"And They Came In Force"

Michael McDowell
Civilian Engineering Specialist

With a short appearance of:
Lieutenant Jin Sun [NPC]
Computer Systems Chief

and

Petty Officer, Third Class, Adam Kevinson [NPC]
Science and Remote Sensing Systems Engineer

Soundtrack: "Repairs", 'Star Trek: Nemesis' original soundtrack

*** Main Engineering, USS Galaxy-A ***

It was now known that the message had come from the capitol of Barzan. Who had send it remained unknown until this hour. But the meaning of it had been crystal clear, at least if you took the message at face value. Some of them here in Engineering had tried to pinpoint the location from which the message had come but didn't succeed. There was too much interference at the higher altitudes of the Barzan atmosphere.

But they couldn't just ignore it. What if the person that had send the message was telling the truth and the Barzan people were innocent? Then it was possible that innocent people were going to die if it came to a conflict between the Away Teams and them...and who knows what could come from that. Nothing good, that was for sure.

This was what Michael was thinking about. Personally, he thought it be important to be able to inform the Away Teams of the message they'd received so that unnecessary casualties could be avoided. If only he or someone else knew how to penetrate the atmospheric interference. That, and he still waited for word from the Bridge. He'd patched the message trough so they know what it was about, but he'd heard nothing since then. Without orders even Michael could do nothing, despite being a civilian. In fact, in some ways he could do even less than the regular crew.

There were times were he wished he was back in Starfleet, and this was one of those times.

He wondered if Lieutenant Rosswel had any news. He addressed the Computer Systems Chief when she happened to pass by. "Excuse me, Lieutenant. Do you happen to know where Lieutenant Rosswel is?" Jin stopped by the Console Michael was standing at.

"No, I don't. Last time I saw her she was talking with Ensign Holmes from Operations in the Chief's office." Sun looked at McDowell with the mysterious look she always used. "She does have a lot on her mind lately. It's not surprising when you consider the situation we're in now."

Michael kind of liked that slight touch of mystery and promptly smiled at her. "Yes, I understand. It's alright. I'll look her up later."

Jin Sun nodded and walked on toward the back of Main Engineering. Michael went back to reading updates on ongoing repairs around the ship. He'd must've read about 30 of them by now and still they kept coming in. One could only read so much before concentration wears down and Michael was no different in the respect.

His thoughts drifted to Dhani. He missed her, even though she hadn't been away that long yet. She was supposed to be on a Training mission, but he had his doubts about that all along. It was ill timing to say the least, especially with the high risk of encountering the Borg on this mission. True, the Federation had a non-aggression treaty with the cybernetic beings, but what would they do once they discover that their 'Ambassador' had been abducted? Would it hold? If it didn't...

"I don't believe this. Something is coming through the Wormhole!"

That single comment was enough to silence all who were present in Main Engineering. They all looked at one person: Adam Kevinson, the one who was standing at the 'Pool Table' vigorously pointing at the readings on the console before him.

"Sensors are picking up increased Neutrino emissions. Levels of mesons and leptons are rising quickly." Kevin said out aloud. "I'm serious. There's something coming our way."

Michael slowly got up and walked over to Kevinson. He prayed inwardly that this was not what he feared it would be. He looked over the shoulder of the Petty Officer and confirmed the readings. It was true.

Not a moment later he saw the distinct signatures of what only could be multiple Borg Cubes. His worst fear had just become reality.

"Oh my God..."

"We're F**ked, Part 2"

Commander James Corgan
Chief Of Security/Hazard Team Leader

Lieutenant Savant Fleet
Logistics Officer

Lieutenant T'lan
Security Officer

Lieutenant Junior Grade Zev Raynor
Assistant Chief Intelligence Officer

Lieutenant Junior Grade Juliette Rinaldi
JAG Officer

Flight Officer Angelienia
Shuttle Pilot

Lieutenant Junior Grade John Marsh
Combat Medic

James was so excited, he forgot the last two digits of the count, and before he could resume, the shroud of transporter energy converted himself and the team into energy, beaming them into the ship.

He was first hit with the humidity and the stench inside the vessel, clogging his nose with a heavy, musty stench. It smelled like rotted produce, mechanical lubricants, rust and dust. He kept his silence by closing his mouth, his rifle sweeping the open area, his teammates doing the same at different angles to watch all avenues of attack.

"Jesus..." Marsh cursed, "We're stuck in a goddamn cargo hold."

"At least the communicators seem to be working." T'lan commented.

James nodded, a hand relaxing away from the rifle after seeing no danger. He signed for T'lan and Marsh to advance on an exit to the cargohold. "Corgan to Team 2. We're in position. Report."

"Team 2 in position. No enemy contacts."

"Alright." Corgan said over the radio, "Team one will advance on the drone's position. Team two, proceed to the bridge. Capture any crewmembers. I repeat, capture. Do you copy?"

"Roger." Cut the transmission Raynor sighed... you think that coming up with a codename for the target would be easy, and add a small amount of mystery to who they were going after... but no. He had to working with amateurs who wouldn't even perform the basics.

"T'lan, lifesigns!" Corgan barked.

Tapping a corner of her ocular display unit, T'lan nodded her head. "Negative, Captain. Not at this range. There is still some interference."

"We'll have to use the Mark 1 eyeball." Marsh added.

"No shit." Corgan grumbled, "Keep a move on. Jesus... what a f**king wreck. Who would want to use this piece of shit?"

"Someone who needed a disposable ship?" Marsh answered.

It was a comment that gave Corgan pause.

"Now I really don't like this. Keep moving. Sooner we're off..."

Moving through the corridors was not like going through a rusted out cargo hauler, but more like a ghost ship, its creaking and groaning betraying the wear the ship had experienced through years of travel in subspace. The floors, mostly grilles with decades of grease and grime, clicked and clacked against the Hazard Team's boots. A conduit sizzled, letting loose a jet of steam before sputtering out. The corridors, no matter how cautious the team were, held none of its random crew.

"Raynor, do you report any contacts?"

"Basic four terminal bridge, no contacts, but evidence to suggest they left only recently." He reported touching a warm lunch that was left behind. "Scanners show traces of... El Aurian DNA. Looks like they were up to something before they high-tailed it out of here though, there's an open circuit panel, with the tools right beside. We'll see if we can get this thing under our control but... so far this has been too easy."

Raynor motioned for the others to get to work while he looked around a bit more. Raynor suspected a trap, but it was only his gut feeling and not reason enough to recommend scrubbing the mission.

*********

Below deck, T'lan was leading the way for team one to rendezvous with the drone. They were getting closer, the pings of the sensor readings louder into their earpieces, leading to another one of the ship's cargo bays. As they were at a corner, James halted T'lan, and took the lead. He crept, making special attention to the grates that tended to squeak, inching to the corner to look into the next corridor.

He adjusted his rifle to short range fire, the scope, for the time being, set to times two. He readied an aim, and like a snake, lunged the rifle around the corner, ready for an aim.

Nothing there. The ship rumbled, an errant shot off its bow, but there were no guards at the entrance of the cargo bay.

"Nothing. T'lan, anything inside?"

The Vulcan security officer shook her head, "Reinforced duranium alloys. With this interference I cannot see past our own eyesight."

"Alright then. Marsh, photonic flash grenade. T'lan, you and I cover Marsh. Open it up, toss it in, let the mayhem ensue. Ready?"

"Aye, sir." Both said in unison.

"Execute."

***********

Team 2 after long time had managed to finally break through the basic security restrictions and bring up the ships main computer. But something was seriously wrong. There was nothing on the computer. No Flight Plan, No Basic Controls, Not even a Readable OS.

Raynor was already thinking that this whole thing was a setup, and radioed into Corgan explaining the situation. He was sending Savant to double check. ~"Were probably already fucked… we just don't know it yet."~ Raynor thought to himself. To top it all off, they were slow... really slow. Corgan had patched this unit together from nothing, gave with no practice runs, and absolutely no real experience working with each other.

Sighing, Rinaldi stood by the science station, attempting to seduce the computer into giving her any information that was relevant. However, the console just looked at her with a blank stare that angered her more. Here they were, stuck. She was positive that Steven and his crew were forming to set out to rescue the 'boys' that were sent to do a 'man's' job. "Nothing here." She spat.

They were tripping over each other all the time not because they were particularly unskilled in their respective jobs, but because they didn't work like a team yet. And that wasn't making anyone's job any easier.

**********

"Three... two... one... GO GO GO!"

T'lan opened the hatch to the cargobay, while Marsh cracked the safety switch on the photonic grenade, tossing the silvery orb inside. James heard the pings and bounces of the grenade as it was tossed in, but oddly, he didn't hear anybody panic.

The grenade went off with a blinding light, and a second later Corgan rushed in under the cover of its smoke. His rifle switched to low light mode, it scanned for heat signatures while he watched for humanoid blotches of heat. T'lan rushed in behind him, followed by Marsh, their practiced movements mimicking James as they searched the cargo bay in triangle formation. Checking up and down, James saw no heat signatures.

"DAMMIT!" Corgan screamed, "Where are they? T'lan?! Readings?!"

"Nothing sir! We are at the transwarp communication source! The drone should be here!"

The smoke settling, James found his Hazard Team inside an empty cargobay. It was bare of even crates and containers that could have been used for cover. There was no other hatch but the one they entered, and an escape port that led to space. It was dull and orange like the rest of the ship, the ever present smell of moldering grain itching at James nose.

But at the moment, James was the least bit worried about the smell. The center of the room, where the remnants of Marsh's flash bang left a sooty scorch mark, held a single LCARS computing unit, is screen flashing bright red. Resting at its feet was a small box, on it a series of buttons and a rotating communications dish.

The screen showed the readout of a standard medical diagnostics machine, displaying the heartbeat and neural patterns of a patient while overlaid with the medical scan. Peering closer, James saw that it was Borg drone on display.

The LCARS screen was flashing a message.

=/\="Transwarp signature online."=/\=

~"Oh... holy shit...."~ James stomach dropped to his bowels. Dropping his rifle, his hands frantically slapped his communicator badge.

*********

The security was rudimentary, if nonexistant. Savant's skills at the computer cut through the security like a vibroblade through steel plate.

It was just a matter of doing a direct tap on the computer's networking circuitry, after all.

The bridge, for all it was worth, was as useless as a stone. The consoles had nothing on them, wiped of even their basic hardwired programming, a good facsimile with lights and everything, but useless in function.

But at least the monitor screens still worked. Using her direct link, she accessed the inert computer core, and managed to get in the directory without its basic security protocols being any the wiser.

Success! She had complete control! Sensors, propulsion, defenses all at her control. Her curiousity winning out, she had to find out what happened to the crew. Accessing the sensors, she swept for life signs.

There were none. Biosigns were evident, but other than the Hazards, not a single thing was alive.

The biosigns, however, were clustered in a cargobay, next to the one Hazard One was investigating. Swiftly, she accessed visual sensors in the cargo bay.

What she saw shocked her artificial intelligence subroutines.

They were all dead, phaser wounds at centre mass.

"Trap!" She screamed to the others, "GET OUT OF THERE!"

*********

"OH SHIT!!! IT'S A DECOY!!! THE DRONE IS NOT HERE!!!" Corgan screamed to his team.

The next thing James knew, he heard static. He didn't know how much of his message got out.

Then, the ship was hit with a deep rumbling, and a shutter.

"GET DOWN!" James ordered.

He sprung the trap, and his team was in no position to escape.

******

Rinaldi viewed the screen, along with everything around her blink then shut down on the bridge. A sickening feeling mixed with amusement washed over her, forcing her to lower her head and smile slightly. Sneaking through the bridge door as it slid shut, she set herself apart, hoping to be lucky enough to find an escape pod to slide in to. If she could just get herself to the planet, everything would be fine.

"Pissed Off Dolphin"

Lt. (jg) Naranda Roswell, Acting Chief of Engineer
Lt. (jg) Hwii, Engineer

*****Main Engineering, USS Galaxy*****

Nara rubbed the bridge of her nose as Hwii chirped and squeeked too fast for the Universal Translater to catch up.

She finally blew up, "Slow down!"

Hwii responded by spitting water from his blow hole.

