believe we have passed through a temporal vortex, but unlike my previous encounter with that phenomenon, on this occasion we became separated from the vessel we were pursuing. Perhaps because the Romulan made vortex was imperfect in some way.”

“Sir, I’m not getting any reception from communications. Absolutely nothing,” Russell then added.

“We have gone back in time,” the captain stated evenly. “I believe the enemy will attack Earth since it would be highly vulnerable in a past time period. We shall proceed there immediately.”

The engineering officer had remain largely silent, but now it was time for him to throw in his two cents worth.

“Captain---if we’ve gone back in time more than one-hundred and fifty years, we will need to set sail for Mullana. That is the closest M class planet that would be friendly, and technologically advanced enough to help us build replacement parts.”

“I understand that, Mr. Lu. Mullana is one of the few Federation members that could boast a thousand year history of space age technology and advanced political thinking. But we must not get ahead of ourselves. First we must make certain that all is well with the Sol System. We must defend it here, just as staunchly as we would defend it in our own time period.”

“Until we’re old and gray?” asked Russell.

“No. Until we can find the cube ship and reduce it to dust,” answered the Klingon.

Sela listened attentively as one of the lower ranking engineers did his best to function in the capacity of a science officer. They had been circling the planet Werelaria for three hours now and Sela was anxious to get the mining operation under way. But acting science officer Dremin had respectfully requested time to have several scouting parties beam down to the planet’s surface and run some tricorder tests to make certain that the uninhabited world would be safe for the stone collectors.

His reason for caution seemed reasonable, even to the perpetually impatient Sela. No one on board had ever been given cause to want to delve into the secrets of the planet beneath them, but they had all learned back at the Romulan academy that Werelaria had been placed under permanent quarantine several centuries ago. Since the Romulans possessed the technology to manufacture artificial gem stones, the loss of Werelaria as a mining colony was deemed insignificant---until now.

The Empire would not have kept up a quarantine all these years unless something was still amiss, and it was only logical to search for possible dangers before bringing down crew and equipment.

“So you’ve found nothing of a harmful nature in the soil or air,” Sela put in after listening to the latest report.

“No Ma’am. We have discovered the reason for the quarantine however. Every water sample we’ve tested so far is infested with Doxim Anthron plague. Ma’am, Centurion Malock does not believe we can mine more than a handful of stones before the next rain, and it tends to rain here almost every day.”

Sela rolled her eyes at the man’s lack of resourcefulness.

“We have environmental suits. Distribute them among the men and women who will be doing the digging and scanning.”

“Yes Ma’am,” the man responded with all the enthusiasm of a condemned criminal on his way to execution.

Simbree overheard and approached her superior as the engineer left the bridge.

“Excuse me Commander, I confess that I have little knowledge of the disease that was just mentioned. Why did that engineer not immediately conclude that the workers would be wearing environmental gear?”

“Because the engineer knows that we lack proper decontamination facilities on the cube. Oh we can neutralize any form of harmful radiation of course. But biological threats are another matter. The cube wasn’t built to take us on away missions. It was designed to out run enemy ships and therefor gain a tactical upper hand.”

“So we require a decontamination protocol for the suits. I would recommend the robotic arms used on deck seventeen. With those you could strip crewpersons of their suits and then vaporize them with hand disruptors,” the sub-commander recommended.

“Yes, but that means no rest breaks for the diggers. They must work fully suited until they can work no more. For that reason every digger must be well rested and fed before beaming down to commence work. Above all else, the stones must be kept dry. Make certain that the dig sites are domed by force shields and the stones should be well packaged.”

“Yes Commander. Will the disruptor drills be left on the planet after the digging is completed?”

“Yes, we probably won’t have any further need for them. Certainly no need that would justify a risk of contamination.”

“And should the diggers be isolated from the rest of the crew after returning to the ship?” inquired Simbree.

“Only the ones that accidentally come in contact with any water. Hopefully there won’t be any but if there are have them stationed on deck twenty-four. There are no vital systems on that deck so if any of the crew were to go berserk, it would not compromise the safety of the ship.”

“Berserk Commander? Is that what happens to someone who is infected with the disease?”

“Yes. They go mad and behave like animals. I’ve been told that some physical changes also take place but that is irrelevant. The subject develops a ravenous appetite but no matter how much meat it consumes the body remains hungry and tends to burn itself up in a few months.”

“Meat?” Simbree queried with a puzzled expression.

“Meat,” confirmed Sela before heading for her quarters.

“Must be like turning into a Klingon,” Simbree thought to herself.

Perpetual darkness gave way to light for the first time in the cavern’s history. It was the third site selected for mining and the best because its interior was sheltered from the rain. Bat droppings that were now hundreds of years old and the skeletal remains of insects were the only evidence that living things once dwelled in this region of Werelaria. Outside the caverns the frequent rains and wind had created a landscape that would forever appear virginal. The planet belonged to those plants that would spread their seeds on the wind or float them on waterways.

Tomalay the engineering assistant couldn’t have cared less. He and his comrades were gripped by a terrible reality that was theirs to endure for the rest of their lives. They would never see their homes again. They were now self imposed outcasts who would someday sail their Borg like cube ship to a distant planet and remain there for the rest of their days. One in four of the crew were female so a permanent colony might someday be established, but first they had to follow through with Sela’s plan for Earth.

Most of the engineers felt that it was hair brained. Better to melt the polar ice caps and trust that a few humans would be smart enough to construct an ark that would carry them to higher ground. Then something suddenly occurred to the engineer. It really wouldn’t be necessary for them to live out their lives in such a small group. They could construct a transport. A space ark that could carry several thousand Romulans who might be dreaming of a better existence than the one they are experiencing in this time period.

Tomalay was looking forward to finding out exactly what year they were now in. The time period would have a profound effect on their ability to gather construction materials and assistance with labor. Naturally they would have to bypass the current government. One could easily imagine what the current ruling class would want to do with the cube ship if they thought they could bring it under their control.

That meant that as of now, Sela was their permanent leader; unless enough of them could unit together and decide otherwise. Tomalay couldn’t easily picture that happening. Engineers weren’t psychologically prepared to wrest power out of the hands of people like Sela. Most engineers were like worker bees, and they were resigned to that. Tomalay was also resigned to the fact that he had to wear his uncomfortable environmental. But he would be alone in this cave for a few moments yet, where the dangerous rainwater could not touch him. His nose was itching and he made up his mind that he was going to scratch it. So it was that the first Romulan came in contact with a microbe that had been both everlasting and able to colonize on the mossy rock that the engineer had rubbed against while entering the cave.

Others joined Tomalay shortly and nine hours later they all left the cave with a bag full of stones. Sixteen hours after that all the mining efforts ceased and everyone beamed back to the cube ship to carefully dispose of their environmental suits. Yes, the utmost care was taken in the handling of the protective garments, and they were vaporized and the resulting fumes were vented out into space. Tomalay had nothing to do with that. He was sent back to his warp core station. There he would share tools and electronic note books. Because the ship had been designed to be worked manually instead of with computers, the heavily populated engineering section was quick to inherit and pass on a calamity born of a simple nose itch. The first symptoms would not appear for days, and in the meantime the unsuspecting plague ship sailed toward a blue planet inhabited by beings who thought they were alone in the universe.

1830 A.D. was an easy time for Earthlings to think that way.

Worf sat in his usual chair in the room that doubled as a conference room and cafeteria. The arrangement was fairly logical since most crewpersons enjoyed sipping on a drink while conversing, and very often the meals were taken likewise. Half the crew was now in the room, but only a fraction of them were seated.

“What is the Earth year that we are dealing with Mr. Russell?”

“All reliable indications are that the year is 1832,” replied the officer who had been assigned the temporary position of Ship’s Historian, since the ship wouldn’t need a tactical officer for quite some time.

“And what was the most significant historical occurrence that took place during that year?”

Russell shrugged and said, “Depends on what part of the planet we’re talking about sir. They had so many different countries back then.”

“Very well, let us start with The United States of America then.”

“Well, Andrew Jackson was president. I mean, he is president---“

“Did he not fight duels and receive honorable wounds in combat?” asked the Klingon.

“Uh—yes sir. He was shot three times by primitive muzzle loading firearms.”

“Ha! That is a fine indication of why America was a great country,” boomed the Klingon, “no soft gutted royalty for those people!”

“Uh—I guess you could look at it that way sir. On the other hand, the politics of those days were not—“

“Never mind Mr. Russell. What great events were taking place back then?”

“Not much sir. Their government was small and weak back then. On the international scene, you could say that they weren’t very important yet.”

“What country possessed the most power at that time?” asked Worf.

“I guess I’d have to say England sir. Why do you ask?”

The Klingon was reluctant to answer for a moment, but quickly concluded that an informed crew was a prepared crew.

“What I am about to tell you was regarded as classified back in our own time period. Now I believe I must judge it to be pertinent data regarding our current situation.”

Worf was glad that he was in a position of absolute trust with the humans around him, because what he was about to say would be difficult to believe under other circumstances.

“The fact is, the Enterprise once pursued a Borg ship through a temporal rift and went back in time to the year 2063.”

“My God,” breathed Engineer Lu, “the year Zefram Cochrane launched his warp ship.”

“Precisely so. The Borg ship was little more than a shuttle craft by their standards. With it they could not hope to assimilate the Earth, but their plan was to merely destroy Cochrane’s rocket launch facilities. Regrettably, the Enterprise then became a target of opportunity for them. We lost many good people that day, but thankfully we prevailed in the end.”

“But---if the Borg have the ability to time travel, why haven’t they used it before now?” asked Nelson.

“That question has never been satisfactorily answered. I suspect that the answer was destroyed along with the queen bee of the hive mind.”

“Didn’t we just chase the answer through a phenomenon that has always been theoretical to everyone present? ” asked a woman named Nu Rohanna.

“I don’t believe so,” responded the captain. “I am still convinced that we are dealing with Romulans who somehow acquired Borg technology. The rift that we all passed through was probably the result of an accident, or perhaps an act of desperation. In any case, if I were the Romulan commander, I would be very interested in a 19^th Century Earth.”

“Well, they can’t do anything with us standing guard over the planet,” said Russell.

“You do not understand, Mr. Russell. The time rift could have given the Romulans a head start of hours, days or even months. They could have placed away teams on the surface and taken their ship out of sensor range by now. We are dealing with many unknown factors here.”

The great schism had created a bit of a problem for Romulan archeologists. How does one study the past when it is the exclusive property of the enemy? Each generation had its share of intellectuals who petitioned the Praetor to initiate a cultural exchange program with the planet Vulcan. The answer was always no. Then the plague appeared in the Sutron-Kefic sector, and nowhere did it flourish as well as on Werelaria. There the nightmare engulfed entire colonies in a matter of weeks.

Since the plague didn’t originate on that world, nor on Romulus, it was presumed that a trespassing alien vessel had carried the pestilence past the patrolling warbirds and spread havoc on non-Romulan worlds as well. This was not the case. Only Romulans were affected. Only Romulans would become irritable, then suffer memory loss and finally undergo a physical exterior transformation in the form of excess hair growth and an alteration of muscle and bone configuration.

Only one Romulan scientist theorized that the transformation was in fact an evolutionary regression brought about by a latent intron intrusion. His conclusions were given serious consideration some eighty years after his death. In the meantime one planet was placed under permanent quarantine and several ships were destroyed over a period of one and a half centuries. The Romulan Empire thus lived quite comfortably with its unsolved mystery by simply staying away from what actually a fascinating biological phenomenon.

Fascinating, when viewed from a position of comparative safety.

The least safe location was cargo compartment C, which had been strung with cargo netting material which could double as improvised hammocks. Twenty engineers were currently sleeping on them and that included Tomalay. His workmates had noticed a change in his demeanor and since he had been part of the mining effort it was only logical that he should warrant additional scrutiny. But the poorly informed workmates had assumed all along that if one of the away team people were to come down with something, they would share any symptoms with their fellows. That proved not to be the case.

The first symptom was in fact psychological; a sudden and irrational choice to keep secret what was happening. Since the sonic showers were not yet operational, Tomalay’s uniform masked the first of the physical symptoms; a mutation that accelerated when his body was at rest. So it was that just an hour before the normal waking, Tomalay’s shipmates were roused to face a short and bloody day.

The nightmare in uniform was actually the first to receive a shock. It would not pause to reflect on what a normal wake up was like, it only knew that being in the company of strange creatures was not at all to its liking. Devoid of actual reasoning the anthological throwback grabbed hold of the nearest throat and deftly tore out a chunk of emerald flesh. Only after that did the creature realized that it was surrounded by many additional creatures and that he was trapped within their lair.

The creature was dumbfounded by his inability to find a way out. There was only one unoccupied corner in the manmade cave and the creature bolted for it; only needing to slash a single enemy that blundered into his path. The long powerful nails had grown in less than three hours and they were so sharp that the creature’s second victim didn’t even realize that half his cheek was hanging down until someone told him.

“It’s Tomalay,” one of the engineers breathed in awe.

“It was Tomalay,” corrected another.

Chief Engineer Trasone cursed the fact that he had not been allowed a sidearm as part of the top secret construction project. He also cursed the fact that the creature was only one meter away from the exit. The two beings locked eyes and it caused Trasone to shudder just a tad. Where the hell did all the facial hair come from? Then there was the matter of the deformed nose and the toothy grimace. Tomalay also seemed to be permanently stooped over slightly but that wasn’t compromising his ability to commit murder.

“Bridge, we’re being attacked by a mutant. Get someone down here with a disruptor.”

The C.E. waited a moment and then said, “bridge, do you copy?”

There was no response, and the creature responded to the call by exhibiting a bit more teeth.

“Try talking to him,” suggested an idiot.

Trasone knew the creature wouldn’t stand there making faces forever. So something needed to be done before the crew became all unnerved.

“Alright, here is the plan: everyone follows me in kicking. Our boots are our only protection. Satche, your only job is to slip past and get to a disruptor.”

“Because I’m a woman, is that not so?” pouted the young female.

“And skinny as a bean pole,” commented a third party who had participated in similar exchanges in the past.

“Everyone!” bellowed the leader while launching himself at the ready nightmare.

Trasone was no martial artist but then neither was the creature. The toe of the boot caught the befuddled mutant squarely under the chin and the hairy head snapped back. A crewman advanced on Trasone’s right and swung a second kick in that connected with the creature’s groin. That might have been a mistake. The first kick seemed to stun the mutant, but the second blow brought forth a bellow of primal ferocity. The creature charged into the second kicker and raked the man’s face causing an eyeball to be totally ruined.

The man’s scream galvanized the remaining men into action. Forgetting their instructions to only kick, they all rushed in at once and piled onto the mutant. Satche obeyed orders and slipped past the huddled tangle of arms and torsos. Once safely beyond the now open doorway she paused to look back and was then tempted to remain since the monster seemed to be on the losing end of things. But suddenly the creature noted the escape route that had appeared out of nowhere.

From a prominent place on the pile of engineers Trasone saw the blunder, and suspected that the creature had not yet demonstrated a maximum martial effort.

“Satche, get the hell off this deck!” the CE bellowed.

The woman suddenly realized she needed to get out of range of the door sensor and took two steps backward. But by that time a liberal use of claw and tooth had enabled the creature to shed his cloak of wrestlers and make a desperate lunge for the door. Each man had thus far been bloodied, but half of them held on to a deformed wrist or ankle. With a frustrated snarl the creature liberated himself completely. Trasone let go of an ankle when his head was completely twisted off.

Satche entered the turbo lift door and spun around to see the mutant sprinting towards her while the door took its bloody sweet time closing. The woman’s eyes turned upward in relief as the door locked with a magnetic click. But a second later Satche almost jumped out if her skin as the door emitted a resounding boom. The woman could easily envision the monster glaring with impotent rage at the outer door. Would he still be standing there when she returned with reinforcements and a weapon in her hand? She hoped so. It would feet good to burn the creature down with a press of a button.

When the door reopened she was too excited to notice immediately that no one was at the helm station. She had to get all the way out of the lift before she could get sight of the prone figures that were soaked in emerald. Only one was moving, but not for very long. Sub-commander Simbree was missing an arm and an ear, but most importantly she was missing her sidearm. Apparently she had been attacked from behind before she could bring the weapon to bear. After fairly painting the bridge green, the creature then must have blundered off in the direction of the artificial gravity generator.

That was not good. Artificial gravity was totally automated and there was nowhere to go from there except back toward the bridge. Worse yet was the knowledge that there were at least two monsters on the loose, and now just about everyone was either dead or infected with a plague that would not quit. The female engineer didn’t even attempt to communicate with Simbree, who was trying to sit up but was having trouble with that.

Satche felt reborn when she found the disruptor pistol and placed it into her hand.

“Full power---starting with me,” Simbree croaked out.

“First the mutants,” Satche responded with eyes downcast.

“You’ve never killed. You---must not---hesitate. Practice on me.”

Satche was appalled by the other woman’s logic, but it did make sense. She would have to hunt through the entire pressurized portion of the ship. If a mutant should attempt to jump her, she would have to be able to kill without compunction. That would be easy in the case of Tomalay, who obviously had been negligent and then reluctant to own up to his mistake. But so many of her comrades would invoke pity while still retaining the last of their Romulan attributes.

Satche leveled the disruptor at the woman on the floor put hesitated until the muzzle of the weapon began to wave around slightly.

“Come closer---and do not pause,” the sub-commander almost growled.

Satche took three steps closer and then let out a heavy sigh before raising the weapon a second time. An instant later a thin beam of light connected with Simbree’s chest and she became aglow with destructive energy. She seemed to convulse for just an instant, but made no sound as a rapidly growing white light engulfed her. Satche’s chest was now heaving and her hair was plastered against her forehead with sweat. She felt slightly nauseous but she was also mindful of the fact that Simbree had helped place them in a situation that made living just barely tolerable.

Sela immediately came to mind, and the engineer knew where she would be heading right after her second kill. Satche stepped around the spot where her victim had been sitting and made her way out of the control room and into a short corridor that only featured two open doorways. One was for a supply room and the other housed the gravitational generator. Problem: To enter one would mean turning her back on the other. Satche stared at the two openings and sensed a malicious presence. She applied her engineering mind to the problem and reached a most sensible conclusion. The walls were not meant to protect anything. A stronger Romulan might even be able to punch a fist through the material.

Pointing her weapon at the supply room wall she fired a long sweeping burst that left a smoldering gash in the building material. It was a pity that she couldn’t deal with every threatening chamber that way, but there were just too many vital systems that needed to be kept intact. Besides, it would require about sixty power packs, and she didn’t even know where the spares were kept. With a dry throat and wet palms she inched her way across the threshold, paying extra close attention to the inside wall where a monster could be ready to pounce.

The chamber almost mocked her with its emptiness. The woman paused just inside the room and gazed at the twelve foot high power chamber that took up the entire back width of the room. There was no where for a monster to hide. The room was truly empty. That meant that her quarry must have been in the supply room where a burst of disruptor fire would have cut the creature in half.

Satche turned to exit the room when a non-mechanical sound reached her ears that didn’t quite match the movement of her boots. The AG power chamber possessed sides that were as smooth as the three walls that neighbored it. Nothing could scale its twelve foot height without assistance. But it was only logical to look up anyway, and when she did she beheld the nightmare image of a blood covered mutant as it descended from its loft.

Satche fired too soon and too low but it was a lengthy stream of energy born of desperation. The mutant fell right into the beam and was deftly cut in half as the right and left portions incinerated into nothingness. With her chest heaving Satche returned to the control room and activated the nearest intercom.

“Bridge to Commander Sela.”

“Sela here.”

“Commander, are you in your quarters?”

“Yes, is there a problem?”

The engineer almost raved at the question. But her training quickly brought her under control and she said, “The bridge crew has been killed. A mutated crewman did it. I was able to destroy him but there is at least one more, and many of our comrades are now infected.”

“Go to the engineering console and flood all decks with trakkon gas. Give me just ten seconds to reach the nearest turbo-lift.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The warp drive engineer needed more than ten seconds to find the intruder control system so Sela entered the lift with time to spare. When she reached the control room she ignored the emerald gore that had to be stepped over in order to get to the internal sensor station.

“Watch where you point your weapon,” she instructed before turning her full attention to the instrument board.

