PROLOGUE

Eighty Years Prior:

Captain James T. Kirk ducked, barley avoiding decapitation at the blade of his Klingon opponent's sword. He brought his own up just in time to counter the return blow, then shoved back with all the force he could muster.

Commander Kang of the Klingon Empire was beyond reason. His eyes burned with blood lust as he thirsted to kill the captain of the U.S.S Enterprise. He snarled like a savage beast and leapt at Kirk again. Their swords met and locked at the hilt, thus bringing it down to a contest of strength. Kirk pulled the locked blades close to his own chest, Kang drawing nearer as he tried to wrench his weapon from the human's control.

This could possibly be his only chance. He shouted, trying not to completely lose control of his own anger, "Kang, listen to me! This fighting must end. There is a--"

But that was far as he got. Kang reared back and butted him in the skull. Battered and reeling, his vision blurred, Kirk stumbled back. Their swords were no longer together, and Kang now was in possession of his blade. Kirk's had fallen to the deck with a clatter that was lost in the chaos of the Enterprise' Engineering section. Hikaru Sulu had led a force of Enterprise officers in an attack against the Klingons, likewise using swords of various forms. Every single energy weapon, tricorder, and instrument on the Constitution-class starship had mysteriously been changed into old-style blades.

With a roar, Kang thrust at Kirk. His blade would have gone clean through the captain had a young Starfleet officer not lept in the path of the blade, taking the blow clean through his chest. He fell, dragging Kang down with him via the sword buried in his chest. While Kang was trying to pull his blade from the dead man's chest, Kirk delivered a vicious kick to the jaw, feeling angry triumph surge through him. He wanted to kick him again, and again; to pound him into a mindless pulp; to grab the bloodied sword from the body and hack Kang into mangled pieces. The urge was so strong, he almost acted upon it.

Then, he looked up at the throbbing red entity that hovered near the ceiling, taking in the bloody fighting, and his determination came back in full force. His mission now fully in the forefront of his mind, he ripped the sword from his dead comrad's body, ignoring the blood that splurted from the wound across the deck, the walls, and his own uniform. He lept at Kang, swinging the sword wildly at the now-standing Klingon.

Kang dodged, still taking a vicious slash to the arm. Blood was flowing from the wound, soaking his uniform and dripping to the deck. He hauled off in a mighty punch to Kirk's jaw, leaving a smear of Klingon blood across the starship captain's face.

Kirk nearly hit the wall, but managed to recover. He swung his blade, slitting the throat of an on-coming Klingon, then returned his attention to Kang who was approaching in a predatory-like stance.

Kirk threw his sword angrily to the deck just in front of Kang who stared at it in puzzelment. Kirk pressed his momentary advantage.

"Kang, you're being used!" He shouted. He thrust a finger upward at the throbbing red entity and said, "It's using all of us! Making us fight like mindless savages. But we're not! We need to fight that, not each other!"

"I will destroy it after I have ripped the meat from your bones," Kang shouted back, still not comprehending.

"Kang, listen to him," His wife, Mara, shouted from her crouching position by the wall. "He speaks truly!"

"You are not my wife!" Kang roared in reply, "My wife would not be a puppet for these people!"

"I am not a puppet," She replied, "It is true. I have seen what it does to their own people!"

"A new weapon, meant to destroy the Klingon Empire then!" Kang declared, "I will possess it after you are dead, Kirk!"

"Fine!" Kirk spread his arms, "Then kill me. Come on! In the head, in the heart, it doesn't matter. Hit me anywhere. I won't stay dead! Have any of your men died? Have they!? It's using us! We're being kept alive to fight, on and on, unceasingly, for all eternity. We're like toys to it! We need to fight it together!"

Kang advanced, his blade sure and steady. . .

"Do it!" Kirk shouted, releasing his pent-up anger via his voice, "Hack me into pieces! It doesn't matter. I'll just come back, and next time I'll kill you. And you won't stay dead! On and on, over and over. Forever! Think, Kang! You're not just a mindless automaton, fighting when you're told to fight!"

Kang sliced at Kirk, but the captain ducked. He saw a glimmer of calmness returning to Kang's eyes. He just had to keep talking to him. . .

"Fine, then be a puppet. The good little soldier that never questions orders. Just do what you're told without thinking! Kang, fight it!"

Kang lunged again. This time, Kirk sidestepped, knocking the sword from his hand as the Klingon went by. He twisted Kang's arm behind his back, slamming him against the wall, effectively pinning the angry being.

"Look--!" Kirk spun him around, jabbing a finger at the entity. "That's what's controlling our people, and it'll keep controlling them forever! We're playthings for it!"

Kang struggled against Kirk, but his eyes were on the entity. Finally, he relaxed against Kirk. When he spoke, his voice was again level, calm, and cool.

"Klingons are not to be toyed with," He growled. Kirk hesitantly released him, ready to grab ahold again should he suddenly turn against the captain. Kang did not however.

"The fighting must stop, for it to be beaten." Kirk informed him. Then, true to his words, he turned to his own people and shouted, "Stand down!"

The Starfleet officers, confused at his orders, obeyed. The Klingons were just as confused, by they pressed their advantage, leaping toward the Federation personnel.

They surely would have been slaughtered had Kang not followed suite, saying, "Cease fighting---CEASE, I said!" The last being directed to one crazed Klingon who was hacking at a downed Ensign.

The entity's reddish tint dimmed only slightly. His throbbing sound became angry.

Mr. Spock, science officer and XO of the Enterprise, approached Kirk, looking as unruffled as always.

"Captain," He said quietly, "The fighting must stop throughout the entire ship."

Kirk moved toward the comm built into the wall, gesturing for Kang to join him. He thumbed it to life and said, "Captain to Bridge."

"Bridge, Uhura here, Captain." The Communication officer's voice returned.

"Put me on to the whole ship, Lieutenant."

"Done, sir."

"This is the Captain," Kirk said into the comm, "All fighting is to stop at once. This is a direct order."

He jerked his thumb as the comm, looking at Kang. The Klingon couldn't resist shoving Kirk out of the way as he moved forward to the comm.

"This is Kang," He rumbled, "Cease fighting. Stand down."

The effect could be seen almost immediately. The entity's red color dimmed significantly.

"I would suggest a show of good humor, Captain." Spock said.

Kirk took a step toward the being, "Maybe you've caused a lot of pain, a lot of history, but you'll make none here. We're too smart for you. You're dead in the water. We know all about you now, and we refuse to play your game."

He laughed, although it was forced, "Get outta here!"

Kang came beside him, chuckling ever so faintly, "Only fools fight in a burning house. Our quarrel is with the Federation, but we fight them when we wish to, and not otherwise. Now leave!"

Dr. McCoy laughed as well, waving his hand in dismissal, "Get goin'! We're not gonna fight for you anymore!"

Everyone was laughing now. At first, it was a forced strangled sound, but by and by, it became more genuine. It was a combination of exhaustion and adrenaline letdown, but it was there nonetheless.

Spock thumbed his nose at the being, "You will please leave."

They were all laughing heartily now, laughing at the being. It's red color was almost nonexistent. It bobbed up and down, throbbing angrily. Then, it shot through the bulkhead out into space, and disappeared in a flash of light.

They continued laughing, but now it was in relief. Kirk returned to the comm and said, "Report, Lieutenant?"

Uhura replied, "The trapped crewmen on the lower decks have been freed, and fighting has ceased. Engines are coming back under our control."

"Excellent," Kirk grinned at Kang, "Set course for the nearest Starbase at maximum warp."

For the moment, at least on the Enterprise, an uneasy truce existed between the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire; two powers that had been in a cold war for almost a hundred years. It would undoubtedly be short-lived, but it was there nonetheless.

---

Starship Khitomer presents
A Pete D. Tzinski production

Music by Jeremy Mccarteny
Co Producer  Anna Bailie
Costumes provided by  startrek.com  &  stisnv.com

Film Editor  Jane Kaczynski  Special Animation and Images by Jeremy Mccarteny
Production designer Pete D. Tzinski  Director of Photography Jon Krenn
Executive producer  Pete D. Tzinski

Based on "Star Trek" created by  Gene Roddenberry
Based on an original idea by:  Pete D. Tzinski
Story written by Pete D. Tzinski  Produced by Pete D. Tzinski

---

It was pouring rain outside. The wind howled like some terrible beast on the hunt. Iron-wrought street lights loomed at every corner, their feeble light doing very little to illuminate the cobblestone streets. What little light reached the ground reflected off of the slick wet stones. Most sensible people were inside, safe and warm. Those who were out more oft than nought did not have homes, and simply lived in the gutters and alleys of the city.

It was in the Year of our Lord 1931, in a small city just south of Seattle. The economic depression that had engulfed the United States of America was being felt heavily here, and it showed. Once pristine buildings had deteriorated, because their owners did not have the money to pay for repairs. The population of the city had dwindled as people moved on, trying hard to find work and earn enough money just to feed their families.

There were many a politician at that time, as in all times, who spoke of the future, and of planning ahead, but they were not being heard right now. People were not interested in the future. Only now was important. Only getting enough money to buy bread and feed hungry children for one more night mattered. The future would tend to itself when it arrived. The present was all that was important.

In this small city, one particular installation had done quite well for itself. It was the local tavern. With all the poverty and misery of this time, people frequently wished to drown their sorrows in a bottle of cheap whisky. Those who were left in the town were usually frequent visitors. The owner of the tavern was a good family man who had more than enough to feed his family, and used the surplus money to help feed others. He was well-liked and well-respected by all in the community. There were a few other well-off men in the town, but he was the only one who dared walk the streets at night without fear of being robbed. Even the thieves and beggars respected him.

But the well-off people were not the only ones afraid to walk the streets, at night or day. Most everyone was. Crime ran rampant. The police force had long since sold its services to the highest bidder--namely the crime organizations who had essentially taken over the city. All the local politicians were in their pay, as was the police force and the detectives.

All but one.

His name was Harpens. Karl Harpens; Private Eye. The crime forces had long since tried to buy out his services, but he had made it plain he was not for sale. They had left quietly, but he knew quite well they would be back to 'deal' with him in the way they had dealt with the other police officers who had refused to work for them. Their bodies had been dragged from the river. In fact, Harpens had seen the third just the other day. His feet had been encased in blocks of solid cement, and he had then been dumped into the river. The cement dragged him to the bottom of his watery grave where he drowned, quickly and silently. After the bodies had been taken through the main street of the city in the back of a truck, not covered, people had wisely decided to cooperate, lest they join those three.

But Harpens had watched the grim procession, then turned the collar of his trenchcoat up and left. He didn't really care about the crime syndicate. He very much doubted there was anything they could do to him.

He was a fairly average sized man; well built with blond hair and a friendly smile which he chose to keep hidden most of the time. Although no one dared say it out loud, he too was one of the most respected men in the town.

He stepped into Alex's tavern, shaking the rain from his brown coat. He removed his bent felt hat, shaking it sharply before hanging it on the wooden peg set beside the door. His trenchcoat, he left on as always. One never knew what exactly he had under there, be it a wallet-full of money, or a machine gun. Because of the possibility of the latter, one did not try to steal the former.

"Evenin' to ye," Alex said, his crisp Irish accent clipping his words, "How ye' doin' tonight?"

"Well enough, despite the rain." Harpens said, leaning casually against the bar on one elbow.

"The usual?" Alex asked, already making the drink.

"Of course." Harpens replied. He accepted the frosted glass moments later, sliding his hand around its chilled surface, and glanced out the tavern. "Quiet tonight."

Alex clucked his tongue, "Business has been slow lately. Rumor has it the Syndicate boys are comin' for you, and no one wants ta' be anywhere's near you when they do. Since this is one of yer' usual joints, they stay clear."

Harpens made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat, sipping his drink and enjoying the way it singed its way down his throat.

Alex leaned his elbows against the bar, absently drying one glass that had long since been wiped dry and polished. It was simply a habit. "Y'know, you might consider disappearin' for awhile, Karl. The Syndicate's mighty angry with ya', and ya' know they always deal with it."

"I know," Harpens replied, "I'm not afraid of the Syndicate. It's about time someone stood up to them."

"Yeah, well. . ." Alex shook his head sadly, "Best of luck to ye', but I want ya' ta' know yer' just gonna wind up a dead martyr."

"That's fine," Harpens replied, "Maybe it'll get some of the cowards in this town to actually do something. The Syndicate's not that big. If the people stood up to them, they'd be forced to pull out. I'm sure of it."

"Yer' the only one," Alex answered, "An' unless you can get the Feds to back you up, I'm afraid the Syndicate's just gonna keep on runnin' this town."

"Not if I've anything to say about it."

At that moment, the door blew open. The wind howled inward, driving rain for meters into the otherwise warm and drive tavern. Harpens felt the biting coldness of the wind even through his trenchcoat. He glanced casually over his shoulder and saw two men in black suits enter.

He turned on his barstool to appraise them. A third man stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and stepped toward Harpens.

"Mister Harpens," He began smoothly, pulling skin-tight black leather gloves off of his hands, "Do you know me?"

"No," Harpens replied.

If his answer annoyed the man at all, he didn't show it. The same false smile remained on his lips as he tucked the gloves in his pocket and replied, "I am Roald Lund. Now do you know me?"

"Heard of you," Harpens said vaguely, although it was far from the truth. In point of fact, he knew quite well who Roald Lund was. He was the right-hand man in the Syndicate, and he had already gained a reputation for being ruthless to those who were not with the Syndicate. It was also rumored that he had connections everywhere, even in the US Government itself. This made him a very, very dangerous man who was not to be trifled with.

Harpens did not trifle.

"My boss has become most annoyed with you, Mr. Harpens." Lund continued, "He has offered you substantial sums of money if you would work for us, but still you refuse. I personally have seen the offers he made you, and I must admit I'm somewhat baffled by your refusal. It is a lot of money."

"It's just paper," Harpens said, "Ain't worth selling myself out over."

Lund chuckled politely, "A strange point of view, and one I most definitely to not share."

"Too bad," Harpens shrugged. "I never said you had to."

Lund stepped even closer, his voice lowering slightly. Harpens noticed that Lund's two henchmen moved farther apart and suddenly tensed. Harpens tensed as well, but not as visibly as the men. Outwardly, he still appeared calm and casual leaning against the bar.

"You have become a thorn in his side, Mr. Harpens. He does not like that at all. I'm prepared to offer you quadruple what he previously said."

Harpens arched an eyebrow, "That is a lot of money." He commented.

"It is indeed," Lund replied, "Far more than even I get."

"Fine," Harpens said, "You can have it. I still refuse."

Lund sighed melodramatically and pulled his gloves from his pocket. With deliberate slowness, he pulled them on, then tugged his coat back over his shoulders and moved toward the door. Behind him, Harpens was aware of Alex quietly edging toward the back room of the tavern. He at least had the sense to get out of the way.

Harpens did not move. He sat on his barstool, wound up like a spring, watching in silence as Lund made his way to the door. He opened it, again letting the howling wind in, and said, "This is your final offer."

"No." Harpens replied.

Lund shrugged, said "Deal with him," and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The two henchmen threw their coats off, revealing machine guns which were up in an instant and trained on Harpens. They loosed a barrage of fire at him.

. . .Or rather at where he had been. He lept across the bar, ducking behind it as he pulled his own handgun out of its holster, slung just below his armpit.

They fired, the loud report of the guns deafening. Glasses and bottles shattered, peppering the detective who remained untouched behind his cover. When the firing paused, he came up and unleashed two shots. One hit a man square in the chest and blew him backward, his weapon clattering to the wooden floor. The other man flung the door open and ran out.

Harpens sighed and slowly stood up--

--then dropped back down again when the three front windows of the tavern shattered and machine gun fire poured in at him. The attacker had friends. . .

Harpens crawled to the edge of the bar and fired around the corner, shattering the panes of glass on the door as he did so. The walls, bar, ceiling, floor and everything else were riddled with bullet holes. Harpens was trying to keep himself from joining that category.

He fired again and heard a scream. Before he could press his advantage, a volley of fire replied to him, driving him behind the bar again.

One shot hit the door that led to the back room. There was a moan of pain, and blood seeped through the bullet hole. The door swung outward, and Alex's body fell to the floor heavily, a bullet hole planted neatly in his chest.

Harpens cursed in a tongue no one of that time would have recognized. He had not wanted Alex or anyone else to get hurt when things got ugly with the Syndicate.

But this was now just another reason to bring them down. They had killed an innocent civilian, and now they would have to pay for that. Harpens popped up and unleashed two rounds through the shattered doors and windows, then ducked down again.

He reloaded his weapon, dismayed to discover that he only had two clips left. He selected one, shoved it in the weapon, and prepared to fire again.

Whenever his assailants paused in their assault, he would appear over the lip of the bar and fire off several shots, then duck back down again. He elicited three more screams from them, and then the firing stopped.

He stayed low, his breathing heavy, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. His gun was warm against his sweat-moistened palm, but he didn't notice the heat. A touch of worry fluttered in his chest as he wondered why their attack had suddenly ceased.

Then, he looked up.

Hanging just within view was a bullet. It was frozen in mid-air, seemingly ignoring gravity.

He sighed in exasperation, slid his weapon back in its holster, reached up, and flicked the bullet out of the air. It fell with a clatter to the floor, then froze again.

Footsteps could be heard as someone crunched through the glass that blanketed the floor. He stood up, no longer worried about attack, and leaned against the bar.

A man wearing a black uniform with gray shoulders was taking in the scene with a bemused expression on his face. He saw Harpens and smiled slightly.

"Having fun, Rob?" Commander Christopher Hobson asked, amused by the site of bullets hanging frozen in mid-air.

"I was," In an instant, Detective Karl Harpens vanished, replaced by Lieutenant Commander Robert Radisson. "Do you always just walk in on other people's programs like this?"

"No, not usually," Hobson said, "But you took your badge off and I wasn't able to get a hold of you over the holodeck's comm system."

Radisson ran his hand through his blond hair and said, "Sorry. I just didn't want to be bothered."

Hobson shrugged, sidestepping a trio of frozen bullets, "No problem."

"So," Radisson stepped around the bar, dodging Alex's downed body, "What's up?"

"Captain wants us on the bridge ASAP. Apparently, we've got a call coming through from 'Fleet HQ."

"Computer, exit." Radisson spoke to thin air. Moments later, out of the aforementioned thin air, the exit appeared. He walked toward it, Hobson following, and said just before he left, "Computer, end program."

Alex's tavern, the Syndicate's henchmen, Alex himself, and the rainy world of 1932 vanished into nothing. In a heartbeat, Radisson returned to 2375. They walked out into the grayish corridors, heading for the nearest turbolift, Radisson attracting stares from passers-by who did not see a detective in trenchcoat every day on a starship, many light-years away from Earth. . .

***

Captain Bradly J. Edwards turned when he heard the turbolift doors hiss open. He was greeted with the sight of his first officer and his chief of security, the latter out of uniform. In reply to Edwards' questioning expression, Radisson shrugged sheepishly and moved down to his station.

Hobson stepped down beside Edwards. The gray-haired starship captain glanced sidelong at him briefly, then said, "Mr. Radisson, please respond to the incoming hail."

"What incoming hai--oh, here it is." Radisson quickly interrupted himself and expertly worked the Starship Khitomer's controls, replacing the view of stars on the viewscreen with the site of a room.

On the viewscreen of the Guardian-class warship, a brightly-lit room appeared. There was an oblong table, with several Starfleet officers, Admiral in rank, sitting around it. One stocky man was sitting with his arms crossed impatiently, a nasty scowl seemingly permanent on his countenance.

"Sirs," Edwards greeted them, "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Is your entire senior staff present?" Admiral Nechayev asked, her cool crisp voice full of authority and an aire of command that she took naturally and used to her advantage very well.

"Yes, sir." Edwards replied, almost forgetting to attach the sir to the end of his statement. Being of the rank of captain, he did not usually have to call anyone sir, save for the occasional admiral.

"Excellent," Admiral Will Hendrickson leaned forward. "Your ship is being reassigned."

Edwards took a step back and slid smoothly into his chair, leaving Hobson standing for a mere moment before the Commander joined him sitting.

Edwards interlaced his fingers and said, "We'll no longer be patrolling the Cardassian border?"

"No," Hendrickson continued, "There are reports of heavy rioting on the colony world of Beta Andres X, and we want you to deal with it."

"Sir, with all due respect--"

Admiral John Weston rolled his eyes at the phrase and muttered "Here it comes. . ."

Edwards ignored the man and said, "--aren't there any other ships in the area closer than we are? A Cardassian force attempted an incursion two days ago. We repelled them, but we've been expecting them to return in larger numbers some time soon. We need to be on-hand to deal with them when they do."

"The Trueman is en route to your position. They'll cover while you deal with the crisis at Beta Andres X."

"Sir, the Trueman is a Miranda-class starship. I don't think--"

"Good, don't." Weston cut in, ignoring the look of warning Nechayev directed at him, "Just follow orders. . .unless you believe yourself exempt from the chain of command?"

Edwards didn't take the bait, no matter how much Weston might with him to, "I hold so such belief. I simply do not think the Trueman can handle the Cardassians when they return."

"The Trueman is a good ship with an able crew," Hendrickson said, "I'm sure they can handle anything that comes their way."

Despite his words to the contrary, Hendrickson looked worried about it. Almost as worried as Edwards was. Still, he held his peace whilst on-screen, although he had probably argued with the others beforehand.

"Sirs--"

"This is not open for debate, Captain Edwards." Nechayev said shortly, "You will proceed immediately to Beta Andres X and deal with the riots. Then, you may return to deal with the Cardassians. Starfleet Command, out."

Before Edwards could get a word in, the screen returned to a view of the pristine stars. He closed his mouth, sighed, and sat back in his seat.

The bridge was in complete silence, every eye on him.

Finally, he spoke.

"Ensign. Set a course for Beta Andres X, maximum warp. Let's deal with this as quickly as possible."

***

An hour later, as the Khitomer was en route to their destination, Commander Zack Toyle stood, hands folded, in a turbolift as it took him toward his destination; namely, the Officer's Lounge.

For the fifth time in the past five minutes, the 'lift slowed to a stop. He didn't bother moving toward the door, well aware that he was not at his goal yet. For some reason, this particular turbolift tube was very popular. People kept getting on and off. Occasionally, he would exchange pleasantries with one or more of them, but mostly he just waited patiently, not having anything else he could be doing.

He was a fighter pilot, commander of Phoenix squadron, and the battles in which he were involved were faced-paced and usually didn't last longer than ten minutes, because of the blazing speed with which they took place. People had often mused that he must lead a very exciting life.

In reality, he did not. The battles were exciting, but the rest of the time he had very little to occupy himself with. His battles were few and far between, leaving him with far too much free time on his hands.

He spent a lot of it in the Officer's Lounge, unable to stand being cooped up in his quarters for all that long. He'd long since flown and conquered every simulation the holodecks and simm-pods had to offer. In fact, he was able to predict each and every move the holographic enemies would make. He was capable of programming in new tactical patterns, but that didn't help. He would have been the one to program the patterns, so he would already know what they would do!

The 'lift doors slid open, and his heart skipped a beat (or two) when Counselor Aisha Zyrenn stepped in.

"Hi," He said simply, flashing his most charming grin which--these days--he saved especially for her.

"Hello," She replied, a beautiful smile tugging at her own lips.

He stepped closer, sliding his arms around her thin waist. Drawing her close to him, he kissed her full on the lips, catching her off-guard. She tensed, then relaxed in his embrace.