Nara sighed, "Your information is useless if I can't understand it."

Hwii considered speaking very slow, but that was childish and he was no longer a baby needing help to the surface. He started over, "The internal sensors are in serious need of diagnostic. I am sure they need some repair."

Nara nodded as she leaned on the small pool that allowed Hwii access to Engineering. She wiped at the screen of the modified PADD and read the report. "We've got more pressing things. I'll start a crew on it when I can."

Hwii spit again which earned him a look from Nara. The two have been on barely civil terms for awhile now.

Nara stuck the PADD on the velcro inside the pool with a huff, "Just get back to checking the backup systems on Deck 8."

"Aye!" She could tell by the tone of his click, it was sarcastic.

She turned and went back to writing the report as she looked at the scans. She kept an eye on the shields. Also, she called to a passing Ensign to get her a list of five people who were near completing a current assignment. She had a new one.

Engage Protocols ....

Featuring: The Borg (and lost of em)

Various members of the Galaxy crew Random Barzan A Smattering of El Aurians

One Cyborg on the Path of Destruction

~~~~~~~~

Planetary Orbit Achieved.

Engage Protocols: Transportation Assimilation Adaption Absorption

Open primary communications.

"We are the Borg. Lower your defenses and surrender. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Resistance is futile."

~~~~~~~~ Galaxy Bridge ~~~~~~~~

Onboard the Bridge of the Galaxy, the pinging suddenly spouting from one of the science stations was music to everyone ears. "Sensors have a solid lock on the away teams Captain," the officer in attendance declared. "Transporter rooms! Can you bring them up?" His crew was the Captain's prime concern now, with the Borg present the drone was all but lost. "I can get some of them sir. It looks like the Hazards, near a complex about 8 kilometers from the crash site." M'kantu's face was stern and hard, though his voice spoke volumes more. "Do what you can, son."

~~~~~~~~ Barzan Homeworld ~~~~~~~~

Within the capitol, chaos ensued. Hoards of black clad pale skinned off worlders appeared out of nowhere! The militia and military took defensive positions, shooting every one of them they encountered. Too their dismay after only a few short moments, perhaps a dozen drones lie dead in the streets while the rest galumphed implacably forward, shots impacting harmlessly against their adapted shields. A mother cried out in shock as she witnessed the assimilation of her son mere meters from her grasp. Shock was quickly supplanted with horror and fear as a cold hand grasped her head and pulled it aside for the assimilation tubules.

~~~~~~~~ Away Teams ~~~~~~~~

Across the planet similar scenes played out as the Borg began the mass assimilation of the Barzan home world. The major population centers recieved the largest percentage of the drones, while others were scattered across the planet in the more rural locales. More than a few ended up near the various away teams.

~~~~~~~~ Eve's Quarters ~~~~~~~~

Within a set of quarters onboard the Galaxy, a young woman stood still within the center of her room, her tear streaked eyes now cold and hard. The synthetic flesh covering her arms and legs had been ripped away, and gleaming plates of duranium/tritanium microweave had replaced them - intelligence codes had proved usefull in overriding the standard replicator lockouts, and when those had failed a hacking of the computer interface ensued. The system was pathetically simple, though certain lockouts were admitably ingenious. The replacement of flesh with metal would dampen her dexterity, but it was a negligable and aceptable loss - her standard combat equipment was not available, location unknown. A spandex jumpsuit was donned, flat black in color, ending at the shoulders and knees - she would need little else.

The cyborg closed her eyes. Within her torso, long dormant components, recently activated by the presence of the borg, began to sing their own Song. To the Angel it was music from the Heavens; Divine inspiration. A glow cascaded about her, a red glow laced with filaments of black. Seconds later she winked from existance -

- to apear within the core of one of the Tactical Cubes. Her fingertips sharp, reflexes precise, the Angel began her Dance of Death. There was little the collective could do to stop her.

~~~~~~~~ The Facility ~~~~~~~~

Crackling messages filtered down to the Hazard teams - Galaxy's transporters were available, though the process was still dicey at best. The abort order was issued, full scale withdrawl.

(Disturbing Scene, saved for last)

Deep down, several levels below the surface, multiple reports sounded as the El Aurians took their lives. Most chose the quick, messy death - .45 caliber injection of lead into the cranial cavity - instant splatter, guaranteed death. There were a few who chose other methods - poisons, knifes, and one ingenious soul took to hang himself. Everyone knew that once the Borg penetrated their last lines of defense there would be no stopping them from asimilating anyone left alive.

"Spotted Vendetta, part 4 - With Vengence"

Lieutenant Saul Bental
Chief of Intelligence

* * * Deep Space 5, Lower Decks * * *

"Naaien!"

The bolt buzzed centimeters away from Saul's ear, dissolving just before it hit the wall. He frantically turned his head to the sides, trying to find a new escape route without slowing down even for a second. He could carry on for several more minutes at this crazed pace, but McCauley was heaving as though he just finished the Bolarus XI marathon.

"Let's go to the open!" Saul spouted, trying to make it loud enough for McCauley's ears and low enough so their stalker won't hear.

" Nev- Never!" The renegade replied. He looked absolutely mortified. "The moment I go out in public sight, I'm dead. Better take my chances here."

"Kibinimat!" Saul didn't bother to stay quiet as another bolt from the Trill's crossbow almost pierced his neck.

The weapon was a mixture of medieval crudeness and modern-day sophistication. Since a Federation station's internal sensors were tuned to pick up any energy weapon's fire, outlaws who wanted to remain below the radar regressed to using projectile weapon. This specific crossbow's bolts dissolved upon hitting a wall, so they remained practically undetected by station security. When they hit flesh or even an armor suit, their effect was much more devastating.

Saul cursed again, and pulled McCauley around a corner into a narrow service corridor leading to third-level duct. Saul weren't familiar with the station's outline, but he was in enough space stations to get a 'feeling' about where the best hideouts could be found.

He almost had McCauley convinced, damnit. Almost. They got the evidence thanks to that bloody hacker, and in fact they were discussing - of all things - methods to avoid internal sensors detection when everything began spiraling downwards.

* * * Earlier * * *

"You." Saul commented with a silly smile, "Are crazy."

Both were leaning over a bar, in the bowels of Deep Space 5. Saul was wearing a robe, so the shackles holding his hands together were invisible to the small crowd surrounding them. His face, however, were visible to the other patrons, and so were McCauley's.

"I know my limits, boy." McCauley emptied a small glass. The beverage it contained didn't hold a high dose of alcohol; just enough to heat up the elder renegade's thirsty stomach. "Security doesn't come down here as long as the people don't do any considerable damage to the station. The floor could hide beneath half a meter o' pike, piss and gore as far as they're concerned. It's a huge place, and we can't control it all."

Saul frowned at the word 'we'. It seemed McCauley still regarded himself as Starfleet. On one hand, it was a fact that Saul intended to take advantage of. On the other, the man went astray from Starfleet values even before the attack on Trill, and his negligence and cowardice eventually cost the lives of thousands.

"But they probably have internal sensors. Couldn't they track your life signs?"

"They do internal sensor sweeps three times a day. Including visual facial pattern matching. During those times, I'm in my quarters."

"I was only aware of two sweeps." Saul admitted with a sly smile.

"I was part of this organization when you still sucked on your momma's nipples, boy. There are three sweeps, standard protocol. Now, they can try to flush me out with non-regular sweeps, but let's say I'm one persistent piece of mess, a little water won't do."

"Explains why you were stuck in the sewers for so long. Come on, let's get out of here and I'll give you my proposal."

"Management position in a factory on some god forsaken colony, Starfleet off my back, lots of opportunities to get fine booze and pretty women while waiting for instructions from my black-collared debt collector." McCauley shrugged his shoulders. "Tell you the truth boy, it doesn't sound shiny, but being here is much worse."

"If we're finally in agreement, perhaps we can do something about these." Saul nodded toward his wrists, tied close together beneath the robe's sleeves.

"Still haven't lost my mind, boy. Give me a couple more decades."

The two men stood up, shifting their barstools. As they exited the small pub, another figure left its seat and began heading toward the door. A bulge in his trenchcoat was the only evidence of the deadly weapon hidden folded within.

* * *

Saul dashed into the duct, bending forward to avoid hitting his head. He cleared the short passageway just as another bolt wished into it. A second earlier, it would hit Saul precisely between the shoulder blades.

He raised his head, just to see McCauley tumble and fall over a small pond of ooze. McCauley groaned, apparently disoriented.

"Stand up!" Saul reached for him. But McCauley remained sitting. In his pocket, something buzzed.

"Can't!"

"Stand!"

"Do not move.", said a new, icy voice.

Their assailant came into view. He was a tall, lean Trill, dressed in simple cloths. Saul spotted a complex pattern on the man's undershirt. He knew enough about Trill society to realize that this man belonged to a very specific guild. The kind of guild you didn't mess with.

'Fragging street Samurai', He thought.

"Christopher McCauley." The Trill prompted. It was not a question.

"You talking to me or him, boy?" McCauley demanded. "You got us. We got nothing other than these cloths we wear, so go mug someone else."

"You know why I am here, Christopher McCauley." The crossbow remained fixed on McCauley's face. "Starfleet thought you were dead. But we found you, and now your life are at their end."

"Listen." Saul moved between the Trill and the sitting renegade. "I realize-"

Another bolt convinced him to stay in his place. "I am a Starfleet officer. I have evidence that this man is not responsible for the atrocity on Trill. The man who did it is called Welsey, and he was found dead on Trill shortly after the crash."

The Trill didn't appear to be angered or moved, but Saul knew body language more than most. Below the surface, he could tell, the man was seething.

"We know he's responsible. You weren't there…"

"I was." Saul insisted. "My ship was among the first to join the relief efforts."

As he spoke, he realized he was getting himself into more and more trouble. Now, the Trill street Samurai will know that McCauley was involved with a Starfleet officer, and he might just make the connection to Saul. He'll have to be extra-creative to solve this mess, but the first priority was to walk out of this duct with everyone present still alive.

"This lowlife was approached by Thomas." The Trill spat name as though it was the worst curse imaginable. "He did not stop him. Whether he pulled the trigger or not no longer matters. And for that. You are going to die. Slowly, painfully. And you will think of those little children burning alive in their crèches and crying for their parents who can no longer answer."

The Trill balanced the crossbow slightly, aiming at McCauley's right leg. He intended to prolong it as much as possible. One man's suffering cannot match the suffering of thousands and millions, but on the other hand scum like McCauley didn't deserve a short and painless death.

He tried to press the trigger.

And realized that his finger did not respond.

He glanced at his arm, puzzled to see that it was no longer there. Then the pain kicked him to the ground.

Saul could do nothing but watch as beams tore through the Trill's body. The first one severed the arm holding the crossbow. The next turned his legs into a gory mess. The third made his head explode. Saul and McCauley were splattered with blood and bone fragments.

Ion pulse pistols, Saul recognized. Messy, illegal firearms. It was not commonly used because it required too much energy, wasn't half as accurate as a phaser or a disruptor, and it also inflicted some very nasty wounds.

Organizations less scrupulous than the Federation considered the last part an advantage.

There was a movement to his left. Saul spun around, and saw McCauley briskly rising to his feet.

"It's high time!", the renegade said. "I thought the little spotted jerk-off was actually going to do it."

"Sliha, I'm Dutch. If you want someone to be there on the millisecond, hire a German."

Saul's face turned pale. He knew precisely which Dutchman it was.