“Ma’am, it is my duty to report that I vaporized Sub-Commander Simbree,” the engineer said in a cracking voice. “She told me to do it, Ma’am.”

“She was infected?”

Satche nodded silently.

“Then you acted correctly. Were you summoned to the bridge?

“No Ma’am. Engineer Tomalay mutated and chased me here. We weren’t able to reach anyone with the intercom and we were in dire need of a disruptor.”

“There are only three,” responded Sela as she then made her way to the helm station. “Security Chief Malcor is armed with the third. We will revive him as soon as I get the helm programed to take us to Earth.”

“But---would it not make more sense to return to our home world, Ma’am? Three people can easily bring the ship out of warp. But you will never get back into warp with so few people to monitor and adjust the intermix injectors. The ship was designed to be worked manually because the project leaders were afraid that too much computer control---“

“I know all about that,” Sela interrupted.

The young engineer cast her eyes to the deck and waited for whatever would come next.

“Satche, isn’t it?”

The subordinate suddenly realized that she had neglected to identify herself.

“Yes Ma’am. Sorry Ma’am.”

“The reality that we are now faced with, Satche, is that this has become a plague ship. It would be irresponsible of us to take this ship home. Furthermore, our duty to change the course of Earth history to our advantage still lies before us. We must attempt it, Engineer, even if the lack of automation leads to our downfall.”

“Then I must return to the warp core immediately, Commander. The odds of this ship getting all the way to Earth without making a single adjustment are astronomical, even at warp nine point six.”

“Yes. I will vent the deck that Malcor is on and when he comes to I will direct him to gather any symptom free people to assist you with the core. I’m going to have to seal off the bridge and man it alone from now on. Remain vigilant for any signs of another mutation. If you see any, order the crewperson to confinement on deck twenty-four. Shoot anyone who refuses to comply.”

Satche was nearly overwhelmed by the enormity of what was happening.

“Ma’am---is there nowhere in the known galaxy where we might find a cure for the disease?”

“Most likely there is, Engineer. But we won’t be looking for it. We’ll have to ditch the ship into their Pacific Ocean sooner or later---then hopefully retire to a realm known as Merry Old England.”

Satche had no idea what that place would be like. She was just hoping that someday, she’d be able to feel merry about something. But it didn’t seem likely.

To the wool swathed natives, the pair of foreigners looked pretty strange in their gaudy embroidered silk robes and bird wing like head gear. But in fact if any Chinese had been present on that rainy London street, they would have been gawking with even more bewilderment. That is because the two alleged Chinese were in fact 24^th Century space travelers who possessed a limited knowledge of the culture they were attempting to imitate. Even Michael Lu felt very uncomfortable in his floor length gown like get up.

In another place and time, some of Worf’s closer friends might have dared to chuckle at the sight of the Klingon with his hands folded inside his huge drooping arm sleeves. But that didn’t apply to any present observers. It didn’t matter if you were an honest street vendor or a would be pick pocket, one scowl from the Klingon and fellow pedestrians would back away from the Yellow Heathen, who really didn’t look very yellow.

“This is the place,” Lu announced with his winged hat threatening to push his earlobes down. “One three four South Meard Street. Now remember sir, let me do the talking.”

“I shall remember. But if I needed to pretend to speak the Chinese language, more than likely a bit of Klingon would bring the same result.”

“Probably,” agreed Lu, “but you do look more like a bodyguard than a big time merchant, so I’ll handle the introductions and you can just stand there and look tough.”

The Klingon’s eyes flashed with disapproval for an instant, then resumed a look of compliance. The two entered the finest brownstone on the block where a thin bespectacled man sat at a desk that was half covered with spilt ink.

“Can I of assistance you---gentlemen?”

“We represent the trade office of the Daoguang Emperor. I am Emissary Chen Lu, here to speak with someone who possesses the authority to contract with my humble self.”

The Englishman peered over the top of his glasses and asked, “And who is this other gentleman?”

“That, is a bodyguard,” Lu explained in a pompous tone. “May I have your name sir?”

“Potter---Alfred Potter; personal secretary to Jonathon Marley.”

“He is the chief recorder of legislative acts in your Parliament is he not?” inquired Lu.

“Well—um, you could put it that way.”

“I should like to speak with him at his earliest convenience.”

“I’m afraid he won’t be returning to the office until the day after tomorrow. But perhaps I can help you. I am empowered to act in Mr. Marley’s place while he is away.”

“Well I don’t know…” the Asian said in a tone of honest uncertainty. “As I’m sure you are aware, my homeland is made up of a number of political factions. We are expecting a competing faction to approach the leaders of your war department for the purpose of convincing them that they should relocate their military forces in the Nanjing area. We would pay handsomely for a report on such a dialogue.”

The secretary chuckled nervously at the proposition and said, “I’m afraid Mr. Marley would interpret that as a breach of ethics.”

“Sadly I must concur,” the Asian responded with a slight bow, “but my superior insisted that I attempt to enlist your help by any means necessary. However, it would benefit us if we could at least know when other Asian emissaries are presenting themselves to the high Lords of your government. I was instructed to convince you of our sincerity, even if the mentioning of a reward could be misinterpreted as a form of insult.”

With that the Asian took out a piece of silk cloth and opened in on the secretary’s desk. Nestled on the cloth were four diamonds of respectable size. The clerk’s expression grew intense and the Star Fleet officer could see the wheels turning in the bureaucrat’s head.

“Er---Mr. Marely comes from a wealthy family and might not fully appreciate your—sincerity. I on the other hand am always made aware of every item that comes to his attention. I would be willing to function in his stead, provided that this could be done discreetly.”

The Asian removed one of the stones and placed it closer to the clerk. The other three were rewrapped and went back into his pocket.

“These emissaries might not appear in Asian garb, but they will appear peculiar in subtle ways. When they make themselves known to you, please burn a pot of kerosene on the roof of this building the following midnight. I will then come for your report within the hour, and hand over the remaining stones.”

Then after a slight pause the Asian added, “Also, we would appreciate news of any---highly peculiar occurrences that might be reported to any of your foreign offices.”

“Can you be more specific?” queried the Englishman.

“Sadly no. Perhaps outlandish stories of happenings that appear almost supernatural. Things that make no sense but were brought to your attention by British citizens abroad”

“Your requests are---most irregular,” muttered the now perplexed Englishman, “but I’m your man---rest assured.”

“You may not hear from me for a number of weeks, but if you ignite a fire on the roof, day or night, you will receive a response within the hour,” pledged the Asian.

With that the foreigners bowed and left the building to discover that it was now raining.

“I knew I should have beamed down to the other side of the planet and picked up a couple of parasols,” muttered Lu.

“Does this country not have umbrellas?” asked Work.

“Well, in the not so distant future, most English gentlemen will be carrying one. But the Chinese parasol is far more decorative. Usually constructed with brightly painted birds or flowers on them.”

“I believe I would prefer to get wet,” responded the Klingon.

“Yes sir. I suppose it doesn’t matter much since we’ll be beaming back up shortly. But I’m curious why you think the Romulans will attempt to manipulate the government of Great Britain. After all, it was the United States and the Soviet Union that competed for control of orbital space. Why are you certain that Sela will choose this government to infiltrate?”

“Captain Picard once commented that she had expressed her admiration for this Island country. After all, it is at this point in time demonstrating a very high degree of audacity; a characteristic that Sela admires.”

“What you’re saying sir is that this small country has now long established key economic foot holds on every continent. With the use of gunboat diplomacy it utilizes the resources of low technology cultures all over the planet.”

“That is an understatement. They do not possess mere footholds. Their warriors march anywhere there is an insurrection to be put down. They exercise total control over the domains that have been taken from former rivals. It is logical I think, that Sela will draw upon to vast resources of 19^th Century Britain, in order to alter Earth’s historic time line. How she will do this I cannot imagine, but it is my hope that she will flee the planet when she discovers that we have eyes and ears within this nation’s government.”

“You know sir, there is also the possibility that if the Romulans can’t get what they want through political means, they might fall back on their time honored methods. One small anti-matter blast at the North Pole and these British folks could become Eskimos.”

The big Klingon heaved a thoughtful sigh and then glared at a passerby while the rain continued to pour down.

Sela had no shortage of enemies in her past. Every rival brought down and every agent of insurrection had fellows who dreamed of revenge. But none of them would have entertained the idea that their plans were ruined by a coward that always strikes through go-betweens. The half human always lead from the front, and was known first and foremost as a risk taker. But her current dilemma brought her to the limits of her courage, with only four people free of the nightmare virus that had spread though the ship as it streaked across the galaxy.

Tanok, like Malcor was a bit on the brutish side, but completely manageable or the heavy maintenance technician never would have been selected for the top secret project. Satche hadn’t cared much for either male, but now they were brothers in adversity and Sela had to make certain that the family didn’t get any smaller.

“Commander, I have distressing news,” Satche announced while gazing at the long range sensor monitor.

“That is because there is no other kind,” thought Sela while waiting to find out what would go wrong next.

“There is a space craft in orbit around Earth. Impossible to say who it could belong to in this time period.”

“It could be Vulcan,” Sela said for the benefit of her unhappy comrades. “I couldn’t find any references to Vulcan exploration in this sector, but data of that sort probably would have been highly classified.”

“Commander, the injectors are aligned for our present speed. With most of the engineering controls unattended, we can’t reduce warp speed gradually. We need to drop out of warp completely in the next three minutes if we’re still going to approach Earth.”

“There is no if to it,” Sela responded flatly. “We’re going in even if that ship is filled with Orion pirates.”

“In this time period, Ma’am?” queried Tanok, who had been given the job of monitoring the overload alarms while Malcor kept an eye on the internal life forms monitor.

“I was just being rhetorical,” explained the leader of the tiny group. “I just need you people to be clear on one thing: We’re going to beam down to a river region called Amazonia. I’ll use the spare dilithium to purchase a plantation for us to live on.”

“Plantation?” the technician piped up again.

Sela rolled her eyes and said, “Malcor, isn’t there a storage room between here and the transporter room?”

“Yes Commander.”

“Good, we’ll need emergency food rations and medical supplies. All you can carry. Tanok, your job is to make certain we have an unobstructed power source for the transporter. I don’t want any last minute surprises.”

The two men didn’t need to be given those orders twice. A crewman will always count himself fortunate when he has a chance to leave a plague ship, especially one that could have blown up on them in the first place. Sela took the helm and deactivated the auto pilot a few seconds before they dropped out of warp. Her attention was now riveted on the approach monitor, and her tactical sensors.

The cube ship cruised through a solar system that had long been the object of many Romulan fantasies.

“Oh to be here with a fleet,” Sela thought for a moment.

Then her worst fear joined with all the others.

“Drat---that damn pocket sized ship we tangled with somehow managed to follow us back in time. That’s what we have to deal with and I don’t suppose deception will be an option in this case.”

“Are we going to self destruct, Commander?” the other woman asked with a hollow voice.

“We’ll ram him.”

The blonde then half shrugged and as an after thought quipped, “Pretty much the same thing I suppose.”

The female subordinate felt a queasiness in her stomach, but she smiled at this woman’s ability to speak informally to someone she barely knew. Neither woman was surprised when the diminutive sentry ship broke out of orbit and challenged them halfway to their destination. But both were plenty surprised when a Klingon face appeared on their main viewing screen.

“There is a God and he doesn’t like me one bit,” thought Sela just before a deep voice boomed over the audio.

“This is Captain Worf of the Goshawk. Our sensor scans have informed us that you have placed your entire ship’s compliment away from the engineering sections. I conclude from this that you are in a state of emergency. I therefor will not fire on you if you will turn about and leave the system immediately. What is your reply?”

With a truly monumental reluctance Sela placed herself on the viewer and said, “Worf, I am actually glad that it was you who brought us to this sorry state of affairs. The only thing more enjoyable that killing a Klingon, is killing the Federation’s pet Klingon. If you should see me in the afterlife, please show a sense of propriety and pretend you don’t know me.”

“How can you do battle if your vital stations are not being manned?” inquired the alien captain.

“I am manning the only station that matters from now through eternity,” answered the blonde with a crooked smile.

Sela disappeared from Goshawk’s viewing screen and the big Klingon knew exactly what to make of that.

“Helm, emergency impulse. Mark 180!”

The man driving the ship understood in an instant that he needed to accomplish just one thing: dive below the imaginary line between their vessel and the giant cube that was so perilously close. Sela made her move just a fraction of a second too late, and the sudden rush forward duplicated The Picard Maneuver but creating a duel image of the cube ship for just an instant. But it didn’t matter. Her smaller adversary was twisting around on a lower plane and soon launching everything it had at the back of the cube.

The blonde Romulan actually smiled at the controls. She had been spared the grim task of killing her crew one way or another. The Klingon was doing it for her, and in the privacy of her heart she was relieved. But there was still one goal worth reaching for, and if the Klingon wanted to keep her from it, he would have to do better than the slow motion destruction that was taking place in the stern sections of the cube.

The nearest life pods on their deck were within shouting distance of where Malcor and Tanok were equipping themselves. Satche would have to hurry them along. (Augmented by the sights and sounds of a vessel shaking itself apart.)

“You have the drop coordinates for your pod. Give those lunk heads one warning shout and then be on your way,” instructed Sela without bothering to turn and face the other woman.

The subordinate hesitated for an instant and then asked, “Commander---you’re not going to remain on board are you?”

“Not if I can help it,” responded Sela, “but if we all jettison at the same time, that Klingon will bag us for certain. I’ll keep him on my tail while you and the others slip away. Assuming you don’t waste too much time cramming ale bottles into the pods.”

Actually there wasn’t a single bottle of Romulan ale on the ship. The Admiralty wouldn’t hear of it. Sela was just trying to be funny for the benefit of a younger comrade. That placed her a bit out of character, but there weren’t any high ranking officials around to notice. The Earth ship from the future continued to gnaw away at the back of the cube like a shark ripping chunks of meat out of a dying whale. The blue planet ahead of her grew larger on the main screen and every few seconds the vessel shook, but not nearly as much as it would have if it had been relying on a one piece solid hull. Hundreds of girders, conduits and exposed platforms continued to fall away from a now semi-cube as the Earthlings (under the command of a Turtlehead) all but exhausted their armaments.

Sela imagined in her mind’s eye three crewpersons re- familiarizing themselves with the controls of the pods they were in and then launching so that their pods could float away along with tons of metal being shaved from every part of the ship except the bridge chamber itself. Then she focused on a magnified image of the early American eastern seaboard. Should she drop a radioactive blob of molten metal on the United States capital region in hopes that it would somehow retard the development of that country?

The woman had three seconds to decide.

Instead she set an entry course for the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and sprang from her seat only to fall as the giant vessel shook from a sledge hammer blow. Rising up on her hands and knees for a moment, she wasn’t entirely sure if the deck was tilting because the artificial gravity was malfunctioning or because she had hit her head on something. In any case she needed to get a move on. By now her comrades should be halfway to the planet’s outer atmosphere. Hopefully she would be able to drop down within five kilometers of their LZ.

Hopefully.

She zigzagged her way to the nearest pod and typed in the guidance coordinates with one eye. The other was covered with something wet. If no coordinates were specified the pod would simply seek out a land mass and the occupant would have to take pot luck. Sela needed to do better on a planet full of primitive humans. In the wrong political circles they might end up being burned at the stake as demons. The miniature space vehicle hissed out of its storage bracket and fell violently away from a mother ship that was still moving over one-hundred miles per second.

On another deck of the forsaken hulk, a semi lucid engineer was struggling with a makeshift pry tool in order to remove a maintenance deck panel that had been held fast by a security force field. Now all intruder control systems were off line, and even though the door to the crew’s third privy was jammed shut, the crewman realized with grim amusement that being trapped in a bathroom was a blessing in more ways than one.

The plumbing was fitted through deck plates that were never designed to hold shielded transfer conduits let alone mutant prisoners. He could get out, so long as his rapidly degrading intellect maintained the knowledge of how low grade construction materials worked. When he finally had his portal, he needed to wait for a relative pause in the pitching and yawing of the ship before attempting to squeeze through his hole. After dropping down to a shuddering lower deck he made his way to a viewing port that confirmed his worst suspicions. A planet was growing large beneath him, and the viewing portal was hot to the touch because the ship was falling into the outer atmosphere. The engineer shook off the temptation to head for the bridge and instead headed for the life pods secured on that deck.

Once inside one he found himself frowning at the key pad that required landing coordinates, or the simple pressing of the word enter. The engineer’s memory was rapidly failing him and while he still recalled that something needed to be done with the pad, he couldn’t remember what. With a burst of animal fury he raked the pad with now elongated finger nails and one of them made contact with the required square on the pad. The hatch hissed shut with a resounding click, and a small explosive charge separated the pod from its berth.

There was a control knob that would keep the heat shield pointed toward the ever thickening atmosphere, but the captive within the capsule no longer possessed any knowledge of such things. The cabin temperature rose steadily until the creature began to bellow in pain and rage. Towards the end of the pod’s descent, the creature was overcome by the heat and lost consciousness. The soft landing was anything but, and the hatch was punched in when it struck the pinnacle of a giant dead tree. Then the pod fell away and crashed at the base of the dead wood in a deep drift of snow.

The chilly mountain wind entered the capsule and eventually revived the creature, who scraped a great deal of hide off his body squeezing past a hatch that would only open halfway. Crawling out of the snow he growled at the snow, the cold wind and the general discomfort of going from an oven to a freezer. The creature’s senses came alive in this wild and wooly environment. The wind was startling. It found expression in frozen hollows made of wood and stone. The creature echoed those plaintive wails when it realized that its misery was lasting and all around him.

As the winter light faded, dismay was replaced by an animal rage that would be the basis of every primitive thought. The creature set out to escape his intolerable surroundings, seeking warmth and something to sate the gnawing hunger that was growing within.

Sela’s stomach tightened discernably as the pod fell through Earth’s atmosphere. The half Romulan was a bit of an adrenalin addict when it came to conflict, but it was against her nature to sit in a coffin like chamber and allow an untested mechanical device to decide whether or not she would land in one piece. Happily the chute deployed at the appropriate altitude and the awe inspiring Amazon River was seen as a ribbon of white stretching from horizon to horizon. The background surface was more blue than green with patches of stratus cloud masking some ten percent of the downward view.

Soon the white ribbon of water assumed a light brown hue and the bluish landscape turned green. That is when things got a bit disconcerting. The green consisted of forest canopy. She expected to see a great deal of that, but she also expected to see large sections of cultivated earth. One of them would have served as a landing zone. This lead her to the conclusion that her comrades were further up or down river from this sector. The Manaus settlement in this time period was of course nothing compared to what it would become, but there was supposed to be the beginnings of plantation type development. She saw no evidence of that or any sign of human habitation.

The abdominal sensation grew worse as the tree top world rushed up to receive her. Despite the form fitting safety seat that held head and neck in place, Sela’s own cervical vertebrae protested against the bone shaking impact of the probe as it crashed through the canopy. The lines securing the pod to the chute snapped as the chute spread out over the canopy hole and Sela first slammed against the upper trunk of a hardwood tree, then slid down and rolled off a giant buttress root formation. Not a bad landing, all things considered.

The hatch opened facing upward, causing her to gaze briefly at her dramatic entrance into this world. It almost made her laugh. Almost. Then she was all business. First step was to open a small compartment under her seat and remove a light duty tricorder and a collection of pills that would enable her Romulan body to drink unpurified water. Naturally her disruptor pistol was in its pouch style holster and with it she would become the undisputed master of this dreary domain.

She had expected this part of Earth to be very bright and sunny, but the huge forest canopy of interlacing branches and leaves allowed for very little sunlight. The ground was covered with kneed high ferns where bits of sunlight peeked through. Otherwise there was little to take note of besides carpets of moss and decomposing logs that showed that even trees have their time to die. Her com-link had a transmitting range of only ten miles but hopefully her comrades had bothered to equip themselves with better hardware. She began to suspect that this was not the case when she attempted to hail them and received only a garbled response.

All she could do was proceed on a parallel course with the river, more than a bit annoyed by the fact that rivers do not travel in a straight line. It was well after dark when she detected the unmistakable odor of a campfire. She followed it in and was rewarded by the sound of Romulan language. She was about to use her com-link but decided instead to test her comrades to see if they were on their toes. With naught but a tricorder to serve as her eyes in the dark, she had certainly been on her toes since nightfall, and she was in bad spirits with the damn night bugs harassing her constantly.

