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Jean-Luc Picard frowned at the question.  “At the moment, Admiral Shran, Enterprise is the middle of a warp core refit—and we have only a skeleton crew aboard.  Four-fifths of my people are on leave . . . while we can leave McKinley Station, we have only impulse power available.”

“I am aware of that, Captain Picard,” Shran answered with a scowl on his face.  “However, with the exception of Enterprise and the Perimeter Defense Fleet, at the moment the cupboard is rather bare.  Constellation is almost ready for deployment . . . but the ship and crew are completely untested.  Lexington has just started a major refit and Ticonderoga," Shran winced, "she's just entered the dry-dock and had her hull opened."  He shook his head.  "Valkyrie is the only ship we have in Spacedock ready for deployment . . . and she is a Constellation-class."

Jean-Luc nodded grimly.  What the Admiral hadn't said—because the Andorian hadn't needed to—was that the Earth Perimeter Fleet was below strength at the moment at well.  Beside the Akira-class Thunderchild, the Excelsior-class Repulse, the Defiant-class McHale, and the Steamrunner-class Appalachia, only three Saber-class escorts remained as part of what had once been (just a year ago), the strongest Fleet strength of the entire Federation.  With the end of the Dominion War and the necessity of picking up the pieces and healing the wounds, the remainder of the Earth Perimeter Fleet had been dispatched to worlds still suffering from the Invasion.

“What about Shokaku?” Jean-Luc asked.

“She’s six weeks from launching,” Shran answered with a shake of his head.  “Saratoga and Ark Royal are not going to ready for months, before you ask.”

“Admiral,” Jean-Luc said after a momentary pause.  “I agree that the . . .,” he paused again.  “The arrest of Admiral Parker and the refusal of the government to allow him to see or speak with anyone is . . . worrisome.  But even with Enterprise, Lexington, and Ticonderoga unavailable for deployment, we have enough Starfleet personnel in the system to ensure that the Federation government has not been infiltrated,” . . . the again, that went without saying.

Shran nodded and he sighed.  “And if this . . . malfeasance . . . on the part of the government was the only problem at hand I would agree with you.  We have a renegade Klingon Fleet heading directly for Earth, Jean-Luc . . . they will arrive within the next twenty-four hours if Admiral Hansen cannot stop them.  And that is just the first problem we face.”

Jean-Luc jerked upright in his chair.  “Martok?  Martok wouldn’t launch an attack on the Federation!”

“The Fleet belongs to the House of Mak’vegh, although to be honest their motivation appears to be less an attack on the Federation than a desire to destroy Republic and her crew.”

The captain of the Federation flagship cocked his head in puzzlement, and Shran sighed.  “You didn’t buy the cover story of an Ion Storm that destroyed the Klingon battle cruiser Val’quis and damaged Republic, I hope?”

“Not in the least,” Jean-Luc chuckled and Shran sat back.  Then he slid a PADD across his desk.

“This is the real story, Jean-Luc—it doesn’t leave this office.”

Jean-Luc began to read and then he looked up; Shran only nodded, and he returned to reading, scrolling back up and re-reading a section a second time before he set down the PADD and turned it off.

“That explains a lot,” he mused.  “I would have found a different solution—but Dahlgren has always been a cowboy.”

“We weren’t there, Jean-Luc—I won’t second guess an officer for decisions he makes in the heat.”

“No,” Jean-Luc agreed as he shook his head.  “No, we weren’t.  Parker was rehabilitating Republic, I take it?”

“That’s why he gave her to Matthew,” Shran said.  “And a good thing too,” he said as he extracted two more PADDs.  “You need to see these as well.  That business out at New Columbia with the Nephkyrie—and what really happened at Camulus.”

Frowning, Jean-Luc began to read again and half-way through the first, he cocked an eye-brow.  When he finished, he set it aside, and shook his head.  “Cowboy.  A real buckaroo, Admiral.  Although I won’t argue with the results.  And it is a far cry from that ship’s reputation, I will add.”

Then he picked up the second PADD and his eyes grew wide.  “Her command codes?!?”

“Republics and Balaos both,” Shran confirmed.  “Balao was lost with all hands in the attack—Republic was lucky.”

“Yes she was,” whispered Jean-Luc.  And then he looked up.  “And Dahlgren’s family was attacked here on Earth,” he said in a cold voice.

The Commander of Starfleet nodded, and his blue skin darkened slightly.  “And Admiral Parker was arrested; the funny thing is, I received a package yesterday via courier—from Admiral Parker.”

He leaned back in his chair and pressed a button and on a monitor screen a video began to play.  “Hawth, I am leaving this recording in case something happens to me.  You are one of the few that I feel I can trust.  Good hunting, my friend,” the image said.  And then the video began to play the recording of the conversation between Josiah and Matt shortly after the attack on Republic.  All emotion melted away from Jean-Luc’s face as he listened, and then the screen blanked and Josiah reappeared.  “I have started digging into the First Contact of the Lorsham made by Hera—if I vanish, I believe you will find the information rather startling.”