DEVIL DOGS

Prologue: "Resistance Protocols"

* * * * *

STARDATE 61132.7

PRIMARY ANNEX, CENTRAL CORE, BORG VESSEL 3747

[PLANETARY ORBIT ACHIEVED]

[INITIATE ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOLS]

[DEFINE ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOLS]

Transportation

Assimilation

Adaptation

Absorption

[ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOLS DEFINED]

[ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOLS INITIATED]

[OPEN PRIMARY COMMUNICATIONS]

[PRIMARY COMMUNICATIONS OPENED]

[SEND COMMUNICATION]

[CREATE COMMUNICATION]

[STANDBY FOR AUDIBLE COMMUNICATION PROTOCOLS]

[LOAD PRIMARY AUDIBLE COMMUNICATION SUBROUTINES]

Audible Modulation Protocol

Vocalization Algorithms

Terran Standard

Barzan Standard

Subspace Transmission Protocols

Transpace Transmission Protocols

Frequency Modulation Transmission Protocols

Sub-telepathic Transmission Protocols

Binary Sub-mask Transmission Protocols

Set Secondary and Tertiary Protocols to Standby

Secondary and Tertiary Protocols Set to Standby

[PRIMARY AUDIBLE COMMUNICATION SUBROUTINES LOADED]

[AUDIBLE COMMUNICATION PROTOCOLS ACHIEVED]

WE ARE THE BORG. LOWER YOUR DEFENSES AND SURRENDER. WE WILL ADD YOUR BIOLOGICAL AND TECHNOLOGICAL DISTINCTIVENESS TO OUR OWN. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.

[COMMUNICATION CREATED]

[COMMUNICATION SENT]

[CLOSE PRIMARY COMMUNICATIONS]

[PRIMARY COMMUNICATIONS CLOSED]

[INITIATE STANDBY WAIT]

[SET WAIT CYCLE]

Cycle = 300

[WAIT CYCLE SET]

[STANDBY WAIT INITIATED]

300...

240...

180...

120...

60...

0

[STANDBY WAIT CYCLE COMPLETED]

Response = 0

[INITIATE ASSIMILATION PROTOCOLS]

[ASSIMILATION PROTOCOLS INITIATED]

[INITIATE RESISTANCE PROTOCOLS]

[RESISTANCE PROTOCOLS INITIATED]

[STANDBY. . . ]

* * *

TERTIARY ANNEX, SECONDARY NODE

[INITIATE BATTLEDRONE WAKE CYCLE]

[DEFINE BATTLEDRONE]

Drone = 822714.01-04

[BATTLEDRONE DEFINED]

[BATTLEDRONE WAKE CYCLE INITITATED]

[BATTLEDRONE WAKE CYCLE COMPLETED]

[INITIATE PRIMARY SYSTEMS CHECK, DRONE 822714.01-04] [PRIMARY SYSTEMS CHECK INITIATED]

Life-support Systems Ready

Telemetry Systems Ready

Communication Systems Ready

Transportation Systems Ready

Offensive Systems Ready

Defensive Systems Ready

Scanning Systems Ready

Assimilation Systems Ready

Adaptation Systems Ready

Absorption Systems Ready

Regeneration Systems Standing By

Self-destruction Systems Standing By [PRIMARY SYSTEMS CHECK COMPLETE, DRONE 822714.01-04 READY]

"Spotted Vendetta, part 5 - Villain's Speech"

Lieutenant Saul Bental
Chief of Intelligence

* * * Deep Space 5, Maintenance duct 723-ER-9 upper * * *

"Shaul!" The cheeriness was only skin deep. The man knelt next to Saul, appraising him with his hazel eyes. Saul grimaced, but the fierce expression was abolished by a serious of coughs.

"Haven't taken your medicine lately, have you?"

"Medicine?" McCauley inquired.

"Didn't he tell you? This little Bental here got a Bolian great-grandfather. He has to take medications on a daily basis or he gets all purple and funny."

"Leh lehizdayen ya zevel." Saul swore.

"Toot-toot. Not very polite, are we." The man patted Saul's shoulder. His words came out in Dutch, but were swiftly translated by the UT. Saul did not require translation, of course. "It's not a way to treat a friend of the family, is it?"

"Doron, you're not a friend of MY family. You're a Carrion eater."

"Only tasty Carrions." Doron rose from the ground, and tip-toed extravagantly toward McCauley. Saul didn't bother to look at the traitor.

"I could assure you safety, McCauley. Something they cannot. They'll get rid of you as soon as you're of no use to them; They'll just call their friends at Rigel, and tell them where you are. That how they operate."

"Don't say they - say 'we'!" Doron was almost too annoying to hear. Saul thought his head was about to explode, regardless of the lack of medication.

"They won't." Christopher McCauley said simply.

He didn't regard himself as a villain, and as such he was not going to give a long, megalomaniac speech about how brilliant was his plan and how Saul was going to die and he was going to prevail. The truth was far simpler. He did some research on Saul after he kidnapped him, and the name 'Bental' led him to an infamous family of merchants, smugglers and 'honest businessmen' which operated on the rim parts of the Federation. Someone must have picked up his snooping, because a representative of the family contacted him indirectly. From there, cutting a deal was short and sweet.

He gave them Saul, and they paid off his debts to the Orions and arranged him a way out of DS5 and a new identity he intended to get rid of as soon as he came off the transport, so that these other Bentals won't be able to track him down.

There was no point in telling Saul all that, McCauley thought.

"For what it's worth." McCauley spoke up, "the evidence isn't fabricated. I did not crash the Akula into Trill, and if I could turn back time I would act differently."

"If it helps you sleep at night, zevel offot."

Saul told someone from the Galaxy once - was it Nara? - That there was no such thing as trust or betrayal. You took a chance, and either you either succeeded or failed. This time, he failed. He thought that McCauley could be a major asset for his agenda. Instead, he turned him over to one of Devoss Bental's cronies.

Doron gestured toward one of the bulky armed men that came with him, and the latter escorted McCauley out of sight. Both Doron and Saul watched the renegade leave in silence, and they spoke again only after he was out of sight.

"So I suppose the Redistribution went bad if you're still running errands and not sitting at the board?" Saul asked.

"Why, the Redistribution was postponed." Doron yawned. "The broad decided to. An initiative of the old guard. A sudden shift of events, it seemed. Did you know that it was the first time in two centuries that Redistribution was postponed? We're living in interesting times."

Saul knew precisely when was the last time that the Redistribution was postponed. He made history repeat itself, even though he was taking the risk of allowing Devoss, Arieh and Janny to gain more strength.

He had no choice, if he wanted to be on Utrecht III when the Redistribution took place.

"So what's the new schedule?" He asked, as though the answer wasn't a secret reserved only to a handful of inner circle members.

"Who knows?" Doron giggled in an almost girlish manner. Saul saw him giggle that way after he and three others forced a teen age girl to lick a pavement. The girl was 'rude' enough to refuse one of Doron's friends, and that was his way of getting back at her. He thought he was funny. He thought everything was funny, especially if it was humiliating to someone else.

"Whatever Devoss gives you, I'll give more." Saul said in Dutch. He was pretty convinced that Doron's goons didn't have their UT on, and he was correct.

"No." Came the reply in the same language. "I'm not switching sides. Especially not on him. You know, he wanted you to know that he considered bringing you over to his side before Chava came back. He wanted me to tell you that he saw the scars."

"Are you done wasting my time?"

"Definitely." Doron drew a broad Vibroknife from his belt. "Station security is already trying to beam over, having detected weaponsfire and such. Tee-hee. By the time they get here, I'm afraid they'll find only vacuum, and a corpse will too mutilated for an autopsy. I saw someone tossed out of the airlock once, Shaul. It's very funny - especially what's left of the eyes. Now, word on the street is that your family members don't kill each other. Maybe a wound, a severed hand here and there, but never death. We DO live in very, very interesting times."

So that was it. Devoss decided to take him off the picture instead of containing him or bringing him out of the picture. This was not a typical tactic of 'The Fox', which usually preferred to be more subtle. He probably gave Doron free reins, Saul guessed, and that was the result.

"Courtesy of the fox." Doron added with a smug smirk.

As the vibroblade came near, Saul decided that this would be the perfect timing to unlock his shackles. He curled his fingers, and thought of Chava"

{{OOC: Dedicated to Zofia}}

"Hag Purim" (Masquerade)

Lieutenant Saul Bental
Chief of Intelligence

* * * Utrecht III, 2375 * * *

"I feel..." said Saul Bental.

He and Chava sat on the warf, back to back, leaning against the same pole. The two teens were the only ones at the waterfront. When Saul's father was his age, one could still fish in the polluted water of Napoli bay. But Saul's father died, and so did the fish.

The salty stench of the waves penetrated Saul's nostrils, trying without success to shatter the walls of lonliness within.

"I feel alone." He finally gathered the courage to say. Napoli street kids didn't use the word 'feel' often. They knew emotions - anger, amusement, fear, lust and boredon often filled their young yet rugged hearts - but it wasn't a subject of discussion. Talking about street gangs, sports or daring feats did not display you as vulnerable, and you could talk about it without worrying about the consequences. It was much safer telling about how you broke into an abandoned factory than admitting that you're feeling lonely.

Even with Chava - the young Bolian-Human hybrid, which he taught the arts of picking pockets, and manipulating your surroundings with words alone, and which taught him the pleasures of sex - even with her, he did not allow himself to open up. He never felt the need, and it was strange that it came now, after they silently agreed not to become an actual couple.

"I feel like others are repelled by me." Saul continued. "I feel like people which I thought were my friends are drifting away. I don't think it can count as betrayal, but-- I feel betrayed. I don't know. Most of the people here, they could burn to ashes as far as I'm concerned; I don't care. But there's a few people I do care about, and I'd go for a long length for them and they know it. I got into a fight for Uri last month. I NEVER do that, and you know it. Almost lost a finger when some asshole decided to add a molecular whip to the 'party'. What I'm saying..."

His voice drifted.

"I don't think you're fair toward them." Chava said.

"Sorry?" Saul almost turned around. "What do you mean?"

"So the big Saul Bental thinks that whenever he gets back from his travels to space with his uncle, everyone should stand in attention and report for duty? Come on. They have life of their own."

"I know that." Saul protested. "And I don't think I'm the center of the universe..."

Chava chuckled, as if saying 'yes you do'.

"... but you know, I expect the minimum. I expect people I care about to want to see me after I'm gone for a month. Now, if people have other plans, I accept. That. For example, it makes total sense to me that you have a Purim party tomorrow, so we won't go sailing or eat Cream Potatos at Dune's. That makes sense; You have a party."

"You see? That's what I spoke about. You DO expect everyone to just come and stand in attention."

"I don't." Saul scowled. "I--"

"You're taking me for granted."

Saul swiveled, setting his eyes on Chava's sandy braids. "I - do - not - take - you - for - granted."

"Yes you do. You think 'Oh, it's Sunday night, and I'll take Chava to eat potatos."

"No, I didn't. You have a party. So it's OK we're not going out. I'm not asking you or expecting you to cancel plans."

"And what if I don't have a party? What if I'm going to date someone, or simply don't want to go out with you?"

Saul's face turned pale. "You have a date? Well... we're not a couple, we can both do whatever we want. Go enjoy your date."

"I don't have a date." Chava pouted. "I just... it's Purim night, right? Celebration time. And if we go out I'll feel like we're going out as a couple. We're not."

"We're not a couple." Saul repeated.

"So... you understand?"

"Chava, I care about you." Saul moved on his knees, bringing himself into the girl's line of sight. "You're important to me, and I enjoy being with you. So that's why I would love to take you to have some fun tonight. And also--"

He fell silent.

"What is it?" She asked after a reasonable pause.

"Never mind."

"Come on."

"I don't want to talk about it." Saul hissed.

"I thought we are speaking about everything. I thought we were best friends."

"What best friends." Saul snored. "You don't even want to see me tonight."

"Tell me."

"No, I won't. If I wanted to tell you I'd do it already. We talk about everything, yes, but not about this."

"This is about me?" Chava didn't even need him to answer. His eyes said yes. "Tell me."

"No."

"Come on. What are you afraid? That I'll get hurt? Come on. After what that guy did to me last year, I'm not hurt that easily."

"No." Saul was determined. "Please don't insist."

"What's your problem?"

Saul stood up shaply. "No one cares, not half as much as I care about them."

"That's not fair."

"I don't play fair." Saul almost spat the words. He wasn't as angry as he was disappointed. "And it's the truth."

"You said you're going back with your uncle on Tuesday, right?", Chava asked softly. "Go. Have plenty of fun with these people you've met. Those winged fellows. I'm sure it'll make you feel better."