She made just enough noise to be reasonable but she soon realized that it was not enough. The Romulan chatter continued, suggesting that her comrades were all through jumping and drawing their weapons at every little sound. It was a fact that after eight hours of listening to a variety of forest sounds the aliens had grown complacent. That at least would give Sela an excuse to vent the anger within.

“So---less than one day on an alien world and you are already forgetting your responsibilities to me!”

Satche and Tonok sprang from their leaf beds, which were an appropriate distance apart, but you would have thought otherwise by the guilty expressions on their faces.

“Where the hell is Malcor!” the blonde shouted a second later.

“He is dead, Commander,” Satche reported while standing at attention in the firelight.

“His pod malfunctioned?”

“No Ma’am, the pod lodged in the cleft of a tree while attempting to land. Malcor then fell and broke his neck attempting to climb to the ground.”

“Did you vaporize his remains with your weapon?’

The two Romulan subordinates exchanged uneasy glances.

“No Ma’am, we thought to conserve energy so we buried the body a safe distance from the pod.”

“I want him dug up and vaporized. It may take a long time, but somehow I’m going to get us a wagon and have it floated down river to a section of river bank close to the Malcor’s drop area. We will then cut down the tree and move the pod to the river where we shall sink it.”

“The pod is heavy. Will the wheels of the wagon not sink into the earth under so much weight, Commander?”

Sela nodded at Tanok’s logic and said, “I will also have to provide improvised railroad tracks to prevent that.”

The subordinates both frowned at that but did not ask what a railroad was. There was a more pressing issue to resolve and Satche and Tanok knew it.

“Commander---will our adversaries not be scanning for us? If so, a full power disruptor blast would surely catch their attention,” said Satche.

“It is my judgment that the enemy ship failed to witness the jettisoning of our life pods,” said the commander. “The unraveling of our cube ship caused a great deal of radiation that most likely raised havoc with their sensors for a time. They should have been totally focused on the cube---understandably concerned about where it would crash to Earth. When they saw it land in an ocean, they probably sighed with relief and by now are on their way to a planet where they can find beings who will help them.”

“But Commander, would it not be prudent of them to scan for portions of the cube that might have failed to burn up in the atmosphere or land in the ocean?’ asked Tonok.

“That is so, but when we entered the system I noted unusual solar flare activity that I believe will serve us well for a time. The solar activity could last for months and would require their sensors to operate on a very narrow beam in order to punch through the interference. That means that they would have to scan the surface of the planet for a very long time in order to cover so much area. The ship is small and probably does not possess sufficient stores to feed the crew for a prolonged period of time. Also they may have sustained damage to their ship. So I believe they will leave things as they are for the time being and seek out some advanced beings capable of aiding them in prolonged future efforts.”

“The laws of probability state that you are correct Commander, but in the interests of proper security, perhaps we should cremate Malcor’s remains with a large fire,” put in Satche.

Sela’s expression was one of amusement, which was a good thing for Satche.

“You will have enough work to do when we are set to move the pods into the river. But you may cremate the body. You can also attempt to partially disassemble the pods to make movement easier. I do not know how soon it will take me to secure the things we need. Several days perhaps.”

“Do you intend to take what you desire by force, Commander?” asked Tanok.

“That would not be practical. I brought along some power crystals that will be looked upon as diamonds. With them I shall enlist the services of the local mayor, prefect or warlord. Whatever the hell he is. There is always an alpha dog for every pack. Control the leader and you control the populous at large. Eventually I intend to build a farmstead for the two of you out here somewhere. I am sorry but that is the best I will be able to do for you.”

“And you, Commander?” queried Satche.

“I have a plan to alter Earth’s history to our benefit, but I must do this alone.”

“I don’t understand Commander. Are you saying that in time you will leave us, never to return?” queried Tanok.

“We cannot be certain of anything, but my plan involves a great deal of traveling. Surely you can understand how difficult that would be if there were three of us. I at least can communicate without the need of a universal translator. Atleast in the English speaking countries. I could spend the entire day rattling off a long list of reasons why I want you two here instead of clutching at my coat tails.”

“So we shall never know if you were successful in your efforts?” put in Satche. “We might be able to find a way to boost the range of our com-links so that you would not have to get closer to us than several kilometers.”

“You may indulge yourself with such a project when you are not tending your future farm. But fear not, you shall know when I am far along with my efforts.”

“How will we know that, if we are to spend the rest of our lives in a primordial hide away?” asked Satche.

Sela grinned mischievously at the tropical sky overhead and said, “You will only have to look up from your labors. Just look up, and know that a Romulan god has joined the ranks of the Earth deities.”

Satche and Tanok both looked up at the stars glistening brightly now that the camp fire was being allowed to die. They presumed that their leader was talking about something out there in space, but in truth, they weren’t even close.

Worf calmly reviewed his ship’s deflector shield stats for the second time since they left Earth’s home star system. Everything appeared to be in order, but since they had recently locked horns with a Borg cube ship, he didn’t entirely trust the electronic readouts that stated that all was well. The trouble with scout type vessels was that you could cram large weapons and engines inside the hulls, but with only a handful of crewpersons onboard, you couldn’t on site monitor the vital transfer junctions that tended to wink on and off line when destructive energies slammed against the ship.

Worf currently had the best equipped combat vessel in the Alfa Quadrant, but that was only true if his diagnostic readouts could be trusted. Stress fractures, coils about to burn out and junction relays could be just barely hanging in there, ready to trip up with something as minor as a 19^th Century pulsar cannon strike. The Goshawk was sailing very slowly through a neighboring star system. Neighboring in the sense that it only took the 24^th Century ship a few hours to reach it. The history of the system was quite different from the one he was pledged to defend. It was a violent place, in the cold of space as well as on the habitable planets circling an infamous star.

Worf’s crew was alert but not nervous. They knew that their quarry possessed inferior technology and a legendary lack of wisdom. Still---the enemy could be fleet sized in the wrong place at the wrong time; and they were just as aggressive as the Klingons. At least that’s what the history books had taught.

“Renock’s Rings are dead ahead Captain. If anyone is minding the speed trap, they’ll be making their move shortly,” warned Russell.

All five men on the bridge knew what that meant. The planet Renock was very much like Earth’s neighbor Saturn in that it featured orbital high velocity ice chunks that were a marvel to the eye. However Renock’s rings fluctuated at such a high frequency that you could hide a thousand planets the size of Earth behind a ring arm. The space anomaly was a mere two-hundred million miles from the planet Orion, which was a place where humans would think twice about visiting in the future.

Twenty minutes passed before Russell made his next report.

“Here we go Captain. One kingpin class vessel coming out of the soup. Let’s just hope there isn’t a backup ship coming around to flank us.”

“Unlikely. We no doubt appear bite sized to that big bully boy,” quipped the Klingon.

In Earth’s 19^th Century, the Orions possessed a technology that was roughly even with future Earth around 2120 A.D. This was not due to their scientific prowess, but rather because an unfortunate victim of a wormhole was deposited just outside their system with no ability to reach any other solar system. Once the short range space craft reached the planet’s surface, the hapless inhabitants of the craft realized that they were prisoners of a heavy gravity world. What exactly happened to them was never determined. But their technology became the property of an Orion warlord right around the same time Christopher Columbus was getting ready for his epic voyage across the Atlantic ocean.

Forty years later the first Orion pirates set sail out of their own star system, but fortunately, they failed to learn about Earth until the humans were in a position to defend themselves from Orion technology. But in the 19^th Century, any ship venturing within sensor range of the Orion system, would get an unpleasant surprise. Worf had brought his small vessel right into the Orion’s backyard, because he didn’t want to waste time trolling for a greedy pirate captain.

“We’re being hailed. Audio only,” reported Russell.

“This will be interesting,” Worf half muttered to himself.

An instant later a deep and commanding voice filled the bridge. A voice belonging to a being who did not possess an ounce of compassion and very little more patience. Worf and the others could vaguely imagine what the pirate commander looked like. All Orions were powerfully built with dark green skin and high foreheads. They were a loud people with the men bellowing out their intensions while the women screamed out their needs. Worf was glad that his little ship was more than it appeared to be.

“I am Captain Kreen of the raider Dark Wind. My voice will be the last thing you ever hear unless you turn to port and proceed toward my home world. Comply immediately. If we are forced to damage valuable property, we will express our disappointment with the creative knife work we are famous for.”

“Follow his instructions Helmsman. I want us within transport range of the planet’s surface,” said Worf.

The Goshawk could have leapt to warp one and been up to the Orion world in less than an minute, but instead they proceeded humbly at one half impulse. The captor vessel certainly had warp drive as well, but with its limited navigational array, it could not go to warp within the gravitational influences of the high mass star system. The crew took the running time to study the ship configurations that had been seen only in history texts. The ship reminded Lu of a spider. Eight times the mass of Goshawk, but a paper tiger by 24^th Century standards. Still---nuclear warheads could be lethal if enough of them got thrown at you.

“Now cut all power to your engines. We shall initiate a link up. You would be wise to appear as harmless as possible when my boarding party enters your ship.”

The Starfleet crew understood that in the old days two ships had to mate, in order for beings to move from one ship to the other. There were different ways of doing this, but the most common apparatus was a telescoping tube large enough to walk through with a reinforced framework to hold the two ships together. The device would probably never become entirely obsolete, since not everything could be moved with a matter-energy scrambling device like their transporter.

Worf turned to Russell and gave him his instructions. A few moments later eight sets of docking lasers told the docking computers that the air locks on both ships were now lined up. The bridging tube extended out two meters and joined with a hatch that was designed to allow space jumpers the ability to free fall out of the craft. Without hesitation the Orion boarding party made their way through the access tube into the smaller ship. After a reasonable pause for his space marines to secure the first chamber, the commander opened his com-link and demanded a status report. For the first time in Orion history, there was nothing but silence on the other end.

“Weapon’s discharge?” asked Kreen.

The pirate operating the crude scanner array shook his head.

“No heat flashes. Perhaps our people are being subdued with blade weapons.”

“Unlikely,” growled the commander, who then punched his arm chair communicator.

“Roca, arm every man in your port section and check on the status of Krogan’s team. I can’t get through to them. Shoot every alien you see just to be on the safe side.”

“Acknowledged Commander.”

A few moments later the tally of missing Orions went up to sixteen.

“Alright you little bastard, I’ll show you how I deal with tricksters!” the commander vowed while retracting the boarding tube.

The larger vessel pulled ahead of the Goshawk and then came about at a range of five-thousand yards.

“Their targeting lasers are on us. We can expect pulsar cannon fire in the next few seconds,” reported Russell.

The small ship was nudged slightly by the impact of a hostile energy weapon.

Lu grinned nervously and said, “This beats fighting cube ships---that is for certain.”

The Orion ship closed the distance to two-hundred yards and fired three more energy bolts.

“He better be careful, at this range he could get ion backwash without shields,” said Nelson.

“No, he’s got polarized hull plating. The radiation might shorten his lifespan some, but his ship won’t buckle just because of a little backwash,” Lu declared.

“We shall resume this discussion in the coffee room after the mission is completed,” said Worf, “now kindly focus on the tasks at hand.”

Everyone nodded slightly except Maga, an engineer with a specific job that was already in the works. After a few more seconds with his nose in a monitor he turned and regarded his captain as if the rest of the bridge didn’t exist.

“Worker bee ready for launch, sir.”

“Launch the device,” Worf ordered quietly.

A forward torpedo tube expelled an object that was the height and width of a torpedo, but was only half as long. Propelled by a single Mark II Jenny thruster, it crossed the space between the two ships at a velocity of one-hundred feet per second. Because the object weighed a mere two-hundred pounds, it failed to damage the transparency located in the forward hull section of the ship’s bridge. Like an insect landing on a window it appeared with a startling thump, then several servo arms unfolded enabling it to commence it’s programed function.

Kreen swore mutely from the other end of the transparency when it realized that the accursed contraption was there to cut a hole in his ship. The opening would first allow all the air to jet out, then allow the robotic probe to come in. Kreen naturally assumed that the probe was only there to render the bridge useless and he almost scoffed at the plan since he was fully capable of running the ship from the engineering section. There he would order a ramming course, confident that he would win in a head butting competition.

“Reverse course and back us off one-thousand kilometers,” ordered the Klingon, “and be prepared for an attempt at ramming.”

The helmsman was still implementing the first order when the huge pirate vessel rushed ahead at full impulse. Nelson didn’t have time to switch to lateral controls so he simply put the peddle to the metal while backing up. The emergency reverse move was successful. The two ships were not set to follow the same course headings precisely, so after a run of thirty-thousand kilometers the two ships ended up paralleling each other.

“She’s pretty fast for ship of this time period,” Nelson commented.

“Do not forget Mr. Nelson, that even in the Alpha quadrant alone, civilizations do not advance evenly, especially when technology can be stolen,” lectured the captain.

“Sir, the package is about to be delivered,” announced an engineer named Maga.

“Do not allow anything to distract you,” the Klingon instructed the young Kenyan.

That was good advise, because seconds later a very angry Orion captain attempted over and over to catch and ram its smaller adversary.

Maga switched to manual control, activating an onboard camera what would give him a close up view of what the probes servo arms would be doing. The engineer would now be the eyes and brain of the robot. The next step was to take up a position on the floor deck just behind the captain’s chair. He would then use a laser cutter to remove a deck plate where the sensors indicated the target conduit would be found. The conduit ran back to the ship’s engineering section. It needed to be sliced open and bonded with a filament depository sleeve.

After a bit of remote tinkering the young Kenyan nodded in satisfaction and said, “The nanites are away, sir.”

“Not too soon for me,” put in Nelson, “I’m not happy playing dodge em with a ship that’s fifty times bigger than us.”

A few seconds later the big Orion ship once again filled the forward viewer forcing the helmsman to dance their nimble craft around an adversary possessing a one track mind. The evasive exercises finally ended with the big ship growing dark and coasting off like a spent torpedo that had missed its mark. With a satisfied nod Worf left the bridge and entered the ship’s transporter alcove. A brawny looking crewman was waiting for him holding a pair of light duty air masks. Donning them, both Starfleet officers stepped onto the transporter platform which an engineer was monitoring in another section of the ship.

Ordinarily, they did not need to use transporter pads at all, but the outdated Orion vessel radiated a form of energy that interfered with transport signals. That was the reason they couldn’t use their transport technology to simply sweep the Orion pirates off their own ship and drop them without ceremony down on the nearby planet’s surface. It had been necessary to lure the Orion boarding parties onto the Starfleet vessel, just long enough to beam them in groups to a very high roof top where they could get plenty of fresh air.

(The Goshawk crew got quite a chuckle from that.)

The two man away team materialized in the Orion’s forward section under the bridge. That was where the controls for the ship’s particle emitter were located. A particle emitter worked kind of like a cow catcher on the first locomotives. It sent out a force beam that would push space debris out of the way of the ship, otherwise the ship’s hull could be destroyed by material as small as space dust while travelling at warp speeds. It was the first section of the ship to cool off so to speak, now that ship’s power plant had been taken off line by the nanites.

Work double checked his combat tricorder and said, “It is confirmed: only two crewmen remaining. They are both in engineering and appear to be stationary.”

The lighting began to dim and they could feel the ship’s internal temperature decrease. But the most important decrease in ship’s functions was the artificial gravity. They needed to have it reduced just so that the Starfleet men could walk without feeling as though they were carrying wounded. Unfortunately they gradually gained too much of a good thing. Halfway to the stern of the ship they found themselves with zero gravity. That condition always gave the Klingon an upset stomach, but he took it in stride because he knew that it would work in their favor in a very important way.

Holstering his phaser and tricorder, the Klingon side kicked the nearest bulkhead. In zero gravity that propelled him to the opposite wall. So began the swim for both of them. The idea was to shove off at an angle so that you could bumper pool your way down the corridor. Gravity boots would have been nice, but they had hoped to cover the length of the ship before AG kicked out. It was a nuisance, but it also would work to their advantage.

Sure enough, when they reached engineering they were greeted by a happy sight. The two Orions were not only floating helplessly in the chamber, they were also quite unconscious.

“Their physiology is accustomed to heavy gravity,” explained Worf. “I had reason to believe that they would pass out under these conditions. That is why they were so often seen wearing special environmental suits.”

“Shouldn’t we have brought extra masks sir. Air is getting kind of thin.”

“An Orion is hard to suffocate. We will restore partial gravity--just enough so that we can easily carry our prisoners back to the forward section. Once they are off the ship, we can repair the bridge and set up radiation shielding back in this section.”

“Will the folks down on the planet give us enough time to do that, sir?” asked the big Texan.

“If memory serves me; the Orions never developed planetary defense batteries. Also, their ships spent little time orbiting their home world. After all---the more time they spent patrolling the old trade routes, the more likely they were of catching a fat merchant ship.”

“Yes sir, but what about all those hydrogen rings that these Jokers were hiding behind. Could there be additional ships back there someplace?”

“Doubtful. History explains that each pirate ship staked out its own place of ambush. The Orion star system has a long history of heavy ship traffic, but not close to the home world. The next nearest ship would be hours away at what constituted flank speed for them. I believe—“

“Captain, we just picked up four Orion ships heading toward the planet. E.T.A. one hour and twenty minutes,” interrupted Russell.

“Sir, I don’t think we can get this bucket squared away in that much time,” said the Texan. “It would be different if we didn’t have to waste time figuring out how things work—“

The Klingon slapped his com-badge again and said, “Mr. Novak, have a quantum torpedo in the tube and ready for launch. Mr. Jackson and I will be remaining on board with the prisoners. We’re going to try to persuade the prisoners to assist us, but should that effort fail, Mr. Nelson will have to place a tractor on us.”

“Captain, that’s a pretty big ship for us to be towing,” cut in Nelson.

“We’ll get in the back and push,” promised Jackson.

The Klingon ignored the attempt at humor. As the commander of a small ship, he had learned not to be a stickler about protocol, but he was still a challenge for any human comedian. He worked alone and in silence for twenty minutes in order to bring atmosphere and gravity back to a level that would not endanger anyone occupying the chamber. Jackson merely stood guard over the prisoners. After regaining consciousness, Orions could become real dangerous real fast.

Kreen awoke to find a phaser pointed at him which failed to decease the usual amount of swearing. After a brief tirade he was willing to allow Worf to explain himself. Jackson found that an interesting experience since his Klingon commander had never lied about anything.

“You are lying!” bellowed the Orion commander. “The Klingons have no warp capabilities, and they would probably kill a human on sight!”

“As I said, my crew and I were raised and trained to serve the Enterprise Confederation. Do not judge us by our ethnic backgrounds.”

“I judge you by your actions. You have killed my crew and now insult my honor by commandeering my ship!”

“Your crew is not dead, and there is a chance we might be able to return your ship to you at some later time. But I cannot make any promises. My situation is highly precarious and your own lack of ethics makes it very difficult for me to deal with you.”

Kreen was a mountain of muscle, bone and hate, but an Orion pirate captain’s one fear was the loss of command and he was facing nothing less. Worf fully expected treachery from this bipedal fighting machine. No captain would hand over his or her vessel just like that. But Worf reasoned that the Orion would probably want to take this drama far away from his home world. No doubt his ship was receiving numerous communications signals requesting explanations and updates. Of course no Orion pirate captain was answerable to anyone on the home world, but a captain’s reputation was important, and Kreen’s was certainly out on a limb.

“Chief Engineer Kalten will bring the engines back up to ready warp. I shall supervise and allow you to explain exactly why you are perpetrating this outrage on my command.”

“I advise you to supervise the engineer’s alacrity. Orion ships are approaching, and they will find you in a most embarrassing predicament if we do not escape them,” promised the Klingon.

Kreen had already perceived as much, so he gave Kalten a little help getting the warp drive warmed up and ready to go. The Klingon also helped with tasks that could be performed on the other end of a long engineering panel while Jackson simply stood guard in the back.

“I’m still waiting for my explanation Turtle Head. Why do you need my ship when yours is most likely faster and certainly more maneuverable.”

“Your ship possesses one obvious feature that mine lacks,” responded Worf, “and that is cargo space. I require storage space for a time.”