When he finally pulled back--slightly--she said, "Zack, we're in a turbolift."

"Exciting, isn't it?" He quipped, leaning in again. Their lips came together and it was longer before they separated.

"Dinner at my place?" Toyle mumbled minutes later when he 'came up for air'.

"Love to," She replied.

There was silence. He didn't kiss her again, but made no move to release her either. Time seemed to freeze. . .

. . .at least until the 'lift slowed yet again and the doors opened. Doctor Susan Woods was standing with her arms crossed. When she saw Toyle and Zyrenn together, a slight frown pulled at her own lips.

Toyle cleared his throat and hastily stepped back. Zyrenn was flushed and she quickly moved out the 'lift doors, Woods giving her an icy glance as she went by.

"See you at 0700!" Toyle shouted after her. If the Betazed counselor heard him, she made no reply and simply continued on.

Woods stepped into the turbolift and said "Deck 15,"

"We were talking," Toyle said in defense. "Really."

"Of course," His former lover replied coolly, "That's just exactly what it looked like."

"Why Doctor!" He teased, "Are we just a bit jealous?"

She snorted harshly in laughter and said, "Get over yourself, Zack. I certainly have."

Then, she stepped quickly out of the 'lift onto Deck 15, leaving Toyle to journey onward toward the Officer's Lounge.

***

The surface of Beta Andres X had been a lush green planet, full of life and welcoming to the colonists when they came looking for a place to settle. The majority of the land on the planet was covered with soft, tall grass that swayed gently back and forth in unison as the wind nudged it. The sky was a gentle shade of blue, more oft than nought devoid of clouds.

Small bird-like creatures flitted about, almost looking like ships engaged in mock dogfights as they circled, swooped, and dived out in the warm air. Their songs were soothing to the troubled heart, gladdening to the sad one, and added to the joyous feeling the very planet itself seemed to give to the people who had taken up residence on its surface.

The soil was rich and fertile, crops easily springing from the surface. It had seemed to be the next best thing to Eden. In fact, it may have been Eden.

Had seemed. Past tense. It was no longer so.

The tall grass, deeply rooted and always swaying, had survived the occasional fierce storm, the mighty winds that whipped across the plains, and even stampedes of wild animals. Yet, it could not stand against fire.

Plainly, a fire had ripped through the planet, leaving long charred paths like wounds, vicious gashes that ruined the Eden-like image. The bird-creatures, those not dead, had gone away looking for more welcoming territory. The towns on the planet were destroyed, some buildings burned to the ground while others seemed to have been ripped apart with someone's bare hands.

Captain Edwards had his phaser out when the transporter deposited him on the surface of the planet, but much to his dismay, it was of no use.

There was no one for him to defend himself against. There was no one there, period.

"Fan out," He said to the Away Team, "Find the colonists."

Security and Medical personnel spread away from their tightly clustered group in which they had set down in, and started picking through the wreckage of the town, trying to find any sign of life.

"Commander," He nodded to Hobson, "With me. You too, Doctor."

With Hobson and Woods at his back, Edwards walked through what had once been a street, glancing warily back and forth at the buildings as he walked by.

"Anything?" He asked, his voice sounding very loud in the utter silence.

Woods replied, working her tricorder as she picked her way through the rubble.

"I'm getting life signs, but they're scattered and I can't seem to pin them down. . ."

"Can you point us in the general direction?" Edwards asked.

Woods worked in silence for a moment, then gestured ahead with her tricorder, "This way." Sidestepping Edwards, she took the lead.

They walked in the eerie silence for a few minutes. Hobson was fingering his phaser and glancing nervously about. Edwards knew exactly how he felt, but he concealed it better. As they walked, he stooped and grabbed a small chunk of concrete that had been scorched by weapon's fire. He opened his tricorder and scanned it while walking.

"Federation phaser signature," He murmured to Hobson, angling his tricorder so the other could see the readings himself.

"So it wasn't an invasion," Hobson replied. "Then it was some sort of uprising?"

"The Admirals did say rioting."

"Yeah," Hobson looked around again, "But I didn't imagine. . ."

"I don't think the riots were purely the cause of all of this," Edwards said. "I mean, they wouldn't annihilate themselves whilst rioting. That just doesn't happen."

"Something happened," Hobson said. "Maybe a rebellion of some sort?"

Edwards shook his head, "No, this was a peaceful people. They objected to the Dominion War--and violence in general--so they moved way out here in the Golgotha nebula where they wouldn't be bothered. They abhor violence."

Hobson was about to reply when Woods stopped in front of a building and said "In here."

Edwards drew his phaser again, re-holstering his tricorder as he peered inside the dark door.

The building was still standing, which was rare in the current state of the city. The walls were scorched with phaser fire, the windows having long since been blown out. Judging from the blackened color of the walls, there had been a rather devastating fire.

Edwards thumbed his phaser to heavy stun and said, "I'm going in. Chris, cover--"

It was as far as he got.

From within the building, a blood-curdling scream resounded. It was a high-pitched wail of agony and anger that rent the air and sent a shiver coursing down Edwards spine exactly five seconds before his blood turned to ice.

Woods started forward, believing someone to be hurt.

"Doctor, down!" He shouted, throwing himself at the Chief Medical officer. He caught her in the midsection and dragged her with him, plowing both of them into the ground, throwing a cloud of dust billowing into the empty air. Hobson wisely wheeled out of the way, moving in the opposite direction.

Through the door a phaser beam lanced, striking the ruins across the street.

Edwards disentangled himself from the doctor and rolled to his feet, swinging his phaser around. He fired once into the building while running toward a large upraised chunk of the street that was now standing nearly straight-up.

Hobson flattened himself against the side of the building just beside the door. He twisted his wrist and fired inside, not bothering to aim. Woods lept nimbly to her feet, moving toward cover.

The sound of phaser fire brought the rest of the Away Team running almost at once. Three security guards approached the building in a standard Starfleet formation. One man moved forward while the other two covered. Then, the two moved forward to join the first. The first would then go forward again, and so forth.

One burly security guard lept through one of the windows. There was another scream, a second burst of phaser fire, and then they saw him.

He might have been human once, although he no longer looked it. Wild brown hair stood up in shocks, at least what hair that had not been burned off was. He had a single eye, his other a bloody socket with blood streaming down his face. Cuts and gashes covered him. His clothes, filthy and covered in multi-colored blood, hung in tatters on his body. In his one hand--his other long gone, a stump all that was left--he clutched a standard Starfleet phaser.

He was firing wildly, very rarely hitting anything or anyone. His scream was almost constant now. With his constant wildfire, he kept the Away Team effectively pinned down.

Except for Hobson and Woods who were now behind him. They crept up on him and each grabbed an arm, wrenching with all their might as they tried to haul him down. Edwards rushed forward and caught his wrist, heaving the phaser upward. He was still firing, but now the beams merely burned through the dark clouds that were billowing in the sky.

He was incredibly strong in his insane frenzy. Edwards grunted with effort as he poured all his strength into keeping the phaser pointed safely upward.

In the blink of an eye, he released the man's hand, giving him freedom to fire anywhere again. However, before he could bring the weapon to bear, Edwards hauled off with a punch to the jaw with enough force to snap his head back.

He groaned, a sad pathetic sound, and fell limp in Hobson and Woods' arms.

Gently, they lowered him to the ground. Woods withdrew a hypospray from her medkit and emptied its contents into the madman's neck. Then, she grabbed a Dermal regenerator and began running it over his eye, trying to stop the bleeding before he bled to death.

"Captain," Hobson panted, his uniform and face covered with dust mingled with sweat. He gestured toward the man's ruined garments. "Look. . ."

Edwards peered closer. He could make out a red stripe on his arm, and a grayish tint beneath the dust about his shoulders.

There was a small lump on one side of his chest. Edwards shoved the folds of cloth back and revealed a small Starfleet Delta.

"My God, he's Starfleet. . ." Edwards breathed.

He stooped beside him and said loud enough to catch his attention, "I'm Captain Edwards of the Khitomer. Starfleet. United Federation of Planets."

The man was peering wildly at him, no recognition in his eyes. He looked more like a beaten, hunted animal than like a human being.

"What happened here?" Edwards continued, "Where are the colonists?"

"He can't understand you, Captain." Woods informed him, "His mind's too far gone. There's nothing left."

Edwards sighed and heaved himself to his feet, Hobson following suite.

He spoke quietly to his First Officer, "Contact the Khitomer and have them scan within a ten kilometer radius of our position. If there's anyone else left, have them beam them aboard, but keep them under restraint and possibly sedated. Go back aboard and keep an eye on things down here from there."

Hobson nodded and tapped his badge, "Hobson to Khit--"

Suddenly, the man screamed again. He lashed out, catching Woods across the face with a forearm. A security officer rushed toward him, but he pummeled him with his bloodied fists, driving him back.

In his hand was again a phaser.

He had a deranged glint in his eye and a curious smile on his lips. Then, he started to laugh.

It was not a laugh of amusement. Rather, it was one of terror and fear that found its way out via laughter. He turned the phaser toward his own chest, pressing the barrel tightly against his battered flesh.

"No!" Edwards lept at him. Almost as one, the entire Away Team started forward.

But none of them reached him in time. He fired, blowing most of his upper half away. When Edwards caught him and knocked him to the ground, he was holding ruined flesh, internal organs, and a lot of blood. Digging painfully into his chest was the scorched commbadge that had been on the man's chest.

He stood, aware of the blood that soaked his uniform. There was again complete silence. Everyone was too shocked to speak.

He broke it a moment later, saying "Let's get back to the Khitomer."

***

Captain's Log, supplemental.

A planet-wide scan reveals that no other colonists survived. A more focused scan of the city shows that almost every single weapon signature is Federation in origin.

They killed themselves. The colonists fell upon themselves and were destroyed. All but one. There's always one left. Sometimes, they call him the victor. Other times, he's a survivor.

In this case, he's neither. He committed suicide. I had a DNA sample taken just before we left. Dr. Woods will run it against the records in the computers and see if she can identify who he is. . .was. . .

I don't know what happened down there, and frankly it's got me very worried. Why would peaceful people suddenly kill themselves like this? Being worried that it could possibly be some sort of virus our scanners can't detect, I had the planet placed under quarantine. It may be pointless--no one ever enters the Golgotha nebula anyway because of all the disappearing ship stories-- but just to be safe I gave the quarantine order.

Edwards stepped onto the bridge, glancing with a pang of regret at the planet that rotate slowly below them. It was a fearful thought, that a plenbt of peaceful people would just suddenly turn in on themselves like that. A small corner of his mind absently wondered if there would have been any survivors had they gotten their sooner.

He sighed and slowly sat down, aware of the complete silence on the bridge. Perhaps it was a large ship, but it was a small community. Word of what they had found on the planet had travled through the ship like wildfire. Surely by the time they had completed their scan, everyone had heard of what had happened. They certainly knew on the bridge.

"Are the quarantine beacons in place?" Edwards asked.

Hobson looked up from his consol, tapping a single button before replying, "Yes, sir. We've set a net up around the planet with the warning brodcasting on all frequencies. The long range communications satillite will inform us, should anyone attempt to break the quarantine."

"Good. Activate warning beacons."

Hobson complied and via the viewscreen, they could see the beacons begin flashing at regular intervals. Had the channel not been blocked, they would have heard the standard message, warning them away from the planet because of extreme danger on the surface.

"Ensign, set a course for the Cardassian/Federation border. Full impulse until we're clear of the Golgotha nebula, then take us to warp. Let's let the dead rest in peace."

Ensign Krod Zetan, the Khitomer's Bolian helmsman nodded once to himself and said, "Aye, sir. Course laid in."

"Engage."

***

"Sir," Zetan glanced back an hour later with a frown on his blue-tinted face, "We're losing speed."

Hobson glanced up from the report he'd been reading and said, "Why? I didn't order a reduction in speed."

"I know, and I didn't reduce speed. We're slowing nonetheless."

"Any idea why?" Hobson had a slight frown on his lips.

"Not a one."

Hobson tapped his badge, "Captain to the bridge."

Mere moments later, Edwards stepped out of his Ready Room, moving to his command chair. "Report?"

Hobson explained their mysterious drop in speed, which continued even as they spoke.

Edwards leaned forward, gazing silently at the whisping nebula gases that passed around the ship with silent beauty.

Then, he tapped his commbadge, "Edwards to Engineering. Dimitri, what's happening down there?"

"The dilithium crystals are starting to. . . .decompose, I guess."

"You guess?" Edwards frowned, despite the fact Lieutenant Commander Dk'myr'chi couldn't see him.

"Yeah. I've never seen anything like this before, and I don't know what to make of it. All I know is our warp engines are already off-line, and our impulse engines are fading rapidly."

Edwards glanced aft, looking at Radisson, "Can we send a distress signal?"

Radisson shook his head, "Not through the nebula. The gases would scramble the signal."

"Krod, distance to perimiter?"

Zetan replied, "Ninety thousand kilometers. We're not going to make it at our current rate of deceleration."

Edwards sighed, "Keep us going as best you can. Get us as close as possible, and then we'll see if we can't get a signal out somehow."

"Aye, sir."

***

"That's it," Zetan said some time later, "We've come to a stop."

"Distance?"

"Still ten thousand kilometers."

Edwards turned his chair until he was facing Radisson, "Try sending a signal."

Radisson worked, aware of the tense silence on the bridge. The thought of being trapped in the Golgotha nebula was unnerving to say the least. Rumors ran rampant about ships entering the nebula and vanishing forever. There was supposedly a graveyard of starships somewhere in the nebula, although one had never been found. Of course, that didn't mean it didn't exist. No one willingly entered the Golgotha nebula, even to search for the graveyard. Once, a lone ship had limped out of the nebula after vanishing almost a week prior. On board, the crew was found. They had been slaughtered, completely and utterly. In fact, the rescue party--now a recovery team--had been hard pressed to find even a single intact body.

And hence, it was named 'Golgotha'. Ancient Hebrew for The Place of the Skull.

Even Starfleet captains steered clear of Golgotha. True, 'Fleet officers were not supposed to believe in superstition, but there was no point in taking chances. Something strange happened in that nebula.

And so, as Radisson worked, he prayed heartily that the signal would get through somehow and a rescue ship would come for them. He didn't want to join the dozens of other ships that had mysteriously vanished. He had a wife, and he knew many of the Khitomer's crew had families either on Earth on one of the other planets in the United Federation of Planets.  He shuddered at the thought of wives being without husbands, parents without their children, children without their parents, and so forth.

So desperate was he to get a signal through that he did something he thought he would never do in all his time as Chief of Security on the Khitomer: He took the shields completely off-line, re-routing all power into the comm. He transmitted the signal, tension and hope building in his chest.

Then, the computer gave a negative chirp back at him. He looked up at the starship captain who was waiting expectantly and sadly shook his head.

Almost as one, the entire bridge crew seemed to sag with disappointment. Edwards, however, refused to.

"Alright, Rob. You keep transmitting. If you have any ideas on how to get the signal through, go for it. I'm heading down to Engineering to talk to Dimitri and see what he's doing about it. Chris, you've got the bridge."

Then, standing straight and tall--as if afraid to show disappointment in front of his crew--Edwards marched into the turbolift and descended to the lower decks.

***

Counselor Aisha Zyrenn suddenly sat up with a gasp of alarm. She'd been lounging comfortably on the couch in her office, waiting for her next patient to arrive when she felt it.

An evil presence. Pure evil and malice. Such evil as she had never felt before. It brushed past her mind so very gently, that she would not have felt it had she not been naturally telepathic.

Gathering her mental energies about her, she probed outward, trying to find it again and get a closer look.

There! She sense it, but when she moved in for a closer look, it slipped away from her and vanished from the Khitomer as though it had never been.

But it had been, and she knew it. A terrible feeling of forboding clenched her innards into painful knots. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. . .

***

Lieutenant Pedro Rodrequiz grunted under the weight of the massive crate he was attempting to lug down the corridor leading from one of the aft cargo bays to engineering. It was blasted heavy!

Lieutenant Menyez had offered to go with him and help, but the Mexican engineer had declined. Dk'myr'chi wasn't thrilled about the idea of one of his men leaving engineering, and if he didn't like that then he definitly wouldn't like two of them going.

Now, as his arms ached in protest, he wished he'd risked the Human/Gorn's wrath.

Erika Schmidt sashayed by as only she could do, and his heart climbed into his throat. He tried to make steps seem light and easy, as though the box weight nothing at all.

He smiled as best he could and said, "Hi, Erika."

She returned the smile with a quiet "Hi," and it was almost enough to make him pass out. As she walked in the opposite direction, he twisted his neck farther and farther around-- not worried that his head would probably snap off if he turned much more--so he could watch her for as long as possible.

And it was right then, whilst gazing the opposite way, that he ran into Ensign Jhonas.

Jhonas was not a particularly friendly person, but he wasn't all that bad either. Then again, that was only on Rodrequiz's mind since the rest of the crew thought of him as a complete grouch. Of course, when Rodrequiz thought of grouchy, Dk'myr'chi sprang into his mind, and in comparison Jhonas was simply not that bad.

He wasn't really outright rude, just cold as space and with the personality of a glass of water. He very rarely spoke more than two words to anyone at any one time. It had been said that he would be more talkitive if he keeled over and died. When the conversation swung in that direction, Rodrequiz wisely kept his mouth shut.

The crate spilled to the deck. Fortunatly it was sealed shut, but unfortunatly, its contents were easily damaged. Dk'myr'chi would stick his head on a pike if he showed up with broken parts.

Jhonas had been storming in the other direction, hands opening and closing at his sides in agitation, his legs stomping like pistons.

When he hit Rodrequiz--or when Rodrequiz hit him, depending on one's point of view--he rebounded into the wall. Rodrequiz managed to trip himself up and tumble to the deck along with his crate.

"What in the blazes are you doing!?" Jhonas roared with more emotion--anger, to be exact--in his voice than Rodrequiz had ever heard. "Why don't you watch where you're going!?"

Rodrequiz quickly stumbled to his feet, raising his hands in a defensive position, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't see you."

"Sorry don't cut it, pal." Jhonas was furious, beyond reason.

Anger whelled up in Rodrequiz' chest; anger as such he'd never felt before. He furious jabbed a finger into Jhonas breastbone, "It'd better, mister, or I'll split your skull like an egg!"

"You wanna try it?" Jhonas hand came up, drawn back to deliver a nasty blow. He could easily break Rodrequiz jaw, and the younger man knew it. Instead of backing down, as would have been his natural reaction, he grew even more furious.

"Yeah!" He shouted, "Bust you down to size, you sonuva--"

"Hey, what's going on here?" Erika Schmidt had heard their argument, which was rapidly gaining in both vehemence and volume, and had quickly doubled back. Now, she tried to insert herself between the two angry officers.

"This little twerp ran into me!" Jhonas bellowed angrily. Rodrequiz furiously started forward, but Schmidt gently pushed him back.

"Listen, let's go down to the Officer's Lounge. We can--"

With a roar of anger, Jhonas backhanded her, knocking her into the wall.

Rodrequiz screamed, "Don't touch her!" and lept at the bulkier man, attacking him with a terrible ferocity.

Jhonas lashed out, driving his sledgehammer of a fist into Rodrequiz's stomach, doubling the younger man around his fist. Rodrequiz brought his knee up in a counter-strike, driving it between Jhonas' legs. The older man groaned in pain, but swung at Rodrequiz again.

He caught his across the jaw, then grabbed a handful of his uniform and slammed him up against the wall. His mighty fist smashed into the Mexican's stomach with enough force to crack and break several ribs. Again he drew his hand back and pounded it into the pinned man's stomach. He drew it back for a third blow--

--but it never came. His fist was trapped behind him.

Angrily, he dropped Rodrequiz and spun to see who was stopping him. He found Lieutenant Commander Dk'myr'chi holding his fist back in his mighty grip.

"Leave him alone, Ensign." His voice was cold as steel and black as space.

"Half-breed!" Jhonas shouted, beyond reason. He brought his other fist around, swinging with incredible force toward the green-skinned Chief Engineer.

Dk'myr'chi brought his forearm up and blocked the blow. Then, he released the man's other hand and hauled off with a punch to the jaw.

Jhonas spun about slightly. Dk'myr'chi grabbed his wrist and wrenched it behind the man's back, jamming it upward until he had pinned the furious Ensign. He slammed him chest-first against the wall.

"Get this man to the brig," He growled when two security guards appeared around the bend. He ripped Jhonas away from the wall and with a mighty shove sent him reeling toward the guards. It was all they could do to catch and haul off the bulky man.

Dk'myr'chi helped Rodrequiz from his fallen position on the floor and said, "Are you alright?"

Rodrequiz coughed and tasted blood from his split lip. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grimanced at the blood he saw, then said, "Yeah, I'll be fine."

Dk'myr'chi grabbed the crate from its fallen position on the floor, hefting it easily with one hand, and stalked back toward Engineering.

Rodrequiz moved to the opposite wall and bent to help Schmidt up off the ground.

"Let's go to Sickbay," He rasped.

***

"I don't believe this!" Toyle exclaimed as he scowled angrily into the innards of his Phoenix-class fighter.

Lieutenant Bruce Reno came over and grunted, "What?"

Toyle gestured inside, "The dilithium crystals've been reduced to powder! The ship's dead."

Reno shouldered past the squad leader and craned his neck as he looked inside. He harumphed, then moved back toward his own fighter, glancing inside it as well.

"Same here," He called back.

Toyle uttered a nasty oath, directing it solely at the miniature warp core that powered his ship. He slammed the panel shut and leaned heavily against the wing, running a hand across his hair.

He was mad, and he wasn't sure quite why. Maybe the thought of his entire squad being disabled with such impunity was the source of his ire. He wanted to pound something--or better yet, someone--into a pulp. He had a distinct feeling that if he did so, he would feel better.

He suppressed the urge, knowing full-well that beating up on someone would not help the situation at all. Still, an annoying little voice in his mind whispered to him Go ahead, do it. There's Bruce right over there. Y'know he told that Rodrequiz twerp about your date so he could disable the turbolift and steal 'er for himself. You promised revenge, didn't you? So do it. Take your revenge. You're not doing anything else anyway. Wouldn't it feel good to take that wrench over there and beat him across the skull. . . .?

The voice was louder than before. The presence of it at all was curious. He wasn't telepathic--that he knew of--and he wasn't deranged, so why was he hearing voices in the first place?

He started running through fuel consumption rates, speed calculations, course chartings, stats on various fighters. . .anything that would keep his mind distracted. Blessedly, it seemed to be working.

"So now what?"

Toyle shook himself out of his thoughts, blinking once or twice as he brought his eyes back into focus. Reno had returned to Toyle's fighter and had scrabbled onto the wing, checking the systems that controlled the weapons.

Toyle shrugged, "Got me. One thing's fer' sure: Our fighters ain't goin' anywhere until we get new dilithium crystals installed."

"They've got an hour of battary power each, y'know." Reno suggested, "That's enough to clear the Golgotha nebula."

Toyle shrugged, "Yeah, but what then? There wouldn't be enough power left to send a distress signal. Instead of floating dead inside the nebula, we'd be floating dead outside. 'Sides, life-support would fail and we'd suffocate. At least the Khitomer's life support works."

"Point taken," Reno hopped off the wing, landing lightly on the deck. "I guess we're not going to be doing much then." He grinned, "Officer's Lounge, here I come."

