OBT Forum

Note #1:  The Boreth-class Attack Cruiser is from Ex Astris Scientia.  It was the immediate predecessor of the Vor'cha-class.

Note #2:  I have never liked how the writers dealt with Kurn in the DS9 episode Sons of Morgh.  I have retconned the entire idea of Worf erasing Kurn's memory away.  Instead, Kurn was convinced to train Worf's son Alexander on Earth . . . which led to his enlistment in the Klingon Defense Forces during the Dominion War.  Kurn returned to the Empire alongside Alexander in disguise, serving as a Warrior aboard Martok's flagship.  Martok was aware of Kurn's true identity and he concealed the presence of the Warrior from Gowron, and after Martok became Chancellor restored Kurn's honor.

Just say that the Klingon redundancy in their physiological makeup negated the memory wipe.  Hmph, no body is perfect, even Bashir.

“She is certainly impressive,” Delena Mar mused as she—and her aides—followed Captain Caroline Talbot into Main Engineering aboard USS Constellation . . . the newest, if as yet incomplete, Sovereign-class Heavy Explorer of Starfleet.  “I do have to wonder, however, if we are devoting too many resources to ships of this size—despite her capabilities, this ship can only be in one place at one time.”

Caroline smiled at her guest, but the friendly expression did not reach her eyes—which Mar noted and filed away; this woman was not one of her supporters.  Although, Mar thought with a sense of glee (and some apprehension), after Tuesday the opinion of one Caroline Talbot would no longer matter.

“True, Madame Ambassador,” the Starfleet officer answered.  “but as the Dominion War—and the recent Borg attack on Earth itself—showed, the Starfleet needs to have ships as individually capable as possible.  Still, you are right—we do need numbers as well as quality,” and Caroline frowned, “which is why I believe that the Council made the wrong decision to halt production of the new Yorktown-class cruisers.”

Mar shook her head.  “Those ships are too militaristic in nature, Captain Talbot—the Luna-class will take their place.”

“Ma’am, the Lunas are still having teething problems . . . and even when we get all of the gremlins out of their systems, they are undergunned for their size—an Intrepid carries as much firepower as a Luna-class explorer!”

The Argellian representative to the Federation Council frowned and she came to a halt and turned to face Captain Talbot.  “Starfleet’s mission is to explore, Captain Talbot.  We have too many ships as it is that are focused on the military side of the coin—the Defiants, the Akiras, the Steamrunners, the Sabres, and . . . now the Yorktowns.”

“We also have a duty to defend Federation space, Ma’am,” the Captain argued, and her face began to turn red as Mar shrugged.

“Against who?  The Klingons and Romulans are now our allies—the Cardassians are broken, the Dominion has been defeated.  If the Borg return—IF, Captain,” Mar snapped, cutting off Caroline who had started to answer, “we have your ship and eleven other Sovereign-class.  Plus the horde of Defiants we built during the War.  What more do we need?”  Mar paused, then she smiled.  “We are on the verge of a new era in Galactic Peace, Captain Talbot.  The Federation must look to the future—not the past—and return to our mission of exploration.  You may disagree . . . but the Council does not.”

“Perhaps they should,” Caroline muttered.

And Mar shrugged again.  “But today, they do not.  Is that the primary computer core interface?” she asked.  “You are pleased with the processing power and capability of the bio-neural gel packs, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Caroline answered, relieved to be able to turn her attention from the idiocy of the woman standing beside her.  “Constellation makes extensive use of the BNGPs to increase our raw computing power to ten times that of a Galaxy-class ship.”  She smiled.  “Binar engineers have managed to adapt the core to integrate fully with the gel-packs to take full advantage of the increased capabilities—we are the first starship in Starfleet to have one hundred percent integration of the new processors in all onboard systems.”  She smiled again.  “Even Enterprise after her refit will still rely on a mix of gel-packs and isolinear chips—Constellation is the cutting edge of things to come.”

“Yes . . . yes, she is,” Mar whispered and then she smiled.  She nodded at Jas Cruikshank and she began to walk back towards the Warp Core—the Captain and her officers trailing behind, leaving her aide standing alone at the interface terminals.  It was just for a moment, but a moment was all that Jas needed as he plugged a connector into the system and delivered the last dose of Ordan’s Gift directly into a gel-pack.