“How much time?”

“I do not know. My mission contains variables that I do not control.”

What happened next was interesting, if somewhat pointless. The two Orions attacked as one. Their timing was impeccable but futile. Jackson dropped the engineering officer with one meter to spare and Worf kicked his adversary adding Kreen’s forward momentum to the blow. With some chagrin Worf realized that the Orions were operating in what was for them reduced gravity. That made them faster than normal. Still, Worf’s phaser came out before the Orion could recover from the blow, but the Klingon held his fire.

Kreen slowly straightened up; willing himself to ignore the pain and said, “If you didn’t have that fancy little pistol of yours I would break your back.”

The Klingon’s expression was unreadable for a moment, then he said, “Allow me to set this ship’s course for what we call the Sirius Star System, and then I will indulge you.”

Now it was Kreen’s turn to become inscrutable. He stepped back and silently waited to see what would happen next. When the course was laid in and the ship reached maximum warp the Klingon reduced gravity just a bit more and then gave Jackson his next order.

“Mr. Jackson, pick up the engineer and take him forward. Have him join his fellow crewmen and then you can proceed to repair the bridge.”

Jackson got the unconscious engineer onto his back and then was astounded when his captain handed him a phaser.

“Excuse me sir, but what are you doing?”

“Exercising a bit of Klingon diplomacy,” Worf responded.

Kreen was equally surprised but mostly elated. He knew about Klingon fighting spirit and would joyously teach this stupid Turtle Head a thing or two about Orion supremacy. The two combatants squared off without a word spoken. They circled each other for a few seconds and then simultaneously lunged in. Both men were trained in striking techniques, yet they chose instead to grab each other by the throats and squeeze. Kreen was confident. He had crushed the life out of many a creature that had foolishly challenged his strength. The Klingon’s neck was corded muscle, but Kreen had played this life and death game with larger opponents and had never lost.

The Klingon was the same height put approximately forty pounds lighter. More importantly, his opponent had been raised on a heavy gravity world where weakness was not tolerated. A muted growl came from behind clenched teeth. Worf’s whole body quivered as both warriors leaned their body weight forward behind the choking efforts. Worf’s heartbeats began to pound louder and louder in his ears. His muscles screamed for a respite, and the Starfleet officer now fully understood why the big Orions held most out-worlders in contempt. The deck began to pitch slightly and Worf would have given all that he owned for just one uninterrupted breath of air. Kreen read his victim with an experienced eye. True, the pirate was also sinking into a well of fatigue, but not as much as the Klingon and nothing else mattered.

Suddenly Worf was not glaring at the grim countenance of a green faced pirate. His oxygen starved consciousness had placed him in a temple that had been hued out of solid rock. In that torch lit interior there was naught but a giant bronze like statue that was many centuries old. It showed two heavily muscled figurines locked in an embrace of martial efforts: The depiction of Kahless and Morath in their epic twelve day battle. Worf had always secretly doubted that two warriors could fight hand to hand for twelve days and nights without rest, but thousands of attempts to equal the feat had helped create a fighting species that was renowned and feared by all the push button warriors that learned of their existence.

The Starfleet officer had not searched for the first hallucination nor did he attempt to conjure up a second, but he found one all the same. He envisioned himself in a fighting pit ringed by his ancestors. Beings that he had always supposed would not have approved of his human upbringing. They began to chant but a single word: Worf! Worf! Worf! Worf!

Martial logic demanded all through the contest that Worf abandon this test of strength which clearly favored the larger Orion. Vicious karate techniques to the throat or testicles would have been a sensible course of action. But Worf was taking another warrior’s property away from him, and he would not do that as a lesser man. Kreen’s vision began to fail him and he experienced the illusion of his Klingon opponent growing larger than himself. That was the last thing he was aware of before crashing to the deck like a felled redwood. Worf didn’t actually remember going forward. He didn’t remember much of anything until the two ships were ready to jump to warp and evacuate the Orion home system. The approaching Orion ships were given a report as they entered into orbit around their home world. The pirate captains all pretended outrage when they learned of the miraculous high jacking, but privately they were amused. Kreen had been the King of the Hill. Now he was probably dead. The fact that his ship had been stolen was no skin off their noses. So now they would thump their chests and pledge to deliver a gruesome end to Kreen’s victor should they ever encounter him.

In the meantime there would be the competition to see who would get Kreen’s old hiding spot.

The Sokoto Caliphate was the most powerful of its type in West Africa. At its height it included over thirty different emirates within it’s political structure. The population was well over ten million, but it was impossible to gain an accurate count. The founding father, Sultan Usman dan Fodio had left three children to carry on his work, and they were residing in the small city of Binji. His mansion was certainly one of the largest structures in the city, but it was not a palace by any standards employed in the east kingdoms. Fodio had not been concerned. He had been a man of God and wise enough to understand that true kingdoms reside in men’s hearts, not on the highly corruptible Earth.

Most of his political power had gone to his daughter the Princess Nana Asma’u. The later was very well educated, a rare jewel in a world where slavery was common place. She was a full figured young woman, like most females who had the good fortune to eat whenever they liked. She possessed beautiful almond eyes, full lips and a laugh that was truly comical considering her high social rank.

Her skin rarely felt the sun, for she spent most of her time indoors reading and writing poetry, and when she did go out she was wrapped in enough expensive cloth to make a tent. Western women would have found it unbearable, but it was something that she and her kind were fully accustomed to.

While in the midst of composing a letter, she was not alarmed by the appearance of a woman she did not recognize. The house was large, and retainers came and went for various reasons. But when the servant merely stood before the Princess and did not declare her intentions, the noble woman took a harder look at the rather odd female. She was dark haired and dark skinned, but Nana perceived that the woman’s facial contours did not match her coloring. Then the Princess’s eyes widened with the realization that this woman was actually white and utilizing some sort of disguise.

“What are you doing here?” Nana asked with wonder.

Nana had to wait a moment for her answer. The Romulan universal translator was in Sela’s left ear, but since the alien dared not provide Nana with her own translating device, Sela needed to form sentences with a knowledge of Arabic that she had acquired while traveling across the Atlantic ocean. Her responses were therefor always late in coming and somewhat slow and awkward. But Nana was not surprised by that. After all, foreign languages were not an easy thing to master.

“Your late father would sing my praises to the sky,” the visitor promised, “and it is to the sky that I will now direct your attention.”

The visitor very slowly and respectfully ushered the noblewoman to the nearest balcony where an unobstructed view of a cloudless sky awaited. She then produced the strangest looking box Nana had ever seen. The box itself was a true wonder because there were pretty colored lights on one side of it, and Nana was about to request the opportunity to closely examine it. But before she could do that the strange woman gazed up at the sky with a look of triumph that gained Nana’s attention as well.

Incredibly, a long thin cloud had appeared and was stretching out to form a very distinct letter in her native alphabet. As she watched in awe, some unseen force wrote huge letters in the sky. In just a few short moments three words extended almost from horizon to horizon. The message read:

“God Is Great.”

By now the Princess had forgotten all about the pretty box and continued to stare up into the sky until she heard her personal servant calling her. As if in a dream state she withdrew back into the living quarters just far enough so that she could easily be heard.

“I am here Shuhda.”

“Princess, there is a great miracle to be seen in the sky!” the servant announced breathlessly. “My brother was taking some fruit rinds out to the goats and he saw huge letters written in the sky. Of course he does not know how to write, but it was clear enough that he was beholding a wondrous thing. Naturally I did not believe him at first. I have not trusted his word since that day when he told me one of the goats was fornicating with a wild dog. But I was close to the servant’s entrance so I—“

“Enough Girl,” the princess interrupted. “Prepare proper attire for an audience with my brother. I will be in my dressing room in a few moments.”

Nana returned to the balcony where the strange visitor was still admiring her handiwork.

“I shall present you to my brother and you will then explain in great detail how you wrote those words in the sky.”

“That is why I am here,” the stranger said with a slight bow. “However, it is important that our meeting remain private.”

“In that case I will have to meet with my brother ahead of you. He is never without a scribe or assistant of some sort. Eh---I would also lend you something more refined to wear. I mean no insult, but you look as though you have walked through more than one dust storm on your way here.”

“I would be grateful,” the woman responded with another short nod.

“Um---I neglected to learn your name in all this excitement,” the princess than added awkwardly.

“My name is Sela, and I am but a humble scientist wishing to gain employment with a noble Lord.”

“So---you do not claim to be a servant of Allah?”

“No more than your brother is, or anyone else wishing to see spiritual truth flourish,” Sela responded easily.

The princess shook her head in wonder and said, “This is going to be the most interesting day of my life.”

“On the contrary, Princess Nana, in a few days I fully intend to show you something even more wondrous,” pledged Sela as the two women withdrew from exclamations of amazement out on the streets.

The man’s name was Hugh Glass. He had once been a pirate with the famous Creole Adventure Capitalist Jean Lafitte. But that employment had been forced upon him, so he jumped ship and struck out overland with little in the way of possessions. He was soon captured by the Pawnee, who intended to place burning pine needles under their captive’s skin but then decided the fellow was too interesting to kill. So he became an official member of the trip. (After first serving an apprenticeship as a slave that is.)

That experience taught him how to earn wages working for the fur companies. But he would never depend on them the way most young lads did. He was a free trapper who signed on with the company men only when he needed something he couldn’t gain from his ability to trap, skin or hunt. That was the sad thing about a firearm, it linked you to civilization whether you wanted to be or not. Glass did not want to be. Civilization had not been kind to him.

The Arikaras Indians felt pretty much the same way, but since their lands were at stake they were more than willing to deal with the Devil who provided guns, powder and shot. Glass felt sorry for them but like everyone else in the great plains area he chose to believe that he would make his fortune and get out before a wave of immigration would provoke increased hostility between the white men and the local tribes. Most trappers had about five to eight years in which to harvest furs. Then all that sleeping on cold ground and wading through chilly water would bring on the arthritis and related maladies.

But right now Glass was looking at the remains of a trapper who had fallen to something quick and hungry. The claw and bite marks were too small for a bear, bringing forth the possibility of a cougar. Trouble was, there weren’t any paw prints in the snow that surrounded the body. Both arms had been fairly well eaten on the spot, and Glass gave serious thought to the idea of staking out the remains because a big killer cat like this one would surely return sooner or later.

Glass noted immediately that the man had been wearing buckskins that typically featured no pockets. Glass went to the man’s possibles bag that had been thrown some ten feet from the body. Squinting inside he found the usual things; a fire starting kit, a small pouch filled with .50 caliber ball ammunition, loading and cleaning patches and some chewing tobacco. The man’s powder horn was lying off in another direction. His rifle was a Lancaster which he suspected was around ten years old.

This was one hell of a mystery written in the snow. The man’s horse had bolted and left him to his fate. The fleabag had run off on the same course heading as some other critter that had met up with the cougar victim. Glass noted all this as he approached on his own nag. But when he got close enough to the ground to properly read sign, things got a mite perplexing.

Because the face was totally mutilated it was hard to guess the man’s age, although there were no gray hairs to be found. Glass squatted there for a time and pondered on what most likely fell on this man. The cougar victim must have dismounted of his own accord. There was no sign of a fall. At that point the cougar must have made his run and caused the horse to flee. The tracks that lead up to the dead man looked like hard boot prints with the owner running on the balls of his feet. That was pretty damn unlikely since only cavalrymen wore hard boots and Glass could only account for the hoof prints of the dead man’s steed.

Glass picked the discarded weapon. If there had been a second man, he surely would have picked up the firearm. Glass then did some backtracking and came to the unmistakable conclusion that a man running in hard boots did in fact over take the cougar victim from behind. But what the hell was he doing out here on foot? A large deposit of fallen leaves had resisted the snow’s efforts to cover them, and they made the sign reading a tad more difficult but not a big challenge since the winds had been merciful.

Glass had his chance to go after the mysterious runner, since his tracks were plain enough once he got past the leaves. But he never found one single paw print, and that didn’t set well with him at all. It hinted that the booted runner was the same critter that done in the horseman. But that would mean a cannibal Indian who had killed a U.S. Cavalryman and taken his boots.

The trapper noted that the Lancaster had been fired with no apparent effect. He reloaded it, happy to have that extra shot to go along with his own rifle and back up pistol. He then got back on his horse and began following the tracks. His hope was to catch up with the mysterious runner before night fall. He needed to find the booted man before darkness covered the land.

Worf wasn’t exactly thrilled with the plan that had been placed before him, but he could certainly appreciate its logic. Both Lu and Maga stood confidently behind their joint proposal, which wasn’t very Starfleet-like, but then Starfleet would exist for centuries anyway.

“Let me see if I understand you gentlemen correctly,” said the captain, “you intend to use the transporter’s pattern buffer as a jail cell? The pirate ship has several compartments that could serve as an improvised brig.”

Lu issued and indulgent smile and said, “Yes sir, but its S.O.P. to have a guard on duty and we can’t afford the manpower. Besides, can we safely assume that a pirate captain would have no tricks for escaping his own ship? Then there’s the fact that if we have to cut the Orion ship loose in a hurry, we won’t have to worry about moving the prisoner.”

“But can we still use the transporter even while holding someone’s matrix inside?”

“Oh yes, that became possible after we perfected multiple beaming. Of course a power feet back from a torpedo hit could ruin things but hopefully that won’t happen when we get back to Earth.”

“I intend to return in a leisurely manner,” said the captain. “It is vital that none of those approaching Orion ships manage to follow us back. That is more important than any other consideration.”

“Then perhaps we should have destroyed their warp systems. After all, there were only four of them,” Maga pointed out.

“I considered it,” the Klingon admitted, “but I was mindful of the fact that the Orions have never ventured far from their home system. They are centrally located, from the point of view of a 19^th Century space farer. Historically they would wait for any number of races to risk traveling though their sector in order to save on time or fuel. They were never given a reason to explore what was considered deep space in those days. If we had shown them the existence of an unbelievable technology, they might attempt to seek its source. I will not inspire such curiosity in a people who believe in taking everything by force.”

Maga was tempted to say that the Klingons would be no different for a very long time, but saw no point in taking the conversation in that direction.

“We shall be dropping out of warp in three hours and eight minutes,” the captain continued. “As I understand it, the radiation from the pirate ship almost took the transports off line while you were beaming the enemy boarding parties down to their planet.”

“Well, yes sir, but that was only because the power packs to their big barpah assault rifles brought a lot of their weapons radiation across with them.”

“All the same, I wish the minimize the radiation problem by having Mr. Lu jetpack over to the Orion ship and set up the trilex displacement projectors. When the cargo hold is radiation free, we shall be able to beam items on and off the ship at will.”

The Asian hesitated for a moment and then asked, “Sir, we can decontaminate our bodies after working in the Orion ship, but if the whole point of having the ship is to use it for many years—“

“Eventually the ship will only serve as a depository for food. We’ll place the ship in orbit around Earth with a portable fusion generator to keep the hold at a serviceable temperature. Engines and primary life support will be off line. There will be no radiation issues after that.”

Maga shrugged and asked, wouldn’t it have been easier to just find a nice deserted Island someplace and store our things there?”

Worf was not perturbed by the afterthought, since the small ship featured a kind of roundtable atmosphere.

“Hiding our activities from the people of the Earth would be easy, Mr. Maga. But we do not know how many Romulans made it down to the planet’s surface. We do not know what instrumentation they brought with them, and we do not know what they would do if they came to accept the idea that a Starfleet vessel will be remaining in orbit for many years to come. No, I wish to attempt to convince them that we have moved on.”

“But they might have beamed down with a scanner powerful enough to detect a ship a thousand miles above the planet’s surface,” pointed out Lu.

The Klingon tensed for an instant, then relaxed and said, “Then perhaps we should hide behind Earth’s moon until further notice.”

“Uh—yes sir, Lu responded with a trapped look.

Nelson wasn’t going to like this, and the helmsman was on the verge of switching scheduled maintenance chores with Lu so that he could get his away team costume custom fitted. Ancient Chinese costuming had effectively muddled their replicator computer matrix, and Lu found himself wishing that the holo technology included a program featuring Betsy Ross.

The Patas monkey is very dignified in it’s appearance. It has a long face, large soulful eyes and grand sweeping eyebrows that continue all the way back over its ears. It is a ground dweller but it prefers to sleep in the trees. It can outrun a human easily and is very vocal. One particular specimen had a favorable bias towards the observation of humans. For this reason he was consider dim witted. One day he observed a white haired human dousing her head hair with a substance that was rendering the hair dark. He presumed quite sensibly that it was a treatment against fleas.

In any case, he became enthralled with the female and was still on hand when she set up a contraption that consisted of a disrupter, and parts scavenged from her escape pod before it was lowered into the river. Sela got the idea from something her father had built when she was a child. She and her dad had been enjoying the night sky one summer when suddenly the words Happy Birthday appeared in the sky above them.

When the time came to recreate the device Sela marveled at how her young mind had drank up the details of that home made sky writing device. Knowing what needed to be done was certainly half the task of making it a reality. The monkey certainly appreciated the effort when a thin beam of blue light rose up from the forest floor and made its mark on all the air space for more than a square mile. But when the blue beam of light disappeared the monkey became somewhat disgruntled. He approached the curious object perched on the forest floor. Without the pretty blue ribbon of light it was really quite unremarkable to the monkey’s eye.

Still---if you hit it with a small rock it made an interesting sound. A hollow tone similar to the drums of the humans. It pleased the monkey to be equal with the humans in this way. So he banged merrily away and fought off the other monkeys when they tried to hit the thing with their own rocks. But eventually a human from the outskirts of his city decided to investigate the distant racket that just wouldn’t end. Now normally when a man invades an monkey’s domain, he is bombarded with sticks and seeds from the tree top canopies. Sometimes they might even be urinated upon. But this monkey wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted to keep his rightfully acquired possession, so as soon as he saw a giant man approaching he grabbed hold of the disruptor pistol and attempted to drag the entire apparatus further into the woods.

Sela’s invention weighed around forty pounds, so when the monkey grabbed the pistol it immediately separated from the servo arm. The pistol was not the drum portion of the machine but it was the source of the pretty blue light. So the monkey scampered off with a portion of his prize. If the other monkeys wanted to wage war on a human for taking the rest of the contraption, that was their business. The Patas monkey would hang the disruptor pistol on the stub of a tree branch and hope that the pretty blue light would reappear. What else could he do? Life is what it is after all.

The son of the late Sultan Usman dan Fodio proved to be less animated than Sela expected. Perhaps because of his wariness of white people, or perhaps because he could not bring himself to believe that so much scientific knowledge was truly being offered with no thought of compensation. In any case, the expression that he wore during Sela’s presentation somewhat unnerved the Romulan woman. After all, people all across Sokoto were talking about nothing else, and soon all of West Africa would be demanding proof that the sign in the sky was more than a freak cloud formation. When that proof became evident, Muhammed Bello would be at the base of a religious turning point in human history. So how could the man be so deadpan?

“Today, I have seen a truly memorable wonder of science,” the middle aged man said slowly, “but I am deeply concerned with the particulars of our meeting. You would allow the people of this land to believe that God is speaking to them directly. I must judge this as a form of blasphemy, but since you have not deceived me, I will give you the opportunity to make amends for your sin.”

“I don’t understand, My Lord,” the woman responded with a heavy frown.

“You will show my scientists how you write in the sky. It will become common knowledge that such a clever trick will not be mistaken for an act of God.”

“But Sultan, the objective which I stated earlier is to give you the means to unite your people as they have never been untied before. A supernatural catalyst is essential to the plan.”

“It is arrogant presumption on your part to think that faith cannot prevail without your assistance.”

Sela tried to look and act as humble as possible while trying to salvage a proposal that was going all wrong.

“My Lord, I will share with you a secret now out of desperation. I come from a far away land that is hidden even from the British. My ancestors were brilliant inventors who were nearly burned at the stake for witchcraft in the 16^th Century.”

“By the Christians?” the Sultan asked pointedly.

“Indeed,” the woman confirmed easily. “They banded together and made a pilgrimage to a land where they could indulge in their intellectual pursuits in peace. But now my father sees a great danger on the horizon, but is too weak to travel, so I was sent in his place.”

“Ah—we finally get to the bones of the matter. Very well Girl, speak your concerns plainly for you have made a poor showing thus far.”