The voice grew louder, but he angrily forced it away. Yes, it whispered in his mind, Angrily force me away. Release your anger!

Toyle nodded and said, "Go right ahead," Then turned back toward his fighter, fiddling with a few wires until Reno had left. He was scared of what he might do if he remained facing the other pilot. The voice might become to strong to resist.

Casting one final dispariging glance at his ship, he unzipped his flight suit's jacket--which he'd taken to wearing over his uniform--and shrugged out of it, tossing it in a crumpled pile on his ship's wing. He walked out of the Hanger, heading for his quarters.

He still had a dinner date set with Aisha Zyrenn, and he had nothing else to do except get everything ready. . .

***

"Blast it!" Radisson snarled viciously, slamming the flat of his palm down on his console hard enough to disrupt it for a moment.

Zetan nearly jumped clean out of his seat at the sudden thunderous noise. He spun around, his skin flushing a darker shade of blue. No one was watching as he took several deep breaths and tried to calm himself.

No one was watching, because all attention was focused on the mad Security Chief.

Hobson remained completely calm and cool. He turned and regarded the angry man as he said, "No luck?"

Radisson's voice was still much higher than was needed, "I've tried re-routing a signal through the deflector dish, I've tried launching a probe, I've tried draining every damn system into the comm, but nothing works! I can't get a signal out!"

"Calm down," Hobson admonished, "I'm sure you'll find a way."

Radisson snorted nastily and tried to begin his operations again. He succeeded in recieving one attempt failed message from the computer, then threw his hands up and stalked toward the turbolift.

"Where're you going?" Hobson asked, turning to watch him.

"Out. Away. I need to cool down." Before Hobson could say another word, Radisson stepped into the turbolift and descended toward a lower deck. Hobson arched an eyebrow, having never seen the Irish man quite so irked.

"I've been trying on my own," Zetan said, "And I've had no more luck than he."

Hobson sighed, "There were never reports of communication trouble within the Golgotha nebula before. There were channels open between the rest of the Federation and Beta Andres X almost all the time, and they had no problems. Why is our comm suddenly not working?"

"It's not our comm," Zetan replied, "Our comm works just fine. I double-and triple-checked it, and there's no problem."

"Perhaps the computer readout is in error. . .?" Hobson suggested, not really believing it himself.

Zetan countered, "Sorry. I mean I'd double- and triple-checked the comm system visually. It works fine."

"This may sound kinda' paranoid," Lieutenant Dennis Holte said from the tactical station he'd taken over when Radisson had stormed off, "But it's starting to sound like someone doesn't want us sending a signal. Think about it: our engines conk out, and about the same time our comm stops working. We're trapped and unable to call for help."

"So we're being trapped. . ." Hobson mused, "But by what?"

". . .Or whom?" Holte put in.

"Suddenly this seems a lot more ominous than it did ten minutes ago," Zetan decided.

***

Much to his surpise, when Toyle reached his quarters he discovered that he had a mere two hours until Zyrenn arrived. He immediatly set about preparing dinner-- relying heavily on the replicator--and trying to get the correct mood.

The lights were at half, gentle candles cast soft light on a table upon which he had just finished laying the silverware--careful to get them in their proper positions. He wasn't much on edquitte himself, in fact he usually ate on the run not stopping to consider being polite. However, it seemed to matter to the beautiful counselor, who always rearranged the untensils whenever he set them wrong, so he had looked up the proper setting in the computer and had resolved to do it the next time they had dinner. It would be a pleasant suprise for her.

Time seemed to be flying by. Now, there was barely ten minutes left until her eagerly-anticipated arrival. His mood--which had been dark and brooding when he had first stormed back into his quarters, was rising quite a bit with each passing minute. He'd showered, changed, and spent the whole time preparing what he hoped would be a tasty meal. He wasn't much of a cook.

The doorchime beeped, and in perfect synchronization with the sound, his heart lept into his throat. He forced it back down--not wanting to choke on his own internal organs before dinner--and walked calmly but quickly to the door.

He touched a button and the door slid open, revealing Aisha Zyrenn.

She wore a gorgeous blue-tinted, v-necked dress that clung to her in all the right places. The lights from the corridor were reflected off of the shiny dress's material. He hair had been pulled back in loosely, revealing her beautiful features.

That was the first thing he noticed. The second thing was the tired, haggered look she had about her.

He smiled--restraining his usual 'knock 'em dead' grin--and gestured into his quarters, "Hey, Aisha. You look great."

She smiled, but it was a tired expression, "Hi, Zack."

As he summoned all his lessons from officer's training to mind, he pulled out a chair for her and asked, "Everything alright? You look wiped."

She pulled the napkin from underneath the silverware, and he was mildly disappointed that she didn't notice the pains he had gone to to get them set correctly. "I don't know," She replied to his question, "I don't think so."

He sat down himself, waiting for her to take the first bite, then dug in himself. "What's wrong?" He asked.

"I felt a. . . . .a presence this afternoon," She said hesitantly after half-heartedly swallowing a single bite of food. Toyle felt worry creep into his mind. She was so pale. . . .

"You're on a ship with almost four hundred people," He commented, "Isn't that to be expected."

"Yes," She admitted, "But I don't think this was crewmember--gods, I hope it wasn't. It felt so completely and utterly evil. I think it was scanning the crew's mind."

The voice he'd been hearing perhaps. . . . .?

"And when I tried to trace it, it eluded me and vanished."

She looked up at him, her eyes hollow, sending a shiver down his spine, "Zack, I think there's something in this nebula with us."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop thirty degrees. Toyle desperately drudged up a smile and plastered it on his face, although he didn't feel even slightly like smiling.

"Aw, c'mon." He said laughingly, trying to lighten the mood as best he could, "You're not saying you actually believe those ghost stories, do you?"

"I never did before, but now I'm not so sure. . ."

Toyle replied, "You're just tired. Tensions and tempers are running pretty high 'round here right now. You're just picking up on all of that. Once they get the engines fixed and we get away from here, everyone'll cool down and you'll be fine." He pointed at her mostly untouched meal with his fork, "Now dig in. I spent all afternoon--" (not quite the whole truth, but enough of it) "--working on it."

She nodded slowly and picked her fork up again. Spearing a tender piece of meat, she slowly chewed and swallowed it.

"Atta' girl," He grinned again, "Everything will be fine."

"I hope so. . . ." were her last words.

Suddenly, her eyes lolled back in her head, the fork clattering to the ground from limp fingers. She tilted back and crashed to the ground in a crumpled heap, bringing the chair down with her.

"Aisha!?" He'd known she'd looked pale and weak, but he hadn't imagined it was so much so that she would pass out. He was out of his seat so fast he knocked his own chair completely over. Dropping to his knees beside her, he knocked the flimsy chair away with a single swipe of his forearm, then desperately felt at her neck for a pulse.

It was there. There, and steady. He heaved a sigh of relief and said a silent prayer of thanks, then scooped her up in his arms, hurridly leaving the room as he rushed toward Sickbay.

***

Doctor Susan Woods rushed frantically from one bio-bed to the next, trying to treat all the injuries that had suddenly started pouring into her Sickbay. It'd not been this busy since the climax of the Dominion War, and she hadn't expected it to be so again for a long, long time. . .if ever. Her beleagured staff was rushing pell-mell, shouting to each other as they tried to effectively treat everyone. Woods was working on her own, moving with speed as she hadn't done since she'd left the 181st Ground Devision, during the afore mentioned Dominion War.

Most of the injuries were from fights that had broken out throughout the ship. It was puzzling. The Khitomer's crew were like a well-oiled, finely honed machine. The war had seen to that. They worked together as a team, thus achieving one of the highest efficiency ratings in the Fleet. True, the rumors of ghosts haunting the Golgotha nebula, and the fact that communications and engines had mysteriously broken down was causing the tension level to rise, but there was no reason for everyone to be this high-strung. They were trained men and women. They didn't react to crisis in this manner. They never had before. . .

She stopped beside one man, eyeing the nasty-looking gash he was nursing on one arm. She scanned it quickly with her tricorder, but she'd already diagnosed it with her naked eyes. Long experience and practice had taught her that particular skill.

"Doctor!" She shouted over her shoulder. Lieutenant Melissa Johnson, newly assigned to the Khitomer came over. Woods finished, "It looks like there's an infection in this man's wound. Treat it and give him something to keep the infection off so it doesn't spread."

She nodded and grabbed a hypospray from a nearby tray, leaving Woods to move on to the next patient.

From behind, she heard the door hiss open and she groaned mentally. Whenver the door opened, more wounded arrived.

She turned and saw Lieutenant Rodrequiz limp through the door, half-carried by Erika Schmidt.

Realizing that the rest of her staff was otherwise occupied, she moved to help them, shouldering Rodrequiz weight before Schmidt collapsed.

"What a mess," Rodrequiz croaked through dry, split lips. He tried to stand upright, and mostly failed, "What's happening?"

"No idea," Woods replied, "The crew seems to be at each other's throats."

Rodrequiz chuckled, "I know the feeling. Sorry to make you even busier, but I managed to get into a--"

"--fight, yes I gathered," Woods cut him off. She helped him up onto a bio-bed, noticing the wince that cross his countenance as he painfully clutched at his ribs.

So, naturally, that was the first thing she checked. She pried his hand off of his ribcage and scanned it quickly with her tricorder.

"Two broken ribs, three cracked ones, and you almost punctured a lung." Woods informed him, "And here I thought you'd be the last person to get into a scrape."

"So did I," Rodrequiz said. He winced when she pressed a hypospray against his side, painfully close to one broken rib.

Schmidt was sitting against the wall, not wanting to take up a bio-bed when there were obviously those much more in need of it than she. Tenderly, she touched the left side of her face--the side that Jhonas had caught her across with his arm--and winced when the bruise complained at the pressure. Her finger was tinted red when she drew it away.

Glancing at her reflection in the reflective surface of a computer terminal, she was relieved to see it was just a small scratch.

Again, in her mind, she ran through the incident. Rodrequiz was not a terribly brave man--that was well known--and she had been amazed when he'd lept at the larger, stockier man in her defense.

She knew he cared for her. He was plainly obvious in that regard, and made no effort to hide his affection for her. She just hadn't imagined he would do such a thing.

A smile crept across her lips as she regarded him lying on the bio-bed with Woods working to heal his injuries.

And maybe I care for him too. . . . She admitted to herself.

***

Edwards stepped into Engineering only to find a full-blown argument in progress.

While Edwards had known Dk'myr'chi would somehow be involved--being naturally cantankerous, he was in his element--but Lieutenant Nikolas Menyez was the last person the starship captain would have thought of. The younger engineer was an easygoing, happy-go-lucky sort of guy who tried and succeeded in getting along with everyone.

". . .can get to Sickbay on his own easily enough," Dk'myr'chi was growling, "I needed that crate and its contents, and I needed it now. He wasn't that badly beat up."

"So you just walked away and leave him in pain?" Menyez shot back, "You're even colder than they say you are!"

Dk'myr'chi drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't all that tall but was still taller than Menyez. His skin flushed a dark shade of green as his feiry orange eyes flashed.

"I could break you over my knee, boy." Dk'myr'chi snarled, his voice low and intense, "I'm in charge here, not you. I am your elder in rank and in years, and I do not need your approval."

"Gentleman," Edwards chose that moment to insert himself between the two of them. "That's enough. Calm down--both of you."

Dk'myr'chi crossed his arms and turned his attention toward a nearby computer station, Menyez no longer existing in his universe. Dk'myr'chi still existed very much in Menyez's universe, however. He was still glaring feiry bolts of lightning at the Chief Engineer's bald head, and opened his mouth to fire off another retort.

"I said drop it, mister." Edwards said warningly, holding a finger up to silence

Instead of what he'd originally planned to say, Menyez muttered, "Yes, sir," Under his breath and moved off.

***

"What was that all about?" Lieutenant Laurel DePaul asked Menyez moments later when he came to join at at one of the diagnostic console where he had been previously working before Dk'myr'chi had stormed into Engineering.

Menyez didn't reply immediatly, taking his anger out on the buttons as he pecked at them with far more force than was required.

"I can't believe he just left Pedro out there!" He finally said.

DePaul was hesitant to take sides in this particular matter--not wanting to alienate either Menyez or her superior officer--but she felt a need to point out, "We did need that equipment at once. I'm sure if Pedro had been really severely injured, he would've helped him."

Menyez grumbled something under his breath, and from the few syllables DePaul caught, she decided she definitly did not want him to repeat it.

Angrily, he closed the program he'd been running and said, "Ahhh, screw it." He stalked toward the door of Engineering, leaving DePaul flatfooted in his wake.

"Hey!" Dk'myr'chi looked away from Edwards and shouted, "Where do you think you're going? Get back here!"

Menyez waved him off and stalked angrily out of Engineering.

***

Cursing angrily under his breath, Dk'myr'chi started forward in pursuit of Menyez, but Edwards caught hold of him by the arm and held him in place.

"Let him go, Dimitri," Edwards said, "He needs to cool off. . .and so do you. A little time apart will give both of you time to simmer down a bit."

Dk'myr'chi was still glowering angrily. He shouted to DePaul who was trying very hard to blend into the wall, "Go chase him down and bring him back here, will you?"

DePaul nodded and quickly exited, relieved to finally be out of Engineering where tensions were running higher than anywhere else on the ship.

Then, he turned back to Edwards.

"What's happening with the engines?" Edwards asked promptly, that being the primary concern on his mind.

Dk'myr'chi blew a noisy sigh out and gestured with a grand wave of his hand, taking in both warp engines, "The dilithium crystals seem to be decomposing. They're crumbling to dust, and I can't do jack with dilithium dust. . .unless I want to go into the drug business."

"Dimitri. . . . ." Edwards said warningly.

Dk'myr'chi continued, "The more they crumble, the more systems we lose. Because engines are obviously directly drawing on the warp cores, they're the first thing to go. Everything else will follow soon enough.

"Transwarp?" Edwards asked hopefully, already knowing the answer in the back of his mind.

Dk'myr'chi shook his head, "It was the first thing to go. I didn't think anything of it at the time, because it's always conking out."

As they spoke, Dk'myr'chi guided Edwards over to one warp core, ducking beneath the railing that encircled it. He grabbed the tube that held the dilithium crystal and pulled, drawing it out. Then, he gestured toward the crystal, "See for yourself."

Edwards bent down until he was on eye-level with the crystal.

True to the Human/Gorn hybrid's word, the crystal was crumbling to powder. There was already a fair amount of powder lying scattered about what was left of the crystal. Bit by bit, pieces seemed to be flaking off.

Edwards straightened, "I've never seen a crystal do that before." He admitted.

"Neither have I," Dk'myr'chi replied, "And I don't know what to do about it. I tried placing the crystal in a stasis field, I tried rebuilding it on a moleculer level, and I tried a dozen other things, but none of them worked."

"Time, Dimitri. How long do we have?" Edwards asked.

The green-skinned being shrugged, "We've got about a day until the life support and gravity fails, but other minor systems will begin conking out long before that."

"Is the nebula somehow connected to this?"

Dk'myr'chi sighed, "Brad, I wish I could tell you, but I have absolutely no clue. I've never even been in the Golgotha nebula before. I read about it once, somewhere, but I can't even remember what I read about it. For answers to that question however, you need to speak to Science. I'm just an engineer. A brilliant one, albeit, but an engineer nonetheless."

Edwards chuckled and said, "Don't go getting humble on me now."

"Me? I'd never do such a thing."

"So I can tell," Edwards smiled faintly and turned to leave, "Keep me posted. I'm going to Stellar Cartography."

Dk'myr'chi nodded, then returned his attention to his failed engines and decomposing dilithium crystal.

"It's not supposed to do that. . ." He muttered under his breath, even more confused than he had let on around the starship captain.

***

During the Dominion War, Radisson had become increasingly grateful for the presence of a gym on the Khitomer, even if most of the equipment was holographic. After Betazed had been captured by the Dominion, his wife on-planet, he had found himself visiting the gymnasium with more and more frequency. In fact, he had spent more time in the gym, and in the holodeck--making use of the holographic cathedral program where he could attend mass, thus fufilling his obligation as a Catholic-- than in his own quarters.

But after the war ended, and after he found his wife alive and well, he hadn't needed to release his pent-up anger and frustration on the holodeck. He hadn't accessed the gym in almost a month. Now, he had to release his anger and so he chose the gym program with its holographic punching bag--for fear that if he didn't spend his fury on it, he would snap and take it out on a living being.

His emotions were out of control, and it was a fearful thought for him. In the security line of work, one had to be constantly in control. One little slip-up could end with a dead body on the deck, or worse, bodies. . .plural. Now, his emotions were roiling out of control. He wanted to go berserk--'go postal' as the twentieth century phrase went--and shoot everyone in sight with the knowledge that if he did, he'd feel better.

He brought his fist crashing into the center of the bag. It sagged away from him, absorbing the impact as it rocked back on a spring, then bounced back toward him.

As it rocked toward him, he spun about and delivered a vicious kick to its center, envisioning a person where the bag was hanging.

No, not a person. A Jem'Hadar. One of the cold-blooded bastards that had held Betazed captive, his wife along with it. One of those reptillian creatures that had haunted his dreams for so long. One of those monsters. It was standing there, sneering at him--its expression says 'I've got your wife, and you can't do a thing about it'.

Radisson snarled angrily and punched it. The gray-skinned being--more of an animal in Radisson's mind--rocked back, blood now streaming from a gash on its face.

In rapid succession, he delivered three powerful blows to its stomach, breaking ribs and punturing internal organs. It was doubled over in pain now. . .

He grabbed a handful of its shirt and held it upright, punching it again and again, and again, and again. . .

Finally, he slowed his assualt, then stopped. His breathing was labored, his knuckles scratched, raw, and bleeding. One of his fingers throbbed in pain and he realized he'd broken it.

The punching bag had been ripped from its springs, his blows completely destroying it. What little was left was lying in a mangled heap on the deck, the bag's stuffing scattered across the floor. Some of it was stuck to Radisson's knuckles, the sticky red blood working as an adhesive.

Despite the pain, and despite the destruction, he felt better. Or maybe it was because of the pain, and because of the destruction.

And that last sent a chill down his spine. He'd never taken pleasure in destruction or pain before, so why did he suddenly enjoy it now. . .?

Maybe I outta go talk to Aisha. . . He thought. Although he wasn't particularly fond of counselors, this was her deperatment. Maybe she could help in some way. He couldn't function as chief of security if he couldn't even keep his own roiling emotions under control.

His badge chirped distantly and he tapped it, trying not to let his labored breathing be heard via the communications device, "Radisson here, go."

"Rob," Edwards voice came over, "We've got a staff meeting, y'know. You're five minutes late."

Radisson cursed under his breath, then said out loud, "Sorry, Cap'n. I'll be right up."

He'd lost all track of time! He glanced at the chronometer built into the wall and groaned. Almost an hour had already passed.

Zipping up his jacket and running his hands through his hair, he tried desperately to compose himself as he ran out of the gym, heading for the turbolift as fast as he could go without running outright.

He nearly crashed into Woods who was likewise hustling toward the 'lift from a different corridor.

"Staff meeting," He commented.

"I know, Edwards just reminded me." She replied.

They both ducked into the turbolift and Radisson said, "Bridge; maximum track."

Before Woods could ask the nature of the last part of that command, she found out firsthand.

The lift rocketed skyward and nearly triple the standard speed, causing her to stumble. In no time at all, it slowed violently and the doors slid open onto the bridge.

"Maximum track, eh?" She commented, "I'll have to remember that."

He didn't bother to reply as they had just come up on the conference lounge's doors. Taking a deep breath, he walked in, the good doctor following. . .

***

Hobson paused in his report as he and Edwards glanced up to see Woods and Radisson burst into the briefing room.

"So good of you to join us, Lieutenant Commander." Edwards said smoothly, but Radisson caught the hint of annoyance just beneath the surface, "You too doctor."

The two mumbled apologies under their breath as they took their seats. Edwards let the silence hang for a moment or two, then said to Hobson, "Continue, Chris."

Hobson did just that, ". . .And as I was saying, Science reports mysterious energy surges that occasioanly flare up. Sometimes, in the nebula, and sometimes aboard the Khitomer."

"Energy surges. . ." Zetan drummed his fingers against the tabletop, "Our captor, maybe?"

"Could be," Edwards conceded. "When we're done here, I'd like you, Chris, to go down and get them working on some way to disrupt the energy source. There must be some way to short-circut it."

Hobson nodded once, tapping absently on the padd that lay on the table in front of him.

"I think our captor may be the reason for the large number of fights breaking out all over the ship," Radisson put in, "They started shortly after we stalled, and I find that mighty peculiar."

"I don't care who is causing it, we need to stop it," Woods said, "Sickbay's been flooded with wounded--which, Captain, is why I was late. My staff's working double shifts, and we're just barely keeping up. If it keeps increasing like this, we won't be able to deal with it."

"We may not have to worry about it, Susan," Dk'myr'chi commented, "At the rate our dilithium crystals are decomposing, we'll run out of breathable air in about twenty hours."

"Is there anything you can do?" Edwards asked, already knowing the answer all too well.

Much to his suprise, Dk'myr'chi replied differently, "Actually, we've got an idea."

Now, every single eye was riveted on him.

He paused for a moment, then interlaced his fingers and continued, "Okay, here it is: Within one of the warp cores, we cause a controlled--we hope-- matter/anti-matter explosion, the channel the energy from it through the impulse engines."

"What!?" Toyle leaned forward, unable to contain himself, "That's crazy! If you mix matter and anti-matter together, you'll blow us straight into hell and out the other side!"

"Not if we can control it," Dk'myr'chi countered the pilot.

"How do you expect to control complete annihilation!?"

"It is possible. . .theoretically," Dk'myr'chi said the last with a good deal of reluctance, "Look, I ain't fond of the idea myself, but unless you've got a better one. . ." he trailed off, not needing to finish the sentance.

"He's right," Edwards rejoined, "Start making preparations." Dk'myr'chi nodded shortly, then Edwards turned to Radisson, "Bring all your people on-duty for as long as we remain in the Golgotha nebula. These fights need to be kept under control, otherwise this could get really ugly."

"Aye, sir." Radisson replied.

Edwards stood, signaling the end of the meeting, "Let's get to work, people. We don't have that long before life support and gravity fails. . .and when we start losing the other systems before then, we're going to have more and more trouble getting out of this mess. Dismissed."

Dk'myr'chi tapped Radisson's shoulder as he passed by, "C'mon, Rob. I'm gonna need yer' help."

"Me? I'm no engineer."

"No, but I'm going to take all your systems off-line and you know them better than I do, so you get to help me. C'mon."

"Now just a bloody minute--" Radisson shot back, the rest being cut off when the door slid shut behind them.

"Susan," Toyle caught Woods arm as she passed by, coming to his feet fast enough to put his chair into a lazy spin, "How's Aisha?"

A curious expression--one which he could not quite identify--touched her face for the briefest of moments, then she replied quietly, "She's fine, I suppose. She seems to be in a coma, and I can't snap her out of it."

He groaned faintly, "She just. . . .passed out during dinner. She looked pale and kinda' haggard before, but I didn't think it was anything this serious."

Woods had never seen the pilot so concerned. She realized he really cared for the Betazoid counselor, and her heart ached because of it. She still loved him, but realized that what had once been between them was a thing of the past. He'd always been a fast-talking, egotistical guy whose typical relationship lasted exactly one night. His romance with Woods had lasted longer, but eventually that too had ended. Yet here, he seemed to love Zyrenn whole-heartedly. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he was in for the 'long-haul'. Then again, perhaps he was. Perhaps the war had taught him something about life, love, and how precious they both were.