“Mister Cruikshank?” the Chief Engineer asked.  “The tour is this way, Sir.”

“Yes, yes.  Such an incredible piece of machinery—some days it is almost impossible to believe that we built a ship like this,” Jas said as he concealed the connector/dispenser in one hand and then turned around.  “Quite a leap forward from the old Hera, Commander.”

The Chief Engineer smiled and he looked over the still Core with pride.  “Yes, she is, Sir.  The tour is heading up to the Observation Deck—I believe that Captain Talbot laid on an extravagant buffet in honor of the Councilwoman.”

“Then let us join them, Commander,” Jas smiled.  “I’m hungry after all this walking,” he said with a laugh.  And the two men followed the Ambassador, the Captain, and their entourage from the Engineering spaces towards the turbolift.

Leaving no one behind to see the sudden flurry of activity on the computer interface panels as the infection was passed from gel-pack to gel-pack.  Or hear the artificial computer voice as it gasped, and then recited . . ., “Blessed be Ordan.”

Excellent to see this back up.

Daniel Faulkner moved slowly and quietly through the dark forest; it had taken him days to lose the agents that Director Fontain had assigned to follow him and then cross the continent to Dahlgren’s home here in the Shenandoah Valley.  He paused at the edge of the wood-line and crouched low as he considered the empty house before him. 

Starfleet Security, the FBI, the Foreign Service Investigation Division, the local law enforcers; all of the myriad services investigating the brutal deaths within the home (and the disappearance of Dahlgren’s family!) were long gone.  But the security seals were intact on the house itself; breaking one of them would alert the services to an intrusion . . . and would see a very quick reaction in the form of teams of heavily armed agents beaming directly in.

Daniel smiled as he stood and walked across the lawn, overgrown with weeks of neglect.  After all, he wouldn’t be breaking the seals . . . merely bypassing them.  And in a way that wouldn’t alert Security.  He moved quickly across the unkempt open law and sheltered in the shadows cast by the half-moon above, and he drew out a small kit—not unlike a tricorder in appearance—from his belt.  Working quickly, he attached several leads to the seals and then closed the device.  Taking a deep breath, he slowly raised one window and glanced down at a second device he wore on his wrist.  The lights were all green—no alarms were screaming.

Carefully, he stepped inside the home and then he drew and activated a pocket flash-light.  Then he began to methodically search the crime scene, taking care not to disturb the broken glass or the stains of blood on the dusty—once polished—oak floor.  He paused at the fireplace, noting the slightly bent steel poker that lay on the ground (with a blood stain of its very own adorning it) and looked over the photographs of Dahlgren, his wife, their three children.

Security had been over this home with every scanner they had; Daniel knew that.  But he hadn’t been allowed in here.  And he wanted—he needed—to see this place with his own eyes.  Scanners and sensors were wonderful devices . . . but some members of the various security services relied far too heavily upon them.  In doing so, they tended to miss subtle clues and evidence visible to the naked eye. 

Still, even though the bypass was in place, he knew better than to tarry overlong.  Quickly, he searched through the ground floor, and then he turned to the stairs and descended to the basement.  He stepped over the outline of a short-barreled shotgun on the floor-boards (the actual weapon having been confiscated and held in evidence, of course) and made his way carefully down to the cellar below.

And he froze as he reached the stone floor and felt the snout of a phaser press against the back of his head.

“I have no problem with stunning you,” a calm voice said quietly.  “Search him,” it ordered.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” another answered—and a fit young man dressed in civilian clothes intended for an afternoon hike in the woods began to (rather thoroughly) pat him down.  The man took his tools and his tricorder, and Daniel sighed as he found the concealed (and quite illegal) cricket within the special agent’s leather belt.

“Stunning me would be the worst thing you could do—security would here in thirty seconds,” Daniel said.

There was a laugh and then the cold voice behind him spoke again.  “True—if I use a phaser, that is.”

An older man walked up to Daniel and he squinted—the face was vaguely familiar; it nagged at him that he could not (yet) place it.  And the man drew out a hypospray from a kit on his belt, and then sighed. 