“I will then use my father’s own words, Sir and apologize for not doing so earlier. In truth I have grown up with my father’s complaints that as Western Technology progresses, so does its distain for spiritual beliefs. It is believed that Islam will never again surpass the West in the areas of science. But for that reason, the West is ultimately doomed. For as they turn their backs on God, they begin to sow the seeds of their own destruction.”

“We are not in a disagreement Young Woman, but your statements are somewhat vague,” the Sultan pointed out.

“Every Imperialist nation sends out their missionaries to teach their religions. Yet in the same cities where the holy word is preached there are also whore houses and intoxicants. These vices do not have an honored place in the free market system but they do have a place. As material things become more important, the will of God becomes less important…”

“And the western soul falls into corruption,” the Sultan said with a nod, “but this does us no harm.”

“My father speaks of the future, My Lord. Someday the weapons of the west will be devastating. Power must remain in the hands of responsible men but that will not be the case in many lands. Great power will someday belong to men who do not believe they are answerable to God. Where will it all end?”

Bello thought on that for a moment and then asked, “What is the faith of your people?”

“We do not embrace the teachings of any of the holy books,” Sela decided to admit, “but we believe that only the disciplines of Islam can temper a man’s insatiable desire to have more than his father did. We wish to sponsor your culture; to champion its teachings so that the people of this Earth will not embrace the machine and turn it into a golden calf.”

The Sultan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he said, “I suspect that you do not understand us very well. We do not fear the machine. I myself attended a steam engine demonstration last year and found it quite delightful. But I respect farsighted people, and I believe your father’s fears concerning the future have some merit. Now go fetch your sky writing machine for me to inspect. Then I will award you a position on my staff, if you truly wish to improve political matters in West Africa.”

Sela tried to hide her disappointment. She thought she would have these primitives drooling over the prospect of uniting the Moslem world. Of course there was still the possibility that the old man was just feigning apathy out of sheer habit. No doubt he would discuss this matter with some of his advisors in the near future.

“My sky writing machine is not in the city. I have it set up in the woods east of town. It is a six hour hike to get back to it, unless you could lend me a horse,” Sela explained dourly.

“I will provide you with a mounted escort,” specified the Sultan. “Members of my staff do not walk any great distance.”

Sela nodded with just a hint of gratitude. Things weren’t going the way she had expected, but this was her first day amongst the primitives and she would force herself to be patient. When she turned to leave the audience chamber Nana waited until they were side by side and then fell into the step with the unhappy visitor.

When they were well outside the chamber Sela shot the Princess a look of disapproval and asked, “Why didn’t you back me up in there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I came here to provide your brother with the keys to this whole planet and all he wants to do is make me a civil servant? I did a little homework before I approached you. You are one of the most educated women on the continent. Admittedly, that is not the highest compliment I have ever---“

“You think that anytime a Muslim woman is taught to read and write she will turn against the status quo,” Nana interrupted. “I love books and therefor I must hate the average Muslim woman’s condition. In truth I pity any woman black or white who is unhappily married, but such things transcend the area of education. I know Muslim women who never stop laughing all day long because they are happy. I have also met some Christian women who have confided to me that they are miserable, even though they went to school and have seen the world. Truly, you are a wondrous person Sela and I admire you very much, but my brother was correct when he said that you do not understand the Muslim people.”

The Romulan let out a sigh of self pity as she prepared to change back into her dusty traveling clothes. Being a “God’s send” wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be.

In English, the name of the Orion ship translated into Winged Hammer. The men of Starfleet had already begun to call it the Root Cellar. They spend the next five days collecting foods from various locals on the planet’s surface and then getting them stored away in the pirate’s cargo hold. They replicated silver coin to pay for most of the food items, but Nelson asked for and received permission to go on a buffalo hunt with what was called a Hawken rifle. During a coffee break the men were given an informal briefing on the mechanics of the primitive firearm, as Nelson stood before them somewhat gleefully decked out in fringed buckskins and a five day growth of whiskers.

“The firearm has a barrel made of low grade steel. Therefor the propellant, which is made of black powder, needs to create expanding gases that will not rupture the barrel’s interior before the projectile can leave it’s confined space,” explained Nelson.

“So what is black powder anyway?” asked Russell, who didn’t really care but wanted to be polite.

“Unlike the more modern chemical explosives bases on a nitrocellulose, black powder is made of natural chemicals ready for instant use: native sulfur, charcoal and potassium nitrate. “

“So what you’re saying is that old fashioned black powder could actually outlast the more modern synthetic replacements,” put in Russell.

“Oh yes, as long as the moisture content is controlled you don’t have to worry about shelf life. If the chemicals do get exposed to excess moisture, they can be dried out—but you better know how or you could end up detonating the stuff.”

“So the captain has given you permission to go down to the planet’s surface and kill a buffalo?” Maga asked with just a hint of disapproval.

“More than that, he’s going with me. He’s not arming himself so I’m assuming that he intends to just observe. I’m guessing that we’ll beam the carcass to the root cellar where we can process the meat using Orion equipment.”

“The Orions were in the slaughtering business?” asked Lu.

“Sort of. They make regular trips to Rigel One. There’s a life form on that planet that is similar to reindeer that they harvest when in the neighborhood.”

“Seems to me the tern harvest is somewhat inappropriate,” said Lu as he rose from his coffee table. “You’re not exactly pulling turnips.”

“No, but I will be collecting food.”

“But how efficiently? You don’t need to stalk and score a hit on green beans.”

Lu wasn’t a pure vegetarian but when he first found out that Nelson wanted to go hunting on the planet Earth, he found the idea somewhat vulgar, as did Maga.

“We aren’t in the 24^th Century anymore, Gentlemen,” Nelson stated without offense. “Not everyone on the planet is killing and skinning animals but the majority are. If we have to someday retire on the planet’s surface, you might have to learn how to clean fish, at the very least.”

“I know how to do that,” responded Russell who was a bit concerned for the crew’s morale.

It was no small misfortune to be stuck in the past for the rest of one’s life. But then at least they had the satisfaction of knowing that they had successfully defended Earth and are were still alive. Thousands of Starfleet personnel had made the ultimate sacrifice standing against Borg technology in less than a single lifetime. How could they feel sorry for themselves when they accomplished so much with their tiny ship?

“Nobody is comparing a fish to a buffalo,” said Lu, who had done quite a bit of fishing in his day. “How do you accurately target the animal’s brain without a laser aiming system at the very least?”

“Well, actually, I’ll be aiming for its heart. If I miss that, I’ll at least get the lungs and that will bring it down. But I’m going to purchase a pistol in the same caliber as the rifle, so that if the animal is still alive when I reach it, I can place a ball in its brain and end its life quickly at that time.”

“Well, I suppose that’s better than having you rip out its throat with your teeth,” Maga half joked.

“So what happens if we get a Romulan Alert while you’re down on the surface,” asked Lu.

“Let us know and we’ll be ready to beam up before you can get back into that baggy sleeved outfit of yours,” promised Neslon. “But personally I don’t think we’ll have any trouble dealing with a few surviving Romulans---if there are any. You can’t create what used to be called a Nuclear Winter with a disruptor or two. They just aren’t that powerful. Anything that could make a bigger bang would have shown up on our sensors, so whatever is hiding down there is manageable.”

“Your conversations are always on the subject of possible Romulan survivors. But what if its Borg technology that we have to worry about?” asked Lu. “We could get a sensor contact at any time and you and the captain seem to be focused on BBQs.”

Nelson rolled his eyes at that and Russell didn’t bother to hide his grin.

“It pretty much boils down to this,” said the helm officer, “if we don’t store what we need here in orbit, we’ll have to go get it with a transporter that could act up with every solar flare. The big ships have highly redundant safety features but this ship was built for short combat missions where safety is a secondary consideration. We’re talking about supply needs that will be an issue for another fifty years assuming that we die of old age. It’s not good energy management to figure on beaming down every time we’re in the mood for a chicken dinner.”

“All the more reason to have an orbital granary instead of a slaughter house,” argued Lu.

“We’ll have both, because our commanding officer is a Klingon and I don’t know how healthy he would remain eating bean sprouts for the rest of his days,” said Nelson.

“I will continue to argue that with only eight men to manage two ships, it doesn’t make sense for two men to be down on the planet’s surface on safari,” Maga quipped.

“I wasn’t cynical when Lu and the Captain went to merry old England to look for Romulan spies. Talk about a search for a needle in a haystack. Besides, the Orion ship is in fixed orbit around the moon. No problem for several months. Now if you Gentlemen will excuse me, the Captain is waiting for me outside of Louie Engle’s Trading Emporium. I best not keep him waiting any longer,” said Nelson.

“It’s winter on the continent and Klingon’s aren’t fond of the cold. You should have suggested that the captain wait for you inside the establishment,” said Lu.

“That would have started a fight,” said Nelson. “Louie doesn’t allow Indians in his place.”

The crewmen exchanged puzzled glances while the helmsman took his leave. Then it dawned on everyone that once again their captain would have to impersonate some sort of untouchable, within the 19^th Century pecking order.

“Recruiting observers in England made a lot more sense than what the captain is going to do now,” said, Lu, who felt the need to get in the last word on the subject.

“Absolutely,” said Maga. “There are vast herds of cattle all over the planet. This buffalo thing is absurd. Its almost enough to make me suspect that the time travel dilemma has unhinged our captain.”

“Well, all we can do is run our diagnostics on all the ship’s systems and wait for something to develop somewhere below. We’ve only got about fifty years I suppose.”

Maga nodded grimly at the life that had been laid out for the crew. Maybe they would be allowed some form of normal living after a while. Maybe take a wife who would be told that her husband had to travel in order to support a family. Of course relocating to a more advanced planet would be preferable, but even the slightest chance that Romulans were hiding somewhere down below negated the option of leaving. Earth’s timeline had to be guarded. This was more important than their lives, and certainly more important than their happiness. Lu went back to work, silently vowing that if he was ever offered a sampling of the buffalo meat, he would judge it inferior to any other form of protein on the menu. Hunting was a nonessential activity, and besides that, it was bad luck. Wanting to take the time and bother to kill some large beast when there were more efficient ways to collect meat products. It was just one more irritant in a situation that everyone was struggling to get comfortable with.

Admiral Kathryn Janeway had the look of a person who was carrying a burden she could not in good conscience impose on another. She didn’t much care for her job, but at least she was in a position to support her beloved ship’s captains when they needed help from higher authority. Picard could only pity her in silence. Starfleet benefited from her wisdom, but it wouldn’t be a symbiotic relationship. The woman started aging the day she left the bridge of Voyager and only an ignorant paper pusher would assume that Janeway’s career was outshining Picard’s.

The starship captain gazed respectfully at a countenance that conveyed intelligence, but also a warmth that he had never seen in a superior before.

“Jean-Luc, we appear to have a first class mystery on our hands. Regrettably its not the sort that can be worked out as a holo deck detective.”

The captain grinned sheepishly at that. How in the world did she learn about his private detective holo program?

“I take it Admiral that my report on Sela’s activities has been tied into other noteworthy occurrences.”

“Actually---no. I’m calling about the battle that took place between the U.S.S. Goshawk and a Borg cube ship. Both have disappeared completely. I’m sending you the coordinates of where they fought for the most part. The battle field was quite lengthy considering the speeds they indulged in.”

“So no trace of debris was found?” pressed the captain.

“No indications of battle damage to Goshawk,” the admiral specified. “Both ships simply vanished from long range sensors and when the Ajax got out there, it couldn’t find any explanation for the disappearance. However, I believe I have one, but I’m not prepared to discuss it with you at your present location. I’ve already dispatched Ark Royal to provide security for your tow back to starbase. Yoshi Murai is on a sabbatical so I’m placing his ship under your temporary command. Contact me when you’re back at the Neurtal Zone. Janeway out.”

Picard didn’t mind borrowing Murai’s ship, but he didn’t like the idea of doing any heavy lifting with any vessel except his own. Janeway never handed out easy assignments, so whatever she had in mind would probably do more than damage the ship’s paint job.

Picard took one last sip of his tea and then headed for the battle bridge. His thoughts were on the last known incident in which a Borg ship simply vanished along with its Federation pursuer. It was the second time Picard nearly lost his ship to Earth’s most deadly enemy. The captain gave his tunic a customary tug as he headed for the nearest turbo lift that was still safe to operate. A temporary command would mean a nervous crew, and he didn’t doubt that Ark Royal’s bridge officers would be just a tad uncomfortable with whatever assignment the admiral had in mind. The substitute captain could only shrug the whole thing off mentally. If the crew thought he was a lightning rod for trouble, they would certainly keep such feelings to themselves. With Troy missing, that would be easy enough.

Sela’s compact tricorder told her where the spare disruptor had gone. It was five meters above her in the hands of a furry little sneak thief. Her escort was waiting impatiently some one-hundred meters distant, and if she didn’t retrieve the monkey’s ill gotten gain quickly, she would have to explain to the primitive Earth beings that the skywriting machine was actually a deadly weapon. Neither weapon would function in the hands of a non Romulan. All the new type disruptors had been designed to recognize the precise body temperature of a Romulan and not function if held by any other being.

Of course the trigger mechanism had to be bypassed when Sela built her skywriting device, but by her reasoning that just made the disruptor even less of a danger in the wrong hands. Never the less she needed to get the device back and quickly. This could be done quite easily by punching a hole through the section of the tree that was shielding the thief at the moment. The beam would kill the monkey and the disruptor would then likely fall harmlessly to the ground. Yes, that was the logical course of action to take under the circumstances.

Sela stood ready to fire for a few moments, but something kept her from pushing the firing stud. Then with a heavy sigh of frustration she stuck her weapon back inside the folds of her garment and proceeded to climb the tree that gave the monkey the illusion of safety. When the furry little thief realized that his sanctuary was being invaded, he squawked out in protest and was about to leap to a branch belonging to a neighboring tree. But just as he was about to do so, Sela’s universal translator got within range of the Patas, and then Sela did a most remarkable thing.

“Trade,” the woman said to the monkey.

The translating device then issued a chirping sound that only made sense to the Patas. The woodland creature peeked around the curvature of the tree and was amazed to find a hairless giant staring up at him from only two meters distance.

“Trade?” inquired the monkey.

Sela then took out her tricorder and deftly punched in a command. The console displayed a number of brightly blinking lights that she was certain would catch the creature’s eye.

“Trade,” Sela repeated while gripping a tree branch with one hand and offering the light box with the other.

The monkey’s head tilted to one side as if considered the hairless one’s proposition. The blinking light box was truly more beautiful than what he had taken. But it was not easy to trust a hairless one. They made all sorts of unpleasant noises and were constantly burning and smoking things with fire. They were very strange beings as well as being ugly.

Still…

Very slowly the monkey inched closer and closer to the larger creature beneath him. The hairless one was now like a statue, patiently waiting for the transaction to take place. When the monkey grabbed the tricorder the larger creature remained immobile, giving the Patas ample time to do the correct thing. With reluctance, once the monkey had the tricorder in his possession he then handed over the disruptor pistol. Sela then descended the tree and took up a position directly below the monkey. Even though she now had a clear shot at him her second pistol was tucked away with its twin.

She smiled up at the monkey and observed him with a just a hint of mirth. A few minutes later the monkey began to voice its concern regarding a particular of the box. The box was transferred from one hair hand to the other and back again. Suddenly the box was dropped with an exclamation of pain and Sela caught it and quickly deactivated the overload that was in progress. The Romulan then placed the tricorder above her sash where it would cool down soon enough.

“If only humans were as easy to fool as you, my hairy little friend,” Sela declared with a broad grin.

The monkey screamed out in protest and commenced to urinate down in Sela’s direction.

“If I had the time I’d take you with me, train you to be a proper pet and then dress you in a Starfleet uniform,” said the human while backing swiftly away from the droplets.

Sela was pretty sure the monkey had missed her by a mile, but she would change into her court attire as soon as she got back to the palace. As she marched out of the woods her mind was racing with ideas to win the Sultan over. She was having a hell of a time trying to understand the man and had concluded that she would have to work on the old boy’s advisors in order to get her way. Surely they would better appreciate what she had to offer the Sultanate.

The ride back to the palace was a bit awkward since she needed to haul the robotic base of her contraption on the saddle in front of her. She wasn’t about to trust any of the guards with the mechanism and her equestrian experiences were limited to holo deck simulations.

(Somewhat limited in authenticity.)

Still, her arms and legs were strong and therefor she had what it took to ride incorrectly, much to the amusement of her escort. The four man security detail was armed only with swords and the main reason they were with this strange woman was so that she would not get into trouble riding about like some sort of idiot Christian missionary woman. Females of that sort tended to disappear when traveling alone and in a highly conspicuous manner. Since women didn’t normally rider horses in West Africa, even a woman with dyed skin and hair could get into trouble pretty fast.

Sela, being the over achiever that she was, contributed to that theory while the escort group was still on the outskirts of the modest African metropolis. Buildings were well spaced apart in that suburban section of Binji; so much so that the occasional herder could drive a small flock of animals through that quarter of the city with only a few pedestrian protests. Visibility was good for any bodyguard on horseback, but Sela’s guards had become too occupied with her amusing method of staying in her saddle. Four grins promptly vanished when archers materialized from behind a public well and caused a woman to begin screaming.

The guards were only armed with swords and they had never gone up against men with projectile weapons. Three out of four the horsemen were hit by arrows while still blundering forward. One arrow missed and gave the rider the opportunity to bring his steed about and grab hold of the bridle belonging to Sela’s mount. Three seconds later another volley of arrows was launched and two of them struck the last rider in the back. The man died in the saddle trying to lead a rider less mount to safety. Sela had abandoned her horse when she realized that she was the guest of honor at an ambush.

Drawing her disruptor she assumed a prone firing position and waited for the archers to advance. It was a very short wait, with her looking so helpless on the parched dry earth. Sela gambled that most to of the onlookers were focused on the bowmen, since they were the only ones dealing out death. Sela fired very short bursts from her weapon so as to not display any bizarre looking energy beams. All four bowmen were down before they could even comprehend that it was their intended victim who had ruined them. All four died of energy burns because the Romulan wanted no first hand witnesses to her martial prowess.

She then rose to her feet and scanned the dusty road for the skywriting base block that had fallen in her haste to abandon her horse. Once her property was located she made a beeline for it. She would carry her creation to the Sultan’s residence and report her misfortune. Perhaps then she would have more success convincing the Sultan that in such a perilous realm, the establishment of supreme power would bring an increase in order.

Sadly, such a notion would not benefit the visiting Alien today. A decrepit old man in a large robe was hobbling along in front of her. He was not the first the first pedestrian to come within a stone’s throw of the disguised Romulan since the ambush, but he was the first to come within reach. Sela side stepped the man; her mind racing with the details of what had just transpired. She was still focused on the events when the old man’s walking staff became a blur of motion and Sela found herself looking at stars she would never observe in a spaceship.

As she lay in the dust a second man who’s name was Solomon rushed up and gave the old man a violent shove.

“Blast you Gabriel, how many times must I tell you not to hit them in the head!?” he demanded to know.

“That box thing shielded my target,” explained a man who was not truly as decrepit as he had appeared. “In any case, you should be praising me for being able to intercept our quarry after so much went wrong. What in the name of almighty Allah happened to the archers? I saw only their victims escorting this woman. Were there others, armed with dart launchers?”

“I don’t know,” Solomon growled testily. “Like you I was too far away to see what happened at the well. I thought I saw the woman holding something shiny in her hand as the archers fell, but that last guard took her too far from where she was supposed to be grabbed. Never mind. Let us salvage this situation and hope your clubbing has no lasting effect on the bitch.”

“It will not. I know my trade,” boasted the snatcher as he helped load the unconscious woman onto the other man’s broad shoulders.

“That woman you smacked last month would beg to differ if she still had the wits to complain with,” said the larger man. “She is fit now only to serve the carnal needs of degenerates, and that will go against your soul.”

“Degenerates always seem to come up with a great deal of coin, and a woman must eat even if she cannot be ransomed because we did not learn her name. When will you accept that we live in an imperfect world? Besides which I do not hear you complaining about how four of Sayyida’s men are dead and their families will no longer have their own homes.”

“Sayyida will compensate the survivors if this prize brings sufficient coin; and it should. She is a white woman in disguise after all. Only a woman of high position would be playing such a game with strange devices in her possession.”