And the recording ended.

Jean-Luc sat back.  “And that information was?”

“Fascinating.  And quite frightening.  Of the seven hundred and forty-four officers and men aboard that starship when she visited Hak’ta’thor only five hundred and seventeen remain alive today.”

“What?  That was just fifteen years ago!” Jean-Luc sputtered.  “The natural death of two hundred and twenty-seven personnel in that time frame is . . . unbelievable.”

And Shran nodded.  “And of those five hundred and seventeen every single survivor is a member of either the Federation government or Starfleet—most in critical positions.”

“I’ll recall every Enterprise crewman and officer on Earth immediately, Admiral,” Jean-Luc said with a wince.  “This is more wide-spread than the blue-gill conspiracy.”

“And the Founders infiltration,” agreed Sharn in a sour voice.  “I’ve already detained all forty-four of the former-Hera crew in Starfleet here on Earth—very quietly, I might add.  Some of them didn’t want to go quietly, however.”

The Andorian paused.  “Jean-Luc, we have to be cautious—but at the same time, we must be ready to step in if they make their move.  Fontain was a member of that crew—and so was Ambassador Mar.”

“Understood,” the captain of Enterprise said  “We will be standing by, Admiral,” he began, but the door burst open and Zak Jurood entered with a furious expression on his face.

“We’ve got a problem, Admiral,” he barked out.  “Fontain has ordered Starfleet to board and search the Klingon cruiser Amar for fugitives—including Matthew Dahlgren, his family, and the Imperial Klingon Ambassador, Cha’shin.”

“WHAT?” bellowed Shran and Jean-Luc at the same time as the two stood.

“I refused, of course—and that idiot said he is going to use FBI personnel to do so.  And threatened to have me arrested for defying orders of the Federation Council.”

Shran started to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth as Jean-Luc lowered his face into his palms.

“Dahlgren is still aboard Republic, isn’t he?” asked Jean-Luc.  "Please tell me he is aboard Republic and not stoking the fires of this mess?"

“No,” answered Shran bleakly.  “Ben Maxwell contacted me over an extremely secure channel a few days ago—Matthew Dahlgren has already returned to Earth and is attempting to find and keep his family safe.  Chan Shrak is commanding Republic on her way back here.”  Shran drew in a deep breath.  “Captain Picard—I need you to return to Enterprise . . . and get your crew ready for anything.  Commodore, place a call to the office of the President.  Min Zife and I have much to discuss and little time in which to do so.”

This is not a time for subtlety but action.

Coming to the climactic battle, can't wait!

“Amy?” Matt whispered in relief, and then he paused as his emotions caught up with him and he gasped, unshed tears glistening in his eyes.

“MATT!” a second voice emerged—that of Matt’s ex-wife.  “Sarah is hurt,” she snapped.  And then sighed.  “So is your friend Cha’shin,” there was another pause.  “And I don’t know where Cassie is.”

“Where are you, Mel?” he asked quietly.

“In one of the Klingon safe-houses—Cha’shin won’t even call the embassy for help.  He says it is too dangerous.”

“Indeed it is, Madame Dahlgren,” a guttural voice broke into the conversation.

“I swear, I will rip the next being who calls me Madame Dahlgren a new as- . . .,” Melody began before Matt cut her off.

“Koram?”

“None other, ‘Teddy Bear’,” the Klingon laughed as he answered.  “Federation Security is monitoring this conversation—stand by for transport!”  There was a pause, and then Koram barked an order in Klingon.  “Jol ylchu!”

Matt and his companions heard a hum and then they were surrounded by the red flash of a Klingon transporter—the Virginia woods of the Shenandoah Valley vanished from around them and was replaced with the harsh bulkheads and decks of the mist filled Klingon cruiser.

“Lock onto my family and the Ambassador!” Matt commanded as he stepped down from the platform—followed by Ben Maxwell, Quincy Talbot, Chris Roberts, and Alvin Thiesman.  “Beam them aboard NO-. . .,” he began, but he stumbled and the barked order stopped before resuming as a whisper.  “Cassie?”

His eldest daughter nodded as she stood beside the transporter and then Matt was there, his arms around her as he lifted her up and held her tight.  After a moment, he set her down and stepped back . . . and the joy of seeing his daughter alive faded as he noticed the bruises on her face and the haunted look in her eyes.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” she whispered before he could ask, one of her hands reaching out and taking his hand.  “I’ll be fine,” she repeated.

“Transporter locked on Ambassador Cha’shin and his companions—three human females, two juveniles, one adult,” reported the Klingon manning the console.

“Beam them aboard!” snapped Lord Koram as he marched into the transporter room.  He grinned at Matt and pointed his hand at Cassandra.  “It would appear that she has spoiled my surprise, Matthew—we recovered the Lady Cassandra a short while ago.” He laughed out loud and set his hands on his hips.  “The embassy was rather taken aback when she called them and requested aid as a member of the House of Koram.  She thinks fast on her feet—and she honored me and the crew with an aria from Qul Tuq—the House of Fire,” Koram nodded his appreciation.  “Such pitch, such power—Matthew, your child is an artist exemplar.”

