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Cass awoke with a start to the terrifying sounds of a man screaming.  She jerked upright to see that Sepak was kneeling across from another man, holding the man’s face in his hands—his eyes tightly closed and an intense look of concentration upon his face.  The man, however, screeched in agony as he clawed at the powerful hands that held him.  And Matt Dahlgren’s daughter blanched as a trickle of blood began to stream from the man’s nose and ears, his body went limp, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed.

Sepak’s eyes opened and he frowned at the corpse before him.  “Pity,” he whispered.  “I had thought that the secrets of the mind-meld were now mine—I was mistaken.”  He drew out a hand phaser and adjusted the controls; he then fired a golden beam into the corpse, vaporizing it.  And without turning around, he smiled.  “She wakes,” he said as he rose from the ground and turned to face her.  “I do not understand why I cannot complete the meld, child—I know all that Sepak knew.”

The young woman stood from the couch and she shivered.  “Obviously you do not, or you would not be having such troubles now.”

Sepak darted across the room and he grabbed Cass by the throat.  “Careful, child.  You are valuable to me—but not that valuable,” he growled before he released her.  “It is a matter of physiology . . . Vulcans are natural telepathic beings.  I should be able to complete the meld—why can I not?”

“Perhaps Sepak is still fighting you,” Cass spat as she rubbed the red marks his grip had left on her neck.

“Child . . . there is no Sepak.  There is only Ordan.  Sepak was vanquished from existence when I occupied his mind.”

“That is a lie,” Cass said softly.

“Oh?  Tell me then, child of Dahlgren, enlighten one who knows more of memory than you ever shall?”

“The Vulcans can transfer their katra—their souls—upon their death.  These katras live on, where their knowledge can be consulted by high-ranking Vulcan officials long after their bodies death.  You possess Sepak’s body . . . but were he truly dead, his memories would have died with him.  They did not; ergo, Sepak must still exist—and he is fighting you, Ordan.”

“Clever girl,” Sepak/Ordan said with a narrow smile.  “Yes, Sepak has retreated within himself—but he does not fight me any longer.  He is too weak for that.”

“Then why can you not meld with another living person?  Sepak is fighting you, Ordan.  He is waging a war to keep you from the minds of others.  The more you try, the harder you fight against him, the more damage you cause your victims.  It is not that lack the knowledge, Ordan . . . you lack Sepak’s discipline.”

Sepak/Ordan frowned and then he nodded.  “Perhaps you are correct, Cassandra Dahlgren.  But Sepak grows weaker by the hour—and I grow stronger.  And while that meld did not accomplish my goal, it has shown me that I am learning from my mistakes.  I was able to glimpse his thoughts and soon I will be able to rewrite his personality as my Gift did to the Lorsham long ago.”

Sepak/Ordan snorted.  “The Lorsham—they failed me.  They were unable to recover my artifacts from the Kraal and they failed me utterly against your Federation.  They are unworthy of being my servants . . . and for that I shall withdraw from them my presence.”  He walked over to communications station in the safe-house and entered a short code and pressed the transmit key.  “I feared that I would have to do this one day—but it was my hope that such frail beings could overcome their deficiencies and become worthy of being my thralls.  Humans will make far more effective thralls, I believe.”

“What have you done, Ordan?” Cass asked as she sat back down.

“What I should have years ago.  I have removed a thorn in my side that has only hindered me.”

********************************************************

“Commodore!” one of the bridge officers of USS Paris cried out . . . but Helen Arouet did not need his anguished cry as she stood from the command chair aboard the Apollo-class starship.  Nuclear fireballs were erupting across the surface of Hak’ta-thor, consuming each and every center of population in sequence.

“My God,” she whispered.  “Source of the detonations?”

“Nothing got through the blockade, Commodore,” her exec whispered.  “And there were no missile launches on the surface—they must have been pre-positioned for maximum destruction,” he paused and what little color in his face remained drained away.  “Projections indicate that all but 0.01% of the Lorsham are now dead—the radiation from those weapons was enhanced . . . the survivors will die within hours.”

“Mass suicide?  An entire race committed suicide?” Helen asked in an incredulous tone.

“Commodore,” another officer said, "there was a transmission along the buoy chain directed at Hak’ta-thor twenty-two minutes ago—it had codes of the Federation Council and was automatically relayed to the surface by the computer.”

“Did we record that transmission?” she barked.