He looked up, no trace of his usual cockiness, "Will she wake up when we get outta' the nebula?"

She shrugged, "I'm sorry, Zack. I don't know. I don't even know why she's in a coma in the first place."

"Another mystery?" Edwards said as he approached the two of them, an expression of concern on his face, "I couldn't help but overhear some of that. Aisha's in a coma?"

"Yessir," Toyle managed, looking very distraut.

"This is damn peculiar," Edwards mused, "I'm beginning to wonder if this is more than just a series of strange occurences. I think there might be some sort of alien force at work here."

"It would explain the voice," Toyle blurted, not meaning to say it out loud.

Woods cocked an eyebrow and Edwards said, "Voice?"

Nice one, Zack. Now you gotta tell 'im. He thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "I've had this strange voice in my head for a day or so now. I can't control it, and I can't shut it up."

"What's it say?" Woods asked.

Toyle shrugged, "Usually, it involves my taking out my anger on a fellow crewmate."

"Curious," Edwards muttered, "If others are hearing it too, it would explain the increased level of aggravation among the crew. So possibly a telepathic being."

". . .Which would explain why it put Aisha into a coma," Toyle said, "She would've registered its influence on the crew's mind. That means it wants to stay hidden."

"Then we have to draw it out into the open," Edwards decided. "I'll start looking into how we go about doing that."

"Yeah, I will too." Toyle said, "I'm not doing anything else right now. With the crystals in our fighters kaput, I'm stuck shipboard."

Woods said, "I'll let you know if Aisha's condition changes."

Toyle nodded, "Thanks, Susan."

"Alright," Edwards said, "Let's get to work. The clock's ticking."

***

Edwards yawned and stretched tiredly with a groan, leaning back in his chair and saying silent thanks that it was padded.

Three hours had passed, and his research--attempting to find a way to expose their tormenter--had failed to turn up a single positive lead. There was very little in the Federation library on topics of this nature. . .

He scrubbed his face, grimancing when stubble pricked at his fingers.

His ready room was completely devoid of sound. Usually, there was at least the sound of the engines. After a couple of days in space, one learned to tune it out completely. Now, he was quite aware of its absence.

"Computer," He said impulsively, "Music."

"Please specify type of music desired." The computer returned blandly.

"Oh, I don't care." He said, "Classical; a waltz perhaps."

"There are three hundred and fifty-two waltzes available. Please make selection."

All I wanted was music; this is getting too complicated "Never mind, computer."

Again, his ready room was silent.

With another tired sigh, he returned to studying the computer terminal.

According to the current record he was browsing, Captain James Kirk of the original Starship Enterprise seemed to have had similar problems. In Kirk's report, he had taken a group of Klingons onboard. He stated that an unkown entity had caused a good portion of his crew to be trapped below decks, leaving he and the Klingon Commander--Kang was his name--with equal numbers. Fighting had broken out.

This is too similar to be a coincidence, He thought, Could the same thing be happening here. . . .?

Moments later, the door chimed, announcing a visitor. He said, "Come," still studying the computer intently.

Commander Hobson walked in, dark circles under his eyes testifying to long hours without rest, "Cap'n," He said, "Just thought you should know: Dimitri's almost done making the modifications to the engines and warp core for the matter/anti-matter explosion. He says another two or three hours will be the most he needs."

"Excellent," Edwards replied, "Let me know when he's ready."

"Sure thing," Hobson turned to leave, then said, "How long have you been on-duty?"

Edwards sat back again and said after a moment's consideration, "I don't know, I can't remember."

Hobson smiled, "Then it's been too long. Go get some rest, Brad. Nothing's happening around here for a few hours. Nuthin' I can't handle anyway."

As Hobson spoke, Edwards accessed the holodeck library. Finding the file he was looking for, he activated it in holodeck 2, then stood and said, "Actually, I'm going on an trip to the holodeck. Care to come, Chris?"

Hobson shrugged, "Sure, I suppose I could use a break too. Where're we going?"

As Edwards left the ready room, he replied, "Back about eighty years, or so. . ."

***

"Swine! Filthy Klingon murderers!" young Pavel Chekov suddenly exploded into action. He charged at Klingon Commander Kang who stood a few scant feet away on the surface of the planet the Klingons and the Starship Enterprise away team had set down on. Captain James T. Kirk made a grab for him, missed--and Kang's men beat him to the ground. But he still sought to get at Kang. "You killed my brother Piotr!--the Arcanis Four Research Outpost. . .! A hundred peaceful people butchered! Just like you did here!"

Hobson shifted from foot to foot as he observed what was occuring before him. He leaned closer to Edwards and said, "I'm not all that familier with this event. What happened here?"

Edwards replied, "The Enterprise recieved a distress call from a colony on this planet, but when they arrived they found it gone and a Klingon ship in orbit. The Klingon's likewise recieved a distress call."

"That sound disturbingly familer. . ." Hobson muttered.

"I know," Edwards returned, "Hence the reason we're here."

Kang looked down at Chekov, "So you wish to join him. Very well.." He gestured sharply at one of his men who came over and fixed a device to the pinned man's neck. He writhed and screamed as the device inflicted incredible pain.

"Kang, stop it!" Kirk said, "You win!"

"Jim!" McCoy exclaimed, "You can't hand over the Enterprise!"

"Help Chekov, Bones. . . ."

They continued speaking, but Hobson tuned them out for a minute, "So the colony was destroyed. Could it be the same thing that destroyed the one on Beta Andres X?"

"That's what I'm thinking," Edwards replied, "It's a logical conclusion."

Hobson pressed his lips together in a thin line and turned back toward the scene that played out before them.

"Kirk to Enterprise. Mr. Spock. . ." Kirk was saying.

The legendary voice of Mr. Spock--colder and harder than the single time Hobson had met him--replied, "Here, Captain."

"Spock, we've guests," Kirk told him, his eyes never leaving Kang's. "Adjust transporter to wide beam."

What Hobson saw that he doubted the Klingons did was Kirk's finger slowly pressing a small button on the communicator.

Spock replied a moment later, "Understood Captain."

With the high-pitched whine and slow dematerilization that accompanied the old-time transporters, they all vanished, save for Edwards and Hobson.

When they had faded out of existence, the planet did likewise and was replaced by the Enterprise's transporter room.

From Hobson's 24th century perspective, the controls and devices were archaic. It had originaly taken him a moment to realize that in this time, yellow was command. He had been puzzled, wondering why Captain Kirk was dressed as a security or engineering officer. . .

The transporters controls--a series of knobs and buttons--were laughable compared to modern standards, but Hobson tried not to be too harsh.

Standing on the transporter pad was the away team--minus the Klingons.

"Where'd the Klingons go?" Hobson asked. Although the question had been directed toward his fellow observer, the Kirk program registered it and replied before Edwards could.

"Dematerialized and stored in the computer until we choose to bring them aboard."

"Oh," Hobson nodded, finding it strange to be addressed by the Captain Kirk. The feeling he got was closely akin to how he would've felt had he been speaking to God himself. . .

The Kirk program continued on as though he had never spoken to Hobson. He turned to the transporter officer and said, "Galloway?"

"Secuirty team's on the way, sir."

Chekov snarled, "Captain, leave them on the planet, or even better in non-existence! It's what they deserve!"

Edwards cocked an eyebrow in curiousity. He'd met Admiral Chekov once, and he hadn't been a violent person at all. He had been one of the nicest men Edwards had ever met. This was definitly not like him.

Kirk thought so too, judging from the expression that touched his face. "That's what they would do, Chekov," he reminded the other quietly, "But we're not them."

A group of security guards stomped into the transporter room. Kirk glanced back long enough to visually confirm their presence, then said, "Alright, bring the Klingons aboard."

Again the high-pitched and again the shimmering effect. This time when it ceased, a group of Klingons stood bewilidered on the transporter, completely covered by the unwavering phasers the security officers held.

"You said no tricks!" Kang snarled.

"I said no tricks once aboard the Enterprise, Kang." Kirk countered. "You and your men are now prisoners of the Federation. The charge is the murder of the one hundred and fifty-two colonists on the below planet. Whether it's an act of war will be up to the council."

"There are still people aboard my ship," Kang growled.

Kirk glanced at the transporter officer and said, "Bring them aboard."

Spock stepped through the transporter door with all the grace and agility of a cat and said quietly to Kirk, "Sir, the Klingon ship is drifting and giving off a significant amoung of radiation. It's a hazard to interstellar travel."

Kirk replied, also mumbling, "We'll have to destroy if before we leave then."

Spock nodded in affirmation. Kang's ears were obviously sharper than Kirk had first thought because he spat at Kirk and said, "Completing the job you started!"

"You wouldn't be standing here if I was," Kirk shot back. "You'll be treated well enough."

The annoying whine of the transporter--how can they stand that awful noise? Hobson thought irratably--announced the arrival of still more Klingons.

One, a female, stepped down. Kang gestured toward her and said to Kirk, "My wife and science officer, Mara."

Mara ignored the starship captain and instead spoke to her husband, "What has happened, Kang?"

"More Federation tricks. We're prisoners."

She was obviously terrified by the concept, her hand trembling as she clutched at Kang's arm, "What will they do to us? I've heard the stories of the Federation prisoner camps! We'll be tortured and killed!"

Kirk actually smiled, "Those are just rumors, I assure you. As I just told Kang, you'll be well treated."

True to his word, he turned and addressed the security guards, "Have the food processors in one of the crew lounges reprogrammed for our. . .guests and lock them in there. Keep a very close eye on them."

"Sir," The guard acknowledged. He gestured forcefully with his phaser and his men began herding the Klingon toward the officer's lounge.

"So," Hobson said as the Klingons filed out, "Did they actually wipe out the colony?"

Edwards opened his mouth to answer, but again Kirk beat him to it.

"No, it was the alien entity."

Edwards gave a look to Hobson that plainly said 'now we're getting somewhere'. He turned to regard Kirk, noticing that the starship captain was actually a head shorter than he, and said, "What alien entity?"

Kirk replied, "It came aboard about the same time as the Klingons and locked most of my crew below-decks. Then, it made the Klingons and our people fight with ancient weapons for its amuesment."

"Really. . ." Edwards, "What is the entity's composition?"

Kirk shrugged, "We didn't know. Our sensors at the time were unable to get an accurate reading on it. All we knew was it seemed to be feeding off the angry emotions of the crews."

"I don't like the sound of this," Hobson muttered, "It's just a bit too close to our present situation for comfort."

Edwards nodded darkly and said, "Computer, take us to the crew lounge where the Klingons are being held."

The scene vanished and was replaced with the crew lounge. It was spacious, if ancient, and colored the same revolting shades of red and gray used throughout the old ships. Hobson preferred the battleship gray of the Khitomer a great deal over this. . .

The Klingons stood glaring at the security officers who watched them closely.

"There!" Edwards jabbed a finger toward the ceiling and rapidly said, "Computer, freeze program!"

The program complied, everyone instantly becoming like statues. Hobson followed his captain's finger and inhaled sharply at what he saw.

A throbbing red form was hovering just under the ceiling. It was shaped like an hourglass and was transparant."

"Our entity!" Edwards barked triumphantly.

***

"Doctor!" Dr. Johnson exclaimed as she turned to find Counselor Zyrenn sitting upright on her bio-bed, staring vacantly at the far wall. Her face was pale and placid, covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Her hair hung in clumps about her face, sticking to her skin in some places. Her skin was so pale, it almost blended with the whites of her eyes. Her eyes were wide and her lips moved around words only she heard.

Woods hustled over quickly, firing rapidly a series of instructions to one of her nurses regarding the treatment of the man she'd been working on.

"Aisha!" She said, smiling comfortingly, "How're you feeling."

Zyrenn slowly turned to regard her but she made no move to answer; there was no sign of recognition on her countenance.

Woods opened her tricorder, aware that she would need to trade it in for a new one as this one was beginning to overheat, and ran the small scanning device up and down Zyrenn's upper half.

Zyrenn suddenly stood and started walking toward Sickbay's doors.

"Whoa, wait a minute," Woods said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her back, "You're not leaving yet."

Zyrenn stopped and looked at the hand wrapped around her arm. Woods suddenly became aware of the muscles in that hand working of their own accord. Slowly and haltingly, her grip began to loosen until Zyrenn was almost able to slip away.

Almost. Fortunatly, Johnson came over and caught her other arm. Startled, Zyrenn lost her concentration and Woods' hand once again became her own. She grabbed ahold of the counselor once more and with Johnson's help dragged her back up onto the bio-bed.

"I have to leave. . ." Zyrenn muttered, mostly to herself, "I have to get out. . ."

"You will," Woods said soothingly, "But not quite yet."

She touched a hypospray to the Betazoid's neck, putting her back into sleep, then looked at Johnson, "Keep an eye on her and don't let her go anywhere. If she tries any sort of mind tricks, holler."

Johnson nodded, her eyes wide.

Woods moved into her office where the groans of pain were more muted and tapped her badge. "Woods to Toyle."

Toyle's reply was instantaneous--faster than the doctor had believed humanly possible, "Toyle, go."

"Zack, Aisha's awake."

There was no reply.

She tapped the small device again and said, "Woods to Toyle. Commander Zack Toyle, come in. Woods to--"

The door the Sickbay slid open and Toyle barreled in, nearly killing himself as he practically plowed into one of the bio-beds.

Woods sighed and stepped out of her office again, grabbing Toyle by the arm as she tried to calm him down.

"Where is she?" He asked. He looked willing to fight his way through the nine circles of hell and back out again just to be at her side, and despite certain apprehensions she had, her heart still ached in sympathy.

"This way," She said quietly and guided him toward her bio-bed where Johnson was watching her, her young face scrunched up in worry.

Zyrenn was lying, stiff as a board, staring silently at the ceiling with unblinking, unwavering eyes. She didn't seem to register their approach.

Toyle dredged up a smile and forced it on his lips, then leaned over her.

"Hey there," he croaked, "How ya' doing?"

She didn't reply to him any more than she had replied to Woods' attempts to communicate with her.

Puzzled, Toyle turned back toward Woods, "I thought she was awake. . .?"

Woods replied slowly, "She is. She's awake, and she seems to hear what you and I are saying, but she won't react."

Toyle leaned closer and Woods was painfully aware of his proximity. He whispered, low enough that Johnson wouldn't overhear, "You think the alien being's got control of her mind?"

Woods nodded, her lips pressed together in a thin, bloodless line.

Toyle sighed, his shoulders slumping downward; before Woods' eyes, he seemed to age hundreds of years in a scant few seconds.

"Isn't there any--" Toyle began, but Johnson cut him off.

"Doctor. . ." She said warningly, catching ahold of Zyrenn's arm again.

The Counselor was once again sitting upright, her facial expression changing. Now, it was roiling with anger and hatred.

"Must leave. . . . .must leave. . . ." She was muttering repeatedly.

Johnson tried to force her back down, muttering quiet reassurances in her ear as she did so.

Zyrenn's head snapped around, her feiry eyes glaring at Johnson. Pushed by unseen hands, she was suddenly tossed like a rag doll up and over four bio-beds, her flight finally stopped by the wall. An instrument tray and its contents crashed to the ground along with her, the panel behind her shattering with the force of the impact.

Woods and Toyle both lept into action, Woods running toward Johnson while Toyle sprang at Zyrenn. He caught her by the arms and shook her, shouting, "Aisha, fight it! Snap out of it!"

I must leave! LET ME GO! The thought exploded in Toyle's mind with such force that he staggered.

And then it happened.

Everyone in Sickbay seemed suddenly to freeze, gazing upward with fearful countenances. Suddenly, with a terrible scream, they went berserk.

A doctor, brandishing a medical scanner like a club, lept at Toyle with a roar of hatred. Toyle ducked the blow agily, ducked a second, then caught the arm when it came around for the third swing. He bent it backward, twisting the man around, then rammed him forward into the wall face-first with enough force to knock him out.

But more were coming at him. He grabbed one of the wheeled medicaltrays and dragged it into front of him, keeping it between him and the attackers as he moved toward the door.

Zyrenn was standing now, surveying the scene. Her eyes were still vacant, but the expression of evil manevolence haunted her face. She seemed to be guiding the possessed individuals.

"Susan!" Toyle shouted, glancing over his shoulder just long enough to confirm that she was not, in fact, similarly taken over. Johnson had sat up and clawed at her face, fingers suddenly like talons. Woods fumbled for a hypospray and quickly sedated her, then rolled aside in time to dudge the huge scanner one wounded man tossed at her.

Finally slamming the medical cart foward, he caught three attackers off-guard and sent them reeling. Reaching down, he grabbed Woods by the hand and dragged her with him out of Sickbay.

"Computer, seal off Sickbay! Authorization: Toyle-Alpha!" He barked.

The doors slid shut and sealed right in the faces of the oncoming attackers and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"What happened!?" Woods said between gasps for air. "They went berserk!"

"I think our alien friend just upped the ante," Toyle rasped.

Two Security guards came storming down the corridor, phasers in hand, and Toyle straightened and said, "Glad you're here. We had--"

One brought the energy weapon up and fired, bearly missing Toyle's head. Toyle shoved Woods backward, running down the opposite corridor away from them. As he ran, he grabbed a phaser and clip from its crevice in the wall, thumbed the weapon to life, and returned fire blindly, caring more about running than exchanging fire.

They plowed into the turbolift, Toyle decking the single young man who stood bewildered in the 'lift. He didn't know if the man was possessed or not, but he was taking no chances. He'd apologize when the man awoke later. . .

"Deck One!" He exclaimed. One security guard fired, but the doors slid shut just before the beam could vaporize Toyle. Toyle could feel the beam's heat through the door for a brief second before the 'lift started upward.

"I think," He said, securing the phaser to his belt, "We've got a problem."

"I think you're right," Woods replied. To the computer, she said, "Maximum track."

The turbolift suddenly speeded up drastically, the sudden increase in speed enough to knock Toyle off his feet. As he righted himself, she ignored his eyebrows, risen inquisitively, and stared cooly ahead.

They emerged to find the bridge in as much chaos as Sickbay had been.

Radisson and Zetan seemed to be holding the rest of the bridge crew at bay, if just barely. Radisson swung mightily and his fist caught one onrushing man in the jaw hard enough to plow him back into the security station which he hit hard enough to knock him out cold.

The door the conference room slid open and Lieutenant Dennis Holte fell to the deck, an angry Andorian towering over him. He reared back and brought both of his feet up into the blue-skinned being's stomach, knocking him back into the conference room. Lunging too his feet with dexterity that came only from training and experience, he charged back after him.

Toyle had his phaser out but didn't fire at once. He scanned the mess of people, trying to ascertain which of those present were lucid and which were possessed.

Coming to a decision, he fired and caught three officers in rapid succession. Then, as an afterthought, he checked his phaser to make sure it was indeed set to stun.

That annoying whispering voice still teased at the corner of his mind, begging for a release of his anger, but he fought it. He was a fighter pilot, and part of his nature was control. He was always in control of a situation. He always steered a conversation in the direction he wanted it to go; always made sure people did what he wanted them to do, and so forth. He absolutely refused to lose control now just because of some annoying whisper in his mind.

A man suddenly lunged at him, foot coming up and knocking the phaser from his hand before he could wheel it around to fire. His appendage instantly went numb after the nasty shock the booted foot dealt to his nerves.

He brought his other hand around in a mighty right hook and hit the man hard enough to spin in around in place as he fell to the ground.

Woods moved with cat-like agility, vaulting the man's falling form as she lept toward the fight. Toyle called to her, but his voice was lost in the noise.

Damn! Has that creature taken her over too? Was the first thought that sprang to his mind.

But he was quickly able to disprove that thought. She was working quickly and efficiently to aide Radisson in subduing the attackers. He scooped his phaser up from the deck and resumed his selective firing.

Several minutes later, the bridge was silent. Radisson was standing in the midst of a group of unconscious bodies, shoulders heaving up and down with each labored breath. His uniform was dirty and smudged, blood trickling down his face from a cut on his forehead. His knuckles were likewise bloody.

Toyle lowered the phaser, tucking it back in its holster as he advanced toward Radisson. "Are you okay?"

"Fuh. . . .Fine," He panted, running his hand across his forehead. It came away stained with blood intermingled with sweat. He absently wiped the sticky substance on his uniform leg as he asked, "What's happening? A mutiny?"

Toyle reached under the tactical console and pulled the phaser from its socket, tossing it to Radisson who deftly snatched it out of the air. "After a fashion," Toyle replied, "There's some sorta' alien creature aboard the Khitomer which took control of a good portion of the crew. It's been building for days now."

"I guess the brawls and tension level were a prelude to this," Radisson commented as he secured the phaser about his waist.

Again the door to the conference room slid open, but this time no one fell out. Instead, Holte and his opponent stumbled out together, hands locked around each other's throats. Toyle brought his weapon up, then hesitated.

Which one's crazy?

Radisson didn't hesitate at all. He fired, blowing Holte's attacker back into the wall with the force of the phaser beam. Holte slumped back against the wall, attempting to hold his arm and his throat at the same time. Woods approached and gently took his arm, examining it as best she could without intruments.

"Bone's broken," she said, "And I can't fix it without my equipment in Sickbay."

"Unfortunatly, that whole deck seems to be possessed."

"What!?" Radisson exclaimed, a look of alarm on his face, "I hope not!"

"Why?" Toyle asked, the tone of the security chief's voice sending a shiver down his spine.

His next words turned Toyle's blood to water.

"Edwards and Hobson are down there!"

***

"So what do you think it is?" Hobson asked, peering at the frozen image of the crimson entity, as it had appeared eighty-odd years prior.

Edwards was regarding the creature as he leaned against the holographic table in the Enterprise's crew lounge, "Got me. It looks energy-based, but I can't be sure of that."

Hobson made a non-commital sound in the back of his throat as he slowly circled beneath the floating hologram.

"The most important question right now, though," Edwards continued, "Is how do we defeat it?"

"If it is energy-based, then we should be able to disrupt it." Hobson replied.

"We'd have to find it first, and even if we did, we wouldn't how to disrupt it. What disrupts one energy fields conducts another. Maybe if--"

Suddenly his comm badge squawked, demanding attention. He gave it, tapping the small device with two fingers as he said, "Edwards; what's up?"

"Cap'n, are you alright?" Zack Toyle's alarmed voice came over the comm.

Edwards glanced at Hobson who shrugged, then replied, "I'm fine. Commander Hobson is too. What's wrong?"

"Thank God," He breathed, "Captain, half the crew--maybe more; we can't be sure--has gone berserk. There's fighting throughout the ship. They already control almost half the ship and they're gaining ground. The people we've got left are off-guard and can't combat them. We were afraid you and Chris were possessed too."

"We're fine, Commander. Where are you?"

"On the bridge with a few others. Rob and Susan are here too." Toyle reported.

"Good, hold position. We're coming immediatly."

He closed the channel and said to the computer, "End program," as he walked determinedly toward the massive doors.

They slid open and the two officers stepped into what is more commonly and succinctly known as hell.

Edwards stepped back reflexively when an Ensign hurtled past him, ramming with all his might into another officer who had just been turning to meet him. They both smashed into the wall, pounding and screaming at each other with a terrible, inhuman fury.