The transporter hummed again and the pads began to glow.  Matt swallowed as four forms slowly—oh, so slowly—began to materialize.  He took a step forward, but Koram grabbed his shoulder and held him.  “Let the medics do their job, Matthew,” he said quietly as a Klingon medical officer and Quincy both raced for the platform.

Cha’shin was lying down, his side bandaged in bloody clothes, but he waved away the Klingon.  “I am a Warrior—this is nothing.  See to the child,” he commanded in a weak voice as Koram nodded in pleasure at his nephew’s willingness to bear pain.

Quincy already had his medical tricorder out and he frowned as he ran a scan over the little girl cradled unconscious in her mother’s arms.  “She’s hasn’t regained consciousness since the attack?” he asked Melody, and Matt’s face grew hard as Cassie squeezed his hand.

“No—not fully,” Melody answered as Amy ran to Matt and he held her and Cassie both tight, but his eyes never left his youngest daughter limp in her mother’s arms.

The doctor turned to look first at Matt and then at Melody.  “She’s got a skull fracture,” and he sighed.  “Along with a sizeable subdural hematoma,” he continued.  “There is a tear in a vein—a small one, thank god.  But I need to get her to surgery right now,” Quincy scowled and glared at the Klingon doctor.  “If you have anything more than advanced than a bone-saw and a bottle of high-proof bloodwine, that is.”

The Klingon began to snarl, but he stopped at a curt bark from Koram.  “Doctor, Amar is fully equipped with a ‘sick-bay’ that would not be out of place on a Federation vessel.  I do not waste the lives of my Warriors who can be saved—GO.  Treat the girl, K’mjar,” he said to the ship’s medic, “assist the human.  And then treat Cha’shin even if he protests.  GO.”

“Quincy . . .,” Melody asked the older man, and he put his hand on her arm.

“We caught it in time—she’ll be fine.  You have my word on it,” he said as two Klingons entered with a stretcher and loaded Sarah on it; they departed at a trot trailed by the two surgeons.

“Mom?” Cassandra called out as she cried tears of so many different emotions and Melody nearly collapsed as she saw her daughter—she rushed over and all four of the Dahlgrens (including a Holder who insisted she wasn’t a Dahlgren anymore!), held each other tight.

Until Melody sobbed and she stepped back, they all stepped back for a moment, and then she slapped Matt on the check.

“DON’T YOU EVER DO THIS TO US AGAIN!” she snapped; then she began to cry.

Matt didn’t answer, he just took his ex-wife in his arms—his strong arms—and held her tight against his chest as she sobbed and shook.  He held her and he cried as well.

“Come children,” Koram said softly.  “And the rest of you humans,” he waved his arm at Ben, Chris, and Alvin.  “Let us give the two of them some time alone.  Come.  They will have precious little time as it is,” he finished with a scowl.

“What do you mean?  Sir,” asked Chris.  Koram stopped and he turned to the young officer and he nodded to himself.

“Your Federation has sent shuttles to intercept us—they are demanding to board Amar and take all of you into their custody as prisoners.  I have refused, of course,” and Koram grinned.  “Surrendering you, that is.  I told the p’tahk commanding them that they were welcome to board—and I requested where he wanted their remains sent afterwards.  He was quite taken aback.”

Ben Maxwell stopped in the corridor.  “Starfleet is trying to board?” he asked in an incredulous voice.

“No.  Your Bureau of Investigation,” Koram answered.

“Oh, hell,” Ben cursed.  “I need a comm—I have to speak with Starfleet Command.”

“Matthew Dahlgren trusts you,” Koram said after a moment and then he nodded.  “Very well.  Know this Benjamin Maxwell, if you betray my brother or his family, I will cut out your heart myself.”

Ben just nodded, and Koram smiled.  Few words were the ideal Klingon way, after all.  “The replicator is programmed for human fare,” Koram said as he led them into the small stateroom.  “I will instruct the crew to establish a link for yo-. . . ,” he was interrupted as alarms began to blare.

“REPORT!” Koram snapped as he hit a wall-mounted comm.

“My lord,” a voice answered.  “We are being hailed by the Federation Starship Constellation—we are ordered to lower our shields and surrender your guests.”  There was a pause.  “She threatens to fire into us if we refuse.”

“Range?  Class?” barked the Klingon ship commander.

“Leaving Mars orbit at point nine five light-speed,” the bridge officer reported.  “She will be here in ten minutes . . .,” there was a pause, and another voice interrupted.

Ben Maxwell sighed and cursed under his breath.  “She’s a Sovereign-class,” he said very quietly.

Koram stared at him for a moment and then he too let out a Klingon invective and spat on the deck plates.  “Perhaps it is a good day to die,” he growled before he turned and began to race to the bridge.

Ben turned and he pointed to the two girls.  “Stay with them!” he ordered and then he ran after Koram.

I bet the survivors of her crew are surprised...

Anew year is coming we need more