“Affirmative, Commodore.  It was audio-only, replaying now,” he answered as the speaker crackled to life.

“Vorshun . . . know that this is the Voice of Ordan speaking unto you.  Authentication code Seven Six Beta Gamma Four Two Sigma Tau Three Five One Nine Eight.  Execute the Omega Directive.”

“End of transmission, Commodore,” the crewman finished.

Helen sat down heavily in her chair.  Three billion Lorsham gone—wiped away from existence.  An entire culture—an entire species—destroyed in the blink of an eye.  “Communications.  Open a Priority Channel to Star Fleet Command,” she said in a wooden voice.  “Number One, you have the Conn, I will be in my ready room.”

Good to see this and you back!

Ordan ain't the forgiving type. Surprised he doesn't want the Vulcans as his thralls.

Wow Things are getting worse

“The President will see you now, Admiral Shran,” the young aide said politely to the Andorian waiting in the outer office.  Hawth Shran nodded and he stood, tugging his uniform taut against his lean body.  The former Chief of Starfleet Operations nodded his thanks and walked into the office where the President and his guests stood in greeting.

“Admiral Shran,” the President said warmly as he crossed the room and shook the officers hand.

“Mister President.”

“I believe you know everyone here?  Ambassador Mar of Argellius II is the ranking Councilwoman on the Starfleet Oversight Committee; Director Maurice Fontain is the head of the Federation Bureau of Investigation—and the interim Chief of Starfleet Operations.”

Shran frowned.  “Yes, I am familiar with both of them, Mister President, and it is precisely this matter that I requested a private discussion over.”

“Please sit, Admiral,” the President said as he took his own seat, followed by the others and Shran.  The Bolian sighed.  Min Zife had become President in the aftermath of Admiral Leyton’s coup attempt . . . which had led to the fall of President Jaresh-Inyo’s government. And it was beginning to appear that Zife would be a one-term President as well, with Mar leading the opposition over the failures of the Federation government to adequately deal with the humanitarian and environmental impact of the Dominion War.  Zife leaned back in his seat and he looked again at the man who shared skin coloration with him, and he smiled.  Appointed Hwath Shran as Chief of Starfleet Operations had been his first action and the man had worked wonders in bypassing the bureaucracy and cutting through the deadwood to win the Dominion War.  At which point he had stepped down, leaving Josiah Parker to win the peace.  And Zife sighed again.

“I believe that I know why you are here, Admiral.  But in the event that I am mistaken, perhaps you can inform me.”

“This matter of Admiral Parker’s arrest—and the lack of civil liberties being allowed to him in confinement—has caused great . . . unease in Starfleet.  I am here to find out for myself, Mister President, exactly why he was arrested, why his rights under Federation law have been suspended, and why a civilian has been appointed to a post held previously—throughout the history of this government—by a member of Starfleet.”

Fontain frowned.  “Admiral Shran, the Bureau does not discuss on-going investigations and cases with anyone—your request is out of line!”

But Zife held up one hand and he nodded to Mar, who had begun to reply, but then closed her mouth.

“Thank you, Mister President,” she said calmly.  “Director, these are not normal circumstances.  And given the penetration of this government by the Founders and the circumstances that surrounded the Leyton Coup, I feel it would be more than appropriate to brief the Admiral.  Indeed, it might well prevent rash action being taken by those who are accusing President Zife of rail-roading a decorated veteran with many years of honorable service.”

Zife made himself nod in agreement—she was his principle opponent, diametrically opposed on many issues, so he could not afford to antagonize her when she defended him.  “I quite agree.  Admiral Shran has clearance for this information and I am granting him need-to-know, Director.”

Fontain looked down and then he grudgingly nodded.  “Admiral,” he said looking Shran directly in the eyes, “you are aware of the recent loss of USS Balao and the attack on USS Republic, yes?”

“I am, Director.”

“The attackers against Republic had access to her command codes, Admiral,” he said as Shran grew rigid.  Fontain nodded again.  “And USS Eagle managed to recover some of the debris from Balao; they confirmed that the weapon signatures from that attack were Klingon in origin.  The Bureau began an intensive investigation into how Republics command codes found there way into the hands of this renegade—and we discovered that those codes, as well as the command codes for Balao had been transmitted to a known Orion Syndicate operative directly from the home of Admiral Parker, using Admiral Parker's own personal comm codes.”

Shran released a hiss of breathe as if someone had just punched him in the belly.