The ensign head-butted violently--hard enough to know his opponent unconscious. He continued to pound on him and would most certainly have reduced him to little more than a mangled lump of flesh had Hobson not stepped forward and smashed him across the jaw.

The madman turned on him, but Edwards had taken advantage of the momentary distraction to find and withdraw a phaser from the wall. He swung about and fired at the flying form of the possessed officer. His now-limp body hurtled on and smashed into Hobson driving them both to the deck. Hobson shoved the body off like so much deadweight, then stood, nodding thanks to Edwards.

A streak of energy flew down the corridor and hit the wall just beside Edwards' head. He whirled about, backing away as he returned fire.

His first shot missed but his second one took down the security guard who had suddenly become bent on hurting him.

"This way!" He called to Hobson, running toward the turbolift with all due haste.

The doors slid open before they were close enough to register the captain's presence and he skidded to a halt, aware that it would only open like this if someone else was emerging.

His hand flew out and grabbed Hobson by the arm, not only stopping him but yanking him in the opposite direction as he hid them both in the nearest room he came upon.

Glancing carefully around the door's frame, he caught sight of a well-built young man rushing out with a phaser rifle resting comfortably in his arms.

From the opposite direction, a second security guard lept. He was obviously completely taken over, not a trace of sanity or calmness left on his face. He hurled himself into a door cavity and opened fire wildly at the other young man.

He reacted quickly and calmly--obviously in complete control of his faculties--and spun around the corner, taking the refuge that the rounded wall offered. He waited until the firing died down just a bit, then fired back, shooting compressed bursts of energy at his possessed counterpart.

Hobson silently tapped Edwards on the shoulder. The captain turned away from the ghastly scene of his own crew at each other's throats and glanced at Hobson.

He pointed toward a second door and mouthed back door to Edwards. Edwards mouthed go back at him, gesturing toward the door for emphasis. Hobson sprang to his feet and rushed toward it, gliding fluidly over the floor with a grace Edwards had not thought him capable of.

He had to keep the deranged guard occupied long enough for Hobson to get behind him. Gripping his sweaty hand around his phaser even tighter and setting it to heavy stun--worrying that light stun would prove ineffective against the muntineers-- he lept from the room with a shout, flattening himself against the far wall. Bringing his phaser quickly to eye-level, he opened fire. He wasn't trying to hit the other so much as trying to keep him pinned down.

The guard with the phaser rifle turned to train it on Edwards. Then, recognizing his captain, he swung it away from him and added his own fire to Edwards' barrage.

Suddenly a door slid open and through it, a single phaser beam lanced, catching the attacker square in the chest. The force was enough to lift him several inches off the ground, then drop him back down in a crumpled heap.

Edwards gestured to the security officer who obediently stopped firing. He approached slowly, catching sight of Hobson who was standing over the stunned man, grimly holstering his phaser.

"That's something I prayed I'd never have to do," He said darkly, "Shoot a fellow Starfleet officer."

Edwards slid his own phaser back in its holster and touched Hobson's shoulder in sympathy, "I'm sorry, Chris. I really am. I know how you feel. There was no other option, though. He wasn't responding to reason. The more of them we stun, the less risk there is of them killing us."

"I know," Hobson nodded and turned away.

"Let's get to the bridge," Edwards said, gesturing to the security guard who hustled forward.

"Secure this man, then help our people maintain position. We can't lose any more of the ship to them."

He nodded curtly, "Aye, sir."

Worried about events on the ship, and knowing that they could see how bad it was overall from the bridge, the two senior officers quickly stepped into the 'lift and ascended toward the bridge.

***

Dk'myr'chi had been quite aware of the high-running tensions throughout the Khitomer, and he was also aware of the large number of fights that had erupted throughout the starship. However, he had not expected it to come down to open mutiny.

Indeed, mutiny seemed to be the only word to describe what had happened. He had completed almost all work on the warp core in preparation for the matter/anti-matter explosion theorized to free them from the nebula when a scream had sounded from the upper deck.

Grumpily, he stomped his way up the ladder, ready to yell at one or another clumsy member of his overworked staff, and had found a young man clubbing a female lieutenant with a long, spindly calibration tool.

"What the hell are you doing!?" He bellowed, grabbing the tool and tearing it away from the deranged young man. He caught the front of his uniform in one mighty hand and shoved him back, pinning him effectively against the wall.

Ignoring the struggling young man, he looked down at the lieutenant and was dismayed to find her bloodied and battered.

"Somebody get her to Sickbay!" He roared, angrily throwing the blood-stained tool to the deck where it clattered about before finally coming to a stop.

"Leave him alone!!" An angry voice shouted from behind. Dk'myr'chi shifted in time to see Ensign Howards rushing at him, arms angrily outstretched.

Dk'myr'chi had no choice but to release the young man. He turned to meet this new threat, delivering the first blow before Howards could get too close. His blow was enough to know Howards to the deck, dripping blood from a nasty gash on his cheek.

The young man, no longer pinned, lept on his back and clawed at his face, snarling more like an animal than a human being. Dk'myr'chi reached back, growling more in annoyance than in pain, and tore the man from his back, tossing him forward to join his friend in a crumpled heap on the deck.

And that was it. The fuse that had been slowly burning down ever since they had become trapped in the nebula now reached the keg of gunpowder, and it exploded. Engineering erupted, three-forths of his staff suddenly going berserk.

Now, he was standing on the lower deck, feet planted firmly apart. His mighty fists swung left and right as he desperately tried to keep the hoards of mindless attackers at bay. The deck was littered with wounded who had tried and failed to subdue him. He would not be subdued. . .

"We need to get out of here!" DePaul shouted as she dodged a flying hydrospanner meant for her skull. She brought her foot up, landing it firmly in the stomach of an onrushing attacker. He staggered and fell back. She drove the heel of her palm into his jaw, leaving him hurt on the deck.

"GO!" Dk'myr'chi shouted back, "Meet on Deck 10! I'll keep 'em busy here."

"Dimitri--"

"I said go!" He bellowed. "Dammit, Laurel, don't argue! Just get out!"

For a long moment, it looked like she did indeed wish to argue. Then, her lips pressed together in a thin line, she gestured toward a handful of other beleagured officers who followed her slowly from Engineering. Their attackers fought them every inch of the way out into the corridor. Once out, DePaul slammed her fist against the control pad, bringing the heavy metal doors crashing shut.

Now, Dk'myr'chi was alone and vastly outnumbered.

He didn't care. He would keep fighting until his officers were to safety. Despite what he said out loud to the contrary on occasion, he had faith in DePaul. She would get his staff to safety, and he knew it. So long as he kept the crazed officers busy, they would be fine.

They would, but would he. . . .?

From the second level, a sandy-haired, fresh-faced young man lept at him with a roar. He could have easily side-stepped, but he didn't want to hurt his own people any more than was absolutely necessary. So instead, he moved over only slightly and caught him as he came down. When he tried to punch Dk'myr'chi, the Human/Gorn hybrid head-butted him, knocking him out cold. No broken bones that time.

Dropping the limp body, he backpedaled until the metal edge of one support pillar was digging into his back.

Swiftly, he dodged a young woman who attempted to tackle him. She smashed head-first into the pillar and slumped to the deck. He grimanced but didn't stop to check her pulse. He said a silent prayer to Djin for her continued existence, then moved on.

Built into a small crevice was a hand phaser and clip. He ripped it forcefully out and thumbed the phaser to life. Taking aim at one onrushing man, he squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He set the energy level higher and pressed it again, but still nothing happened.

His attacker was getting close now.

Cursing angrily, his curses ranging from human to not only Gorn but a multitude of other languages in which he had learned to swear creatively, he tossed the phaser aside and met the attacker head-on.

Like two bulls they crashed into each other. Running into Dk'myr'chi was like running into a brick wall. The end result was about the same too. The short man was knocked back, dizzily shaking his head. Dk'myr'chi took advantage of the momentary pause to deliver a knock-out blow to the jaw. The man spun about and clattered to the deck as so much deadweight.

Scrambling toward a ladder that led to the second deck, Dk'myr'chi began climbing toward his goal. There was a Jefferies Tube hatch on the second level. If he could just get into it, he could easily lose the mutineers in the twisting conduits. He'd spent so much time in them, he knew them as well as the back of his hand. Perhaps even better.

But leaping after him from the lower deck was a handful of attackers. They grasped about his legs, trying to drag him back down in their midst. After struggling for a moment, Dk'myr'chi gave up his attempt to climb and simply concentrated on hanging on.

His feet were dangling almost two full meters off the deck, officers clinging to him like leeches.

From above, yet another man appeared. He snarled down at Dk'myr'chi unintelligibly, then brought his booted foot down on the green-skinned being's fingers.

He howled in pain, but steadfastly clung to the cold metal bar. If he fell, they would tear him apart like a pack of wolves would their prey.

Rather than bringing his boot up for another stomp as Dk'myr'chi had hoped--for then he could slip his fingers to the side and avoid the blow--the man simply ground the heel into Dk'myr'chi's fingers viciously.

Flesh ripped, blood flowing down Dk'myr'chi's hands and arms. He released the bar with one hand, grabbing the foot before it could retreat. He yanked hard, bringing the man down. He fell among the mob, striking the deck with a wet thud.

But now he was only hanging on with one hand. He couldn't hold himself aloft with the mob pulling at him. Before he could get his other hand wrapped around the metal bar, he lost his grip and fell.

They took the brunt of his fall. He actually knocked a few of them out.

The rest fell upon him as the afore mentioned wolves. Ferocious kicks landed in the face, rib-cage, and other tender areas. Blows were landing over and over, never ending. He swung wildly, trying to fight them off, but he couldn't. There were too many.

I'm dead. . . . . . .

***

"Report?" was the first word Edwards uttered the moment the 'lift doors allowed him to step out onto the Khitomer's bridge.

Toyle had been sitting at the helm, cradling his head in his hands. When Edwards and Hobson stepped onto the bridge, he sat up. A small smile of relief touched his lips.

"Captain! Commander!" He stood and took several steps toward them, "Thank God! I thought you'd been killed."

"Almost," Edwards replied, "But we're here. What's happening?"

Radisson spoke up from the tactical console, "Almost half of the ship has been taken over. I've been trying to get our people coordinated. We're holding Deck 10 on up, but barely. They outnumber us."

Edwards considered for a brief moment sitting in the captain's chair, but he decided against it. He didn't feel like sitting right at the moment. . .

Instead, he moved to join Radisson at the tactical station. Woods was standing by the large master system's console at the aft of the bridge, studying the schematic of the entire ship.

"What vital sections do they control?" Edwards asked.

"Engineering, Sickbay, the shuttlebays, and four out of six transporter rooms." Woods supplied. "The other two transporters are off-line."

"Dimtri took them all off-line. He needed the extra power down in Engineering," Hobson commented.

Edwards made his decision, calling the other's attention with an athoritative, "Alright."

Toyle stepped closer, as did Woods and Hobson. Holte, who had been nervously fingering his phaser rifle, moved beside the turbolift.

"We need to figure out a way to defeat this entity," Edwards continued, "Because if we don't, I've got a feeling we'll be fighting here for a very long time."

***

Lieutenant Nikolas Menyez had gone to the Officer's Lounge to let off the massive buildup of steam that had nearly caused him to attack Dk'myr'chi, knowing that he would be able to find peace and quiet there considering it was in the middle of Alpha Shift. Most everyone was either asleep or on-duty. There would be a few people in the Lounge, but it was big enough that he could seclude himself by a window and lose himself in the stars and silence.

And it was as he had hoped. Mostly deserted. A handful of people were sitting huddled around a few small tables, talking quietly among themselves. They would look up when the door slid open and most of them waved to Menyez when they say him enter. He waved back but made no move to join them. He wasn't in the mood for socialization today.

He quietly got a drink from 'Sam', then meandered to a deserted table from which he dragged a chair. He put the chair's back against the wall next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tilting the chair back on two legs, he propped his legs up against one of the support struts that seperated window pane from window pane. Settling his drink in his lap, he lost himself in thought.

It still troubled him that he'd snapped at Dk'myr'chi as he had. Why'd he do that? He wasn't a confrontational person, by nature or habit. He got along with almost everyone on the ship, and those whome he didn't get along with he simply bore with. He was, above all, very polite to one and all.

Mentally, he ran through his argument in Engineering with the towering furious Dk'myr'chi. It didn't seem like it had been him talking. He didn't shout at people.

And then, he'd gotten mad at DePaul. That was far, far worse. He loved her deeply! How could he yell at her as he had? Terrible feelings of guilt whelled up in his chest and he resolved to return to Engineering and apologize to all involved--on bended knee if he had to.

He felt calmer now. Something was still nibbling at his mind, urging him toward violence, but he resisted. He was a human with a free will and a strong one at that. He would resist, knowing that he would vanquish those feelings in the end.

"I have had enough of you, smart-ass!" An angry voice shattered his quiet contemplation.

He glanced up and saw Commander Joe Hamilton bolt out of his chair, fast enough to send it careening for a few meters until another table stopped it. His face was red and contorted in unreasoning fury.

He reached across the table, his arm striking a woman in the face hard enough to cause her to lose her balance and fall backward. He grabbed Lieutenant Michaels by his collar and dragged him out of his chair, pulling him around the table until they were nose-to-nose.

Michaels looked as completely angry as Hamilton did. He angrily shouted in reply, "So whatcha gonna do about it, jerk!?"

Menyez let his chair tip foward until it rested on all four legs again, setting his drink on a nearby table.

I don't like the look of this. . . He thought with forboding.

Hamilton, in reply, reared back and head-butted Michaels. Blood came streaming from Michaels' nose as he staggered back, clutching his head in pain.

But Hamilton would not leave it at that. He swung upward and caught Michaels across the jaw, blasting him back across the table. Glasses shattered and Menyez caught a glimpse of several of the colorful fragments digging deep into Michaels' back.

He shot out of his seat, hands clenching into fists angrily at his sides. He was quite aware of the fact that there was no way he could take Hamilton. He was twice Menyez's size with broad shoulders and rippling muscles.

But facts didn't factor into the equation this time. A man's life was in danger, and Menyez had to try and save him. Hamtilon grabbed Michaels by the shirt again and dragged him up. The other man was hanging limply, blood streaming down his face.

Hamilton drew his fist back, the muscles in his arm tightening like springs. He let fly--

--at exactly the same time Menyez intercepted him. Seeing the fist swinging downward, he started running and actually lept across a pair of tables, crashing into Hamilton's chest shoulder-first.

It was like running into a brick wall. Hamilton barely budged, although he did drop Michaels in suprise.

A brick wall would've been softer, Menyez decided as he felt his shoulder screaming in pain. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed a chair, swinging it with all the force he could muster.

Hamilton brought his forearm up and deflected it, sending it bouncing across a tabletop before finally crashing to the ground. His upraised arm he brought down to clutch at the front of Menyez's shirt, hefting him nearly a foot off the ground. He backhanded him violently, splitting both the Lieutenant's lips and snapping his head back as though it were on hinges.

Menyez groaned in pain and tried to keep from passing out. He brought his knee up with all the force he could muster and caught Hamilton between the legs. The taller, stockier man's eyes bulged out and a sickly gasp escaped his lips. His steel grip loosened enough to allow Menyez to pull his shirt free and drop to the ground.

Michaels sat up slowly, relying heavily on the nearby table for support. The companions of the two combatants were already up and attempting to help Michaels to his feet.

Menyez scrambled aside just in time to avoid Hamilton's huge form which crashed to the deck with all the grace of a fallen tree. Had Menyez still been in his path when he had fallen, many a bone would have snapped under the impact.

Menyez staggered to his feet, leaning on a table for an instant when black dots appeared in his vision. As soon as he was confident that he would in fact not pass out while trying to walk, he joined Michaels and the others as they headed for Sickbay.

***

On any starship, at any time, in any part of Starfleet, Sickbay was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Starfleet Regulations prohibited closing down Sickbay for any reason.

Oh, to be sure, there were a few times. While under construction, obviously, Sickbay was not open. Usually, it was the same during the first few test flights. However, when the ship was put on the active duty list and put into service, Sickbay was always open. For it not to be would undoubtedly result in the immediate crucifixtion of the Chief Medical Officer by Starfleet Command.

And so when Menyez, Michaels, and the other two officers came up to Sickbay's main doors and found them sealed, the Engineer found himself greatly puzzeled.

"Did the Cap'n order lockdown?" Michaels asked weakly, leaning against the wall for support.

Menyez shook his head and replied, "The turbolifts still work. If he'd ordered lockdown, they would've been clamped in place."

Stepping closer to the sealed door, Menyez passed his hand across the door's frame, starting at the top and gliding down both sides. He made sure he passed over the motion sensors that controlled the door's opening and closing each time. They didn't react in any way.

Still frowning, he dug underneath the door's control panel and pried it open, leaving it hanging by its hinges. He dug through the internal working with quick, nimble, knowing fingers.

He was quite handy in the ways of a thief. He could pick or hotwire almost any lock, could hack most any system, and knew of many ways to relieve a person of his or her personal possessions.

Dk'myr'chi, upon learning that the young man was skilled in hotwiring, had publicly expressed disapproval over a skill that Starfleet frowned upon. . .and had privately asked Menyez to teach it to him.

He bent down, bringing himself to eye-level with the wires hidden inside the shadowy cavity.

Red wire spliced with blue wire; fzzzzt!

Green wire spliced with yellow wire; fzzzzt!

"Can you actually open the door like that?" Cadet Roger Samson asked, wide-eyed. The Khitomer was his first space assignment. It was his field project during the summer break between his second and third years at the Acadamy. Menyez was only a little over thirty, but being with people such as Samson who were much younger made him feel very old and wizened.

"I'm trying to," Menyez grunted in reply, wincing when a small electrical burst chose to discharge itself into the deck via the fingers and, in extension, the body of Nikolas Menyez.

Gray wire spliced with black wire; fzzzzt!

"Stand back," He warned, pausing for a scant few seconds to give the others time to move back a bit. Then, he touched the orange wire to the power line.

A shower of sparks erupted from the small hole, cascading around Menyez and nearly hitting Michaels and the others. He winced, cursed under his breath, and yanked his fingers out quickly. He stuck the burned appendages in his mouth. The thought that he had hurt himself trying to break in to Sickbay was almost humorous.

The door obediently slid open, giving them access to their ultimate destination.

Menyez took a step back and was just about to help Michaels into Sickbay when a phaser beam lanced out and caught young Cadet Samson in the chest, blasting him back against the wall with his arms splayed out. He emitted a sickly sort of gasp and sank to the deck in a crumpled heap, his now hollow eyes never leaving Menyez's face.

Instantly, Menyez felt a pang of deep regret at the loss of the man. . .nay, at the loss of a boy. Hurridly trying to prevent the death of another innocent being, he grabbed Michaels and roughly hauled him away from the door.

Through the jammed-open doors of Sickbay, two yellow-clad security officers barrled out into the corridor, one bearing a phaser.

They're shooting at me!? Our own people!? Menyez gaped in disbelief, hurridly dragging Michaels even farther down the corridor. The wounded man tried his best to support his own weight and succeeded somewhat, but Menyez still had to keep him upright and moving. Hamilton had done quite a number on Michaels in the Officer's Lounge. . . .

Stepping quietly through Sickbay's doors, Zyrenn stood and watched the two security officers as they charged after Menyez and Micaels.

"Aisha, help!" Menyez yelped at the top of his lungs.

She cocked her head strangly, but made no move to aid him in any way.

Menyez keyed a door quickly open and shoved Michaels inside, saying as he pushed, "Get the Jeffries Tube open as fast as you can! I'll distract them!"

Then, he shut the door again and turned to face the security officers.

They came at him fast, the one with the phaser bringing his weapon up for another shot. Menyez nimbly lashed out with his booted foot and caught the man's wrist, sending the phaser flying. It bounced off the wall a couple of times, then skittered to a halt on the deck, many meters away.

But the brief moment he spent kicking the weapon from the man's hand was the brief moment the second man needed to haul off with a nasty roundhouse punch to the jaw. Menyez took it full force and let himself spin about, lessening the damage the hit did by taking it in stride as he spun.

He came back around with a backhanded punch that built up momentum from his spin. It was enough to drop the first man to the deck.

Zyrenn stood watching the scene. Menyez was about to shout to her for aid again, but he took a nasty punch to the stomach and doubled over, his call turning into a cough as he tried to bring air back into his lungs.

The first man made no move to grab his phaser and instead lunged, hands outstretched, toward Menyez. He locked his fingers like talons around the engineer's throat and rammed him back against the wall.

Reacting purely on instinct, Menyez latched onto his opponent's throat. And then, it became a test of endurance. Who could last longer. . . .?

In the end, Menyez won, but not by outlasting the other. In a sudden jerk, he drew the man closer and headbutted him viciously with enough force to possibly break his nose. Judging from the amount of blood that now streamed from the nose, it was indeed broken.

Clutching at his face, the security officer staggered back in pain, blood streaming down his face and hands and staining the deck.

Zyrenn raised a single steady finger, pointing at Menyez calmly with the same odd look of contorted concentration on her face.

The phaser lept from the deck of its own accord and hurled lightning-fast down the corridor, glancing off of Menyez's shoulder with enough force to knock him back against the wall. He cried out in pain as though he had been shot, clutching at the wounded area. He backpedeled quickly, trying to get away before she sent other objects flying at him.

..And more were not long in coming. A padd flew out of Sickbay toward him, and it was all he could do to dodge. The padd struck the wall with enough force to shatter the screen and dent the metal casing.

A pair of hyposprays became projectiles that shot toward him. He ducked and barely missed one, taking the second in the ribcage as he stumbled backward, heading toward the room he had left Michaels in.

The afore mentioned Lieutenant Michaels emerged from the room at the worst possible moment and said, "Mez! I've got the tube open--"

From inside Sickbay, a thin metal tray flew spinning toward them. Menyez tried to shove Michaels out of the way but only succeeded partially. Rather than taking the now-lethal plate in the heart as was originaly intended, it sliced through his side. He cried out in pain, trying to staunch the flow of blood with crimson-stained hands.

Supporting his weight and praying he, Michaels, didn't pass out, Menyez quickly moved into the room and sealed the door, dragging the wounded man into the Jefferies' Tube and pausing only long enough to pull the hatch shut behind him and encode the lock hastily with a password.

Michaels was leaving a trail of blood as plain as one of breadcrumbs. Menyez kept pushing him onward, refusing to think about that fact that the blood would allow them to be easily followed as they crawled quickly along. When they reached a junction between two tubes--the junction being a little bigger than the tubes--they stopped, both panting for breath.

"Here, lemme see that wound," Menyez said, prying the seemingly locked hand away from the gash and gently pulling the uniform off of the cut. Very little of the blood had clotted, and what little had had only managed to cause the uniform to stick painfully in the wound. Carefully, Menyez ripped the uniform, trying to keep the cloth away from the wound as best he could.

"Ooooh," Michaels moaned, gripping a pipe that ran along the wall with one pale hand. "That smarts."

"I'll bet it does," Menyez said, "I'm no doctor, but I think it sliced an artery."

"I'm a scientist," Michales rasped, "So I wouldn't know. . ."

Menyez grabbed the shoulder of his uniform, finding the seam with his fingers, and tugged mightily. The fabric ripped, the sound like thunder in the narrow confines of the junction. He tore the sleeve completely off his uniform and used it to bandage the wound as best he could.

"There," Menyez said, "That's the best I'm gonna be able to do without having access to Sickbay. Can you crawl?"