"Yes, I'll just go back to my stinking little spaceship, with my stinking uncle, and do stupid little cargo runs and bargain with stupid Tellarites and do FUCKEN TRADES AND GET A-PRICES BECAUSE THAT'S ALL I'M FUCKEN GOOD FOR!"

"You're not--"

"Yea, can it in an airlock and throw it to space." Saul muttered and stormed away.

A week later, his feet carried him into the Utrecht III Domestic Guard's recruitment centre.

"Fun on the High Seas"

Cmdr. Veziran Solas
Pilot Aristi Ferguson
Ensign Iana A. Et`Kal

With

Herzog, Ivorian Slavemaster
Assorted Ivorian Thugs/Overseers
All the other poor slaves

===================

<Ivorian Merchant Vessel Ifrit>

Herzog stood confidently on the deck of the Ifrit as his gaurds led the newly processed slaves up on to the massive merchant ship's main deck. In fact, given the size of the thing, one would more likely think it was some sort of warship rather then a merchant vessel. The vessel was approaching 300 meters long and was half that across. The main deck was covered in equipment suited to the ship's purpose that being commercial fishing. Two long booms spread out from either side of the deck where the nets would hang when the ship was at sea. Below the main deck was not only barracks for the large number of crewman and forced laborers that manned the ship but could be adequtely described as a floating processing plant. In order to ensure that their catch remained fresh for distribution the fish, mostly a prized variety called a Belia, was cleaned, processed, packed in stasis crates, and then beamed directly to market from the ship. This method ensured the Ifrit could remain at sea for extended periods of time...making it worse on the slaves.

A slight rain began to fall as the slaves were being assembled on deck. Herzog, who at least appeared to be human though he was close to 8 feet tall, lumbered out once the slaves had been assembled, the raindrops running neatly down his clear poncho. His tatooed chest was clearly visable under the poncho and grey leather vest he wore. Looking over his new charges he spoke in a firm, but not aggressive voice.

"Attention Prisoners! You are now aboard the merchant cruiser Ifrit. I am your Primary Overseer, Herzog. Until such time as you are pardoned, transfered, or die this ship will be your home and you will be under my control. My rules are simple. If you work and don't cause trouble, no trouble will come to you. If you do not, then you will be dealt with accordingly. In a moment you will be taken below to your barracks. You will not leave this area without permission from your overseer. You will find violating this or any other rule that is set down for you will result in stiff punishment, primarily through your collar. Allow me to demonstrate."

Herzog then reached into his vest and pulled out what looked like a normal PADD. He then walked over to his first unsuspecting victim, an

angry-looking Cardassian woman, and pressed a couple buttons.

Aristi suddenly cried out in pain, trying vainly to grab at the back of her head. It felt like a spike was being driven deep into the back of her skull. Her vision blurred from the pain and she dropped to her knees, cradling her head protectively in her arms. "Okay okay, I get the point!" she squeaked out after a few seconds.

Herzog tapped his padd again and just like that, the pain was gone. Dropping her arms in her lap Aristi looked up at the huge man. "Picking on the one Cardassian, huh?" she spat at him, her eyes full of malice as she did her best to stare him down.

Herzog frowned and raised a finger, the digit hovering just above the padd's surface.

"Shit! I'm sorry, man!" Aristi raised her hands protectively, flinching in spite of herself. "It was just a joke!"

Herzog merely chuckled. To Aristi, it sounded closer to a dog's bark than any sound a human would make.

Once his demonstration was over, he walked back to the head of the group. And continued,

"If you follow the rules you will be treated fairly well. In your barracks you have each been assigned a sleeping place and a locker corresponding to your identification number. You will find a datapad with your work assignment and all appropriate instructions in your locker. That is all."

Aristi glared daggers into the huge man's back as he departed. "Jerk."

Iana found it extremely difficult to keep her emotions in check. If she were in the confines of her office, her brow would have been furrowed and her voice would be heard screaming obscenities in no less than twenty languages. Instead she kept an emotionless glare in her eyes: which often times could be more disturbing than one with emotion. Truthfully, in her heart she wanted to put a nasty mind meld on one of these veQnuj and show them what real pain is... They would get theirs, she felt this. And she'd have no qualms about dishing it out herself.

Saying nothing, she looked at the one their captor just assaulted and gave a quick nod. It wasn't one of sympathy, but more of a 'we'll get 'em' type. Iana was born defiant to those she felt kept her prisoner. It just wasn't going to be today.

One of the guards gave a look to Herzog that looked like he was asking whether he could make Artisi's life a bit more miserable. He received a strong piercing glare from Herzog as he headed back for shelter.

"No, the Starfleets are not to be abused." , Herzog barked back

"Great, that means we'll be getting the crap on this boat", Lenat mumbled from behind.

"Damn straight" the guard said as he placed his rifle butt with a swift thrust in between the shoulder blades of the Orion to get him moving.

The rain began to increase as the guards led them down to the barracks, the sound still audible two decks down. Down here, the movement of the ship was more easily felt, the slow rocking motion almost enough to throw those unaccustomed to it off their balance. Two by two the slaves filed in, each taking their places on or near a narrow bunk that matched their identification numbers. At this point the guards finally removed the shackles that bound the prisoners wrists. Low noise filled the space as they began to talk quietly amongst themselves.

"I need to use the facilities." The small voice could barely be heard above the din. Seconds later it repeated, just a little bit louder. "I need to use the facilities, please."

One of the guards looked up, seeking out the sound of the voice. He watched with mild interest as a thin woman with shaggy brown hair concealing her face staggered forward. She had a hand over her mouth, and was clearly having trouble keeping her balance against the rocking motion of the ship.

"Sir, can you point me towards the facilities? I don't feel so good," Veziran said in a muffled voice. The guard grunted a laugh and then pointed down the corridor, towards the door opposite the one they had just entered. He grunted another laugh as she dashed off in the direction he had pointed.

"Seasickness. Hah."

(Occurs immediately after "Fun on the High Seas")

"Observation"

Veziran Solas

The door slid shut noisily behind her, and Veziran's posture shifted almost immediately. Her back straightened and the hand that had been covering her mouth dropped to her side. Glazed-over eyes became razor sharp once more as she examined her surroundings.

It was true that Veziran Solas hated the sea, and for more than one reason. She had struggled with seasickness since childhood, a condition which had lessened with age but still gave her problems from time to time. She had also been a vegetarian for nearly two centuries, ever since her Vulcan first officer aboard the Excalibur had converted her. Veziran avoided eating almost anything that lived in the water (seaweed being her only exception) and the very act of traveling upon its surface made her queasy. It was safe to say that she therefore found the sea pretty much useless.

The huge vessel jerked and shuddered suddenly, causing Veziran to reach out instinctively for a handhold. The rocking motion increased almost immediately: they were heading away from shore. She caught a look at her paling face in the mirror, rocking side to side in the reflection, and it was then she remembered why she had come here.

Footfalls thumping loudly on the steel deck she dashed to the closest toilet, throwing the seat up and dropping to her knees before it. A ragged retching noise came from deep within her, and she repeated it several times during the span of a half minute, taking care to make them loud enough to be heard through the ship's thick walls. Satisfied, she flushed the toilet, then stood and began to move about the room while the rushing water sounds still concealed all the other nearby sounds.

The room looked more like a stunted hallway than anything. Six steel sinks lined the left wall, balanced on the right wall by six steel toilets. Bright fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over everything. There were no stalls or partition walls to speak of. There were also no shower stalls, which led her to believe that they were contained in a separate room, and were probably communal as well. And other than the door through which she had entered, there was no other way out of the room.

The room was kept very clean (no doubt by slaves like her) but one could clearly see the signs of age creeping in. Either this vessel was older than the colony itself, or it had been rather poorly maintained.

Veziran tiptoed lightly to the other end of the room, turning on one of the sinks and splashing some water around in her hands. Her eyes traveled up towards the ceiling, critically examining each crack and flaw in the wall. Several pipes of varying sizes and colors were nestled into the nook where wall met ceiling. None of them bore any writing or markings, but with a little thought she could figure out what each one carried. The green, blue and red ones had tributaries that fed down the walls; these obviously belonged to the plumbing network. Smaller black pipes sat between these, even smaller ones reaching out to touch the ceiling lights. Electricity. And there were several thicker pipes which matched the grey of the walls and had no branches. She could only assume they were for various other shipboard systems. Communications, perhaps.

She wouldn't be able to do much with the information in the immediate future, but it was still useful to know. If she could track the crucial power and data lines that ran throughout the ship they might be able to be sabotaged. It would take several months, perhaps even a year to figure out the whole network, but with that information the ship could eventually be crippled.

She would have to enlist the help of some of her fellow Starfleet officers, most of whom would no doubt object to what they felt was an overly slow pace for their escape. But to an El-Aurian of Veziran's age, such a pace was almost fast enough to be considered reckless. After all, it had taken her six years to escape the Borg. At that point she had barely become familiar with the Collective's inner workings...at least by her standards.

A sharp knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Quickly, so as to maintain her cover story, Veziran splashed some water onto her face, rubbing her hands over her cheeks and groaning. The door slid open, revealing the same guard who had pointed the way to the facilities just a few minutes before. She turned slightly, looking at him from the corner of her eyes.

"Time's up," he told her in a humorless, obviously bored voice. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that she should vacate the room immediately.

Veziran gave him a weak smile as she shut off the water and shuffled back towards the door, once more affecting the hunched-over look of a dejected slave. In the back of her mind she began to catalogue the consistencies in his body language. Perhaps she could use that information as well.

"Sorry," she said in that same tiny voice as she stepped into the hall, doing her best to look sheepish and afraid. "I really am. It's just...I don't like boats. Err, ships. I'll get better, I promise."

The guard merely snorted with amusement then closed the door, turning back in the direction of the barracks. "We'll see, Starfleet."

"Cargo bay floors are less than comfortable."

Tarin Iniara

Backbroken's Reward
A few hours after departure from DS5...

After their departure, it hadn't taken Iniara long to find a quiet spot to catch a nap. She hadn't slept well the night before their departure, and if she was expected to man the overnight shift and still be alert enough when they reached Ivor, sleep was a necessity. She hoped she would be able to sleep a little bit better now that fatigue was beginning to creep in at the edges.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case.

Iniara rolled onto her side, punching at the bag she was using as a pillow. It, like the cargo bay floor upon which she was laying, had proven to be less than comfortable. She groaned, rolling to her other side, sliding around until her face was once more in the shadow of a large crate.

It was perhaps a bit strange that she had decided to camp out in the corner of the ship's smaller cargo bay, but it felt more natural to her than taking one of the bunks in the crew quarters. Her first experiences on vessels of this size, so long ago that they seemed part a past life, had often found her in similar circumstances. Crowded onto ships full of Bajoran refugees, later using barely operable freighters in the Resistance, then finally using the same freighters for intra-system travel during the days following the end of the Occupation. Back then the limited sleeping quarters had been reserved for the ships' operational staff. The ground pounders, like Iniara had always been, had slept wherever there was space, or sometimes not at all.

Unsurprisingly, her thoughts soon drifted back to the days of the Occupation. Pretending to be a full Bajoran, dressed in clothing similar to what she had worn back then, sleeping in a narrow space between two large crates on a too-small freighter...it only seemed natural.

Malik had flown a freighter like this, she remembered. He'd been a damn good pilot, in addition to being utterly unable to take any situation seriously. 'Life's too important to take seriously, Sola,' he would tell her as he flew his stolen piece of junk ship faster than anyone she had ever known. In her mind she could see him, his youthful round face framed by shaggy almost-brown hair, a perpetually mischievous glint in his deep brown eyes. In her memories he was always shouting at her to help him keep the ship functioning as they outran Cardassian patrols. She had never minded it; it was hard to get angry at someone who barked orders with a silly, lopsided grin plastered to his face, as if he was getting a kick out of beating the Cardies. Come to think of it, he probably had been.

Thorin Malik, the middle of the three Thorin brothers. After Kell's death he'd been the one who took care of her, despite the fact that he was younger than her by nearly two years. After the Occupation he'd disappeared. Iniara presumed he was still flying around the quadrant somewhere, no doubt on the fringes of the Federation.