“This will put you to sleep, son—you will be out for a few hours, but wake up none the worse for wear.”

And then it clicked.  “Talbot.  Dahlgren’s CMO from Republic—you’re Talbot,” he whispered.  “But that means . . .,” and his voice trailed off, as Quincy scowled.

“Great.  Now they know who we are, Captain.  And that we are here.”

“Easy, Quincy,” Matt Dahlgren said as he lowered his phaser from the agent’s head.  “I’m Matthew Dahlgren, young man—and you are?”

“Special Agent Daniel Faulkner, Starfleet Criminal Investigative Service,” Daniel answered.

“Weren’t you relieved of duty, Special Agent?” a third man growled.

“Commodore Maxwell?” Daniel gasped.

“He’s alone,” a fourth voice whispered from the top of the stairs above.  “Bypassed security as slick and clean as I’ve ever seen, Skipper.”

“What the hell is going on?” Daniel blurted.  “Most of you are supposed to be on Republic—not on Earth!”

“Keep him covered, Mister Roberts,” Matt ordered as he walked back over to the stone walls of the cellar and began to count the asymmetrical shaped stones.  He stopped at one and he nodded, then he pressed his hand against it; it hissed and clicked open to reveal a small resting space.  Matt grinned.  “I knew that mono-refracting plating I managed to . . . acquire,” he said with a broad smile, “from the Ferengi would come in handy one day.”

He drew out a communicator—an old-fashioned design—and clipped it to his belt, and then he withdrew a memory core from a sensor recorder.  Daniel looked at the core, and then at the Captain, who nodded.

“Ben?”

“Fontain pulled him off the investigation of your family’s disappearance, Matt.  He knows good guys from the bad.  Besides,” the Commodore said with a sigh, “it’s either trust him, kidnap him, or kill him—and I didn’t sign up to kill someone like Dan Faulkner.”

“Agreed,” Matt said and he nodded.  “Corporal, the Special Agent is free to go.”

“Just like that?” asked Daniel.

“Not quite,” answered Matt as he held the memory module and then made a decision.  He pulled out a tricorder and quickly viewed it; his expression getting colder and colder as it played out.  Then he copied into the tricorder memory.  The recording complete, he extracted the original module and tossed it across to Daniel, who grabbed it in mid-air.

“That is a copy of the house sensor logs—a full recording of what went down that night.  Fontain must have the copy from the domestic computer core . . . but if so, why is still considering my family as fugitives with a warrant out from them on charges of murder?”

Matt paused, and the fifth man descended the stairs to where Ben Maxwell was opening a hidden door in the cellar wall—revealing a long tunnel beyond.

“You take that module, Mister Faulkner—and you pay close attention to what you find on it,” he said as he motioned for the others to enter the sensor-shielded tunnel.  “And you find out why my family is still wanted for murder when they were defending themselves.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“Getting my family back, Mister Faulkner—and probably killing at least one member of the Federation Council in the process,” Daniel blinked and his jaw dropped at the blunt statement, and Matt smiled grimly and nodded.  “I expect in that case, you will soon enough be after me in earnest, Special Agent.  Good night.”

And with that, Matt entered the tunnel and pulled the door shut.  Daniel looked down at the module in his hand and he carefully put it inside his pocket.  Time to get the hell out of here, he thought.  And maybe—just maybe—find out what the hell was really going on.

Cassie cringed as the possessed Vulcan screamed in rage and threw the dead body of his latest mind meld victim across the room.  It was the fifth failure that Ordan/Sepak had attempted to convert—and then the enraged being gathered himself and glared at her.

“Sepak fights on,” Cassie whispered defiantly . . . and Ordan’s eyes blazed with anger.  He took two steps towards where she sat on the bed and he swung the back of his hand against her cheek.

CRACK!  The young woman was lifted from the bed and she flew through the air to slam into the far wall, knocking down a shelf of glasses and ceramic mugs that shattered beneath her weight.  Cassandra Dahlgren gasped in pain at the impact and the sharp edges of the broken utensils that cut through her pants and shirt . . . and her hands bound behind her back.