"Faster 'n' you can, Mez." Michaels said, grinning weakly.

Menyez returned the grin, although he didn't feel much like grinning at the moment. Right now, he was leaning more toward screaming in fury. Patting Michaels comfortingly on the shoulder, he said, "Let's keep moving then."

***

"Alright, so it seems to be energy-based," Edwards was drumming his fingers rythmically on the arm of his chair as he lost himself in thought. "There must be some way of shorting it out. Any ideas?"

Hobson sat in front of the science station, working as best he could to get a fix on the entity's position.

"I wouldn't even be able to guess without knowing something about it." He worked the controls a moment longer, then continued with a frown, "And I won't be able to find anything out about it because I can't seem to find it! Its energy signature isn't strong enough to set off the shipwide scanners. If I could pinpoint it's location, I could get a reading, but otherwise. . . ." He let the sentance trail off, seeing no need to finish it.

Radisson glanced up from his tactical station and reported, "It looks like they're on the move again. Our people had to retreat from Deck 10."

Edwards scowled and replied, "Seal off deck 10 through 20. That should hamper their efforts a bit."

"It's obviously fully senient and aware of what it's doing," Woods said, crossing her arms across her chest, "I've been monitoring their forces via the MSD and it's been very orderly. And notice the takeover pattern," She ran her fingernail along one of the decks displayed on the Master System's Display and finished, "Almost exactly half the ship was taken over by the creature."

Edwards nodded, "Captain Kirk's report indicated it was a sentient being. What about you, Zack? Any ideas?"

Zack Toyle had his feet propped up on the helm console. He was leaning back in the chair, head resting comfortably back with his hands behind his head. He was probably the most comfortable of the whole lot. . .

He shrugged, "Besides a bucket of water? Nope."

Always have to make a joke out of everything, don't you?

Mentally, he both scowled and replied to the annoying voice in his head, Why don't you go pester someone else for awhile?

I like it here best, came the reply.

Excuse me if I don't feel priveleged. His answer dripped with sarcasm.

It was at that moment when Captain Edwards, Commander Hobson, Woods, and the entire bridge of the Starship Khitomer vanished before his eyes.

***

I'm dead.

It was the last thought Dk'myr'chi expected to have. When he lost his grip on the metal bar he'd been clinging to for dear life and had fallen into the mod of angry mutineers, he'd expected his death to be quick and--undoubtedly--painful.

And it had seemed to be coming to pass as he had thought. It was as though he had fallen into a sea of angry bodies. They parted only briefly to allow him to fall in their midst, then closed around him; suffocating him and crushing him simultaneously as they pressed in on him.

He tried to struggle to his feet but could not. There were too many of them pressing too heavily on him. He couldn't stand and could barely move.

With a roar of frustration and anger that had been building for days, he threw his arms out, tossing his head back as he thundered to his feet with enough force to send nearly a dozen officers flying in all directions.

They surged back around him but he beat at them, pounding first one, then another in the face and chest with his mighty green fists.

His feet were swept out from under him by the sheer force of the mob pressing against him on all sides. He tried once again to stand up, but there was no chance of him succeeding. There were too many of them, only one of him, and they were pressing against him with too much force. So he did the single thing he thought he'd never do in all his life. . .even if this was the end of it:

He gave up.

He was dead. He knew it. They knew it.

He accepted it. He saw death coming from him, long wicked fingers outstretched, and realizing that escape was futile, he embraced it.

A strange sort of detachment followed. He didn't feel the blows that fell on his beaten, bruised body. It was as though he were watching from above, staring in fascination as his body was slowly reduced to a pile of quivering flesh and broken bone.

Am I dead? Was the second thought thought that entered his mind. He had no way of answering it. He hoped this wasn't the afterlife. It looked far too much like the real world had. How depressing, to spend all eternity watching the people he'd spent a lifetime with move about as he could no longer do.

He'd hoped for 'heaven' as Rob Radisson called it. He wanted to see his mother, and maybe even his father. He wanted to meet him as he never had in corporeal existence. Wanted to meet him, and ask him why he'd left and let Dk'myr'chi grow up alone--his mother having died when he was young.

The answer to his second thought proved his first one wrong.

No, he was not dead. If he had been, it apparently a temporary condition. He was suddenly looking through his own eyes again and seeing the mob backing silently away from him, no longer berserk with rage.

He was curled in a fetal position, arms wrapped protectively about his head as he tried to protect himself from the assualt of hands and feet. Puzzled, he looked up, slowly drawing his arms away from his head. He became slowly aware of sensations again, now able to feel the throbbing in his ribs, and now able to feel his feet which he had believe to be crushed. And now he felt the lukewarm blood that had seeped from the gash on his cheek onto the deck and eventually into his earhole. Now he was aware of the throbbing impression a boot had left in the small of his back.

He was alive!

. . .But why? Why hadn't they killed him right there?

It was not a question he particularly cared about answering right now. He'd worry about it later, when he was to safety and out of danger. He had been given a few extra minutes of life--whether by Djinn, or some freak mistake--and he intended to make use of it. Escape was possible, assuming his legs weren't broken.

Summoning all his strength--it wasn't much--he slowly pulled his feet under him and climbed onto his hands and knees, now able to feel every single bone in his body with throbbing intensity. He'd be feeling this for weeks to come, that was for sure. . .

Next, he climbed to his feet without passing out. It was a victory he was quite proud of. If he could get out the door and into a turbolift, he would apply for the Federation Medal of Achievment. There had to be a medal in this somewhere. . .

The door slid open long before he even took a step and Aisha Zyrenn, followed by numerous officers in blue uniforms strode in.

"Aisha!" He painfully croaked, apruptly realizing that he had been kicked in the throat as well, "What are you--"

He locked with her eyes for a long moment, and his words died on his lips.

Not Aisha at all. . . . He thought.

Her skin was pale and covered with a thin sheen of sweat which plastered her brown hair in clumps about her face. Her eyes were wide and burned with something terrible. Something terrible. . .and very evil. . . .

Despite the warm blood trickling down his side, Dk'myr'chi shivered.

She glanced at one yellow-clad security officer and despite the lack of words voiced, they seemed to communicate instantly. He snapped into motion, storming to the double engineering doors and sealing them with various security encryptions.

Smoothly, moving like a wraith, she approached the warp core that bore the modifications designed to allow a matter/anti-matter explosion. She bent beneath the railing that surrounded it and began inspecting the modifications carefully, occasionaly poking at this or that. Dk'myr'chi bit his tongue and mentally cursed himself for wanting to rebuke her. His first reaction was to tell her not to touch his warp core, or his modifications! But he quickly restrained that urge. Calling her attention on him would not have been wise. Of this, he was quite sure.

Finally, she finished her inspection and ducked back under the rail, her gaze once again upon him. She seemed to be trying to dissect him with that awful stare. . .

He squared his shoulders and locked eyes with her defiantly, his orange, virtically-slited eyes flashing with the fires of rebellion and a refusal to cooperate.

"You know what these modifications do?" It was phrased as a question, but it looked as thought she--she? it?--already knew the answer.

He growled in the back of his throat, then more audibly, "Yes."

"Tell me," She commanded in a steely tone of voice that left no room for debate.

Dk'myr'chi had no intention of debating anything. His lips curled with a great deal of pleasure as he slowly delivered his reply with as much venom as he could possibly cram into his tone, "No."

"You may as well tell me. I can simply reach into your mind and rip it out if you will not cooperate."

He tossed his head defiantly, "Do your worst."

He held her gaze for a long, tense, silent minute, wondering if she were going to call his dare.

He felt a surge of triumph well up in his chest when she turned away from him, breaking the stare before he even flinched. She waved her hand in dismissal and said, "It is irrelevant for now. You will tell me later, however." There was no doubt in her voice whatsoever that he would indeed do just that.

"Up thine," He shot back as a pair of burly engineers--two of his own men!-- dragged him backward by the arms until he was pinned against a support pillar where they bound him with a peculiar combination of Engine Tape (it held the galaxy together; of that Dk'myr'chi was convinced) and fiberoptic cable tied tightly around his wrists and ankles and--most uncomfortable of it all--his neck.

From his bound position, he could only watch helplessly as Aisha Zyrenn --zombie galore--approached a computer station and began working on it with the aide of several of her minions. . .

***

Michaels insisted many times as he and Menyez traversed the Jefferies' Tubes that not only would he be fine, thank you very much, but that he was more than capable of out-crawling Menyez and of being able to undoubtedly save the whole ship single-handedly.

In reality, both he and Menyez realized that his condition was deteriorating very rapidly. He was getting weak, short of breath, dizzy, and had almost passed out not more than ten minutes prior. Menyez was becoming very worried about him and had even mentioned braving the deranged officers in Sickbay if he were able to get medical supplies into the Tube before he were killed, thus allowing Michaels to live and continue on to safety. Michaels flat-out refused.

And likewise, with equal stubborness, Menyez had refused when Michaels suggested he just leave the wounded man behind and make it to safety on the upper decks by himself.

"I'll just slow you up," Michaels had argued, "If you get killed, it'll be my fault because it wouldn't have happened if you'd gone on alone."

"Then I'll get killed," Menyez had shot back with more than a little anger, "I'm not abandoning you here. You'll die!"

The argument had continued back and forth for nearly five minutes, stopping only when one of the possessed officers passed near enough to a grate to almost overhear their conversation. They'd waited tensely for a long minute--more like an eternity--to see if they'd been discovered. When at last the officer moved on, Menyez stated firmly, "We're sticking together. Let's keep moving."

Now, twenty-odd minutes later, they stopped. Michaels breathed a sigh of relief, as he leaned back against the cool, hard, blessedly solid metal wall of the Tube and asked, "Why'd we stop?"

Menyez grunted as he tugged a small metal panel off the wall, revealing a portion of the internal workings of the Khitomer, "Communication's node. I can tap in and get a message to the bridge. First things first, though. Let me check your wound."

Michaels raised his right arm, wrapping his hand around a pipe that ran the length of the conduit, giving Menyez an unobstructed view of the gash in his side.

Menyez breathed a curse, "It's still bleeding, and I don't see any signs of clotting on the wound. How do you feel?"

Michaels took a breath and prepared to declare himself fine again, then paused and whispered truthfully, "Not so hot. I'm getting weaker and the dizzy spells are lasting longer."

"Blood loss," Menyez breathed, "It'll only get worse too. Damn. . . . ."

Ripping his second sleeve off, he peeled the first one painfully away from Michaels' wound and tied the clean, dry cloth in its place.

But he had an awful feeling that was twisting his gut into knots that all he could really do was watch as Michaels slowly slipped away, then finally died.

Pushing those thoughts to a dark corner of his mind--they were counter-productive and he couldn't afford that right now--he turned back to inspect the communication's node. He pulled his combadge from his chest, shuddering at the blood stains his own bloody hands left on the badge's shiny surface. Peeling the back of the small device off, he began working on combining its circuits with those inside node.

There was a fzzzzt! noise and a brief shower of sparks (why do sparks accompany everything? he wondered).

Praying that he had succeeded, he tapped the badge and said, "Menyez to bridge."

It was only after he had sent his tentative message that it occured to him. If the bridge were similarly taken over as Deck 16 had been, they would be able to track his signal back to his location and send people after him. With Michaels in tow, he might not be able to escape.

"Bridge, Edwards here. Lieutenant, are you alright?" the words were like honey to the Lieutenant who had not seen or heard from anyone sane--save Michaels--in what felt like a lifetime.

Swallowing his relief, he said, "I'm fine, Captain, but Lieutenant Micaels isn't. He's got a nasty wound in his side. I've tried bandaging it as best I can, but the blood's still flowing.

There was a click as the signal was bounced from one comm unit to the next and Edwards' voice was replaced by that of Doctor Woods.

"Which side is the wound on?" She asked with a certain amount of urgency to her voice.

Menyez gave a detailed description of the wound, the symptoms, and of Michaels' ever-weakening condition. When he finally ran down, she spoke again.

"It's a serious wound, Mez. Get him to Deck 9, or higher where I can treat him. Otherwise, he will most definitly bleed to death."

If someone had dropped a pin in the Jeffries' Tube, it would have been as loud as thunder in the complete silence that suddenly blanketed the area.

There was another click and Edwards' voice returned, "Lieutenant, where are you?"

"I'm. . . . .uh. . . .not really sure, sir. We escaped into the Jeffries' Tubes, but I've got no idea where we are. We've just been trying to avoid capture. We're definitly behind enemy lines."

Another click. "I can't trace the signal, but the internal sensors are scrambled pretty badly," Radisson's voice pitched in.

Click. "Find out where you are and get to at least Deck 9. We control it and all the decks above it. Godspeed, Mr. Menyez."

And with that, the signal dissolved into static. Menyez cut the connection between the communication's node and his combadge, his deft fingers not requiring the concentration of his mind to do the task.

"Life's a kick in the head," Michaels grunted, valiently trying to keep spirits light. He wasn't doing a very good job at it, but he was trying.

"Bleed to death. . . ." Menyez mumbled.

"Hey, Nik, relax." Michaels offered, "We'll get safely to Deck 9 and Doc Woods'll patch me up. I'll be right as rain in no time at all."

Judging from the sober expression on Menyez's countenance, he didn't believe that at all.

"Let's go," He whispered a moment later, once again crawling along with Michaels following slowly but surely.

***

Blackness reigned.

So suprised was Zack Toyle when the Khitomer seemed to vanish that he actually fell out of his chair. Had he not fallen from his seat, the chair would have vanished. Either way, he still wound up sitting on the floor.

He was on his feet instantly, looking about as he tried to ascertain where exactly he now was. He had to blink a few times just to see if his eyes were open.

He couldn't see anything! Even when he raised his hand in front of his face, he couldn't see it.

And then, all of a sudden, he could see again.

It was as though a spotlight came on from above, illuminating a small pale white circle that had a diameter of about one meter, encompassing the confused fighter pilot.

"Hello?" He shouted, his voice echoing and re-echoing about until it became distorted and sounded more like a taunt than the single word he had uttered.

Hello. . . . .hello. . . . .hello. . . . . The word drifted back to him, taunting him; laughing at him. . .

"Hello, Zack."

He whirled about in time to see another spotlight illuminate a pale, lithe figure wearing a blue-collared Starfleet uniform, not at all unlike his own.

"Aisha!" He gasped in relief and rushed toward her, distantly aware of his spotlight following him until his and hers intersected and essentialy became one.

He wrapped his hands around her shoulders and pulled her to him, hugging her with all his might, as if he were afraid he'd lose her if he let go.

When he finally pulled back, it was with unspeakable joy that he stammered, "What. . . .? What're. . . ." he couldn't get the words out.

She had a distant look in her eyes; as though she didn't really see him. She looked as pale as death and felt cold and clammy to the touch.

"I must speak with you," She said hollowly.

Puzzeled and completely baffled, he stepped back and shrugged, shoving his hands in the pockets of his flight jacket which he wore over his uniform, "Sure."

Suddenly, the blackness rippled and melted into one of the Khitomer's corridors. Zack looked about and caught the number 9 painted on the wall beside the turbolift doors.

In front of him, he recognized Lieutenant Dennis Holte and four of his men, fighting desperately to push back the 'zombies' to the lower levels.

They were too close to allow Holte or his men to fire stun shots at them, so the combat had rapidly degenerated into hand-to-hand combat. Holte swung his phaser like a club, catching one man in the side. Grabbing the barrel in one hand and the handle in the other, he rammed it into the man's chest, driving him back into the wall with all the force he could muster.

"These humans put up a valient resistance," Aisha said coldly, "As do others throughout this deck. They must realize they cannot win, yet they fight on."

"They can win, Aisha," Toyle protested, "What're you talking about. . .?"

She ignored him and continued, "We outnumber them by a substancial number, yet they fight because their leader tells them to. As I said, valient. Ultimately futile, however."

"Resistance is never futile," Toyle said, "And sometimes the underdog wins. What the hell is wrong with you?"

She turned to look at him, her eyes blazing fiery red. A nasty snarl curled her lips. When she spoke, her voice was deep, thundering, and echoed about him, sending a cold shiver down his spine.

"You will lose, and all your people will die. YOU will die. Entire worlds have tried to resist me, and they have all failed. You will too."

"No!" He shot back, "We will not lose. If you were so certain we were going to lose, why did you come here? What are you trying to gain?"

"Come to Engineering, Zack Toyle. Join us. Join her."

With a howl, he coiled his legs beneath him and lept at the entity/Zyrenn. But she faded away as though she had never been, the violent scene following shortly after.

Zack opened his eyes and found himself once again sitting in front of the Khitomer's helm, in the same casual position he had been in before the strange and eerie vision.

"Zack?" Woods gently shook his arm, a look of genuine concern on her face, "Are you alright?"

The others were also staring at him, and apruptly he realized that his face had been contorted in an ugly grimance. He tried his best to relax the frozen facial muscles, aware that they weren't cooperating as well as he would've liked.

He swallowed once, twice, and then three times. When he felt his could trust his voice again, he replied, "It just got worse. . . ."

***

"Aisha? Possessed? Surely not!" was Edwards' reaction when Toyle told him of his strange visitation by the entity/Zyrenn.

"Unfortunatly, it makes sense," Radisson countered, "It could be using her telepathic abilities to boost its own--like a magnifying glass would with sunlight."

"Why would it need to?" Hobson asked, "It took over the original Enterprise crew without the aide of a telepath."

"According to the reading I've been doing, most of the Enteprise's crew were trapped in the lower decks. It only took over a handful of Klingons and officers." Edwards supplied, gently tapping his chin with a pair of fingers.

". . .And here, that wasn't possible, so it was forced to use her as an amplifier." Woods finished the thought.

"Captain, I've gotta save here!" Toyle exclaimed, drawing everyone's attention back to him. He was standing now, his forehead glistening with sweat.

"How exactly do you plan to do that?" Edwards asked cooly, "They seem to have set up a sort of headquarters in Engineering, which is where I'm sure she is. But there's also bound to be a ton of other possessed officers. They'd tear you apart before you could hope to get to her."

"No they wouldn't!" Toyle returned fervently, "She told me to come to Engineering. They want me there! They wouldn't kill me; I'm sure of it."

Edwards continued tapping his chin in silence, then slowly shook his head, "No, Zack. I don't to take the risk of losing you."

Zack took several steps closer to the sitting captain who stood to meet him. Eye-to-eye, he argued, "You don't need me here! I'm no help to Rob's people, or Susan's, or you. My entire fighter squadron's completely drained of power. The only thing I can do, and I can't even do that. It doesn't matter if you lose me. I need to help her! I love her. . .!"

Edwards' previously cold expressing softened somewhat and he gently gripped Toyle's shoulders.

"Zack," He said quietly, "You're my friend. I wasn't talking about tactical value. I wouldn't want to lose. . .and neither would the others. But I understand how you feel. I really do."

He released Toyle and turned to Radisson, motioning for the phaser rifle he had thrown over his back. Radisson quickly unstrapped it, tossing it to the captain. Edwards caught it deftly and handed it to Toyle.

"Go," He finished, "The only unsealed Jeffries' Tube is in the Conference Lounge. Let us know before you go into Engineering and we'll try to create some sort of diversion. Good luck."

Toyle smiled. It wasn't a cocky grin, or a woman-charming smile, it was simply a smile of heartfelt friendship and unspeakable gratitude.

Then, he turned and headed for the Conference Lounge, aware of the silence that hung over the entire bridge. Every eye was on him as he headed for the Lounge.

A single voice shattered the oppresive silence.

"Wait up," Susan Woods said, grabbing her Medkit from its resting spot on the chair in front of the OPS station. She moved across the bridge to join him.

"I'm coming with you."

His smile slowly returned and he whispered, "Come on."

Together, they entered the Conference Lounge, the doors sliding shut moments later and cutting them off from view.

"God with you. . . . ." Radisson whispered under his breath. He'd always thought of the fighter pilot as insufferable, annoying, immature, rude, etc. He'd never realized that, in point of fact, he was indeed Radisson's friend. If there was anything the Dominion War had done, it had made an unlikely group of people into a very close-knit group of friends. Almost a family. No, not almost. They were a family.

Edwards glanced at Radisson, "Get Dk'myr'chi to the bridge, double-time. We need to figure a way out of this nebula."

"Surely the creature isn't confined to the nebula. . .?" Hobson said as Radisson set to work. "The Enterprise wasn't anywhere near this area when it was affected."

"Actually," Edwards countered, "They were only a sector away from here. I want to know what the status of the modifications on that warp core for the matter/anti-matter controlled explosion. If we have any chance of touching off the blast, then maybe it'll throw us far enough away from this area that we'll escape the creature's grasp."

"Sounds like a plan," Hobson commented as the turbolift doors slid open.

However, it was not Dk'myr'chi who strode forth onto the Khitomer's bridge. Instead, it was Lieutenant DePaul with a somewhat pained expression on her face.

Edwards turned, swiveling his chair about to face her, and asked, "Where's Dimitri?"

She swallowed with some amount of difficulty, then said, "In Engineering. He bought time for the rest of us to escape."

Edwards winced and Hobson's heart went out to him. The starship captain and the chief engineer had been good friends for a number of years prior to their assignment together aboard the Khitomer. They'd served together on the USS Redemption for a number of years before each went his seperate way.

. . .And it was more or less an unspoken given that if anyone who was not possessed by the entity was still remaining in Engineering, he or she was quite dead.

"Damn," Edwards hissed, "All the more reason to get outta here: Escape before any more friends are dead at the entity's hands."

He looked up, jaw jutted in detirmination, "We're leaving the nebula. Lieutenant, do you know the status of the modifications to the warp core?"

DePaul moved toward the Engineering station and brought it to life, attempting to interface with the systems in Engineering.

"I'm trying to find the status now. Before everything hit the fan, I heard Dk'myr'chi stomping around Engineering muttering something about 'going to hell in a handbasket' so I'm guessing the modifications were pretty near completed--if not already finished."

"Can we set off the explosion from the bridge?"

She shook her head, pony-tail whipping about as she did so, "No, it's got to be done manually from Engineering."

"Then we need to re-take Engineering," Edwards said, mostly thinking out loud to himself. He looked at DePaul, "If we can get you and your people into Engineering, can you finish the modifications and set off the explosion."

She nodded slowly, "Hopefully."

Edwards continued, "Alright. We've got an assualt to plan then. . ."

***

They had stopped moving.

The phrase So close, yet so far had never seemed quite as real as it did now. Lieutenants Menyez and Michaels were in the Jeffries' Tubes that ran along on Deck 10--on deck away from their goal--but they were no longer crawling.

It was not through any fault of Menyez. He was quite eager to get away from the deranged officers that had hold of the rest of the ship. The fact that his friends had attacked him without any trace of recognition and with a brutality that defied belief sent shivers down his spine.

Rather, it was because of Michaels. He could no longer crawl.

He was sitting more or less upright at the moment, propped back against the hard metal wall. His face was sheeted with sweat, the salty liquid dripping from his countenance with every movement he made. His hands clutched senselessly at his side, instinctively trying to squelch the blood that was even now flowing past the makesift bandage (i.e. Menyez's sleeve). A puddle of the sticky red substance was pooling on the Tube's deck, clinging to Michaels' side and completely soaking every part of him that it came into contact with. Yet, he was no longer aware enough to consider moving. His eyes roved about, but he didn't seem to really see anything.