Iniara wondered suddenly if she would ever see Malik again. And if so, would he even speak to her? Unlike what had happened with his younger brother Dimos, the two of them had parted amicably at the end of the Occupation. But she was now a Federation citizen, and XO of a Starfleet flagship. She somehow knew Malik was the kind of person who wouldn't trust the Federation; would that change their relationship were they ever to meet again?

She knew there was only one way to find out. Rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling Iniara resolved that when they returned from this mission, she would track him down. It had been nearly fifteen years, and she was tired of running from her past.

Satisfied for the moment, she folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes. The slow thrumming sound of the engines slowly overtook her senses, and soon she was fast asleep.

"Midnight Briefing"

Turan Trelar
Tarin Iniara

Backbroken's Reward
The night before arrival at Ivor...

Turan climbed on the co-pilot's seat next to the one Tarin manned. With the interior lights dimmed for 'graveyard shift' and the Backbroken's Reward flying on autopilot there wasn't much to do than to monitor the instruments - time was right to have a talk about plans, objectives and what was waiting for the volunteers of the 'Merry Pirate Band'.

"May I ask you a few Questions, Ma'am?" Turan addressed Tarin.

"Sure," Iniara replied, deactivating her console and turning towards the 'captain'. "What's up?"

"Ok ... the main question ... what are your plans for us after we land on Ivor?"

"Well, the first priority is to get our people back. We're also going to need some way to get them out. There is no way we'll all fit in here for the return trip." She paused and scratched her head. "The thing is, I don't know if we have enough people to crew the Bonestell. I don't want to leave it behind, but we may have to."

Turan scratched his temple then nodded.

"Ok ... my thoughts ... there are two questions to be thought about. First one is how we may get our hands on the kidnapped persons. I don't expect us to run in there blindly, fire on anybody who crosses our way grab any captive we encounter and run back to the Backbroken's. That would be to silly to be called a plan.

Second question is how we get the captives and us off the planet and back to DS5 or to the Galaxy. The Backbroken's is way too small to carry us all. Even with just us on board the Backbroken's Reward is ... how do they say? ... pinching in the armpits?" he answered.

"Agreed. So what did you have in mind?"

"I would suggest to build three teams," explained Turan. "The first team will move over to the city where the captives are expected. That's a kind of diplomatic 'meet and greet'. We pretend to search for very special slaves with profiles the captives would fit on.

As I - to be honest - don't have any special talents other than to be impressively large and of a species unknown to the Ivorians I would place myself in this team. Besides that I am the captain and they probably deny to negotiate with anybody else. I would take Savant with me as her database may be really useful for the negotiations. Don't forget a successful pirate and slave merchant would go anywhere without his 'Pet'."

Iniara chuckled. "That's why we made you captain. Your main task is to be suitably large and intimidating."

"The second team's task is to buy us a ticket home. Find a larger ship, get the thing running and probably get rid of unwanted passengers. I would place Dhani in that team as she is the one with the most technical experience. She will need somebody to carry her toolkit as I will be occupied elsewhere this time. And she will need somebody to ensure she will be able to work without being disturbed," continued the giant captain actor.

"True. Who do you think we should send with her?"

Turan shook his head. "I have no idea. I don't know the others good enough to decide who should be in which team. If you don't mind I would lay that in your hands, Ma'am. Probably we need a third team for the case we need to switch to plan B."

"And what's plan B? Blast our way out in a hail of phaser fire?" Iniara chuckled again. "I think we might want to assign Ortuk to that team."

Turan took his sunglasses off and disabled his universal translator. His face changed into a grimace with large protruding eyes and an intimidating evil grin. Again the Quentite was Trulan, the mad pirate captain. "Ooohhuuu yes. Giv'em a nice firework .. phaser fire, explosions, collapsing buildings, Ivorians running around in panic ho ho ho." Turan changed back to Turan, the friendly Quentite. "We don't know where the captives are nor do we know how those Ivorians react upon our request. May be it's good to have a backup which is even more intimidating than a large mean looking captain," he continued in a calm voice.

Iniara crossed her arms, thinking. "Hm. OK, let's do something like this. Once we land on Ivor we split up into teams. You'll take the first team and get our people back. I'd recommend taking Templar as well. I'll take Dana and one other-- probably Erik. We'll go off and find a suitably decent ship to hijack, then wait for your team to make its triumphant exit."

"Sounds good. Nevertheless if you can provide a more exact plan or further information I wouldn't deny. I found data about Ivor in the Galaxy's database. But that wasn't much more than a brief guidebook. There was no paragraph about defense systems, guards and the locations where they parked the ships suitable for our purpose," objected Turan.

Iniara tapped her chin. "I'll know more when we arrive, but I have a feeling it could get messy if we try to load a bunch of people onto a stolen ship and then blast our way out of the atmosphere. We may need Ortuk's expertise to create a suitably...explosive distraction while we make our escape."

"Hope it's not necessary to blast the planet to pieces. I think you should inform our team mates about the plans and build the teams. Probably they didn't fully leave the command chain behind. The may rather obey your orders than mine."

"Good point. We'll meet first thing in the morning; no sense in interrupting everyone's sleep." Iniara turned towards her console once more, tapping a few controls. "The computer estimates we'll arrive in a little over ten hours, so hopefully we can hash something out by then..."

"The Butcher's Bill"

Principal Characters
Lt (JG) Victor Krieghoff
A.k.a Erik Todeshändler

Lt Savant
A.k.a Utopia Lain

Lt Dhanishta Eshe
A.k.a Dana COE

****

Backbroken's Reward
Deck 4
Cargo Hold 4

Victor frowned down at the crate in front of him. Despite the labeling on the outside, the contents were most decidedly *not* the flash-frozen targ steaks that he'd been searching for, making it more and more likely that his shift in the galley tonight was going to be more of an adventure than he'd intended - or wanted - it to be.

He would be fine with his alternate dish - his Aunts' recipe for Andorian-influenced sauerbraten - but given the spice content, it was likely that at least half of the crew would be laid up in the dirty closet that passed for a sickbay on the freighter... or fighting each other for space in the fresher.

The fact that every single crate he'd opened in Hold Four thus far had been mislabeled was either a deliberate act of sabotage or an act of coincidence that bordered on the Divinely directed. Despite the myriad of reasons why the mislabeling could have been arranged by the hand of man, Victor knew the truth: it was the hand of the Divine reaching down to remind him of the loathing and hate that it's Owner had for him. At least, he contented himself, this time the Divine hand seemed to lack the knife that it had plunged into his back in the past.

So far, anyway.

A voice from behind broke his reverie - "Try the crate in the corner, the one on the bottom." It was the android. At least, that was the presumption - the dark haired Mediterranean looking android had gone into a room, and out had come this shorter albino woman. They didn't resemble one another in the slightest - even their voices were different. At the moment she carried herself as Savant would, though, and this was enough to give her away.

It was as good as place as any to look, he decided, so Victor nodded once, shifted position, and moved the four crates off the top of the one she'd suggested. He studied the markings on the crate - the lettering appeared to be Bajoran, which he'd seen often enough while stationed on DS9 to recognize but didn't read - and keyed the latch to open it. A few wisps of condensation and a wave of cold air later he was looking at what were, indeed, flash-frozen targ steaks... still attached to a quartet of intact, flash-frozen targ carcasses.

"Is there a knife in my back?" he asked aloud.

She had approached, a hand running almost possessively along the crates she passed on her way to his side to look in - she had been right. Of course, being an AI Logistics officer, it was her responsibility (and instinct) to categorize, collate, and contain. The fact that she wore a new skin hardly made a difference.

Savant leaned back to look at his back, and then grinned at him in an amused fashion. "Doesn't seem to be. Expecting one?"

"I'm never sure." Victor reached into the crate and pulled out a flash-frozen targ with one hand. He wasn't certain how many of the crew outside of possibly Thral had ever butchered an animal in the field, but he'd done it enough times that the prospect didn't concern him. The mess from it on the other hand, was going to be another thing entirely. He closed the crate and waited for the seal to re-engage before turning to look at the smaller android. "I don't suppose you've seen any biological cleansers anywhere aboard, have you?"

She was still smiling. This must've struck Krieghoff as a very odd thing, as few people could maintain a smile for very long in his immediate presence. Especially given their proximity - not many liked being within a meter of the man, but the android didn't seem to have any trouble. She even seemed encouraging. "Nope. There's water enough to clean any mess, though. I'll give you a hand."

Victor supposed that it was unlikely an android would become physically ill over carving up a dead animal carcass - or that an android could get physically ill for pretty much *any* reason now that he thought of it - and nodded. "If you like. Have you done any butchering before or is this a first-time thing for you?" he asked as tried to decide if there was a way to defrost the targ easily, or if he should saw it up while it was still frozen to make defrosting easier. "It isn't a skill many people have need to acquire these days."

She shrugged, for her part. "I'm a fast learner, I'll pick it up. It's what I'm made for." He was a curious creature, this one - friendly, but hesitant. As if he expected her to turn and bolt at any moment. Not that such a reaction was unheard of for Victor Krieghoff. Small talk such as this must've been a foreign thing for him as a result. Perhaps he was enjoying it? Savant pointed with a thumb down the hall, "There's what passes for a kitchen down the hall. It's woefully stocked, but I think that we can manage."

"I've seen it," he nodded. "That's why we're going to defrost this in the fresher. They flash-froze it right after death - or they're supposed to have, anyway. Sometimes they just toss the targs in the freezer without wasting time on killing them first if they're having a bad day. Either way, this..." he looked at the targ's underside, "...guy is going to bleed like a stuck targ - pun intended - when I defrost him and start cutting, and that excuse for a galley is not set up to handle that kind of blood." He looked at Savant for a moment. "You're going to want to change - either before or after - if you were serious about that offer. I doubt that the Captain is going to want to see your expensive and highly imaginative wardrobe covered in blood."

"Wouldn't want to get these nice things all bloody," she quipped as she stepped away with a wave, "They aren't mine after all. I'll meet you there." And the android left him to do just that - to change into something more appropriate to the work at hand.

---

The quarters weren't hers, per se. She didn't have any - they were the Owner's quarters. Her owners' as well, to be accurate to the charade. She was technically a possession as much as the ship was, just somewhat more ambulatory. The thought didn't really disturb Savant. Her nature was to be helpful and servile, so having an owner wasn't such a big change of mentality. Weren't all computer programs supposed to have an end user?

She found what passed for "her" items in his quiet room - it already looked as if he'd had a nap by this point - and began to change. Her mental processes, hooked to the ships' sensors as they were, followed Krieghoff to the 'fresher'. She watched the others in the crew avoid him, just as they did on board Galaxy. What was up, exactly? She couldn't detect any sort of emanations from him, and he didn't seem to smell bad.

Savant/Lain finished changing and headed out the door again, to find Victor and give him a hand - and to solve the puzzle of his existence at the same time.

---

The android, Victor decided as he walked to the lift and rode it up two floors to the fresher he'd selected, wasn't affected by what he was. Lacking any reference with other artificial life forms, he supposed that was because she - he supposed that was preferable to 'it' although less accurate - wasn't real. Not in the sense that she wasn't there, and couldn't touch and interact with her environment; that much was patently obvious. She wasn't real in the same way that holograms on a holodeck weren't real - she wasn't alive in the biological ways that Victor defined life. She imitated it well - better than he'd expected, truth be told - but she still wasn't a living organism. It could be argued that she might 'die', but he thought it would be better defined as 'stopping' as opposed to 'dying.' Only the living could die... and thus only the living knew to fear what he was.

After stopping at his cabin to collect something to butcher the targ with - he left the frozen animal propped against the door to make maneuvering in the small cabin easier - he continued on to the fresher. Once at the door he checked the panels to see if it were occupied, and then cycled the door open to check manually. Starfleet maintained that all the systems on the ship were in perfect working order, but they'd also claimed that they'd shipped flash-frozen targ steaks too.

Finding the fresher clear, he slipped out of his gloves, jacket, and shirt, hung then over a stanchion outside the door, and keyed the comm. "Stay out of Fresher 2 until otherwise notified," he announced to the ship.