“That is so,” admitted Solomon, “but when arrows fly and women scream, there is always one rat faced informer who will step forward for coin.”

“Then let us be off while the dead draw the crowds and the flies,” advised the man with the staff.

Worf’s eyes were fairly aglow as he viewed the specimen from a prone position. The North American bison was a fine display of food on the hoof. The Klingon was quite certain that if he were to stand beside the animal he would not be able to look over the back of the creature as he could the average horse. The quarry weighed fifteen-hundred pounds if it weighed an ounce, and Worf would certainly find a place to hang the horns in his quarters.

“I make the range to be one-hundred and sixty meters,” Worf said in a low voice. “Do you intend to make your shot from this cover?”

“No,” answered Nelson. “The brush thins out ahead but I need to get closer. I’m not experienced enough to make an ethical kill from this distance.”

A celestial boom was followed by a role of thunder that waved off to a bleak clouded horizon. The Klingon could smell rain coming. For him it was a good omen, but he wasn’t sure if it would bode ill for the man with the rifle. Prairie storms were often accompanied by strong winds which in turn could cause a rifle ball to deviate from its set trajectory. The huge herbivore snorted at the changing weather. Storms were an unwelcome distraction that could compromise an animal’s ability to hear and smell predators. This was especially significant to bison that might be stationed on the perimeter of the herd, as was the case with this animal.

The two humanoids crept forward on their bellies. Nelson cradled the big twelve pound rifle on his forearms while he elbowed his way across the dried out grass. The shooter stopped when he was seventy meters from the target. The bison began to show increased nervousness and Nelson wasn’t sure if the approaching storm was to blame or his own neophyte stalking techniques. Worf had taught the helmsman how to crawl, but the newly acquired rifle made a big difference. Anyway, the shot would be made here, while the winds first began to pick up.

Nelson awkwardly scrounged up a tiny percussion cap and seated it on the ignition port known as a nipple. Then he extended the long gun out in front of him and when he cocked the ancient weapon, the ears of the buffalo twitched nervously in response. More rumblings heralded in the first heavy rain drops and the hunter paused in his aiming just long enough to mate a slow exhale with a steady trigger squeeze.

The wooden shoulder stock pressed deeper into the man’s clavicle area and the crack of the black powder explosion left Nelson’s ears ringing as both men rose to their feet. The Klingon presumed quite correctly that the shooter would reload for another shot. Apparently, such a course of action would be required. The buffalo was still on his feet. In fact where Nelson was now standing there was no indication that his shot had hit home. The bison seemed frozen in time, but Worf’s keen eye told him that the lead ball had in fact gone into a lung.

Now it began to rain fairly strong and the shooter had to shield the front of his rifle barrel long enough to get a good pour of powder down the bore and a patched ball so the charge wouldn’t be corrupted. While his ramrod was struggling to get past the powder residue left behind from the last shot, the wounded bison suddenly came to the conclusion that the enormous pain in its body had something to do with the two legged creatures that had rose up from the brush.

Fueled by a desire to strike back, the prairie beast charged at the man who had created fire, thunder and pain. Nelson’s profanities were both historically correct and in keeping with the occasion. Worf on the other hand didn’t say anything. He just sprinted forward with his d’k tahg battle knife in his huge fist. Nelson couldn’t believe his eyes, which could only afford a fleeting glance at his captain’s back. The ramrod was dropped without care as soon as it cleared the barrel. The next percussion cap went on fast enough but to Nelson it seemed to take an eternity.

By the time the weapon was shouldered Nelson found himself aiming at a mountain of hide and muscle that was trying to drive one horn into a creature that had somehow managed to side step the bison’s charge and score a deep slash against the bison’s shoulder. Nelson forced himself to slow down for an instant, knowing that to shoot in haste with a single shot firearm was more often than not a lethal mistake. The rifle bucked a second time and the buffalo snorted crimson from another well placed hit. Still it remained on its feet and staggered toward the man with the incomprehensible pain stick.

Worf let out a roar and drove his knife into thick hide just above Nelson’s first bullet hole.

“Get clear!” shouted Nelson while drawing his .40 caliber pocket pistol which was useless except at point blank range.

The helmsman cautiously approached an animal that had fallen on the very spot where Worf had been standing a moment ago. A brain shot would now be administered, since the downed buffalo was still very much alive. Nelson extended his shooting arm when he was four feet away but the Klingon commanded him to hold. A moment later the d’k tahg drew a red line across the main artery in the neck.

“A bullet would have been faster,” mumbled the human as the bison slowly ceased its animation.

“You stress minor issues,” responded the Klingon, who licked the knife blade clean with his tongue.

Nelson let out a sigh and went to retrieve his discarded rifle. When he turned around he noted that his captain was already making the first incision necessary in order to disembowel the carcass.

“We don’t have to do that in the rain sir. Plenty of labor saving devices waiting for us in the Orion cargo hold.”

The Klingon ignored the human and positioned himself beside the bison’s belly. He removed the top portion of his buckskin costume since he did not wish to get it bloodstained. He put away his battle dagger and took out a knife with a much shorter blade. He then cut the rectum so he could pull it out a few inches and tie it off with some cord he had on hand. Then just below the breastbone he worked his blade under the hide and skin and proceeded to make the long hard cut down to the pelvis.

“Sir, really---since I shot the animal its only right that I should be the one to dress it out,” Nelson protested.

“The kill was a joint effort,” Worf said as he worked, “and you would be making more work for yourself if you were to do this onboard a ship. Let us feed the land that gave rise to this magnificent creature.”

Nelson gazed at the dark and drenching heavens with a forlorn expression. Then he removed his white linen shirt and stood ready to help with the grittiest part of the chore, which was to reach up into the chest cavity and extract the heart and lungs after cutting the esophagus and windpipe.

“Sir---the other members of the crew were wondering if maybe we could live in another star system if we could first eliminate any chance of a Romulan presence on this planet.”

“And how do we accomplish that, Lieutenant?”

“Well sir, since the Goshawk is designed for combat and not scientific exploration, our tri-band modulators let us down with every solar flare. We’re simply not designed to search the surface of a planet for an enemy that doesn’t want to be found. But if we had the planet’s atmosphere to shield us from the sun spot activities, our sensors would be much more efficient.”

“But we would have to fly the ship at an altitude that would make it visible to the local populous. To thoroughly search the planet, we would have to cover many thousands of miles in such a manner,” said the Klingon while holding a large heart in his hand.

“Yes sir, but Earth is blessed with a great deal of water. If we did most of our flying along coastal regions and over the main rivers of the planet, we could generate enough fog cover to conceal us.”

Worf nodded slightly and said, “We will hold a staff meeting on this subject after the meat has been placed in storage. It is likely that we would have to implement your plan before we could leave this star system. But I would like to point out Lieutenant, that a quarry is most dangerous when it is cornered. If any Romulans did survive to reach Earth, they will feel compelled to take some form of drastic action if they believe that we are just one step away from capturing them. If we fly over them, even with fog cover, they would be able to identify us with the simplest of tricorders. That is why I would prefer to locate our quarry through convert means if possible.”

“If we had people looking after our interests in every major country on the planet, and if we had a fully manned starship to oversee things with, your plan would be much safer than the one the crew wishes to put forth Captain. But how long can eight men fish for Romulan sharks in a space age PT Boat kept in high orbit?”

The Klingon rose from his labors with crimson smeared hands.

“I presume that a PT Boat was a combat vessel with limited recourses.”

“Yes sir, and they didn’t stray as far as we have.”

Suddenly Worf’s combadge began to chirp and the Klingon tapped it with a part of his forearm that wasn’t covered in blood.

“Report,” he stated evenly.

“Good news Captain. We’re getting that rooftop signal that you were hoping for. Lt. Lu is putting his diplomat costume back on and will be waiting for you,” said Russel.

“Acknowledged. Beam me directly to my quarters,” ordered the captain.

The Klingon quickly scooped up his deer skin shirt and said, “I apologize for leaving you with so much work remaining, Lieutenant.”

“Not your fault sir. The BBQs will be well worth it.”

Worf nodded slightly to the fellow meat eater before disappearing into a shimmer of light.

Not long thereafter Alfred Potter breathed a sigh of relief as the Asian handed over the remaining gem stones. When he received word of skywriting from a British Moroccan office, he recalled instantly those instructions conveyed to him by the strange Asian some weeks earlier. But he found it difficult to believe that by burning flammables on the roof, he could effectively signal the Asian to return. Now that Lu was back, the British bureaucrat had a few questions to ask.

“I nearly rejected the report when it crossed an associate’s desk,” confessed Potter. “After all, what is the likelihood that a gentleman from China would be interested in some bizarre story coming out of Morocco? But you did say that you were interested in stories that border on the supernatural; and I felt that this one fairly qualifies.”

“These non Muslims that supposedly witnessed the phenomenon; would they be available for questioning?” asked Lu.

“Not in Europe of course. The French doctor is still in Morocco and the Swiss scholar would have moved on by now to Egypt. I’m inclined to believe that both men were competent in their separate testimonies but the important thing is that they were two of many hundreds of spectators.”

Worf suddenly adjusted a fold in his costume and exposed a blood stain that had clung to his right hand.

“Did your bodyguard suffer a confrontation in our city?” Potter inquired with honest concern.

“A wild dog,” explained Lu.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Let us hope that the mongrel was disease free.”

“Indeed, since my servant intends to have it for supper tonight,” responded the smaller of the two foreigners.

Lu then bowed deeply to the mute Englishman and proceeded out of the building with the Klingon in tow. The Englishman was displeased by their abrupt departure, but they had their copy of the reports and he had his precious stones and nothing else truly mattered. Once they were outside Lu was given an opportunity to explain what he meant by that parting remark.

“The Koreans used to eat dog. I just figured that Chinese who travel for a living would probably have highly adaptable palates.”

“Your statement was irrelevant to the subject at hand” said the captain. “I am inclined to suspect that you were making a joke concerning my dietary practices.”

As they proceeded along on damp cobblestones, Lu realized that he might have unwittingly crossed the line with his Klingon commander.

“Well sir, as my mother used to say, we can laugh or cry. I don’t doubt that you would prefer to have us all laughing. After all, our situation requires that we keep our chins up.”

“That statement requires elaboration. I have already ascertained that I have a morale problem on my hands, but I would appreciate specific input so I will know how best to deal with it.”

The Asian let out a sigh and stopped walking. He didn’t enjoy talking morale with the captain, but at least under this circumstance the Klingon wouldn’t get the idea that his men were ganging up on him.

“Sir, no one blames you for the fact that we’re stuck in the past. Also no one blames you for choosing to stay in this star system. But we don’t understand why we are stalking up on food to last us years when we should be making more aggressive efforts to hunt down Romulans.”

“Yes, Mr. Nelson has conveyed to me your desire to conduct scanning runs at low altitude.”

“Sir, for all we know the Romulans could be just a few steps away from creating a nuclear winter on this planet. How could you go off on a buffalo hunt with so much hanging over our heads? We’re not complaining that there’s only eight of us, but we feel we’re being stretched kind of thin what with buffalo hunts, visits to corrupt bureaucrats and stealing ships from Orions.”

Worf’s expression was deadpan. He was far too emotionally secure in his position as captain to allow Lu’s critiques to affect him.

“Do not take time to change out of your costume. Report immediately to the bridge and have Mr. Nelson take the ship out of this star system. Then begin scanning for evidence of Romulan energy signatures. I will remain in my cabin until you have something to report.”

Lu blinked twice and then asked, “Energy that originated from this planet?”

“That is correct.”

The Asian pondered his instructions until the two Starfleet officers were well enough hidden to beam away without being witnessed.

“The skywriting,” Lu said the instant they rematerialized on the ship’s transport pad.

“Yes Mr. Lu. I look forward to the conclusions that are forthcoming,” said the Klingon as he tapped his comlink.

For the crew, the lights would just now begin to come on.

Janeway downed the last of her coffee and brought the image of Picard up on her monitor.

“Alright Jean- Luc, here is the situation as I see it: I believe the Borg cube ship created a temporal vortex and the Goshawk followed it in. I am also inclined to believe that Goshawk ultimately won the battle, but is now stuck somewhere in the past.”

“But Admiral, there are no planetary bodies in the vicinity. We have reason to believe that a temporal vortex cannot be created without the gravitational field of a planet.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention Jean- Luc. I’m guessing that the Borg indulged themselves in a bit of experimentation born of desperation. Give the hive queen her due, she always was a pretty good problem solver.”

“Indeed. I was very foolish to think that just because her physical body was destroyed aboard the Enterprise, her memories would die with her. I can only hope that Commander Data’s memories will survive and resurface in a similar fashion.”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” the admiral said with a quick nod. “Is there any chance that B-4 could come around in time to help us with this time travel problem?”

The captain gave that polite smile of his that he reserved for people who weren’t quite up to speed with what was going on.

“Admiral---we’re sailing in uncharted waters here. I have reason to believe that B-4 is very much like an amnesia victim who very slowly regains his memory. I am optimistic, but this could take years. It can’t be rushed, and certainly not controlled. But I’m thinking there may be another way to gain the navigational techniques that we require…”

“Ambassador Spock,” Janeway put in.

“Yes. If I could manage to contact him—“

“No Jean Luc. We have operatives that can get a message to Ambassador Spock in an emergency such as this one. In fact it will work even better now that the Romulan security forces are focused on your ship, as I’m sure they are. All you have to do is return to Romulus and look as mysterious as possible. I have no idea how the ambassador will make contact with you, but assuming that he does, you are authorized to do whatever is necessary to solve the mystery of the disappearing ships. The fact that we’re all still here suggests that Goshawk did not allow any change in history to take place. Never the less, I want this mystery solved to our mutual satisfaction.”

“Admiral, there IS the possibility that Ambassador Spock will refuse to help me time travel the old fashioned way. Without Data, that would leave us high and dry.”

“He’ll help,” the woman said with confidence.

“I’m not so certain. The Ambassador has become something of a maverick since disappearing on the Romulan home world. He leaves us wondering if he’s free, or possibly imprisoned and victimized by a state of the art mind probe. Who else in the Federation could leave us guessing like this month after month?”

“If the Romulans had Spock, a certain lady with blonde hair would be clucking about it,” responded Janeway. “Her prejudices against Starfleet are as constant as the northern star. It is a weakness that has served us on more than one occasion and I am grateful for it.”

“I’m not,” Picard stated openly.

“I understand my friend,” the admiral replied softly, “but if you meet up with her again in the next day or so, be sure and mention that a Borg cube was spotted in the Neutral Zone. Then observe her reaction very carefully.”

Picard’s expression suddenly became very thoughtful.

“You know Admiral, it might be a good idea if I paid a visit to sickbay and allowed Dr. Nakosi to do a brain scan.”

“To look for what, Jean-Luc?”

“A loss of memory. It is just possible that I have already touched on the subject of a Borg cube with Sela.”

“What makes you suspicious of that?”

“An upset stomach from some Romulan wine. Cut for human consumption I’m ashamed to say. Trouble is I don’t remember what happened afterward. I thought it was the wine, but now I’m considering another possibility.”

“It would be a bit unnerving to discover that our friend Sela has already messed with you,” said the admiral.

“Better that than for a Frenchman to have to admit that he can no longer handle his wine,” responded the European.

The blonde haired Romulan woke to find herself tied hand and foot less than a meter from a stout piece of wood that featured a half moon surface curved downward. There were chop marks on the wood as well as brown stains. On the other side of the functional block stood a warrior wearing loose fitting clothes and a face covering that hid everything but the eyes. Sela didn’t pay much attention to the eyes, she was too preoccupied with the two handed executioner sword that the warrior cradled over a forearm that was protected by leather greaves.

Her abductors were present, but she really didn’t have any memory of either one of them. All she knew was that she was in a modest sized room that contained no furniture. There was nothing but the chopping block and a liberal amount of sand that had been spread around the block to absorb large quantities of blood.

The man who had struck her with his walking staff towered over her on her left and was the first to speak, in a tone that was flat and business like.

“We would like to know what your business is with Muhammed Bello.”

“I am trying very hard to make him the most powerful man on the continent, but he is somewhat lacking in the area of ambition,” Sela stated honestly.

“What are those strange objects that you were carrying with you on your horse?” asked the man who had carried her to an empty house.

Sela glanced to her right for an instant and came up with a less than brilliant tactical assessment. She was tied hand and foot on a stone floor with three men ready to chop her head off. She would either successfully bribe the human bastards or she would die. That was about the long and the short of it.

They are components for a skywriting machine. I thought that Bello could use it to assemble a large following for something that has become outdated.”

“And what would that be?” asked Gabriel.

“Jihad.”

“Exerted effort,” Gabriel said as if for the benefit of the woman.

“Exertion with the benefit of technology,” stated the prisoner fearlessly.

“So this is western science?”

“Not really. That is, no one in Europe would be able to identify the scientific principles employed by the device. Everyone will think it is the work of God. At least, they won’t be able to prove different.”

“That sounds very much like blasphemy. You have just implied that Muhammed Bello is reluctant to partake in your witchcraft. What exactly has he said thus far?”

“He is not ignorant enough to think me a witch, but he understands that what I propose for him will change his world, and that concerns him.”

The man on Sela’s left nodded slightly and said, “We witnessed your skywriting efforts. It was most impressive. So is your ability to speak with us through some unnatural means. Truly, your devices are of great value. We must know how you came by them. Which government do you serve?”

“I serve no government. I am a free agent,” said the woman.

“Nonsense. I was only jesting about the witchcraft, but we will not be told that you built your wondrous devices without a government sponsorship. Tell us who you serve or we will kill you here and now.”

“I don’t think so,” Sela responded with open contempt. “You just got done acknowledging that I’m extremely valuable. Why would you kill me?”

“We cannot make plans based on what is told to us by a liar. But if we kill you and then allow the European news services to learn that we have the skywriting device, the appropriate party will then send a representative that will deal with us honorably. We are tired of British cannon and white men in uniforms. We are more tired of it than you could possibly imagine.”

Sela was of course in a most unenviable position. Telling her captors the truth was simply not an option, and while she was no stranger to subterfuge, she didn’t have enough data of this facet of history to come up with a really first class lie.

“Would you prefer to deal with the French?” she asked after pausing for effect. “They are the ones responsible for the skywriting technology.”

“To offset British control?”

“Of course. If the people of this region were to get an extra large dose of religion, they just might decide that they should push the British infidels into the sea.”

“Yes, that would certainly hurt the British, but it would not enable the French to come in and take England’s place,” pointed out the other captor.

“Muhammed Bello would open key seaports for the French.”

“Why should he?” both men said at once.

“Because with my skywriting machine, I can not only convince the masses that God is speaking to them---I can also convince them that God wants Bello to rule this land.”

“Enough blasphemy! Enough lies! You would have Bello pretend to be a prophet until the inventors of the machine declare themselves. Then Bello would be executed and you would no doubt run off with whatever fortune you would have him pay you!”

With that the outraged Solomon dragged the prisoner to the execution block where he then held the woman immobile. The swordsman took his position and raised the heavy blade over his head. This definitely looked like the end of the road for Sela and she could only fume at this final form of human idiocy that would do her in.

“Well, I can die just as bravely as she did,” the prisoner muttered to herself.

The executioner waited to see if the prisoner was going to elaborate on that, and when she did not the sword was lowered to hip liver and the shemagh face covering. Sela was allowed to turn her head and gaze upward. When she did she got one hell of a surprise. There standing over her was a woman. Her eyes were somewhat small and lacked any hint of femininity, but the smooth skin and delicate mouth were in contrast, and a second later the voice decided the matter once and for all.

“Who is this she you are referring to?” asked the woman.

“You Muslims---are certainly full of surprises,” Sela responded while feeling a bit light headed.

“You Christians are not all that difficult to surprise. Now answer my question. You still remain alive at my whim.”

The prisoner let out a sigh and said, “I was thinking of my biological mother, who you probably would have approved of.”

“She was a brigand?”

“No, just a woman who was willing to fight and die for the people who fed and clothed her.”

“I feed and clothe myself,” responded the woman with the sword. “You think my sword is at the disposal of these men. In fact, they take orders from me.”

“Surprise number two,” Sela muttered. “So am I as good as dead because I’ve been shown your face?”