The President shook his head.  “I would never have though Josiah would betray his fellow Starfleet officers, but the evidence is damning, Admiral.  Director Fontain brought this matter to my attention twenty-four hours ago, and I was the one who ordered the immediate arrest and sequestration of Admiral Parker.”

Mar chimed in.  “It was deemed imperative to prevent Admiral Parker from destroying any incriminating files that might have resulted from going through normal channels.  In consultation with the Federation Council, the President and the Director decided to hold Admiral Parker in isolation until the investigation into files at Starfleet Command and elsewhere has been completed—we expect that investigation to come to an end within the next week.  If,” and Mar shook her head, “if Admiral Parker was part of a criminal conspiracy within Starfleet, it behooves us to act quickly to identify those other conspirators—those men and women who would murder the entire crew of two Starships, and bring them to justice.  Following normal procedure would give those officers—if they exist—an opportunity to cover their trail and hide their crimes.”

“The investigation has further revealed that four deceased men found at the residence of Captain Dahlgren’s family, who may have been involved in an attack upon that family, were also connected to the same Orion that Parker had contact with,” Fontain reported, and he shook his head sadly.  “I hope—I pray—that this is just a case of one man being overwhelmed by mental illness and his passions.  Our investigation has turned up that despite appearances to the contrary, Admiral Parker has been . . . jealous of Matthew Dahlgren for quite some time, both professionally and socially.  His own encrypted personal logs indicate that he gave Captain Dahlgren command of Republic hoping that he would fail to rehabilitate that ship, so that he might then comfort Dahlgren’s ex-wife and win her love.  He must have had these delusions for years, but no one saw the signs.”

Shran sat there in stunned disbelief.  “You have evidence of all of this?”

The President nodded.  “We do.  The Director has shown it to me and the Director . . .,” he paused and gave Fontain a long look, “will make it available for your examination.”

Fontain bristled, but at last he nodded.

“I would have thought my right arm more likely to betray me than Josiah Parker betray his oath,” Shran whispered.

“As did I, Admiral,” Zife said sadly.  “As did I.”

“Admiral,” Mar said softly.  “Director Fontain is the interim Chief of Starfleet Operations—he is not going to be appointed as the permanent Chief.  Indeed, he is only there to make certain that evidence has not been disposed of at Starfleet Command.  I believe that the President is planning on asking you to resume that post to restore confidence to Starfleet.”

Zife nodded sharply.  “I am, Admiral Shran.  Perhaps it will ease that unease you mentioned when you can reveal to your officers and men that you have seen the evidence against Admiral Parker, and that we are not acting rashly here.”

“I had expected to return to Andoria, to take command of the Fourth Fleet, Mister President,” Shran answered after a moment.  “But I will accept your offer and resume my post as Chief of Starfleet Operations for the good of the Fleet.”

“Thank you, Hwath,” Zife whispered as he stood, followed by everyone else.  “Director Fontain will have the files delivered to your office—by courier.  You cannot make copies of them, and you can only examine them in the presence of the courier, who will return them to the Bureau after you have seen enough.”

Zife walked around the desk and he shook the Andorian’s hand once more.  “Let this be the final tragedy of the War we have fought, Admiral Shran.  And together, let us restore Starfleet and the Federation to her former glory.”

“Thank you for taking the time to explain this me, Mister President.  Director, Ambassador.” Shran said and then he turned on his heel and exited the office.  As the door closed behind him, he swallowed heavily and he shook his head.  No, Josiah Parker would never have done anything like this, he thought.  Others yes, that he would believe, but not Josiah.  He gathered himself as the President’s aide looked at him in concern, and then he nodded to her and left behind the politicians.  Something is rotten in San Francisco, he thought as he entered the turbolift that would take him to ground level.  He started to tap his comm badge, but then he forced down his hand.  No.  Not here.  And not through official channels.  But rest assured, Josiah, I will find out who is framing you—and why.  The turbolift came to a halt, the doors slid open, and Shran walked free of the building with his head held high and with a purpose in his stride.

I just read all of Book One and what you have posted of Book Two today. As an avid Star Trek fan, I am in awe of your story and eagerly wait for the next installment. Why you aren't a published author by now eludes me...

I can't wait to delve into your "Broken Empire"... 

I am experiencing some really major computer issues, so updates will be catch as catch can for the immediate future.  I am on a borrowed laptop at the moment as mine has completely quit functioning.

MA

Good stuff, glad to see more trek!