The announcement made, he opened the door and tossed the frozen targ into the shower stall, the carcass making a solid 'clang' as it landed. Lacking a safer way to defrost the animal, he cranked the shower's heat setting up, closed the door and started it running. It would, based on experience, take a little less than twenty minutes to thaw the carcass sufficiently now that it was out of the preservation field inside the crate. He could have done it faster with his phaser, but there seemed to be no rush, and no need to add stress to the rest of the crew. They were going to be stressed enough by his simply being here as it was.

---

The sweat seeped out of her pores coating her skin with its salty residue, it soaked into her spartan clothing and the sheet that was wrapped around her, tangled around her as her body thrashed, her limbs knocking into the walls and the ceiling as she fought against the image of her dream world assailant. She couldn't see his features, though she could readily recall his face. Yet here in this dream, this recreation of an event, she couldn't see him. Everything was just like it was that cold night upon alien soil. Though to Dhanishta everywhere was alien soil, for she had non to call her own; such is the fact for a hybrid.

She could feel his hands around her neck once more. Feel his fingernails penetrate her skin, breaking it, bruising it. She couldn't scream, at least not with her mouth. Her other voice carried through, yet there was non that were close enough to hear it; only him, and he was suffocating her. She could feel his eyes, those two burning pits of amber, as they passed through her like lightening bolts, through her core and into her mind. She pushed back, begging him to forget. Forget who he was, just for this moment, just so she could get away from him. She begged the darkness that consumed him to just let go, but he didn't. Instead she fell, fell into his mind, into the very thing she was trying to command; and then she lost all control, and a memory that was not his, and yet not hers, played out...

Dhanishta's head collided with the ceiling above. In her attempt to escape the replay of *thee* most terrifying event in her life to date she found herself struggling with the covers that currently trapped her, confining her to the limited space of the bunk. Unfortunately her attempts to free herself were too vigorous and she promptly found herself falling out of the bunk to the cold metal floor below. A series of curses accompanied her descent, along with a few loud bangs as her body collided with several things on the way down.

Sprawled out on the floor, her foot resting against the opposite wall, Dhanishta cursed again the confines of these quarters. For a moment she hypothesized her trajectory if the room had been bigger. If the room had indeed been larger there would have been less 'wall' to ricochet off, and she may well have made it to the floor with only a few bruises. Slowly she uncoiled herself and surveyed herself, well what she could see of herself in the dark. She could feel the blood, though she was uncertain of just how deep the cut was in her left forearm. Sighing she stood, slowly, hearing her joints crack as she did. Cringing she pulled out her bag that was stowed under the bottom bunk and made for the door.

Dhanishta had an interesting childhood; she had lived on several worlds, undergone many challenges both mental and physical throughout her life and prided herself in her ability to deal with adversity. She had never thought of herself as spoiled. She believed that she understood the luxuries that the Federation provided and being a Starfleet officer attained and she regarded them as such: luxuries. Yet now as she stood clutching her small bag of personal items limping down the corridor towards the rest room she had to pause and re think her earlier convictions as she found herself mentally griping in thee most crudest of fashions at the lack of en-suite quarters, the lack of space, the fact that she had to share her quarters with another (though she was extremely grateful that her bunk mate was elsewhere and did not whiteness the incident that had just occurred, cause bruises and cuts aside - that would have been the biggest injury: a dent in her pride) the lack of replicato! rs, the fact that they had to cook for themselves. The outrage! Well.. it wasn't just that, if she had to be honest it was just the fear of meal times. With the cooks on this ship it would be miraculous if the crew returned as anything other than skin and bones. Anorexia was seriously appealing at this point in time, epically after what Trall had 'cooked' for breakfast!

Dhanishta wondered if she really had the right to gripe as she padded round the corner towards fresher two, after all she couldn't cook. Although that wasn't strictly true, Turan had taught her a thing or two, but that was a life time ago... in another timeline... As she reached the rest room her eyes rolled upon seeing it engaged. "Typical." she muttered scathingly.

Leaning against the wall Dhanishta rapped her fingernails against her arm and waited patiently. In the dim light f the corridor she began to survey her arms while she waited. There were a few scrapes, one or two that were bleeding, though they weren't serious in the slightest. She was more concerned about her face and her head. It was unlikely she had a concussion... although for some reason she could hear Kimberly's voice in the back of her mind chiding her for not having contemplated seeking medical advice already.

"When did Kimberly Burton become my conscience?" Dhani asked aloud frowning. Sighing heavily with a hint of annoyance she rapped her knuckles against the bathroom door. "Come on now! How long are you going to be in there?" she asked leaning closer to the door. "There are other people on this rust bucket that need to use the facilities ya know!"

Without warning, the door slid open to reveal Victor, shirtless, a knife in one hand and a cloud of steam billowing out of the shower behind him. "Until I've finished butchering dinner, Dana," he said with a shake of his head.

Instinctively Dhani stepped back. As the steam bellowed out the scent within filled her nostrils, gagging slightly she felt her body jerk as it collided with the wall behind her. For a moment her gaze flowed past the disturbing image of Victor surrounded by the steam and the light from the corridor as it gleamed off the blade in his hand and on to the distant images that emanated around him, from him. She gasped, a sharp inhale, as she felt something drip from her fingers. Looking down she gaped at the blood that coated her hands, pooled in her palms and slipped through her fingers to mingle with the puddle that oozed across the deck beneath. Slowly her eyes drew up from the blood at her feet, coming to rest on the pile of bodies in the open door way.

Her features paled, her face turned white as her eyes fixated upon the bodies that lay before her; some were Hydran, a few were Breen, several were Vulcan and she thought she saw a Human or two. She gagged again, dry heaving as her body sunk against the wall, curling on the floor. She tried to turn her eyes away from the vision, but she couldn't, it was a morbid fascination that kept her locked upon the twisted image.

She could feel her heart pounding against her rib cage as her body began to shake. With pleading eyes she looked up and into Victor's as he stood above, almost presiding over the slain. She tried to speak, beg him to stop, yet only a whimper passed her lips as once more she gapped as the imaged changed. His face began to morph; its texture, colour and shape changed, shifted and for a moment her breath caught in her chest as she stared intently, frowning, trying to predict the image that followed. For a moment she thought it was the face of the child, the one that haunted her every waking, and for that matter sleeping, moment. Yet it wasn't. It was her own face; Dhanishta's. For a moment her fear was replaced with confusion and bemusement, yet only for a moment; as the dawning realisation hit of the face within the dust cloud. Her face, the face of death, the face of the murderer; the face of the hunter; the one she had been upon Romulus; the face, perhaps the mask, or the th! ing that dwelt within... the face of the Dithparu.

Dhanishta choked, her body now vibrated against the wall that she pressed up against, so much so that she could have made a dent in it, or a hole; partly she wished that she truly could, for then she could get away, or hide from the images that bombarded her.

"Dana?" Victor asked with a frown. He knew that Betazoids had the worst reactions to him of any species he'd yet encountered, but those reactions were normally immediate. The Engineer had been around him for several days now without experiencing a reaction this strong. "Are you all right?"

His voice was lost amidst the screams that began to fill her mind. She covered her ears yet the voices were not external. Quivering she closed her eyes as tight as she could, trying to stop the images, yet they too were manifesting from within. She clutched at her throat desperately trying to remove the hand that choked her, his hand... Baile's hand. She was back there with him upon Romulus. Standing in the field stained with Hydran blood as he tried to kill her. She knew that he didn't know it was her, he was just killing anything and everything in his path - or that's what she told herself; that thought was more comforting than the truth. She had clung to that lie for months since it happened, since she had seen what he truly was, what he could be and would be if he did not falter from the path he was on.

"I called for you..." Dhanishta's voice grated as she pushed through the psychosomatic vision, "I begged that you would come... that it was you there instead of him...." Dhanishta gulped the air into her lungs, "I prayed, yet you didn't ... hear me... I can't stop him... not now, not ever... only you can save..." she blinked the tears back that welled from the exertion, "...me..." she finished turning her head to face him.

Well, that didn't make much sense. Usually Betazoids just screamed and ran, they didn't pray for him to arrive or beg for him to show up. Perhaps there was something wrong with Lt. Eshe? "Save you from what, Dana?" he asked curiously. "Can't stop who?"

Swallowing hard Dhanishta turned her body so that her back rested against the wall. It took a lot of effort to control her breathing but slowly she began to relax. The images behind Victor began to fade as she concentrated on him. For a moment she wondered if he knew, if he knew it was her that broke into his quarters, laid in wait to bombard him with questions. Part of her wanted him to know, begged him to connect the dots, yet the other half craved the anonymity. She was falling apart. She knew that, didn't want to admit it mind, but it was becoming more apparent. Was that pile of bodies her kills or Victors?

"On Romulus," Dhanishta began to clarify, "I was..." she paused upon hearing footsteps from down the corridor. Turning her head she watched and waited for a figure to emerge. Not knowing who was coming she began to get up off the floor. The last thing she wanted was for Iniara to see her like this. It was bad enough that Victor did, although she could blame it on his 'aura', yet still; she did not want to appear week to any of the crew.

"On Romulus, yes, I know that," Victor acknowledged. "I read the reports. I read all the reports. You're saying that you were hoping that I'd find you there? Why?"

"Reports?" Dhanishta frowned, "I didn't..." she paused, frowning, "I couldn't, not everything that happened. There was just too much." She trailed off for a moment, her eyes rested on Victors face yet her vision stared past him, through him. "I froze." She said in a distant voice, soft and thoughtful, "She was there, she screamed at me. I couldn't pull the trigger. And then, Ba... he," her hand absently reached for her throat, caressing the skin that had been handled so violently, "I, she... it, it's still here, it took over and..." her hand trailed to her chest and she closed her eyes. Everything was so muddled in that moment, she wasn't truly sure what she was saying, or thinking. Yet some part of her knew that she had to stop, stop talking, stop explaining; for she may have already said too much. Leaning against the wall she took a deep breath feeling the equilibrium return, all be it slowly.

"Something... took you over?" Victor asked quietly. He knew what that was like - he'd known all his life.

Dhanishta's eyes flicked back to Victors face in a split second. He had made sense out of her ramblings, too much sense, so accurate that it scared her for a moment. She clamed up, sucking her lips in between her teeth refusing to answer, she couldn't tell him. That voice inside, that feeling of uncertainty, anxiety and pure fear stirred. She couldn't explain, she just knew what they would do to her. For a moment she wondered what was worse; Baile, Victor or what would happen if they found out what she was, what she had done and what she was capable of doing... no she couldn't tell, couldn't and wouldn't. Self preservation was higher on her list of things to do.

Shaking her head slowly she took a breath and surveyed the corridor. Clearing her throat she mentally paused, wondering how to get out of this situation. Kneeling down she picked up her belongings. "I'm sorry." she said slowly gathering the items that had spilled from the bag, "You caught me off guard." Standing back up she attempted to retrieve what was left of her dignity. Fixing a few loose strands back into place she dusted down her cloths and attempted a smile, "I'll try not to let it happen again."

"Don't," Victor replied. "Don't try. If you suppress it, bury it, try to deny it then it will still get out - and you'll have no control over it. I've seen it happen before, to others. Whatever it was that came out on Romulus, whatever part of yourself that you don't want to acknowledge or deal with... acknowledge it. Deal with it. Accept that it's a part of you. Because if you don't, and it gets out again and you start to hurt people that were given to me...." He smiled, and for a moment Victor was gone, and Death peered out of his eyes. "Then I'll have to kill you - both of you."

The first thing Dhanishta wanted to do was strike him, hard. She didn't respond well to threats and something else stirred inside, confirming that thought. For a moment her mind flashed back to Baile, kneeling helpless at her feet, dying as she drew the life from him. Victor would be just as simple. Her eyes narrowed on him, anger coiled inside at that moment.

Yet she withdrew.

She knew what Baile could become. While Victor believed he could take her, she knew that he couldn't. But Baile could, he was made to. And if he became what it was he was destined to, then she would need Victor in her corner. She nodded slowly, never taking her eyes from his as she let her anger subside.

"And people say that I'm an unreasonable, excessively violent man," Victor observed with a smile that was less deadly but still menacing in its own way. "I don't know why - it's so much easier when people can talk about things without getting emotional and resorting to violence, don't you think, Dana?"