“I grow weary of this, child,” Ordan spat.  “Perhaps it is time that I melded with you—if Sepak wishes to fight me then he will cause your death,” the Vulcan snarled as he stepped forward, with Cassie trying to squirm away, her stocking feet slipping on the tiled floor slick with blood from Ordan’s victims—and her own wounds.  “I had thought to present you as my thrall to your father . . . but if instead you must die, then die you shall.”

Cassie whimpered as the Vulcan knelt beside her and placed his hands on her cheek . . . and then Ordan paused and he smiled.  “Sepak has ceased to fight me,” he said in a surprised voice.  He stood and turned back to the sixth man tied and gagged on the warehouse floor.  And his smile widened.

“Let us test his willingness to cooperate one last time,” Ordan whispered as he walked back across the room and took his final victim in his grasp.  “Our minds are one,” he intoned as his eyes closed and the man began to struggle—and then stiffened.

The young woman, ignored now on the floor amid the pile of shattered glass, used her fingertips—swollen and numb from her bonds—to dig through the shards for a fragment large enough to cut through the ropes.  Tears leaked through her eyes as the glass and ceramic cut her fingers—but then she found a sharp-edged fragment large enough for her purpose and she began to saw at the ropes . . . and her own flesh.

Deep in his meld-trance, Ordan took no notice . . . not until Cassie felt the ropes part and she pulled her hands free and stood.  Then the Vulcan turned his head towards her.

“Run, Cassandra Dahlgren,” Sepak said in an exhausted voice.  “Ordan cannot see or hear you now—I am blocking her as she works to rape this man’s mind.  RUN, CHILD—I cannot hold her at bay for long.”

And Cassie ran.  She left the warehouse office and rushed to the main door—but it was security locked, and the emergency fire release had been disabled.  The young woman took a moment to catch her breath and she looked around the silent warehouse—piles of crates and boxes were stacked against the walls, but there were no windows.  Not on the street level, at least.  But there were some up high.  She spotted a ladder and she nodded to herself.  Heading off at a run, she rushed over to it and began to climb towards the high, narrow windows thirty feet from the ground, taking care not to slip on her own leaking blood as she ascended.

“Blessed be Ordan,” the captive whispered in a voice of pure rapture as the creature inhabiting Sepak’s body removed her fingertips from his cheeks, ending the mind-meld.  And Ordan smiled broadly.  “My life is yours, holy one,” the man finished bowing as low as his bonds allowed.

“Yes, it is, thrall,” Ordan answered with a laugh as she released the binders that held the new convert.  “And now, Cassandra Dahlgren,” Ordan continued as he stood and turned towards the captive woman, “you shall join as one of my Ho- . . .,” her voice trailed off as she noted the empty bed-cot, the severed ropes that had bound Cassie, the shattered and blood-stained glass shards, and the splatter of droplets of blood leading towards the door of the warehouse office.

“Clever girl,” Ordan muttered, the smile on the possessed Vulcan body fading away.  “I sense your glee at this most minor of victories, Sepak—you aided her, did you?  Waiting until I was deep in the meld and then you diverted my sight and hearing—no matter.  Thrall,” she commanded.  “You know the face of my captive—retrieve her . . . alive.”

“As you command, holy one,” the thrall said as he sprang to his feet and hurried from the office.  “There is window open on the catwalk!” his voice called out to Ordan—and Ordan cursed.

“Pursue her!  Return her to me,” the would-be God spoke as she unlocked the safe and pull out a phaser—well, a weapon that had begun life as a phaser before Ordan had modified the device.  And a tricorder, which Ordan flipped open and began to scan.  She smiled once more as the tracking beacon she hidden on Cassandra Dahlgren showed up clearly . . . and then Ordan began to jog towards the security door at the front of the warehouse.  The girl had a clear lead—but she was injured, the blood made that clear.  And famished, for Ordan had not fed her in days.  Her lead was sizeable, the entity thought, but not insurmountable.  Not against a thrall in full devotion and certainly not against Ordan herself.

Ordan reached the door and punched in a security code; and it opened.  And she stepped out onto the night-time streets of New York City and began to track the child of her enemy.