Menyez sighed loudly in angry frustration, running his hand through his hair violently. There was no way he could hope to carry Michaels to Deck 9. In the cramped crawlspace they were confined to, he would have no hope of succeeding in time to save Michaels' life. And if they ventured outside the Jeffries' Tubes, they'd be cut down in an instant by the crazed beings who roved the lower decks.

Likewise, he couldn't drag Michaels up a deck. He'd further aggravate the injury and Michaels would die even sooner.

He's already dying! He'll be dead soon anyway! Menyez reminded himself.

"Muh--muh. . . .Mez. . .?" Michaels panted, his eyes staring in Menyez's general direction, but not quite focusing on the Engineer.

Menyez hastily scooted closer, clasping Michaels' hand firmly between his own. "I'm right here," he soothed.

"Th. . . .thirsty. . . ." Michaels managed.

Menyez tiredly shook his head, "There's nothing to drink, Earl," he replied, calling Michaels by his first name for the first time, "I'm sorry. . .Damn, I tried to save you. . .!"

There was a spasm, Michaels arching slightly in pain. Then, he slumped back down and smiled weakly. Oh, so weakly. . . .

"H-hey. . . .don't w-worry 'bout it, Nik." Michaels coughed, a bit of blood flying from his lips, "Y-ya' tried your b-best. . . .I. . . . .I'm. . . . .oh, my. . . . ."

Another spasm. His entire body arched skyward. Then, as though he had given up his soul in that final muscle contraction, he slumped to the deck, completely limp. His head lolled to the side, eyes staring unwaveringly at Menyez.

Dead.

A choked sob escaped his lips and he suddenly slid backward, backing into the wall with a painful thunk. He drew his knees up against his chest, suddenly finding it very difficult to breath past the lump that had appeared in his throat.

He lowered his head until it was resting on his kneecaps, and sat there in utter silence, sobbing bitterly to himself.

He'd never faced death. Not up close and personal like this. And definitly not this bloody. He was an Engineer. His experience with death--of any kind!--was very limited. He knew engines, and he knew computers, and not much else.

He sat there for what seemed like an eternity--twenty minutes in reality--trying not to look at the vacant stare that was unflinchingly gazing at him. Choked sobs were coming almost constantly from between his lips, and distantly he was aware of hot, salty tears that were streaming down his face.

So enamored was he in his grief that he didn't hear the pair of officers approaching.

When a hand slid across his shoulders and drew him gently closer, he very nearly jumped out of his skin, out of the ship, and possibly out of that galactic plane.

He lashed out, swinging his fist with the intention to incapacitate the person--for he was quite certain it was an enemy--but a strong hand caught his wrist and pulled his hand down.

He looked up and through the haze of tears, he saw Zack Toyle sitting next to him, holding him, comforting him, and helping him through his grief.

"It's okay, kiddo," he whispered quietly to Menyez, glancing over at Doctor Woods who was slowly closing Michaels' eyes. He would see no more. . .

Damn! What was wrong with him!? He was a grown man. An adult! Why was he blubbering like a baby!? Angrily, he dashed at the tears streaming from his face and sat fully upright, trying his best to compose himself.

Woods glanced at him, sympathy etched in her tired--but beautiful--face, "There was nothing you could've done, Mez. He was too far gone. I'm amazed his made it even this far."

"Wuh--" Stop blubbering, blast it! "--What're you guys doing here?"

Toyle replied, his jaw suddenly squared, "Heading for Engineering to rescue Aisha. That entity's got 'er."

Woods awkwardly shuffled over to join the two men, running the small scanning device over Menyez person, checking the scan's results on the screen of her tricorder.

"And you," she said firmly to him, "should head back to the upper decks. You're dehydrated, beaten up nicely, and suffering from severe exhaustion. Your windpipe is bruised, as are multiple ribs and--well, suffice it to say, you've taken quite a beating. I've got a couple of nurses working in the emergency Medbay on Deck7. Try and get there. They'll patch you up."

Menyez nodded, to weary to even answer out loud. His entire being--his entire purpose--had been focused on saving Michaels. On keeping the wounded man alive long enough to get him safely to care. Now, with him dead, Menyez suddenly felt the events of the previous day--or was it still the same day?--catching up with him.

He started to slowly crawl, aware of Toyle saying quietly to Woods, "Let's keep moving," and then of the pair starting off in the opposite direction.

When sitting near an air vent, he'd heard mention of 'Zyrenn' and 'Engineering' used in the same sentance by one being. Did that mean she was now in Engineering? Dk'myr'chi was in Engineering. So was Rodrequiz, in fact. Woods had done an excellent job of patching him up and hustling him away with all due speed.

And then, a thought that made his blood turn first to water, and then to ice:

DePaul was in Engineering!

Frozen for all eternity in his memory, as though seared in place, was an image of Michaels, lying on the deck and bleeding to death. He saw Michaels. He saw the wound. He saw the puddle of blood, and the painful spasms that wracked his body. He saw the life leave Michaels' eyes yet again, all traces of recognition of anything fading quickly soon after.

And then, the image morphed. Michaels' stocky body thinned and shifted until it was instead Laurel DePaul lying on the deck, bleeding, spasming, and finally dying.

He gasped in anticipated pain. The very thought of losing DePaul was enough to twist his innards in knots. Life was. . . .was. . . .meaningless if she were dead. He couldn't imagine functioning without her. Not anymore.

He whirled about, promptly striking his skull against the hard metal wall. Ignoring the pain the blow caused, he shouted, "Wait a minute!" after the rapidly dwindling forms of Toyle and Woods. His shout echoed and re-echoed down the Tube, sounding even louder in the confined space than it would have otherwise.

Toyle spun about and hissed, "Quiet!"

Menyez tore toward them, nearly tripping as he tried to move quickly on his hands and knees. He finally slowed and stopped in front of them.

Panting, he said, "I'm coming with you guys. I'm gonna help you free Aisha, and whoever else they're holding captive--" Laurel. . .! "--in Engineering."

Toyle looked at Woods, and in a moment of silent communications, only possible after long and intimate acquaintance, Toyle said, "Fine. C'mon."

Hang on, Laurel. I'm coming. . . .

***

Oblivious to her lover's concerns, regarding her well-being, DePaul was standing beside the Master Systems Display at the aft of the Khitomer's bridge with the handful of senior staff officers, listening to Edwards speak. Occasionaly, one or another of the others would insert a comment here, or a piece of advice there. DePaul couldn't help but admire the way they worked together. Like gears in a machine. Edwards could begin a thought, and many a time Hobson was able to complete it. Time and a war had made it possible. Nothing else could. In a way, such a system was present in Engineering. Everyone worked together with a familiarty and ease that seemed remarkable to the outside world. They worked together, laughed together, and--in some cases--slept together.

It always happened on starships when the majority of the crew went without reassignment for long periods of time. The Khitomer was pretty decent in length, width, and bredth, but inside it was a small community. A town in space. The people spent every day with one another. A certain level of casualness and ease was only to be expected.

Edwards ran his finger along the display, indicating Deck 10.

"Up until now, we've been holding them on Deck 10, on down. Now, we need to start pushing down. Rob, your forces will need to begin driving them back. Inch by inch, deck by deck, we need to fight them."

"They have been," Radisson replied, "But they outnumber us. Not by much, but they do nonetheless. On top of that, they're far more organized than our people are. It's like they're being directed from a central source."

"The entity's probably controlling them via Aisha," Hobson said. He shifted to one side and, calling everyone's attention to himself with the simple movement, continued.

"I want to point out, Brad, that there are six decks between Deck 9 and Deck 16. If--if--we can re-take them, we'll lose a lot of people."

"I know," Edwards replied, surveying the gathered officers with a hard glint in his eye, "And by the time we got to Engineering, they would already have notice far in advance of our advance and would've prepared for us. The direct route won't work. That's why we're taking the back door."

"So we're a distraction," Radisson mused.

"Right," Edwards "A group--led by me--will sneak down to Deck 16 and Engineering while you and your men draw their attention away. Push hard, and make them push back. Keep them busy for as long as you can."

"If Engineering is their base of operations," DePaul piped up for the first time, "How will we take it? Surely it'll be more heavily guarded than the rest of the decks."

A small, humorless smile quirked the corner of Edwards' mouth as he answered, "Dimitri is still in Engineering. I'm counting on his creating a distraction so that we can catch them off-guard."

"Makes sense," Zetan muttered, "If there's anything Dimitri can do, it's get on people's nerves. Let 'im shoot his mouth off, and I'll bet you'd have the whole lot of 'em surrendering instantly."

A mild ripple of laughter ran through those assembled. Edwards let it run its course, hoping it would release some tension. When it subsided, he continued.

"Rob, join your people on Deck 9 and personally lead them. You've got more experience than Lieutenant Holte, and hopefully you'll be able to minimize casualties. Also, send Holte and a few others up to the bridge. We'll take them with us. Lieutenant DePaul, Chris, you're both with me. Krod, stay here and get ready. When we blow the matter/anti-matter explosion out the Impulse vents, we'll be going really fast and out-of-control. See if you can't find some way to steer. Escaping Golgotha only to smash into a planet would be embarassing. . . .not to mention lethal."

A cascade of "Aye-ayes" and "Yessirs" flooded back to him. Everyone snapped into action. Radisson moved toward the turbolift, already speaking into his combadge.

Hobson bustled about the bridge, collecting the various hand phasers and their holsters from their respective locations.

DePaul stepped into the Conference Lounge to prepare the Jeffries' Tube for their upcoming transit. Suprisingly, the hatch was already open, the black inside gaping like a maw. She nervously swallowed and peered inside with just a touch of fear.

Krod Zetan slid into his seat at the helm of the Khitomer and began working furiously in preparation for the matter/anti-matter explosion that would surely be the result of their incursion into Engineering.

Edwards sat back in his command chair, the eye of the storm. There was nothing he could do but wait. Wait, pray, and review his plan mentally, looking for any potentially fatal loopholes.

DePaul had presented a point that had been bothering him from the beginning of the planning phase of their assualt: There would be a lot of them in Engineering. Perhaps too many. If they failed, what would become of his ship. . .?

Ultimately, he knew exactly what would happen. Eventually, the batteries would drain and everyone--friend and foe alike--would suffocate. The currents within the nebula, not to mention the solar winds, would catch the Khitomer. For now, the stationkeeping thrusters were firing oh, so briefly at regular intervals. When the batteries failed, they too would cease to function. The Khitomer would forever drift through space.

. . .And perhaps the invention of warp speed made the space between the stars seem small, but in reality it was truly vast. It might be hundreds of years before anyone stumbled on the Khitomer. He could only imagine some intrepid explorer beaming aboard the floating hulk and found their corpses. He imagined it, and shuddered.

Hobson's voice sliced through his thoughts, "We're ready."

Edwards swallowed once, then twice. Accepting the phaser Hobson handed him, he stood. Proud, tall, unafraid. With shoulders squared and head held high, he marched into the Conference Lounge, Hobson following him.

DePaul met them just outside the Jeffries' Tube. For a long, silent moment, they stood there regarding the tunnel that stretched out, seemingly into infinity, before them.

Then, Edwards glanced back. He confirmed that Hobson, DePaul, and the small cluster of security officers--when did they get here?--were indeed all present and accounted for.

"Let's save our ship," He rasped, sliding into the Tube with those words. On his hands and knees, he began the long trek toward Engineering.

The others followed him.

***

Muttering angry curses in Gorn, Dk'myr'chi relaxed back against the support piller he was tied to. He'd spent ten minutes trying to slid his wrists out of the fiberoptic cable that bound them behind the piller. He'd only succeeded in chafing his wrists. In fact, he could feel the sticky blood flowing from the small cuts that resulted from the wires cutting deeply into his wrists when he pulled too hard.

Reverting back to English, he shouted across Engineering at the Zyrenn/entity who was once again poking at the modifications that had been made to the engines, "Leave that alone, dammit!"

She looked up to regard him briefly, then returned to poking at its insides.

"Tell me," She said moments later, approaching him, "What do it do? I could find no data on it in your computer banks, and Zyrenn does not seem to know."

He started briefly, but kept his suprise well-hidden. His poker-face may as well have been carved out of stone for all the emotion it showed.

Zyrenn didn't know! She had been in Sickbay when Dk'myr'chi had made his proposal to the rest of the staff. He hadn't bothered recording his modifications in the computer since he had been fairly certain that the modifications would destroy the ship and the computer bank along with it, so he had regarded it as a pointless task. That meant that the entity didn't know what they did!

Dk'myr'chi replied cooly, "If you don't know, I sure as hell am not going to tell you."

Her eyes flashed and Dk'myr'chi thought he saw a glimpse of red. Then, she tilted her head forward, locking eyes with him. Suddenly, he gasped as--

---he found himself standing a cracked, destert plain, a bright red sun beating down on him from above, howling winds beating at him from the sides. Dust flew about and instinctivly, his inner eyelids slid down to protect his eyes from the howling dirt.

He recognized the planet the moment the suprise of his apparent teleportation wore off. Gorn. He was back on Gorn.

"Dk'myr'chi," The engineer turned to find a Gorn--two feet taller and slightly wider at the shoulders--regarding him from a small distance off. It was so strange to hear his name pronounced correctly, for he had not heard it in many, many years. Everyone he knew simply called him 'Dimitri', save for Edwards who had been valiently trying--and valiently failing--to correctly pronounce his name for all the years that they had known one another. Dk'myr'chi teased him mercilessly about his poor pronunciation, although privately he was aware that Edwards was closest to pronouncing it right than anyone had ever come.

Most Gorn generaly looked the same. Tall and wide with green skin and a reptillian appearance. This one was no different.

No, this one was different. He knew this one moreso than he knew any of the others.

In rapid, fluent Gorn, the reptillian being said, "I am Dk'myr. Surely you remember me."

Dk'myr! His father.

Dk'myr'chi took a step forward, then stopped. He replied to Dk'myr, aware that his own Gorn was slower and didn't flow quite as readily as his father's did. He'd been too long among other races. His native language had faltered.

But it wasn't really his native language. He'd essentially grown up on Shager IX, a large and bustling colony settled by Terrans. His father had left him and his mother when he was very, very young. His mother had died soon after and he'd essentially be raised by a gang of street urchins on Shager IX's streets. He'd learned to beg, and most importantly, he'd learned how to steal.

"Father!" It sounded bad, even in his own ears. Summoning his courage, which seemed to have suddenly left him, he stepped forward again, then stopped a mere meter away, "What are you doing here?"

"You must tell me, Dk'myr'chi. You must, or they will kill me." His father replied, his hissing gutteral sounds music to his son.

"T-tell you what?"

"Your modifications. What they do. Please, my son!"

Anger whelled up in his chest and he closed the distance between them with a single large step. The wind was howling louder now. . .

"No!" He shouted, anger mixed with pain and sorrow in his voice, "I won't tell you! I won't tell---it! You're not even real!"

"I am real," Dk'myr insisted, "As real as you want me to be. Please, tell me what the modifications do. Then, I will tell you everything."

Dk'myr'chi jutted his jaw out, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared furiously at his prodigal father with all the fury he had dreamt he would glare at him with, many a night.

His father took a step closer and said quietly, almost lovingly, "Don't you want to know why I left? Why I left you and your mother? Yes, you do, and I know. I can tell you everything you want to know. . .but only if you tell me first about those modifications."

It was tempting. For a painful instant--instant! more like an eternity--he forgot that it was not real. That his father was not really standing before him. For a moment, he considered telling the image what he wanted to know. Then, Dk'myr'chi could finally find out the truth. . .

And in that single moment, he let the thoughts about the modifications to the warp core slip into his mind.

And at the same moment, the entity caught ahold of them and ripped them from his mind.

"Noooooooooo!" He howled, dropping to his knees on the scorched desert ground. The wind howled about him, wailing at him for his betrayel.

His father laughed, long and loud. It sounded more like an avalanch. There was no humor behind the sound. It was a laugh of victory. . .

"I left," He roared with scorn, "Because you are a freak!"

With a cry of anguish, he--

--found himself once again in Engineering, but now on his knees. He was leaning forward, his face inches from the metal deck and Zyrenn's boots. His hands had gone numb, far behind the pillar. The cords tightened painfully.

He leaned back, resting his head against the pillar. Tears were trickling down his cheeks and angrily he tried to wipe them away on his shoulder, but couldn't quite reach.

"You bastard!" He screamed in blind fury, coming to his feet and lunging at Zyrenn, no longer caring about the bonds that held his hands. He jerked to a halt mere inches from her face, snarling like a rabid dog. She didn't even flinch.

Instead, she said, "I have no more need of you."

She turned and walked away. As though by some silent signal, two other men stepped forward, one with a phaser which he was setting to kill.

Dk'myr'chi roared again with far more fury than he had ever felt before. He strained against the bonds, his muscles bulging against the fabric of his uniform. The tendons in his neck stood out. His face contorted in effort, his teeth clenched painfully.

This time, something happened.

The fiberoptic cable snapped like mere yarn. Giving no thought to the feat of incredible strength he had just carried off, he lashed out at the possessed officer with the phaser.

He hit him so hard that the limp body went sailing for meters before finally smashing violently into a consol and sliding to the ground with a thud.

The second man he literally picked up off the ground, holding him high over his head.

Everyone snapped into action, rushing at him. With another roar--unintelligible as it was not in English, Gorn, or any other language--he hurled the struggling body he held toward the onrushing group, plowing them all backward.

Another man rushed at him. He grabbed his wrist when the other tried to punch and swung him about like a toy. Bones snapped and ligaments ripped. His screamed in pain as Dk'myr'chi released him, sending him flying head-first into the wall.

As one, the others jumped him. He swung left and right, knocking them about as though they were mere insects.

The only thing he wanted was to tear Zyrenn--and the entity--apart with his bare hands, and these beings would not stop him. . .

***

Even from a section away, Zack Toyle, Doctor Woods, and Lieutenant Menyez could hear loud and clear the sounds of a fight resounding through the Jeffries' Tube, echoing and re-echoing down the narrow confines of the crawlspace.

They paused collectively for a long moment and listened to the angry sounds. When a mighty howl ripped through the air, Menyez exclaimed, "That's Dimitri!"

A second roar.

"It is indeed, and it sounds like he's causing trouble as only he can do," Toyle commented, a small grin touching his lips, despite the overall gravity of his countenance.

"They'll tear him apart!" Woods cut in, hastily crawling toward Engineering. Originally, Menyez had been the one leading them, as he had a rather intimate knowledge of the Tubes. Now, however, she took the lead. It wasn't at all hard to find Engineering now. One simply had to follow the noise until one reached Engineering.

They paused ten minutes later just outside an air vent, clustering around to peer into Engineering.

"Looks like you're wrong, Susan," Toyle commented, watching as Dk'myr'chi seemingly flexed his shoulders and sent beings flying, "He's gonna tear them apart."

"Either way, we can't let it happen," Menyez said, "They're still our crew. The creature may have taken them over, but they're still Starfleet officers under there. . . ." then, he added under his breath, ". . . .somewhere. . . ."

"The kid's right," Toyle said, "But there's nothing we can do."

"There has to be," Menyez argued stubbornly.

"But what?" Toyle leaned back against the wall and gestured toward the air grate through which Dk'myr'chi was plainly visible, rampaging through Engineering. "There are a lot more of them than there are us, and they can't even stop him.

Menyez pointed, "You've got a phaser. . ."

Woods interrupted, "Dk'myr'chi's half-Gorn, Mez. His skin is almost as thick as his head. Light stun wouldn't even slow him down and heavy stun might injure him."

"What's he trying to do anyway?" Menyez asked, peering through the grate.

"Oh my God. . . ." Toyle breathed, realization dawning with horror close on its heels.

"What? What is it?" Woods demanded, not similarly enlightened as he was.

Toyle shouted something as he charged off down the tunnel, heading for the hatch that led onto the second level of Engineering.

As Menyez and Woods tore after him, she asked, "What'd he say? I didn't get it."

Menyez grimly replied, "He said 'he's going after Aisha'. . . ."

***

"Well, you were right," Hobson observed, peering into Engineering via a computer console that rested in one section of the Jeffries' Tube. DePaul had linked it up with one of the security cameras in Engineering, working without the benefit of the same level of hotwiring skill that Menyez possessed. Edwards, Hobson, DePaul, and the handful of security guards watched on the screen as Dk'myr'chi raised havoc in Engineering, taking on nearly two dozen possessed officers as he rampaged toward Aisha Zyrenn who stood regarding him blankly, occasionaly glancing at some or another of her 'minions'. "He is creating the distraction you wanted."

Edwards nodded silently, his forhead creased his worry, "I just hope he doesn't get killed in the process. . ."

"So," DePaul asked, "Now what?"

Edwards replied, "Now we go in. Phasers to heavy stun. Watch each other's backs, and don't hesitate to fire. They make look like our crew, but right now, they're not. Once we get out of this nebula, then they'll be fine. Until then, treat them as the enemy, because believe me, they are. Don't hesitate to fight, because they most definitly will not."

Two security officers moved forward to take point--an awkward task in the narrow crawlspace. Edwards pulled his hand phaser, as did Hobson. DePaul had hers, but didn't draw it. Her job was to finish work on the matter/anti-matter explosion modifications to the warp core and then set off the blast. The others were fighting to buy her time.

"Alright, let's g--" Hobson was cut off when Edwards said, "Hold!"

"What?" He crawled forward again, joining Edwards by the screen and the hatch.

"Look," Edwards pointed at the screen. Hobson squinted and leaned closer, then saw three shadowy figures slipping out of the Jeffries' Tube hatch on the opposite side of Engineering.

When they slipped into the light, it was with much relief that Hobson recognized Toyle, Woods and Menyez, all alive and well.

Edwards tapped his badge and whispered, "Edwards to Toyle. Zack, are you okay?"

There was a brief moment of hesitation in which Toyle cringed at the sudden voice, then he replied, "Captain! Yeah, we're fine. We picked up Mez along the way. We're in Engineering now."

"I know. We're in the Jefferies Tubes on the left side of Engineering. We can see you, but I don't think they can."

Toyle hastily replied, "Brad, I don't know what you're planning to do, but do it now. Dimitri's gonna kill Aisha!"

Edwards glanced at Hobson worridly, his First Officer returning the glance with a worried look of his own. Then, Edwards answered, "We're going in, but I don't know if we'll be able to stop him--"

"Then I will," Came Zack's detirmined voice. There was a faint click and the transmission ended.

Edwards hissed a sigh out between his teeth and muttered, "Damn fool! He'll get himself and us killed."

There was silence as they let the captain fume for a long moment, then Edwards said, "Alright, let's go ahead with the plan. Move out in three. . .two. . .one. . .go!"

***

Toyle stood, tall and erect, stepping fully into the light. Woods hissed "Get down!" but he ignored her and shunned Menyez's pulling hand that sought to bring him down.

Pulling his phaser slowly and deliberately from its holster, he aimed it at Dk'myr'chi and squeezed the trigger, his aim never wandering in even the slightest.

The blazing orange beam struck him in the back but did little to stop him, although he did stagger at the unexpected blow. Straightening, he resumed his angry tirade, drawing ever closer to the Aisha/entity that watched him cooly and calmly.

From a series of hatches along the wall, men suddenly leaped. Toyle recognized Edwards, Hobson, DePaul and some of the others, all armed and all ready to attack and possibly die.

With a shout, Toyle lept from the second level of Engineering, arms outstretched like the wings of an eagle. He sailed downward and smashed into Dk'myr'chi's back with enough force to drive him to the ground and break Toyle's arm and dislocate his shoulder all in one single move. He cried in pain and clutched at his broken arm.