He looked past her before she could answer as the owner of the footsteps appeared. "And here's the lovely Miss Lain, to help me butcher dinner. Why don't you try Fresher One, Dana? Or wait until we're done and I give the all-clear here - all right?" he waved once. "I'll send my counseling bill later."

Dhani nodded, still watching Victor, as Savant's new, short form slipped past her and into the fresher, an odd look of anticipation on the android body's face as the steam swallowed her and the door closed.

"The Merry Band Arrives"

Trulan, Ship's Captain (Turan Trelar)
Mora Damia, First Mate (Lt. Cmdr. Tarin)
Sanguinus Ephral Templar, Pilot and Owner (Lt. JG DarkSky)
Erik Todeshändler, Illegal Weapons Dealer and Temporary Weapons Officer (Lt. JG Krieghoff)
Dana, Chief Engineer (Lt. Eshe)
Ortuk, Pirate Thug (Sgt. Thral)
Utopia Lain, Slave Girl (Lt. Savant)

Artie - Mascot Pet Pig with the hair on his Chinny-Chin-Chin

*************
Ivor Prime
Main Spaceport
*************

"Merchant vessel, you are cleared to land on landing pad 57-A."

Ivor's main spaceport came into view as the Backbroken's Reward continued its lazy descent through the atmosphere. Up here the city looked like a rather disorganized mess; it looked like very little planning had gone into the design of the place. That seemed to be true for just about every aspect of this backwater colony.

The Ivorians hadn't even sent up an escort vessel. Iniara found that a bit odd; on most Federation colony worlds the standard procedure was to send a small fighter or two to make sure approaching ships didn't deviate from their course or try to fire on the colony or something equally unpleasant. She turned back to her sensor display, her mouth setting into a grim line as she confirmed the absence of any vessels nearby. Everything seemed a bit too quiet for her liking.

Then again, the Ivor colony did have a reputation for being a little short-staffed and under-supplied. Maybe they just didn't have enough craft for escort duty. She hoped that was the case; it would certainly make their inevitable fiery escape that much easier to carry out.

The Bajoran continued to tap at her console, using the ship's state-of-the-art sensor array to scan for the lifeforms they had come to retrieve, as well as seeking out the location of the USS Bonestell. She frowned as an unexpected piece of information appeared on her screen.

"Looks like the Strahl is here," she announced to no one in particular, absolutely mangling the pronunciation of the German name. "Powered down, in the spaceport, landing pad...3-C. Wonder where Lenat and his cronies are. Hm. Bonesuck is still in orbit. Far side of the planet. Fifteen life forms on board." She tapped a few more buttons. "Looks like they have life support running and that's about it. Pssht, amateurs. Can't even get that hunk of garbage running."

"So the men we are here for are not on board, I guess," concluded Trulan. "As I remember at least two of them are engineers. Should be easy for them to get her systems back running. But where are they? Any idea, Mora?"

"Most of our quarry are...about 200 kilometers east of here. They're showing up in...the middle of the ocean?" Iniara shrugged to herself before continuing. "The rest of them are about 50 kilometers southeast, edge of the colony proper it looks like."

"A sailing trip," joked Trulan glancing at Ortuk. "If that isn't worth to be a nice hook for an old fashioned plan b .... what else could be?"

"For some reason Cap, I don't think the Ivorians took them out on a pleasure cruise," Thral responded with an odd look on his face. He'd heard rumors about the Ivorians using slave labor on their commercial fishing vessels, but he figured that they were just rumors or it was only local criminals.

The ship shuddered ever so slightly as the landing gear touched down, the bulk of the Backbroken's Reward settling on its 'feet' now that gravity had taken over. Iniara began shutting down the ship's computer systems and locking them out with encryption sequences she had learned a long time ago. When that was done she stood and made her way off the bridge.

Thral got up from his seat on the "bridge" which was near the captain's chair. Seemed appropriate for the designated tough to be right next to the captain. He headed back to grab the worn leather backpack he had already packed with things that were appropriate for his role, mainly more guns as well as a few of his concealable explosives that were designed to escape detection. He was the first to stroll down the ramp and on to the hard surface of Ivor. Of course Artie was not far behind, his leash having been clipped to Thral's belt.

A minute later, Victor appeared at the top of the ramp, still dressed as he'd been for the entire flight. The only concession to being on a planetary surface he'd made was to add a pair of photosensitive sunshades - which darkened as he descended, hiding his eyes - and the addition of a single knife to his belt on the opposite side from his compressed tetryon beam pistol. He glanced down at Artie as the pig shied away from him, and stepped to one side, awaiting the rest of the crew.

Templar strode down the corridor from the bridge, having completed the more mundane power-down procedures and postflight checklist not requiring the Commander's security input. Dressed much as he has been the entire trip, the addition of a long ankle length trench coat and an odd set of sunglasses completed his ensemble. They were made with yellow lenses, perfectly circular, and the frame incorporated a series of unique devices. The one that stood out was what was known as an "MP3" player, a device that could store audio media files and play them for the wearer, piped through earbuds attached to the arms. Other intelligence type toys were included in the entirety of the device, but their nature would be well hidden from scanning devices, appearing to be simply another portion of the archaic music player. Currently, his selection of music was slow, moving, yet deeply inspirational. Perfect for this sort of thing. The coat had been made specifically to allow Templar the capacity to quickly draw his pistols, yet keep them adequately hidden: out of sight out of mind. He glanced to Erik, feeling the dark vibes, and simply smiled.

Dhanishta was still totally perplexed by the sight of the pig that accompanied Thral everywhere he went. She frowned at the creature as she crossed the deck to join those gathered, secretly she longed for Victor to terrify it to death with his x-ray vision of doom and eat it raw, right in front of the marine... Dhanishta frowned and shook her head; such dark thoughts she was having these days.

All around them, the typical sights and sounds of a spaceport greeted them. Unsavory characters of all shapes and sizes milled about, the midday sun beaming brightly down on the worn-looking buildings and walkways. The entire area seemed to have a thin coating of rust and grime. And on top of that, something in the air smelled funny.

Iniara made a face, muttering under her breath, "Place looks like crap after only ten years." She then turned to Trulan, and in a much louder voice asked, "Captain, with your permission I will look for supplies." That would be a boring enough excuse for a group of them to wander around the spaceport.

Trulan nodded. "You know what to look for. Pay attention to some quality. Don't take the first piece of garbage you encounter. Keep your communicators on standby. Expect to hear from us at least once every twenty minutes. If there's no life sign for ... let's say thirty minutes ... hmmm ... you know what to do," he ordered.

"Right." Iniara nodded once then looked over her shoulder at the rest of their crew. "Dana, Erik, you're with me. Let's go."

With a nod, Victor stepped to stand behind Iniara and slightly to the right, so he was within her peripheral vision. No sense in driving her crazier with his presence than he was already going to, he decided. Two women with Betazoid heritage, and him. Not the team he would have picked, but then, he hadn't been asked, had he?

Dhanishta came up along side Victor. For a moment her thoughts were clouded once more as she felt his presence; it was difficult not to now. For a moment she took a fleeting glance towards the pig, the only thing that sprang to mind as she stared at the animal was bacon… as her eyes locked on to the beast she swore for a moment that it trembled. A slight smile appeared on her lips as she felt its fear. Slowly she let her gaze meander to Victor's form, up his torso, over his chiseled jaw, past his lips to his nose, finally coming to rest on his eyes. Blinking slowly she nodded to him, a silent nod of acknowledgment.

Victor acknowledged the glance with a return nod, hoping that the Betazoid woman wouldn't have another attack like the one she'd suffered earlier in the flight due to his presence. All that would do was do get in the way.

Trulan dragged out one of the phaser pistols Templar gave him and demonstrative checked it. Weapons really made a man much more intimidating. He turned towards his partner. "Ok, Mr. Templar. We have some business waiting for us. Let's go."

Templar nodded silently, taking his place at Trulan's left hand.

Turan walked a few steps then realized Lain was still waiting on the ramp. He turned around, raised an eyebrow and harshly called his slave to order. "Pet? What are you waiting for? The sundown? Do you think we wait for you till we dehydrate? Get your feet moving ...."

Thral chuckled a bit wondering if Savant was actually enjoying being called "pet" for much longer. Then again, she probably enjoyed the change of pace.

Iniara stopped suddenly, turning back towards the other group. "Captain!" she called out, pulling a small pouch from one of her many pockets. When the Quentite giant turned her way she tossed the pouch to him. It made an audible clink as he caught it, the distinctive noise indicating only one thing-- several slips of gold-pressed latinum.

"See if you can't find me a Cardassian with that," she continued, an obviously sadistic grin crossing her face before she turned back to her team and moved off. Anyone in the immediate area would have had no trouble guessing her intentions...

"Captured! Part 1"

By Commander James Lionel Corgan

And various NPC's.

Location: Somewhere on Barzan

The descent was an assault on the senses, barraging James with booming noises, shaking his bodily system until the vibration became a monotonous rumble. The gravity, warped as the ship began to die, roiled and tumbled in his stomach as it churned himself and his team inside its cargo hold. Air screamed and whistled as it rushed through the area, buffeting with a solid and sonic wall. He closed his eyes to keep the air from stinging and blinding him, but a lurch from the ship send him tumbling into the wall. Jolted by the pain, he dropped his phaser rifle, and could hear it being scooped away in a clatter of plastic on metal.

He risked opening his eyes, to check on his teammates.

T'lan and Marsh were in the same position, caught up in the sudden loss of control from the ship. Signing for grapplers, James fumbled in his belt for the proper button. He felt the safety release, and felt a thin coil roll itself around his fingers. Fumbling further, he had his fingers on a balletdevice, which he hooked onto a handhold in the cargo bay. His team followed suit, T'lan first, then Marsh.

Every movement was wrestling with the forces of the ship's plummet. James could feel it; there was an atmosphere, a planet nearby. Even on a claptrap such as this, he knew there were some measures to protect the crew against a crash landing, such as inertial dampners, but was it enough? A collision into a planet even with those safety measures still meant it could be fatal, leaving his Hazard Team a smear on a planet's surface.

A hum and a clank later, James activated his magnetic boots, fixing him to the ship's floor. Between the grappler and the boots, it was hardly a flawless plan to stay alive, but there was not much else he could do, and if he was lucky he would survive the descent.

It was at that moment he started to feel the g-forces of the planet push against him. His vision starting to turn red, he tried to relax while the ship rumbled. He heard in between the buckling of plates and bulwarks the crackling of re-entry. His cheeks felt as if they were pressed to the back of his skull, his eyes as if they went even further. He wanted to use the comm badge and contact the ship, but the last moments of static before the ship went out of control left him with little doubt that they were cut off from the ship, but he still wanted to try.

He was distracted by a sudden jolt that eminated from the starboard nacelle. There was no mistaking a hit such as that, with metal rending and a crash that deafened his ears. It was a hit! A tree, a mountain, an outcropping or a hill, it didn't matter. They were close to land.

"Brace yourselves!" He screamed, his voice lost in the din.

The starboard side was wracked again, closer to the cargo hold this time. Then the entire ship felt as if it was being buffeted from below, riding a wave of earth that sent their little ship skipping over the surface like a thrown stone over a pond. His body protested, lurching helplessly as the ship spun. On the port side, something caught the ship, tearing metal with an shredding scrape, putting the ship in another kind of spin.

Then the front end caught on a chunk of ground, and the ship was upended like a flipping coin.

The tumbles started to lessen its frequency, its jolts reducing its impact, the hull thundering like a hammer against the earth. It then just slid... smooth and serendipidous at the end of its crash, the scrape of sand and rock then turning into silence.

Then he heard the hiss of escaping air and rushing gasses, and the sting of his lungs as he took his first breath of the alien atmosphere. Frantically he looked for his teammates while fumbling for the carabiner that kept him clasped to the hull. T'lan and Marsh were struggling to escape, and the fumes were gathered more heavily in their area than it was James'. He could hear their brackish coughs, T'lan using her Vulcan strength to tear off the carabiner, and Marsh reaching for a breathing device.