“No. Many people have seen my face, and many of them will continue to see it in their nightmares. I am Sayyida; blessings be to the first woman with that name.”

“Oh, you were named after someone of historical importance?” Sela asked, wishing only to get everyone’s mind off of neck chopping.

“If you are going to live in this region, it would be fitting that you learn something of the people who have influenced it. Following the death of her husband in 1515, the original Sayyida became the last Islamic woman to legitimately hold the title of al Hurra (queen) in the northern Moroccan city of Tetouan.”

“I see. Well---those are very large shoes to fill I don’t doubt. But I’m just wondering why you’re having so much trouble deciding to spare my life. After all, the ransoming of white women is a lucrative occupation and as a female skywriter, I must be worth something---by your own line of reasoning—“

“Four of my men are dead. They were burned, as if stabbed by white hot irons. I have examined your skywriting machinery and I admit I do not see how it possibly could have contributed to those men’s deaths. But you were nearby and your escort served only as victims. Since my play acting with a chopping block only brings forth memories of your mother, we will dispense with that game. But I’m not going to make any attempt to ransom you until I find out how those men died and precisely what your business is with the traitor Bello.”

“Why do you call him a traitor? I was given to understand that he is an honorable man,” said the prisoner.

“If he were a true defender of the faith he would have taken your head by now. No matter what I may learn from you in the future, you are a blasphemer and a man in his position should not have tolerated it.”

“Right now I’m more interested in what constitutes your position. What are you exactly, and why should I tell you anything if you feel that I warrant a real execution sooner or later?”

“Bello himself is nothing, but his sister Nanna has become far too familiar with women like yourself. Many people believe that our local leaders suffer from cultural corruption. You yourself thought you could seduce him with a machine that would make it appear as though Allah himself had selected Bello for greatness. I represent a growing number of Muslims who want the British out of this land. They want Bello and Nanna replaced with leaders who would not even grant an audience to the likes of you. The people shall learn the truth of these times as soon as I learn it. You will not be fed until you come forth with an explanation as to what happened to my four men. My people inside Bello’s residence will learn what they can. For your sake, that information had better match what you tell me after a good fasting.”

Sela didn’t protest. She as being given time to come up with a plan and at the moment that was exactly what she needed. She was blindfolded and taken from the house. After twenty minutes of being lead through the streets she was brought into another house where she was locked into a small backroom that featured a barred skylight. There was straw to sleep on and a large bucket in the corner. None of that concerned her. She had come up with a plan of action about halfway to the house. Now she just needed to wait a couple of days in order to make things look right.

All in all, she was really developing a dislike for the planet Earth.

As soon as Goshawk reached the outer perimeter of the solar system it swiftly circumnavigated the home system with tactical sensors that were now unfettered by solar activity. Twelve minutes into the giant arch Russell’s eyes widened in surprise and faced his captain.

“Sir, you instructed me to scan for Romulan energy signatures. Well, I’ve found one, but it sure doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do you have Mr. Russell?”

“Romulan disruptor beams sir. But, I’m guessing that they originated from a hand weapon that had some sort of modulation problem. The shooter must have been on Earth, maybe trying to signal a comrade by shooting in the air. I don’t know sir---its hard to make any sense of it.”

“The modulation being used would be appropriate for writing condensed water vapor messages in the sky,” said the captain, “but what matters now Mr. Russel is that we can back track on those energy beams and calculate where on the planet they came from. That is your task.”

Russell’s grin was huge as he began his computations. After a few moments he turned from his station to beg a question.

“Sir, when you beamed down to old England with Lu, what was your estimate for success?”

“Impossible to calculate,” responded the captain, “but most certainly the odds were against us.”

“Yet you bothered with it even though we would have our hands full with the Orion ship. No disrespect intended sir, I’m just curious how all this has fallen together.”

“Luck, Mr. Russell. Anyone who tells you it has nothing to do with our occupation is either a liar or a fool. Many things hinge on luck.”

Russell threw a smirk at Lu and said, “So you were capable of optimism, even after being thrown back in time.”

“Oh yes. When I was a child I was nearly killed when the Romulans slaughtered the inhabitants of my childhood home world of Khitomer. My life would have amounted to very little if Sergey and Helena Rozhenko hadn’t taken me into their lives. Then of course there was the great good fortune of serving on the Enterprise.”

“And when you were given command of another ship of this class, you survived the battle of Wolf 359,” put in Lu, who didn’t object to eating a bit of crow.

“As for being here in the past,” continued the captain, “I do not intend to have this crew orbiting Earth until old age forces us into some sort of improvised retirement. When our business with the Romulans is concluded, you Mr. Russell will take this ship to Mullana where the seven of you may live out the remainder of your lives.

“Leaving you behind on the planet’s surface sir?” Lu asked incredulously.

“No, I shall remain on the Orion ship for a time before beaming down to Gravette Island. You gentlemen will have to see to it that the helm controls are functional enough for me to aim the ship at the sun before I use my emergency transporter to abandon ship.”

“What purpose will you serve by staying behind sir?” asked Russell.

“It is possible that Captain Picard will solve the riddle of our disappearance. He might then come after us.”

“I can imagine that sir,” put in Lu, “but he would have no way of knowing what time period he would need to visit.”

“Perhaps not. But the Romulans have perpetrated a phenomenon that is now a matter of record. It might provide the captain with the clue he requires.”

“There is a problem with that theory sir,” piped up Maga, “the last world war on Earth caused a great many historical documents to be destroyed. Historians could not calculate how much data was lost during the great upheaval.”

“Yes, but the Romulans played their little trick on a Muslim world, and the Muslims relied heavily on oral accounts that might have survived the carnage wrought on the computer age. In any case, I choose to give Picard the chance to find me. If that does not happen, I will dispose of the ship and become an Islander. However there is also the possibility that Picard might appear and think to inspect Gravette Island, since we almost made it our home while combating the Borg.”

“What about our Orion prisoner sir?” asked Lu.

“You should not have any trouble beaming him back down to his home world. Just be certain to approach Orion from the opposite direction of Earth.”

“Well, if I can trust these calculations, our search grid is Northwest Africa,” said Russell.

“We would have had more luck with England,” Lu pointed out.

“I disagree. Romulans might have been able to hide themselves amongst Caucasians, but amongst the Muslims and black Christians I believe they will be challenged. At least I hope so. We will conduct our scans at night. Let us retrieve Mr. Nelson from the Orion storage facility and prepare for the search. Full impulse back into the system Mr. Jackson.”

Sela looked like a human, and while she hated to admit it, she tended to act like one more often than not. But she had inherited a few interesting traits from her father, and one of them was the ability to bring her life signs down to absolute minimum much like the Vulcans could do. On a damaged shuttle craft, or even on the deck of a Romulan warbird, the ability to survive on severely reduced oxygen could spell the difference between life and death. The real trick was to be able to come back out of it without medical assistance.

Sela had a theory: if her captors couldn’t detect a pulse on her person, they would not immediately conclude that she was dead and would refrain from burying her until they observed the first signs of decomposition. Even if this were not true, they would have to transport her somewhere for the purposes of burial and hopefully she would regain consciousness before then. She waited until it was almost time to be fed and then made herself as comfortable as possible on the floor. It took only five minutes to reduce her bodily functions to near hibernation state, and sure enough, when she was examined her captors concluded that she was passing through the portal of death.

One hour and twenty minutes later she was drawn out of her deep sleep by a loud noise over her. It was the sound of a hammer striking a nail. It brought on confusion, because when she opened her eyes there was still darkness and barrier all about her. Then she realized the awful truth as a second nail was driven into pine wood. With all her strength she pushed straight up and a crack of light entered her coffin. She ceased pushing and began to strike the wood with the palm of an open hand.

Suddenly the lid opened and Solomon, Gabriel and a terrified carpenter watched a woman spring out of the pine box with amazing speed.

Solomon was the first to recover from the surprise and said, “Do not be so swift to leave the coffin. We must take you from this place and since the neighbors saw a coffin enter this house, it is important that they see a coffin leave it as well.”

“I’m not getting back into that,” Sela stated emphatically.

“You are a white person. You are thought of as a Christian, whether you truly believe or not. We use a coffin because the Sultan wants Christian burial practices honored when it is appropriate. But in this case it is simply a place for you to hide from prying eyes. Now that we know you are not dead will shall not actually bury you.”

Sela shook her head vehemently. When she had been five years old she had hidden in a cargo container in order to play a joke on a friend of hers. But her friend had enjoyed the last laugh by locking the container and not opening it again until her father’s house servant heard a rapping sound from the next room. Sela had felt no fear in the life pod because she knew how to open the hatch. But it was difficult to place her trust in strangers when it came to things like coffins, so when Gabriel took hold of her arm, she responded with a fury that rose quickly and swept her surroundings in the form of fists and booted feet.

Gabriel tolerated the fact that he was under the command of Sayyida. But when he felt the vicious (and surprisingly strong) blows of a white woman, his anger erupted into something comparable to Sela’s. Solomon then made the mistake of getting in between the two combatants. Because Sela was raised on a planet with slightly thinner air, her aerobic stamina was outstanding. Her method of combat was too throw as many punches and kicks as possible; one after another until the combination of blows took effect. Gabriel perceived as much after the fifth blow and became determined to put an end to the offensive by rushing in and turning the fight into a wrestling match.

Sela had learned many years ago that when combating a larger stronger opponent, you need to keep the opponent at a proper distance. So when the man tried to rush in Sela sidestepped and in the process put Solomon where he took a punch meant for Gabriel. The middle aged man got his nose broken but at least it gave Gabriel his chance to get a good grip on Sela’s clothing. Sela brought her knee up between Gabriel’s legs and the pain almost made the man retch. But by then the carpenter had gotten over his initial shock and decided to lend a hand. He was no warrior but he didn’t need to be one.

Taking his trusty hammer he brought it down on the woman’s right clavicle. Sela gasped in pain and Gabriel had his hands around her throat an instant later. He squeezed with all the anger that was in him until the woman went limp and dropped to the floor. Solomon continued to nurse his injury while bent over. The carpenter looked at his hammer with a frightened expression. He had never committed an act of violence in his life, yet now he had contributed to the death of a white woman who might be of important to someone of high rank.

“Submissive women are a gift from Allah,” Gabriel half muttered to himself, “but spitfires are a product of the Devil.”

“Well, we did not plan for it to be so, but that particular brand of bitch has gone to her reward,” responded Solomon while still holding his nose between two open hands. “If there was any doubt of her condition, it has been settled.”

Gabriel checked the woman for a pulse and found none. Still, his expression remained doubtful.

“She appears to be dead. But she appeared to be dead before. I think we should wait to see if she stiffens up or not.”

“And if she is still alive, do you wish to confess to Sayyida that we almost buried the woman alive and then were nearly overpowered by her?”

“You exaggerate. I was reluctant to strike a woman of importance. But I was never close to losing the fight with her,” Gabriel stated with certainty. “Sayyida knows my worth as a fighting man.”

“But she does not know the worth of a skywriting machine? When I saw the words God Is Great covering the heavens I was more excited than the first time I saw my wife naked. I can easily imagine how most of the goat herders felt when the words were read for them. The bitch belongs in the ground, but the Sultan was wrong to reject her proposal. So also Sayyida is a fool to turn her face away from this great gift.”

“I think the bitch damaged more than just your nose,” responded Gabriel. “The skywriting machine was invented by the Europeans. If anyone were to be brazen enough to claim that skywriting was the work of Allah, the white men could step forward and discredit the blasphemer responsible for the deception. That man would then die a slow and painful death I think.”

“Not if the goat herders were convinced that it was the Europeans themselves who were responsible for the deception,” Solomon pointed out.

“Why in the hell would any European try to convince our people that Allah is placing messages in the sky?”

“To discredit the Sultanate. Who else would benefit from a skywriting deception?”

“So you dream of creating turmoil for turmoil’s sake?”

“Why not? The Sultanate is as Sayyida claims, and the Europeans obviously sent the bitch here to do great mischief. I say let the mischief be done.”

“Stick to cracking skulls Solomon. You are not a thinker anymore than I,” said Gabriel. “Now let us finish this chore and hope that Sayyida will not summon us again until we are healed of our blemishes.”

“I fear my nose will never look the same again,” muttered the older man.

“Well, we can say that you got kicked in the face by a camel.”

Solomon then thought to throw a glare at the carpenter and say, “Remember that. I was kicked by a camel.”

The carpenter nodded. Like the others, he wanted very much to forget that the fight with the woman ever took place.

Picard smiled at the aged yet easily recognized image on his cabin viewer. It was a countenance that exuded intelligence, supreme self-assurance and a mild comradery that few men had earned in the last century. Ambassador Spock was the most renowned fugitive in all the Alfa Quadrant. How he could continue to exist on Romulus as a free Vulcan was something that even Data never fully understood. But there he was, communicating with a Federation starship as it orbited overhead.

“A hologram program this interactive? Ingenious Ambassador. Let Sela try and put handcuffs on this latest high tech doppelganger.”

“Let us bow ours heads to the people who developed the technology, Captain. It is no great feat to simply make use of some else’s creativity.”

“Ah, but I rather doubt that such technology was handed to you on a silver platter. What I wouldn’t give to be your biographer when Romulus becomes an open society.”

The Vulcan’s gazed turned inward for an instant. Spock was tempted to explain to the human that he was not alone. That he had helpers on every level of Romulan society, and only their intelligence and self discipline enabled the underground organization to function under the yolk of a powerful centralized government. Spock seemed like a miracle worker because he could not acknowledge the existence of his underworld comrades, but they would certainly figure most prominently in any future autobiography.

“Such a future society will honor the sacrifices made by a Federation starship. I shall indulge myself in a brief all too human moment by saying that I am proud that the name Enterprise will figure so prominently in days to come. But now let us get down to the business at hand. Can a closed temporal rift be located in so much open space. I do not believe it can, but there may be another way to determine where exactly the two ships could be found in the past.”

“How Ambassador?”

“By utilizing triolic waves, with the help of the Devidians.”

Picard frowned with unabashed puzzlement.

“But Ambassador, the Devidians are energy vampires. Why should they aid us in such an undertaking? And while we’re on the subject, how can they utilize triolic waves when there is no rock formation for them to use?”

“Ark Royal’s holodeck will provide you with the geologic elements required. As for why they should assist us: I have been in contact with them via mind melds on several occasions. I established a symbiotic relationship with them for reasons that I cannot share with you at this time. Suffice it to say they will help you after I have explained to them that this is what I desire.”

Picard still looked flummoxed.

“Even if you have some way to contact those beings from your hiding place on Romulus, the Devidians do not share our navigational references. I suppose we could transport one of them to the Neutral Zone and then run a holo progam, but the Devidian wouldn’t be able to show us how the star formations read back in that past time.”

“Another mind meld would be required. The Devidian’s memories would become mine, and I could then compare those memories to the current star positions. Then you could warp back to Earth and utilize the slingshot effect to go back to the proper time period.”

“But how can I smuggle a Devidian to you, when you dare not present yourself except in the form of a holo image?”

“When James Kirk took the original Enterprise back to the 20^th Century, I intercepted thought transmissions from the Devidians. They were attracted to the Enterprise the way water flows into a trough made with a stick. I could not establish two way communication with them at that time, and I had more important matters to focus on. But when we returned to the 23^rd Century, the Devidians were able to form a more functional link with my mind. I would not describe them as allies, but they had chosen to grant small requests that I make from time to time.

I am a physically trapped by political circumstances, but the Devidians can tell me things I need to know, and the Romulan government has no way of censoring that information. Go to Devidian II and there will be a volunteer waiting for you. Transport that individual to the Neutral Zone and then recreate it’s home world environment with your own holodeck.”

“But the holo images will useless to a time traveler,” Picard insisted.

“For breaking through a time continuum, yes. But the physical references in the holo program will act like an aiming device. Like a brief flash of light for a man who must walk through a darkened cave for some moments. Have faith Captain Picard. I have not been idle since turning in my uniform.”

Picard gave his tunic a nervous tug and said, “I’m not going to try the sling shot run with the Ark Royal. I’ll see if I can get my hands on a Defiant class vessel. I can’t imagine a better ship for what has to be done. But I’m not sure our holographic imagery will satisfy the Devidian volunteer. I don’t doubt that you could make this all work Ambassador, but I’m just a humble starship captain who occasionally gets caught counting on his fingers.”

“Nothing ventured nothing gained,” the Vulcan responded. “It is the only way to breech the space time continuum along an established fluxual path. In any case, since the Federation still exists, it is logical to assume that your associates succeeded at least in preserving a timeline that is free of Romulan interference. That is the most important thing.”

“Yes,” agreed Picard, “but if I can find and help Goshawk, that will be an added bonus well worth the effort.”

Spock nodded with another thoughtful gaze and said, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. However, the few need to be protected by the many whenever that is possible. Please proceed to Devidian II as soon as possible. Your special passenger will be waiting for you.”

“On behalf of my comrades on the Goshawk, I thank you Ambassador.”

“It is well that a Starfleet representative such as yourself is reestablishing contact with the Devidians Captain. They are a highly unusual species, but we cannot afford to have them as enemies. I shall not live forever, therefor it is good that others augment my efforts with curious beings.”

With that the hologram of Spock disappeared.

Picard left the ready room and returned to the Ark Royal’s bridge. There, First Officer Kimberly Lakely promptly vacated the captain’s chair and stood ready to received orders from the temporary commander.

“Set course for Devidian II Number---er---that is, Commander Lakely,” Picard self corrected with just a hint of embarrassment.

The woman from Montana grinned at that. She was well familiar with Riker’s nickname and would certainly not be offended if it was applied to her; accidentally or otherwise.

Ark Royal pulled out of orbit leaving thousands of Romulans fuming over a secured communication that they were powerless to do anything about.

Sela faced her greatest adversary several feet below the sunbaked cemetery on the outskirts of town. She had regained consciousness in the darkness of her tomb and when she rapped against the sides and top of it she perceived that there was earth pressing against all sides of the coffin. She was truly buried alive. Her best defense against blind panic was to see this situation not as a form of mental torture, but as a painless form of execution. Death by execution was to be faced with calm resolve. Sela possessed the blessing of her ability to reinstate hibernation. She would be asleep when the oxygen was all used up. She would not have to wait for anything.

She returned to a deep sleep and remained there until the lack of good air began to coax her body to awake and do something. The lack of oxygen kept her in a semi-conscious state. There she dreamed of a day when she got drunk and accidentally cut herself on a broken glass. The fluid that appeared on the surface of her hand was crimson, not emerald. She loathed the color, unless she could see it on the faces of her alien enemies. Death was nothing. Fear was to be defeated and in this she was successful. Would her mother have done as well? It displeased her that she should think of her mother at the end of all things. But no anger surfaced. She simply substituted the image of her mother with her father.

She was still thinking of him when daylight stabbed into her eyes like twin daggers.

“She’s coming around,” Maga reported.

“Instruct Mr. Novak to return to the transporter room,” commanded a deep and uncomfortably familiar voice. “Standing over a desecrated grave site is not something I wish to do for any length of time. Not even with a moonless night to cloak us.”

It took three long minutes for the beam out to occur. Three minutes of tense waiting while distant voices floated towards the two man away team. Dematerialization took place before anyone on a nearby road could detect movement in a burial ground that was some twenty acres in size. The coffin was left behind and perhaps that was a mistake, but the Starfleet people had no idea what was going on and they were very anxious to find out. Three seconds after being given another hypo spray Sela came around completely but with a headache that went well with the sight of a Klingon standing over her bunk.

“Am I on that little runt of a ship I encountered earlier?” she asked with a slightly dry throat.

“If you are referring to the ship that destroyed a facsimile of a Borg cube ship, then yes, you are on board that ship,” Worf responded.

“What are your intentions?” Sela asked with a blank expression.

“If you would be willing to help me locate your surviving shipmates, I would be willing to transport you all to the planet Mullana.”

“To spend the rest of our lives there?”

“At least on that planet you can be yourselves. The government will likely monitor your activities, but at least you will not have to pretend to be a native of the planet. My crew will share the same fate, but I will remain behind in case a rescue ship appears.”

Sela had to mull that over a second or two before laughing long and hard.