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

Cassie staggered in pain as one of her feet—covered only with thin stockings—smashed down upon a loose rock on the sidewalk.  She stumbled and she fell, and for a moment she just lay there panting.  But then she pushed herself back up and began to limp down the street again—turning at the next corner to try and evade the eventual pursuit.

It was cold out, and the sun had already set—how long ago, she didn’t know.  But it must have been late for the streets were nearly empty, even for this section of the city that housed mostly empty and abandoned warehouses.  She looked back, and winced as she saw the bloody footprints she was leaving behind her—a trail that would lead Ordan straight to her. 

She shivered in the cold—but did not slow her pace despite the pain in her feet and the rumbling of her empty stomach . . . and then Cassie muttered a breathless whisper, “Oh, thank god,” as a delivery truck turned onto the street and headed in her direction.

The young woman ran out in the middle of the roadway and waved her hands—and the ground truck screeched to a sliding halt not four feet away from her, the driver’s side and passenger doors of the cab opening and two men—a human and an Efrosian—rushed out.

“What the hell?” asked the human.  “You asking to be hit in the face by a truck, girl?  Running right out in front of us like that?"

“Wait, Tom,” the Efrosian interjected as he got his first good look at Cassie in the head-lights of the vehicle.  “Look at her—someone’s beat her rather severely.”

“I’ll get the med-kit,” Tom said with a sharp nod after a moment to really look at her.  “You got your comm?”

“Yes,  I will call the Patrollers as soon as I help her to the cab,” he answered.  “Here you go,” he said gently to Cassie, “you’re safe now.”

“No, don’t call the Patrollers,” Cassie stammered.  “Just drive—drive away from here.”

“I think she’s in shock, Tom—where’s that med-kit?”

“I-I’m not in shock—just drive, please drive,” Cassie begged.

The Efrosian frowned and he lifted his portable communicator and flipped it open; he pressed a button and a moment later there was a voice emerging from the unit.

“Civil Enforcement Division—what is your emergency?”

The white-haired alien opened his mouth to speak—and then he was slammed against the side of the truck from behind.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Tom as he dropped the medkit and rushed around the cab to try and pull the man who had appeared from nowhere off of his friend and co-worker.  And he was rewarded with two bone-cracking punches in return.

Cassie pulled her feet into the cab and slid across the seat—Tom had left the engine running, and she slammed the truck into gear and floored the accelerator.

“CED—what is your emergency?” the comm unit repeated from where it lay on the floor board.  Cassie began to reach down to grab the unit, but then she saw the thrall chasing after her—but too slow to catch her, she thought.  And then . . .

“OH SHIT!” she screamed as she saw Sepak/Ordan step out onto a nearby sidewalk and raise a phaser.  She twisted the wheel and the truck spun around nearly tearing itself out of her control—and a phaser beam lit the darkness and exploded one of her rear tires.

Now she really lost control and Cassie pulled the seat belt tight, snapping it into place just before the truck rolled over on its side and slammed into a building.

“CED—we have phaser fire from the same location as this call . . . can anyone respond?” the comm-unit broadcast, as Cassie coughed from the smoke and dust and shattered glass.  She reached down and felt around for the comm . . . her fingers touched it, and then she lifted it up and close the cover, ending the call.  She reopened it and punched in a connection channel that her father had made her memorize what seemed a life-time ago.

“Imperial Klingon Embassy—you had best not be wasting my time,” a voice growled.

“This is Cassandra Dahlgren of the House of Koram!” she screamed into the comm.  “I need help!  Please help,” she finished in a softer voice as she spotted Ordan/Sepak approaching the truck through one of the surviving mirrors . . . and the thrall racing past the entity possessing the Vulcan body.

“Wha-,” the Klingon on the far end began to say, but then another stern voice interrupted the first.  “Locking on your signal, Cassandra Dahlgren.” it barked.  “Jol ylchu!”

Ordan ripped away the door to the truck as his thrall kicked in the remaining glass of the front wind-shield—and then Cassie felt the hum of a transporter beam and saw the fury in the Ordan/Sepak’s face as the column of light dematerialized her and stole her away.