He felt the carabiner free itself from the wall, and he collapsed on all fours to the deck. Hearing the clamping of feet against metal, James reached for his rebreather, but he felt his hands get weaker and his vision blur. The atmosphere on... wherever they landed, was not only foul but was sapping his strength.

The footsteps were closer, and not even bothering with caution. The first of the men in masks came in, and others followed to promptly surround James and his team. One of them, in a full EVA suit, jammed a breather into James mouth. He greedily sucked at the fresh air, the burning subsided.

Then the suited man had to blind him, forcefully throwing a black hood over James face. Blind to the world, he couldn't see what was going on. He didn't see, but very well felt, the smack of a rifle butt against the back of his head. A bright flash of stars and he saw a deeper blackness, from unconciousness.

*****

"Wake up."

James was rousted by the nagging voice from beyond the lights. His hands were tied, slick with sweat but sore with constriction, his feet bound by same ropes. There was darkness everywhere but the light, which was shone directly in his face.

"Christ.... captured." Corgan grumbled.

"Wake up."

It was clear to James that not all of his faculties had returned. His head was sore from the knock he took earlier, and his eyes were having a poor time adjusting to the shining beam.

"Wake up."

"What do you think i'm doing... sticking a thumb up my ass?" James weakly muttered to the light.

"Name."

The voice in the dark lacked a sense of humour. He smiled wryly at his captors. He could breath fresh air, though his lungs were still protesting from the burn of before. He had that to be thankful for. But to be interrogated and captured? The indignity knew no bounds! He would have to make that mistake less often.

Not that it could help now. He was captured. James didn't know what the captors would do to him, and reasoned that it would be unpleasant.

"Name."

"Corgan! James Lionel! Commander! UFC Number 09Epsilon122285ZetaMajor."

"Your mission?"

That's it? All of that and James wanted to resist answering him? Even the training he received in interrogation resistance wouldn't stand up to a well injected truth serum (humans were notoriously weak to them). The fact that James wanted to tell the interrogator to fuck off was an encouraging sign. He could still resist.

"Corgan! James Lionel! Commander! UFC Number 09Epsilon122285ZetaMajor!"

"Do not play dumb with us." Rumbled the voice from the dark. "Mission. Now. Or it gets worse."

James clucked, "Corgan! James Lionel! Commander! UFC Number 09Epsilon122285ZetaMajor! If you want to know more, go to Starfleet Command and dig up my fucking profile, asshole! I told you all you need to know!"

There was a long pause.

"Your mission."

"Oh for fuck sakes. Corgan, James Lionel. Comman...."

He felt a burning sensation spread itself from his neck, with cold clammy fingers closing around his throat to keep his head steady. The burning spread further, entering his head and tingling all over his body. It was aggrevating at first, but cooled down, producing a calming effect that unjangled his nerves. He knew he had been drugged. With a minute or two, he could even give a good educated guess as to what the drug was that was being used. For now, he was feeling better, increasingly better. Giddy even.

He giggled incessantly. "Jesus Christ... i'm gonna spill..."

"That is right." Said the voice in the dark reassuringly, as James vision started to blur and distort. The light was starting to split, and even the voice had an etherial, soothing quality to it. There was something subtle, as if the interrogator actually cared about his charge, showing genuine interest. "Tell me about your mission. I know you want to tell me, and I am a listener. Tell me."

James didn't care who listened. The man sounded trustworthy, and he knew he couldn't hold his tongue with a self sealing stembolt. The fact that he didn't care let him release a gale of laughter. "Alright, alright.... lets see... you can go to Starfleet Command, and check out my personal profile. I'll even give you my UFP number... it'll really, reaaaallllyyyy help."

"Oh... but we can...." The listener said, self assured.

The darkness lit up with LCARS screens, surrounding, blurring in motion around him, but there, spreading his life story for him to see. The main screen blocked out the glaring light, and showed James Corgan's Starfleet Command File (the main file, as seen by administrators, that worked at Starfleet Command on Earth). The file scanned across his entire service record; awards, merits, demerits, transfers.

To the right was his entire chronological record, scrolling at lightning speeds, pausing whenever he encountered the borg; the first time at the Battle of Sector 001 as a cadet on the Thunderchild, the second as an Ensign on the USS Galaxy during the Gamma Quadrant incident. Each showed his confirmed kill tallies, one for the first battle, and countless others during the second.

"Your mission."

One of the screens disappeared, and showed footage from the USS Galaxy's internal sensors, dated during the second encounter. It showed a medical lab, a heavily armed security officer, young, blonde, scared out of his wits but defiant as a Borg uncaringly barged its way into the trashed medical lab. The security officer, in his last defiance, raised a middle finger to the drone before going on the attack.

"You know, you were quite the propaganda coup. Starfleet still shows the footage of you flipping the bird at the drone. Its what they didn't show that surprises me. Now, your mission?"

James made a chortling noise, half laughing, half crying. He felt as if he was being laid bare without the ability to fight back. It was a violation. He wanted to lash out in anger, the drugs wanted him to not give a damn. He knew what was coming, why the pretense? Tell them, tell them...

"So?" He muttered.

"So... considering your mission." The voice in the dark soothed, "Why would they send you?"

The image zoomed in front of James, a light more glaring than the interrogation bulb. The footage showed, in great, gruesome detail, James killing the drone. With the drone on the ground, James rained blows from his phaser rifle's stock onto the drone's head, caving in the front of its face, the crackle of electric servos and twisted flesh with the meaty thwack of his strikes. Blood and gore spattered over his uniform, coating and caking his face, his rifle, the floor.

James at his most savage.

"How dare you..." James nodded his head, the image not escaping him, "How dare you... how dare you... HOW DARE YOU!"

"How dare I what?" The voice asked, "Show what a hypocrite you are? You hate the Borg so much. It is in your psychological profile. Do you want to see it?" One of the mystery screens shoved away the Galaxy's footage, comically jostling each other until the psyche profile won the electronic shoving match (Was it the drug? Must have been, James swore he heard a comic like musical score during the battle), scrolling in quick form the list of bahaviors that made James Corgan. Red highlights showed evidence of his hatred for the Borg. Insomnia. Multiple attempted suicides. Social disorders. Post traumatic stress disorder. "You hate the Borg! Why help them!?"

"Why why why why WHY?!" James screamed at his psychological profile, any semblance of restraint let loose, the drug's doing. "I'm loyal to the Federation, that's why! They told me to do it! I did it! That's what you wanted all along! Here! HAVE IT! I hate it! I HATE HAVING TO RESCUE THAT BORG BITCH! IT'S BETTER THAT I FAILED! I'M THE WORSE PERSON THEY COULD SEND BUT THE ONLY ONE! THERE! ALL IN A NUTSHELL!!!!" The passion of his rant was exerting on the body, the ropes cutting to his skin. He felt the drug wash over him again, calming him like a tranquilized animal. "All there for you..." He groaned, slumped, ashamed.

"You are not loyal. That is in your profile and service record." Said the voice, "You had an affair with a Tal'Shiar agent."

"And never... ever sold out our secrets. If you know my profile, you know that too." James countered.

"No... you are not a traitor." The voice sympathized, the listener turning the switch from harsh to gentle in a flawless transition. "Your psychological profile points you more towards being loyal to people and ideals rather than political structures. Such people can be either very dedicated... or very unpredictable."

"Ohhhhhh yeah." James upturned his chin, a grin and a chuckle like a demented clown, "I'd say people though. I like people. I don't show it much, but I like people."

"Do you like ideals?"

"Oh yeah. They're good too."

"Do you like our ideals?"

James deftly avoided the logic trap, "Naw... you guys are stupid. I know you have an axe to grind against the Borg. So do I. But do I want to go out of my way to fight them? FUCK NO!!!!" He screamed, faking a scottish accent for comedic effect, "They scare the shit out of me! I tried fighting them, and I didn't feel better. I felt worse, like i'm a bloody fucking murderer!!! If you want to go out of your way to fight the Borg somehow... be my guest! I'll be at the pool... playin' with my guns... there's no way to run now... i'll be by the pool... breakin' all the rules... heh heh heh hah hah ha!"

"Too bad." Said the voice.

Another came out from the dark. "He's too far gone with the drug. His adrenaline levels are too high. He'll be incoherent."

"Oh... is that bad?" James trilled. "I'm shatter glass, i'm glass i'm glass, i'm shattering fast, i'm glass i'm glassssss...."

"A shame." The first voice said, ignoring James, "Do you think he'll be on our side?"

"FUCK NO!!!!!" James screamed in fake scottish.

The voice in the dark agreed, peevishly. "What he said."

"A shame. We would have got him if we spoke to him sooner."

"Somehow... I doubt it."

"Hey... can I go now?" James questioned, "The ropes really hurt and I can't give you much more..."

The voice in the dark sighed, "Sure you can... you can give us so much more, but that will wait till later. You can tell us about any other rescue missions..."

"Nopey nope. Just us. We suck, by the way, the next group will be so much better..."

"Who's the next group?"

"Don't know."

"WHO?!"

"DON'T KNOW! FUCK OFF!"

The second voice said, "The adrenaline is overpowering the drug. We should return him to his cell."

The first voice gave in. "Fine. James, you have so much more to tell us. Other rescue missions, the Galaxy's position, Starfleet and their conspiracies with the Borg, among other things, but it seems you are not in a position to give a straight answer. So... I will give you something to think about. I want you to stay in your cell... with the thing you fear, and tell us what you think afterwards. Maybe that will help."

"Huh?" James at first didn't understand. The drugs and the excitement, the constant see saw from bottom crashing depression to euphoria was playing tricks with his mind. But then he saw what the voice was saying. Even drug addled, he still could put two clues together. "WHAT?!?! You're going to put me in a cell with that THING?! NO! NO!!!"

A hood closed over his face, and he felt multiple arms and hands close over his body, tearing the ropes and twisting him about to disorient his position. His arms and legs were pinned and he felt his position lurch horizontally, sending his stomach churning. He still fought back, but the drugs gave him an illusion of strength. His limbs didn't want to obey, working at only half their strength.

"I don't want to go!" He demanded.

The uncaring voice said, "Throw him with Three of Five. Maybe then we won't have to use drugs."

"I don't want to go!"

"It doesn't have to be this way!" The voice in the dark pleaded, begged in a way that touched James, really, a passionate plea for rationality, "Help us! We understand your pain, but your stubbornness leaves us no choice!"

"I DON'T WANT TO GO!"

"I'm sorry James... you have to go, so that you'll learn."

"I DON'T WANT TO GOOOOO!!!!!"

"Meat's Back On The Menu"

(Takes place immediately before "The Butcher's Bill")

Ortuk - Pirate Thug (Thral)
Erik Todeshändler - Temporary Weapons Officer

with
Artie - The Pig of Doom

================

Though he hadn't been on the Galaxy long, he had been on the boat long enough to hear about the creepy stuff this Krieghoff did. Thral was aware someone was going to have to draw the short straw and bunk with him and under the circumstances Thral didn't mind. In his years in the corps he'd seen much worse things. He could deal with "Lt. Death" for a few days. Artie, though, wasn't so excited and had been squealing in protest every time the Lieutenant got anywhere near him. Thral, or rather Ortuk as he was known for the time being, had Artie's leash securely wrapped around the end of his bunk while the pig itself was trying to get some sleep under the bunk though it was clear the pig wasn't sleeping well as the occasional squeal could be heard from under the bed.

The newly-amplified sense of Krieghoff's presence that had appeared when he assumed his cover identity announced the Lieutenant's arrival before the door to the cabin opened. Krieghoff waited for the door to cycle open, frowned at it when the mechanism jammed ¾ of the way open as it had with Thral, and delivered a sharp kick to the door that drove it the rest of the way into the wall. Stepping inside the small cabin to the sound of Artie's sudden and shrill realization that Krieghoff had entered the room, the security officer swung a large case against the wall and tossed a soft-sided duffel onto the empty bunk.

"Ortuk," Erik acknowledged with a nod as he shifted the case and engaged a set of mango-clamps built into it to attach it to the wall. A few touches on the case's lock panel, and one acknowledging 'beep' later, he released the case and frowned down at the leash that trailed