“Klingon---I have some bad news for you. The vortex that you followed me through was created accidentally. Even if your Starfleet manages to unravel the mystery of our joint disappearance, they cannot possibly replicate it. Yes, Klingon, you go right ahead and orbit the planet until you are old and gray. Burn a candle in the window for some starship to home in on.”

“I agree that it is unlikely that a rescue ship will appear,” conceded Worf. “We took the trouble of borrowing an Orion pirate ship which is filled with food supplies. I will remain in space for as long as I can, conducting sensor sweeps of the planet. Solar flare activity combined with a lack of scientific instrumentation makes scanning difficult. But I shall do what I can, and if I locate any Romulan material or energy signatures, I will beam them up to the ship and see what sort of fish I have caught. So I respectfully suggest that you deal honestly with me Sela. Help me find all of your surviving shipmates. Do not think to leave any behind.”

“What if there are more of us than you can handle?” asked Sela with a teasing look in her eyes.

“Then we shall convert the Orion ship into a prison barge and sail it very slowly to Mullana. That is another reason why I bothered to acquire a second ship.”

The woman let out a sigh and said, “Four of us abandoned ship. One was killed on the planet’s surface because of a pod malfunction.

“Why so few?”

“Because Klingon---my vessel was a plague ship. Almost the entire crew succumbed to Doxim Anthron plague while mining gemstones on the planet Werelaria.”

“I am unfamiliar with that disease. I will have to consult the computer records.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do that often,” the woman responded dryly.

“Be that as it may, I can appreciate you need for gemstones,” said Worf. “You would have need of them on the planet Earth. With sufficient quantities you could purchase land, supplies and even a local magistrate to make certain no one disturbed your privacy. What were your long range intentions?”

“Actually, I was going to enable the religion of Islam to flourish throughout the planet. I felt that this would significantly slow down Earth’s development in the area of space exploration.”

“Interesting,” admitted Worf, “please continue.”

“I used my disruptor pistol to skywrite God Is Great. It had the desired effect on most of the locals, but unfortunately the Sultanate was just a tad harder to impress. Then I got into a bit of trouble.”

“Are your confederates in danger of being discovered?”

“Actually, they are living in the Amazon basin; hopefully staying out of trouble.”

“And where is your disruptor now? We must not leave such a device on the planet.”

The woman could not bring herself to make eye contact with her rescuer.

With an effort she said, “I---don’t know where it is. I’m fairly certain I can find it but perhaps the best method would be to bring the ship down into the atmosphere after night fall and employ the ship’s sensors to locate the weapons.”

“I presumed there was only one,” the Klingon rumbled.

“No---I had two disruptor pistols. Also an improvised servo motor device and a remote control. All built from the guts of an escape pot. You see I needed to be in contact with the Sultanate when the skywriting took place. Much more impressive that way.”

Worf’s expression was more than a little insulting.

“When you devised this scheme of yours, did it occur to you that you would probably erase any chance of a future Sela existing on Romulus?”

“Yes, but that would be a small price to pay for an Alfa quadrant where the Romulan Empire could travel to Earth unimpeded. Besides, we do not know for certain that the Muslims would never reach for the stars. In the 24^th Century many Romulans and Earthlings could intermarry if the Romulans are not perceived as villains in a future timeline. I could easily picture my father volunteering for duty as an overseer on this world.”

Worf shrugged off such an irrelevant thought and said, “We shall circle at low altitude and scan for your equipment until dawn. But you must sedated. I cannot allow you to pose a security risk while the entire crew is occupied.”

“Yes, I suppose a ship this size can ill afford a brig. Well---the last time I was asleep I was in a box buried in the ground. So I’m not going to protest another nap.”

“Being alone in the middle of a cemetery did make it easier to distinguish your bio readings from the other humans. That and the fact that Muslims do not bury their dead in coffins.”

“You---did well to find me in time,” Sela said to Worf’s chest.

The Klingon took the minimum thanks with a stone like expression.

Like Sela, Amazonian Romulans learned to disguise themselves with skin dye and clothing that protected them from xenophobia more than mosquitos. Satche and Tanok pretended to be mutes so that their universal translators would only have to receive but not send. Before disembarking on her quest, Sela had managed to find English speaking business men who faithfully supplied the remaining aliens with the construction materials and dehydrated food stuffs that would be the building blocks for a most unusual couple.

The ex space farers had never built a house before, but they were highly intelligent and quickly discovered that being creative is a most stimulating addition to the experiences of life. Of course that’s not the only thing that got stimulated. With their bulking uniforms burned they only needed to be modest about their foreheads and ears. They were now Adam & Eve, and they were quickly learning to like it. Their house would be modest in size, yet four times larger than their individual quarters had been back on Romulus. They would never again enjoy vegetables from their home world, but the Earth substitutes were delightful, and completely under their control.

Because of their superior strength and stamina the rigors of farming would seem like little more than a hobby. Because of their physiology the insects and many of the microbes could do them no harm. They only needed to guard against prying eyes. Homesteaders were interesting enough to the local river transport people, but homesteaders who couldn’t speak, and had strange looking eyes…

“Here comes another one,” Tanok observed while pausing from his sawing duties.

Satche looked up from the hammock she was building and prepared to wave back at the men who were poling their skiff along the shallows of the nearby river. Sure enough, a few seconds later the two men waved at the couple, compelling the Romulans to wave back.

“I still say we should be building our house further from the bank,” said Tanok. “Each time this happens I fear that they will disembark and come snooping.”

“Unlikely,” responded Satche while resuming her work. “By now everyone on this sector of the river has received their share of the gossip and understand that we will not be speaking to them. While we’re on the subject: I think we should procure a book on Earth sign language. It would aid us in our deception.”

“I would prefer to learn the languages of the land,” said Tanok.

“We are mutes,” the woman said unhappily. “That is a lie we must live with until we are ready to move to another section of the river.”

“Perhaps someday we will be able to explain to the locals that a brilliant travelling physician bestowed on us the power of speech,” the man suggested.

“We had better hope that no physician does actually make contact with us. You can imagine what would happen then.”

Tanok nodded grimly and watched the shuttle boat disappear around the nearest river bend.

“Part of me hopes that Sela will return and help us with our communication problems. Part of me hopes we never see her again.”

Satche shrugged and said, “At first I was afraid that she would want to cause great environmental harm to this world in order to cheat the humans of their future. But she obviously intends to give the Earth people a fair portion of happiness, and us also. I had heard rumors that she possessed an obsessive hatred of humankind, but now I’m inclined to think she only hated Starfleet. But I’m still wondering what she meant when she said—“

Tanok’s hand gestured for silence and his companion frowned slightly at the fact that the man was still too wary of their surroundings. They still possessed their disruptor pistols but they had decided to keep the weapons well hidden in case they were set upon in their sleep. It was not in their nature to leave things to chance, but they had accepted the fact that they were now part of a world where disruptor pistols did not exist so they would be kept hidden unless some dire circumstance presented itself.

Satche was about to make a joke about how Tanok would do anything to get out of sawing wood. The monkeys alone could provide you with enough false alarms to keep a nervous person jumping all day and night. But this time Tanok was certain he was on to something, and he moved toward the edge of their clearing with a determination to find something larger than a tree climbing pest. Sure enough, fifty meters into the woods Tanok spotted a mild commotion taking place behind a patch of ferns. He was tempted to backtrack and acquire an improvised club, but since he had yet to encounter a jaguar, he felt reasonably certain that the source of the disturbance was no great threat.

It turned out he was quite correct. The commotion was being caused by a small tapir that had one hind foot tied to the nearest tree. The forest creature resembled a cross between a pig and a giant mouse, but since the Romulans had never seen either one of those creatures yet, they could only compare the animal to species inhabiting their former world.

“Why was it bound in that manner?” asked Satche.

“I am inclined to believe that it is bait for a much larger carnivore,” Tanok grimly speculated.

The tapir weighed approximately forty pounds, so any predator looking to make a meal of it would have to be large enough to constitute a danger to the homesteaders. Then there was also the matter of the stranger who secured the unhappy creature in the first place. The Romulans had yet to encounter any humans in the woods that surrounded them on three sides. Only the boatmen ventured into their rural domain, and supposedly, they were always heading for a plantation that was eight river miles upstream from the homestead.

“Well---should be get our pistols and wait to see what comes after this poor beast?” inquired the woman.

“That would be a wise precaution. But we must keep the weapons hidden inside our clothing in case our mysterious trespassing hunter is watching us.”

The couple returned to the building site but before they could collect their weapons Tanok noted a movement along a rough trail that paralleled the river. A fleeting last glimpse of something moving erect and with some effort.

“Arm yourself and follow,” said Tanok before bolting off in the direction of the trespasser.

The Romulan only needed a minute to close the distance with the individual who had devised a somewhat uneven exchange of properties. The subject was perhaps five feet three inches tall, weighed around one-hundred and thirty pounds and looked to be around sixteen years of age. His attire consisted of a tree bark cod piece and a few bird feathers hanging from his ears. His hair was surprisingly well groomed, although it appeared to contain some grease like substance that might have come from the man’s last meal. There was a great deal of brown mucus coming from his nose. Whatever the native was snorting, it didn’t seem to have much effect on his ability to think and move well.

The native was a member of the Waimiri-Atroari tribe and his reasoning was fairly logical. He wanted a large sack of crop seed but he feared trading with the newcomers. They seemed even stranger than the Manaus villagers who could offer steel knives for a Atroari woman one day and then shoot Atroari warriors on sight the next. Of course he could have easily shot the homesteader in the back with an arrow but that might provoke a blood feud with the victim’s kin. Better to pay for the seed with a tapir and leave the homesteaders in peace. The seed would pay for the bride he wished to purchase, and such a transaction could be cursed by the shedding of blood.

The Romulan was looking at things a mite different. He and his common law wife had not yet learned to consume meat. They did not realize that the tapir was payment for seed. Thievery was bad enough, but how can anyone feel safe living in a remote area where marauders immerge from the deep woods and behave in an unfriendly manner? Would thievery soon lead to murder? Tanok and Satche were given to understand that no one lived between the village of Manaus and the plantation. Therefor this thief represented no one but himself and if he received a good thrashing it would not provoke a communal response.

Tanok was not above killing but since the thief was unarmed and small of stature, the Romulan advanced upon the native with a watered down sense of animosity. The native dropped the sack when he realized that there was a man behind him, but did not flee since technically the seed had been paid for. The big Romulan advanced on the trespasser and without formality threw a punch that took the native right off his feet. The smaller man sat on his bare butt for an instant and tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain. He had never been punched before and for a second or two didn’t really know what to think of it. Then realization settled in and the rage of the jaguar fueled both heart and limbs. Springing to his feet he launched himself at the big ugly stranger who obviously didn’t appreciate how hard it is to capture a tapir alone. Dirty fingernails raked at the Romulan’s eyes before getting hold of the taller man’s throat. Tanok wasn’t really hurt but the savage retaliation brought forth an insanity that was brief but also lethal. Grabbing the native’s head with both hands Tanok twisted while the native continued to apply insufficient pressure to the Romulan’s throat. The contest was considerably shorter than the one that took place between Worf and the Orion commander. It ended with a sickening crack, causing a vertical corpse to twitch slightly while dropping and then once more on the ground.

Satche saw the whole thing as she sprinted toward the contest with her pistol in hand.

“Couldn’t you wait ten seconds for me to stun him?” she demanded to know as she halted at the scene of the killing.

“I lost my temper when he went for my eyes. You think I want to be blind in a place like this?”

“Backing away from him would have been safer for your eyes or any other part of you,” she scolded.

“Sela claimed that she had bribed a magistrate to make certain that we will be left alone. But I think it is fair to say that we had better be willing to defend what is ours or we will end up with nothing,” said Tanok.

“While I was getting my pistol it occurred to me that the tethered creature back in the woods might have been left as payment for the seed. The animal was not making all that much noise until it sensed our approach. I’m thinking that the native might have made enough noise to draw us to the animal, as well as distancing us from the sacks of seed.”

“I suspect that you are correct,” conceded the male, “but your words are irrelevant. This little human created a lethal misunderstanding. Perhaps we shall miscalculate in a similar fashion someday, but in the meantime I will not allow anyone to take our property on undeclared terms.”

The Romulan woman brought her breathing under control and looked away from the corpse.

“Shall we bury him here or someplace further from our homestead?”

“I shall carry him to a more remote location,” said Tanok. “But I am not going to bury him. I have noted a vast diversity of insect life in this region. They are inferior only in size and are more native to this realm than we will ever be. Why should they be denied sustenance so that the dirt can be fed? Let the body of this man of nature be returned to nature.”

The woman shrugged slightly and said, “As you wish, but if I should die before you, I want to be cremated. On that day, let the bugs go hungry.”

Sela’s fingers danced over the tactical control panel suggesting that she had viewed such arrays before. On her lips was a hint of a smirk, and Worf was not at all happy to have such a person on his bridge.

“I’ll tell you what you did wrong: you failed to zero out the particle spectrum before calibrating it for Romulan signatures. The sensors do that automatically for energy matter images formed by Starfleet technologies, but not with alien constructs and the like. After all, you’re not just looking for a torpedo target Mr. Worf, you’re looking for something that could be under a tree top canopy or buried under soft earth.”

Worf rolled his eyes at that and dourly waited for the lecture to turn insightful. In another moment it did.

“Son of a bitch,” the woman breathed without thinking.

The Klingon quickly peered over his shoulder so there was no point in trying to hide that which was both shocking and embarrassing.

“It’s a fifth life pod that for some reason landed on an entirely different continent.”

“Are there any appropriate life signs nearby?”

“No, but that would be understandable. The weather is most unhospitable in that region. Mountains bringing on the first winter weather of the season I suppose. One of the few things that Romulans and Klingons have in common is that we do not perform well in cold temperatures. A survivor of such a pod landing would immediately attempt to find a permanent source of warmth, since the heater in the life pod would only last for a few days.”

“Where is the nearest human community?”

“Well---I can tell you that there are a fair number of campfires about forty-eight kilometers to the southeast. If you want a better assessment than that, perhaps Mr. Russell should return to the station.”

“He will, and you shall prepare to accompany me down to the surface,” stated Worf.

“Fine, but of course that requires a change of attire. An overdressed Muslim woman wouldn’t freeze quickly where we’re heading, but my sandals are definitely not what is needed for a mountain hike.”

“The ship was launched without any thoughts of performing away missions. But Mr. Lu’s feet are somewhat small for a man, and your feet are somewhat large for a woman, therefor I believe his boots would serve you long enough to inspect the life pod,” reasoned the Klingon.

The crewmen who were close enough to hear that all stifled a grin. Only Captain Worf could create an opportunity to inform a female adversary that she has big feet. The political gaff enabled Lu to give up his boots without a frown. But he decided that he would make the appropriate calculations to replicate a new pair of boots should something happen to his down on the planet’s surface.

Nothing did.

The life pod had been abandoned just as Sela predicted and the tracks of the survivor had been swept away by strong mountain wind that reminded both Romulan and Klingon that this was a place that required better than improvised outdoor attire. After returning to the ship, a snow storm rolled over the nearby mountain peeks and Worf decided to take advantage of its cover. He brought his ship down into the planet’s atmosphere and settled into a hovering position two kilometers above the abandoned life pod. He then fired full phasers at the pod effectively vaporizing it.

The snow that fell after that was instantly melted into water and then ice to cover a large spot of scorched earth. Eventually the cooling temperatures allowed a blanket of snow to cover what probably would have been taken for a freak lightning strike if it had taken place in a populated area. Now would come the hard part: finding an extraterrestrial before that being could scare the daylights out of a Native American community. Worse yet, infect them in a manner that Sela was loathe to describe to her scowling Klingon host. She only conveyed to him the grim reality of what they needed to do when they caught up with the plague victim.

Worf agreed, and for the first time in Sela’s life she was actually glad that the Klingon had been made a member of Starfleet. Someone like Picard would have insisted on transporting the plague victim to a remote Island where his altered D.N.A. would pose a threat to people in the future long after the mutant had turned to dust. Worf and Sela were in accord. They would take no chances what so ever. After killing the creature they would beam its remains out into space and then phaser it just as they had done with the life pod. Some would describe that as overkill but since the safety of Earth was at stake Worf was not about to protest.

He also offered no protest when Sela requested permission to accompany him on the away mission. As long as she was on his ship she posed a threat to security, but in the Rocky Mountains she could do little mischief now that the Romulan life pod was destroyed. So the next step was to get furs to wear against the cold weather. Sela suggested the Russian royal furriers, having seen some old photos of the Tsar attired in fine ermine. But of course young Nelson was now a preferred costumer in a quaint establishment situated along the Missouri River. He would go there, and attempt to find something worthy of the Romulan upper class.

Hank Purdue spat a wad of gut buster chewing tobacco into a spittoon that got cleaned once a day by Purdue’s Greaser wife Ruth. Like most forks the shopkeeper looked older than he really was. But he had prosperity hanging around his middle. That meant that he was successful at what he did and nothing else mattered. The couple had come up from Texas because the place was getting a mite crowded. There was some good to that. More rifles in the hands of white men meant fewer mishaps with the Comanche. Those Indians were outstanding traders; dressed in Spanish finery and selling the best goods. Trouble was most of it was stolen, and that included the occasional kidnapped woman or child.

Respectable white traders (who didn’t appreciate the competition) were less tolerant of these practices than the Spanish had been. Texas was going to become more civilized whether the Comanche liked it or not. But civilized just meant more crowded, and Hank Purdue didn’t like it much when well duded up men got together and began forming what was called committees. So he took his woman and headed north. Now he was a bigger fish in a smaller pond and all was right with the world. Right now he had another greenhorn in his establishment. Every now and again one would come off the Big Muddy pretending to belong out west. Purdue never asked questions. He just sold the idiots what they wanted. Hell, it was a free country after all.

“Don’t you have anything more---stylish?” the Greenhorn dared to ask. “I was really hoping for something in mink.”

The shop keeper gestured to the informal pile of buffalo robes, bear, goat and imported sheep skins and shook his head.

“Had some of those last month, but that was then.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll take these two buffalo robes and this bear skin. Will you accept a small diamond in payment? It’s not a perfect stone but it would fetch one-hundred dollars easy back in St. Louis.”

The shopkeeper smirked at the man’s proposition and took the stone over to his wife’s prized front window. Fully expecting a negative result, he attempted to mar the glass---and succeeded.

“Lord---it be real.”

“I realize that you normally don’t deal in stones but what you can do is sew the stone into the lining of your coat, then if things go sour for you and you have to run for it, at least you’ll have starting over money wherever you end up. An ace in the hole you might say.”

Purdue’s assessment of the stranger went up a notch or two.

“You got a deal Mister, and now I’m thinking; my wife could make you up a good mink coat in about a week, if you got another stone like this one.”

“I’m sad to say I can’t wait that long, but perhaps you’d be interested in partial ownership of a second stone by recruiting me a guide. I need somebody who would be willing to help us with a man hunt. My brother’s murderer has fled into the wild hoping to escape my vengeance.”

“Problems of that sort tend to work themselves out. Why do you involve yourself when your man will likely freeze or starve if he is not an established trapper?”

“I will see him truly dead if not swinging from a limb after capture. I know it is grim work but as you can see, I am prepared to pay well for good assistance.”

“Hugh Glass came by yesterday. My wife is making him a new pair of boots. Don’t know if he’d hire out to you but I’m thinking you’ll be wanting to give it a try.”

Nelson easily read something in the other man’s smile. It was a boastful expression; as if to show how honored he was to have this Glass fellow as a costumer.

“Hugh Glass is a good man then?”

Purdue rolled his eyes as he suddenly realized that this greenhorn had thus far missed one of the most important tales worth hearing west of the Mississippi.

“He is the man who went cross country after being mauled by a grizzly sow.”

“Define maul and define cross county,” requested Nelson.

“Best you let me back up some so I can relate the whole story,” suggested the store keeper. “There was this fellow named Andrew Henry who was no stranger to fur collecting in volume. He had been a major in the Missouri milita and retained the title because men prefer to follow a leader who has military experience. It is well because trapping expeditions always incur the wrath of local tribes. So it was with Henry’s expedition of 1823.

Writer’s Note: I don’t know if this story is worth finishing. If you would like to leave a comment you can email me at kschmittt@yahoo.com.