Dk'myr'chi staggered and slowly rose to his feet. He staggered forward a step, then stopped and shook his head, obviously disoriented and in pain. Then, he took a second step. The crazed beings who had been assualting him previously were now otherwise occupied, trying to deal with the sudden attackers.

Edwards rushed forward and grabbed Dk'myr'chi by the arms, stopping him and shouting in his face, "Dimitri! Dimitri, it's me! Edwards! Brad! Stop it. Stop it!"

Hauling back, he punched the green-skinned engineer with all his might. It was enough to spin the already weakened man around and bring him down again.

When Dk'myr'chi sat up somewhat and shook his head, Edwards could see with much relief that once again there was control in his eyes.

Grabbing Toyle and trying not to jostle his arm too much, Edwards hauled him the relative cover that a nearby freestanding station offered. Pulling his phaser from its holster, he took aim and fired at a trio of enemies, taking one, then another down in rapid succession.

DePaul rushed toward the warp core, Menyez close on her heels. She grabbed the modifications tray and hauled it out of the core with a single mighty tug, letting it rest on its track while she began examining its interior.

She cursed creatively and scowled.

"What is it?" Menyez shouted over the noise of the firefight.

"It's been tampered with and I don't know if I can fix it in time!"

***

Menyez looked into the machine as well and was dismayed to find that his lover was indeed correct. Dk'myr'chi had done most of the modifications himself, trusting no one else to do them properly. Since Menyez hadn't spent much time in Engineering--having stormed out after exploding at the hybrid--he didn't know what to make of anything inside the device. He was quite thouroughly stumped. . .

DePaul was already working furiously and with some quick deductions, he figured out partially what she was trying to do and dove in to help, but already he could tell there was no way they'd complete the repairs in time. Not before Edwards and the others were killed.

Had they really come all this way to fail. . .?

There were a pair of screams which caused Menyez to look over his shoulder in time to see three of Edwards' group fall. A shot caught Edwards himself in the arm and blew him back into a support pillar, his face contorted with pain as he clutched at the wound.

Suddenly a hand latched onto Menyez's shoulder and ripped him away from the warp core. A green blur ripped in and began working with a speed that was undoubtedly greater than the speed of light.

Dimitri!

Grabbing a phaser from the hand of a dead man, Menyez placed himself as Dk'myr'chi's back and began firing at anyone who tried to get too close.

The Zyrenn/entity stepped forward and gestured with a single hand toward Dk'myr'chi. From a corner, a huge crate lifted and flung itself as the Engineer, catching him in the side and driving him back into the ground. He groaned and tried to get up but could not, the crate being too heavy.

Menyez tried to fire, but she tore the weapon from his hand and hurled it into the wall where it was promptly crushed into a mangled mass of metal.

With a cry, he lept at her and tackled her, dragging her to the ground with him. She locked her eyes on him and he felt his throat constricting as he held her arms pinned above her head. Spots were dancing before his eyes as he desperately tried to get air into his oxygen-starved lungs.

And then, DePaul completed the repairs, triggered the explosion, and the entire ship seemed to explode and fly straight through the very gates of hell itself.

***

In a way, it was not far from the truth.

The explosion was huge and filled the entire room with a blinding white light that left everyone too dazzled to move. Then, a huge thunderclap seemed to boom across the ship, almost enough to explode ear drums. Time seemed to freeze. A man who had been attempted to tackle his opponent froze in mid-air, as did his opponent had been in the process of leaping out of the way. A burst of phaser fire, only halfway to its target, was locked in place.

Time froze. And then, time warped.

Edwards saw a kaliadascope of images, almost too much to comprehend.

. . .On the deck, in pain as Scerious kicked him in his insanity and rage. . .

. . .He was glaring down Weston who morphed into the towering green man who had been head of the Orion Syndicate. . .

. . .On the bridge of the Khitomer, looking perhaps five years older with everything in flames, everyone lying dead around him. He narrowed his eyes and prepared to meet his death. . .

Toyle saw a kaliadascope of images, almost too much to comprehend.

. . .his ship diving through Earth's atmosphere, screaming at Joe Kelvenski not to ram the Jem'Hadar fighter and save Earth at the cost of his own life. . .

. . .kissing Aisha Zyrenn, the love of his life. . .

. . .facing down someone in a sleek fighter that he'd never seen before. Hearing a voice that he knows and remembers from the distant past while thinking "But he's dead!". . .

Hobson saw a kaliadascope of images, almost too much to comprehend.

. . .in shock as Hendrickson asked him to become captain of the Khitomer. . .

. . .proudly shaking Edwards hand and saying "Welcome back". . .

. . .glaring down Edwards in silence and knowing that their once close friendship was no longer close or even friendly. . .

. . .fire. . .

Zyrenn saw exactly one image and comprehended it quite well.

. . .the entity sense its failure and tried to flee but she reacted quickly and latched onto it with all the mental energy she could muster. It struggled and struck at her, nearly disabling her mind with one deft blow but she dodged with equal deftness and embraced it, refusing to let go. It struggled, growing weaker and weaker. It began morphing, changing from the hourglass shape into terrible apparitions of all shapes and sizes that tried to destroy her. Still she held tightly.

Then, like a candle that is snuffed out, it died.

***

Edwards awoke with a cough and was instantly aware of two things.

First, that his arm was throbbing in pain from the elbow up and numb from the elbow down.

Second, that every single light on the ship had changed to bright flashing white while sirens wailed unceasingly in the background.

White alert. That means the ship's going to be destroyed!

He struggled to his feet and shouted as loud as he could manage, "All hands, abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship!"

The comm picked up the call and immediatly routed the order throughout every deck, the volume set to maximum. Escape pods also registered the order and the hatches immediatly lowered. Edwards grabbed Toyle as best he could with only one good arm and began dragging him toward a pod.

Menyez scooped up Aisha and headed for a second one, calling for DePaul to follow him. She took one sad look around and did just that.

Dk'myr'chi was up and roaring at everyone to move faster, hustling them along like a drill sargeant from Starfleet Acadamy.

Hobson caught up Toyle and dove into a pod, strapping him in tightly and quickly.

Edwards paused outside the hatch and turned to regard his dying ship. The entire ship was shaking in death throes as she writhed in agony. Parts of walls were exploding as she died.

Then, Hobson reached out and grabbed Edwards, yanking him into the pod. With the captain inside, he slapped the red control and let the automated systems do the rest.

The hatch sealed and the pod exploded outward, sailing away from the ship with all due haste. Through the tiny porthole, Edwards could see dozens of other pods doing the same thing. Like a small army they moved, heading away from the ship they had called home for two years.

When it exploded, Hobson jolted as though he'd been slapped.

Edwards simply lowered his head and rested his forehead against one edge of the window silently. He didn't move from that position for a long time. . . .

The USS Khitomer, NX-1799 had been destroyed. Had been lost to save the lives of her crew.

On that day when his beloved ship fell, a small part of Edwards' soul died along with it. . . .

EPILOGUE:

Toyle awoke in stages, the sense of urgency that had filled him for so long no longer present to drive him instantly from unconsciousness into full ready mode. He slowly opened his eyes and was instantly aware--and grateful--that his arm no longer hurt.

He was lying in a bed inside a pristine white room that bore a striking resemblance to a medical center's room (why could that be?). A white sheet had been pulled up to cover him from the waist down. He glanced to the right and found a small tabletop mirror with his reflection staring back at him.

His hair had been cut down to little more that the standard crew cut that cadets recieved when first entering the Acadamy. There were a series of pink scars running across his face which he hoped would heal. The long one on his cheek would give him a certain rougish air (not that he needed help) but the rest just made him look like a Frankenstien-style creation.

The white door--everything was white!--slid open and a doctor--dressed in white--stepped through the door. He checked the padd sitting beside Toyle's bed, then smiled warmly at the pilot.

"How're you feeling, Mr. Toyle?" He asked, his rich crescendo voice seeming to pour the greatest amount of passion into each of his words.

Zack tried to smile and only succeeded partially. His lips were still split, it seemed, "I've been better. Call me Zack. Mr. Toyle makes me feel like an old man."

"Zack then," The doctor's smile was warm and accepting, "You're recovering nicely. You'll be able to get out of here in a day or two."

"Aisha. . .how's Aisha?" Toyle asked, the thought of her collapsing on the deck enough to constrict his chest again.

"Aisha. . . ." Doctor Kyle--according to his name tag, anyway--checked the padd, then said hesitantly, "Aisha Zi-renn?"

That was her, never mind the mis-pronunciation of her last name, "Yeah, her. How is she, doc?"

"She's unconscious but seems to be recuparating nicely. One of my collagues handled her case. I'll check up on her and let you know, alright?"

Kyle headed for the door, the paused and said, "By the way, you've had a large number of people asking to see you. One large man even went so far as to threaten a complete re-wiring of the medical center's cooling system if he didn't get to see you.

Toyle laughed for the first time in days and said, "Yes, that sounds like them. Next time, let them come in. I think I can handle them."

"As you say," Kyle smiled again, "They seem like a straggly bunch of ruffians, but that's simply my observation. There's one young man who refused to leave until he saw you. He should be in the waiting room now. I shall go get him."

"Thank you," Toyle smiled again and relaxed back into the bed which conformed around his body. He closed his eyes briefly, only to open them again when he heard a large amount of commotion.

The loud voice of Doctor Kyle mingled with a younger--but equally loud--voice. They were shouting at each other so fast that Toyle missed most of the argument, but the end result was Lieutenant Menyez bursting through the door into Toyle's room with Kyle close on his heels, beet-red and looking quite annoyed.

"Do not," He said angrily, "Run through the building like that again. That poor woman nearly had a heart attack when you hurtled her bed!"

"Sorry, sorry. . . ." Menyez brushed him off. He laughed aloud and threw himself at Toyle, crushing him in a bear hug that would've destroyed his arm had it not already been broken in two places and completely numb.

Kyle grabbed him and yanked him off, "Don't do that! He needs to recover. I'm beginning to regret calling you!"

"Thank you, Doctor," Toyle said, "But I'll be fine. I'll call you if he gets fresh or anything."

With a huff, Kyle stomped out and left them alone.

Menyez's grin was wide enough to swallow the Khitomer with enough space on either side to fit the entire Lunar Shipyards through.

"Damn!" He exclaimed, "Zack, we were so worried about you! I haven't left the Med Center in the past two days! Doc Kyle went nuts when he found out I was sleeping down in the cafeteria."

Toyle could picture that quite well. He said quietly, "Relax, Mez. I'm awake now and I'll be fine. Doc says I'll be outta here in two days max. What's been happened? I was unconscious."

Menyez grabbed a small stool from a corner and dragged it to the side of Toyle's bed, perching on top of it as he spoke.

"The explosion hurled the Khitomer clear of the Golgotha nebula and dropped us in the Anteries System. Unfortunatly the explosion was too much. It destroyed the impulse engines and unbalanced the other warp core so badly we had to abandon ship."

"What happened to the Khitomer?" Toyle whispered, fearing the answer but already knowing with dead certainty what it was just by seeing the ashen look creep over Menyez's previously cheerful countenance.

"She--she was destroyed. Mostly vaporized. What's left wasn't even remotely salvagable."

"Damn. . ." Toyle muttered.

"--But the good news was we managed to get almost the entire crew out of their in the space of barely five minutes, which sets a new record for fastest evacuation in the history of Starfleet."

"Wonderful." Toyle said without meaning it.

Menyez continued, "Fortunatly, we were within the Anteries system so they sent shuttles out to pick the escape pods up. We've been here ever since."

" 'Ever since'?" Toyle repeated, "How long have we been here?"

"About two days. . .I think. I haven't really been outside much. I've been in here waiting for you to wake up."

"Two days. . ." Toyle glanced at Menyez, "How's Edwards handling the loss. . .?"

***

The door chime sounded and from inside the dark depths of the room, a small voice--a mere shadow of its former self--replied, "Come in."

Edwards didn't bother turning around to see who was coming in. He knew quite well it was Hobson. The former XO of the Khitomer had taken to being with Edwards his every waking moment, as though he were afraid of what Edwards might do if he were left to himself.

Edwards felt only a small tinge of annoyance at the mother hen attitude of his friend. In a way, he was afraid of what he'd do if he was left alone. Besides, he did appreciate Hobson's unceasing efforts to keep his captain cheerful.

He didn't feel very cheerful. . . .

"Captain!" Hobson no longer entered a room. Rather, he exploded into a room full of energy and constantly cheerful. Edwards knew he was feeling the same pain at the loss of their ship--he could see it in his eyes every time the name Khitomer was mentioned--but he was coping with it and trying to help Edwards before himself.

"How're you doing today?"

"The same as I was yesterday and the day before that." Edwards answered quietly, watching a trio of robo-cabs zip between buildings as they ferried their passengers to their various destinations with speed and effeciency that could only be achieved by computers.

Hobson made a small sound in the back of his throat then stood silent for a moment. He stepped forward, cleared his throat noisily and suggested, "Shall we go down to the Mess Hall? I hear they built it inside a holodeck and can make it seem as though the tables are floating in space while people are eating. It's quite a spectacular light-show.

Edwards shrugged and allowed Hobson to take him by the elbow and guide him out of the room, heading down the halls of the Starfleet Center on Anteries.

Hobson was nattering away again about everything and nothing--all at the same time. Edwards would occasionaly answer him but mostly remained withdrawn in his thoughts.

Hobson noticed, but he kept talking as he tried to keep his captain's mind occupied. When they stepped through the double doors into the Mess Hall, he was relieved to find a show already in progress. Perhaps this would divert Edwards' mind from his troubles.

It was as though they stepped from the floor into outer-space. Planets could be seen dashing by. Hobson found a table and pulled out a chair for Edwards before sitting down himself and watching the show.

They flew through the Sol system, passing close enough to Earth for Hobson to catch a glimpse of what he believed was San Fransisco in all its glory. Then, the room seemed to jump to warp--an interesting effect when there was no ship around you--and headed for the Anteries system.

When they arrived, a deep voice proclaimed, "In honor of the crew of the USS Khitomer, a special presentation has been prepared. Some of you may recall that it was the Khitomer that led the task force to free our system from the Dominion, two years ago. The Khitomer has since been destroyed. Here is her history. The Khitomer was created two years ago. . . ."

Hobson gaped in shock. He looked at Edwards with a small measure of trepidation only to find the captain sitting silently, his face etched from stone, staring quietly at the table and completely ignoring the history lesson.

Burying his head in his hands, Hobson sat in silence and waited for the voice to finish. He'd been trying to keep Edwards' mind off of the Khitomer! This was defintily not helping his cause any.

And he thought fighting the alien entity had been difficult. . . .

***

Zack Toyle was not the only patient in the Medical Center who recieved a visitor. Zyrenn also did.

Dk'myr'chi nodded quietly to the doctor who was muttering something about 'goddammed visitors who thought they ran the place' and stepped into the room, immediatly finding Zyrenn as the room's single occupant, lying in a bed that was somewhat tilted to allow her to sit more or less upright.

Aisha smiled when she saw him, "Dimitri! How're you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly and roughly grabbed a stool from one corner of the room, dragging it over to her bed and sitting stiffly down on it, "I'm. . .okay. How're you doing?"

Her smile was warm and would've instantly put him at ease had he not already been completely miserable with himself.

"A little sore and a lot on my mind, but I'm fine otherwise," She replied quietly.

"That was some experience," He said softly, "For all of us."

"Yes, it was indeed." She replied.

They sat in silence for a long time, each enjoying the other's company but neither able to find the right words to say.

Dk'myr'chi, for his part, wasn't even completely sure why he'd come. For the past two days, he'd been guilt-ridden over his actions just before the Khitomer's destruction. He'd been prepared to rip Aisha apart with his bare hands; ready to rend her flesh much as a pack of rabid wolves would've done.

The gruff, tough-as-nails Chief Engineer--the Chief Engineer without a ship--had lost control of himself.

No, he contradicted himself, he did know why he'd come. His original intent had been to apologize; to say sorry to one of his closest friends whom he'd tried to butcher.

But how did one apologize for such a thing? 'Gee, I'm really sorry I went on a berserk rampage back there. I guess I didn't really want to rip your head from your body with my bare hands'.

Aisha Zyrenn was tired, sore, mentally fatigued, but still a counselor at heart and still one of the most perceptive people the Human/Gorn hybrid had ever known (she was a killer at the poker table). She furrowed her brow oh, so slightly and asked softly, "What's wrong, Dimitri?"

He stared silently at the large pair of green-tinted hands which rested, fingers interlaced, in his lap. He swallowed, then rushed, his words tumbling one over the other, "Me? Nothing's wrong at all! C'mon, y'know me, kid. Nuthin' gets under my thick skin." He grinned with as much bravado as he could muster, but the grin slowly died and he returned to staring at his hands.

She smiled faintly, "Dimitri," she said gently, "I'm not one of your green engineers whom you have to act like the gruff, surely, chief engineer."

"What do you mean 'act'? That's--"

"--Not really you," She interrupted, "I'm a counselor, I'm a Betazoid, and you're one of my closest friends. Those things added up mean I know you better than a lot of people. Talk to me. No shields, no charades, no personas. Just. . .talk."

He sighed heavily, his broad shoulders rising and falling in time with the simple release of pent-up air. When he looked up at her, there was none of the gruff mask in his face. Dk'myr'chi the Chief Engineer was not there anymore, as though he were dawned like a costume and doffed just as easily. Now, there was only Dk'myr'chi the man.

There was a sad look in his orange eyes. When he spoke, his loudness and bluntness were gone. There was a time and place for both of those, but now was not it.

"B-back in Engineering, you--I mean the entity, climbed into my mind to gain knowledge of the modifications to the warp core, and it used my--my fa--"

She cut him off quietly, "I remember it all, Dimitri. I know what it did to you. I saw it too."

"Yeah. . ." He swallowed slowly, then pushed on, "But when it used the image of my father, and it was saying those things to me to make me lose control, the worst part of it all was that it wasn't the entity's creation."

She arched an eyebrow out of curiousity, but remained silent. It was obvious he just needed to talk, and both training and experience had taught her that sometimes the best tharepy was simply to shut up and listen.

He continued, "My mother died when I was very young and my father left me shortly after I was born. I essentially raised myself on the streets. I always knew that my mother had died, but my father. . .I never knew what happened to him. Eventually, I learned that he'd left us when I was born. I always believed it was because of me; because I was a genetic freak. I wasn't Gorn, and I wasn't Human. I didn't fit in either world comfortably. I assumed he hated me so much that he left us both, and never returned.

"When I grew up and matured, I stopped thinking of it that way. I assumed he'd been killed in action or something, but I never knew for certain. Yet, even when I moved on, I always thought in some small, dark corner of my mind that perhaps he had left us because of me."

Dk'myr'chi paused to collect himself and attempt to regain the composure he'd been in the process of losing as he spoke at length.

Aisha finished for him, "So when the entity called up his image and seemed to give voice to your worst fears, it was like being stabbed in the heart."

"Yes. . .yes, that's it exactly." He choked, "I snapped; I lost all control of myself. The entity had violated my deepest fear and I went insane with rage. I wanted to kill it no matter what. . .and that meant killing you."

She smiled, "But you don't need to tear yourself apart over this. You lost control, but you regained it when lives were in the balance. You wanted to kill the entity--and me--but you stopped. Reason prevailed over animal instinct. I'm fine, you're fine and the crew's fine."

"But the Khitomer's destroyed," He said glumly.

"Now that wasn't your fault--"

He glanced up fiercly, "Yes it was! The damage the entity had caused to my modifications when it was tampering with them were pretty bad. The only reason I was able to repair them with the speed I did was because I channeled all my anger into it. But my anger so blinded me that I made a mistake and left something unrepaired and as a result. . .as a result, we lost the Khitomer when we would've been able to save her had I not screwed up."

She finished, differently than he would have, "But more importantly, the crew is alive. We're alive. The entity's gone. Ship's come and go--people don't."

He nodded silently, digesting her words.

"Dimitri, apology accepted. Instead of ripping yourself apart over what you failed to do, or what you did wrong, try thinking of the things you did right, and perhaps visit with the men and women you saved. Think of the families who won't recieve the notification that their fathers, mothers, sons or daughters were killed brutally in a slaughter. The good outweighs the bad in this case."

The door slid open and Doctor Kyle walked in, scowling. He said gruffly-- his good humor having been destroyed by the rude and very annoying visitors that had infested his hospital, "Time to leave, mister. You can come back later, if you must at all. She needs rest."

Dk'myr'chi ignored him for a moment, then said to Aisha, "I suppose you're right."

She smiled and patted his hand, her own small and pale in comparison to his large green one, "I'm a counselor. I'm supposed to be right. We're alive and for the majority, unaffected. Everything's going to be fine. Now shoo before the doctor's blood pressure goes any higher."

Dk'myr'chi stood and walked toward the door, stopping when Aisha spoke one last time.

"And Dimitri, you're not a freak at all. You're one of the warmest, kindest persons I've ever known. You're unique which is a far-cry from a freak."

He smiled and stepped toward the door where Kyle waited in the doorjamb.

As they walked out, Kyle muttered under his breath, "I might have a few words to say about that. . . ."

Dk'myr'chi grabbed his shirt collar and mashed him against the wall, drawing himself to his full, towering--in comparison to the doctor--height. His orange eyes flashed fire, his skin turning a slightly dark shade of green as one corner of his mouth drew up in a snarl.

"Would you, now?" He rumbled in the doctor's face, his hand tightening on his collar.

Kyle swallowed nervously and said politely, "But I think I'll keep it to myself."

"Good idea." Dk'myr'chi let go of him and stomped out,

Back in her room, Aisha glanced at the small combadge that sat on the table beside her bed. She focused on it, mind, body and soul. Reaching out mentally, she wrapped her mind around it.

It skittered and inch. . .then two. . .then five. Then it lept up as though snatched by human hands and hurtled across the room with incredible speed, the pointed top edge of the silver delta sticking into the wall, so hard did it strike.

She drew a deep breath and let it out, slowly and shakily.

Not entirely unaffected. . . .

***

Sleep did not come to Edwards that night. He lay restlessly, turning occasionaly from side to side as he tried to find a comfortable position in the hopes that he would then be able to fall asleep.

It didn't work. With a sigh, he rolled over again.

Through the door, he was able to see out the window.

The stars were shining brightly. . .

Tossing back the covers, he stood up and padded out into the living room, stopping in front of the window and crossing his arms over his naked chest, staring out into the great abyss of space.

In his mind's eye, he saw it; over and over again. His precious starship, the greatest ship he'd ever been aboard, exploding in a mighty fireball while he sailed safely away. He felt a silly sort of guilt at having abadoned the ship to its death. A captain went down with his ship, but he had chosen rather to save his own skin.

He sighed and lowered his head until his chin touched his chest.

The ship was merely a vessel. A vehicle in which they had traveled. The most important part of the Khitomer had been saved: Her crew. He should be grateful for that.

And he was. . .deep down he was.

The crew was alive and well and that was really all that mattered in the long run. Perhaps they would be assigned to another ship together and remain as the community that had been built aboard the Khitomer.

The ship had fallen, but life went on.

He turned to return to bed, slipping beneath the covers again and trying to push the image of the exploding ship from his mind. As he finally slipped off to sleep, he reminded himself on last time:

Life goes on.

We go on. . . .

Star Trek: Khitomer: Golgotha
Pete D. Tzinski
Khitomer Production Team