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From: [e-mail] (james vassilakos)
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Subject: STORY: ST-PBeM Turn #40 - Soliciting Histlin
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Date: 5 Jul 1995 08:49:34 -0400
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*******************************************************************************
                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #40
                              Soliciting Histlin
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************


  Cast & Crew
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  ST-PBeM GameMaster       Jim Vassilakos      [e-mail]
  Lt. T'lar                Ronnie Simonds      [e-mail]
  Lt. Morchainte           Brian Chrisman      [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. Duran          Tony Hayes          [e-mail]
  Lt. St. James            John Brengman       [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. de la Sangre   Carlos Jensen       [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. Hawkins        Tony Hayes          [e-mail]
  2nd Lt. Xelha            Dave Shue           [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. tr'Remas       Dave Shue           [e-mail]
  Dr. Bannister            Jason Stripinis     [e-mail]
  Lt. K'tar                Steve Mays          [e-mail]


Stardate 6003.28 at 1715 Hours: USS Phobos, Brig
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"C'mon." The Tricani glares at his over-stuffed prey. "I dare you twice as
much. Eh?"

"I'm not allowed to shut down the field!"

"What's the matter with you? You afraid of me, pig-man?"

Turak glares back, "Don't call me that or I'll..."

"Hah! Oink oink... snort snort."

"Why you little..."

"Enough!" Duran grabs the Tellarite, swinging him around. "What's going on
here?"

"We was gonna have a little arm-wrestling, you know?" the Tricani makes an
innocent expression from within his cell, "but your flunky chickened out. Or
should I say porked out, eh? Hah! Hah hah!"

Duran suppresses a grin. He's never before seen somebody dare to insult a
Tellarite so boldly. Of course, having the forcefield up probably added some
courage.

"Turak, you're dismissed."

"Sir, requesting permission to shut down this field and put that piece of trash
is his proper place."

"Denied."

"Sir..."

"That will be all." Duran leans forward, "Let me take care of this, Turak. I'm
an officer. I'm less likely to catch hell if our precious prisoner gets
bruised."

Turak's snout wrinkles in concentration. "Frankly, sir, I'd rather do it
myself." He makes a fist with his robotic arm.

"I know. The problem is that you're too good a security officer to lose over
something as petty as this. Let me take care of him. The Captain owes me a
favor anyway." Duran grits his teeth and grins at the Tricani who steps
backward a pace or two, drawing a gulp of air.

After Turak is gone, Duran approaches to within an inch of the field, motioning
the Tricani closer. "No games," he whispers, "you got one maybe two minutes to
spill your guts. After that there may be no more chances for us to talk."

"What are you talking about, Duran?" He looks you over, like a scientist might
study a laboratory animal. "Something's the matter. What happened?"

"In a minute, first spill it quickly."

"Spill it? Spill what?"

"Sarin." Duran tries to keep his voice especially low. "Why do you want to kill
him?"

The Tricani sighs, "He's transporting Genesis to the Klingons."

Duran blinks, "Come again."

"Which word didn't you understand? Transporting, Genesis, or Klingons?"

Duran switches off the field and drags the Tricani out of the brig an into an
adjacent maintenance room for the local power generator. Still keeping his
voice low, "Where did you get this information?"

"Malcolm. He knows everything."

Duran nods, supposing that it's probably true. "Why can't we just _arrest_
Sarin? If his assassination has been ordered, then there must be sufficient
evidence."

His counterpart sighs, "Not enough to make the charge stick, at least not
without compromising the agency. Malcolm don't think it's such a good idea."

"But if Sarin dies, whoever is behind this will just try again."

"And we'll catch them again... and again... and again... until we can put a
finger on who's behind it." The Tricani studies Duran once more, a slow scowl
crawling down the length of his face. "You hesitate? What is this? Your orders
were clear. Interrogate the suspect. Locate the goods. And above all else,
don't let him meet with the Klingons. And now you've been ordered to take him
to Rigel and you do nothing?"

"Sarin says there will be a war if he doesn't complete his mission."

The Tricani laughs, "Oh, I get it. The pacifist leading the arms race. Look my
friend, I don't care about Sarin's politics."

"But what if he's right?"

"Then so what? You ask me... there will be a war either way. War is like death
and taxes. It's inevitable. The only question is how many have to die. Did
Sarin tell you how the transfer is being made?"

Duran shakes his head, "That won't happen."

The Tricani nods, "Then we are left with no alternative. One of us is gonna
have to kill him. There isn't no other way anymore."

Duran blinks, remembering precisely where he's heard that before. Before he can
comment on it, however, the door swooshes open.

"Uh," it's Turak again, "I heard voices. If you need any help with this bozo,
I'd be happy to..."

"No," Duran states. "Everything's under control." He waits until the door
closes again, hoping that Tellarites don't have as keen a sense of hearing as
Andorians. Then he smacks his forehead and takes out a security tricorder,
scanning over the comm-port on the wall.

"What're you doing?"

"The last time we had a chance to talk, we weren't in private. One of the
crewmembers was listening in."

"What!?"

"Not just that, but he made a recording. They know who we are."

"Son-of-a..."

"I know," Duran agrees. "Just stay alert and keep a low profile and I *might*
be able to keep the both of us alive."

"How the hell are you gonna do your mission if..."

"I'll figure something out. Just remember that this ship is filled with anti-
SFIC sentiment right now. They're looking for any excuse to off the both of us.
My advice is that you don't give 'em one." He hauls the Tricani back into his
cell, passing Turak along the way. "Oh, by the way... he apologizes."

"Yeah, so sorry to bother you snout-face."

"Grrrrr..."

"Diplomatic... very diplomatic." Duran switches the field back on, looking the
Tricani over one last time. "Remember what I told you." He turns about before
the strange alien can muster a response, shutting down the forcefield to
Histlin's cell and stepping inside.

"Duran."

"It's Khemsa now." He sits next to her and whispers, "The Captain and crew are
concocting this wondrous and elaborate plan. They need your help to carry it
out and..."

"My help?"

He nods, slowing down just a tad, "For whatever reason, they seem to think that
you will listen to me and trust me. I don't know who you trust or who you
should trust, but I do know that if you are willing to help, we might be able
to get the charges against you reduced or maybe even dropped. I can't promise
anything, but it certainly can't hurt."

She looks at him rather dubiously but says nothing.

"In the short term, you will get out of here and get your own quarters. If you
are interested in hearing more about it, we can go someplace else where we can
talk privately, and I can give you more details. Would you be interested in
helping?"

She sighs and looks to the floor, "Not again."

"What?"

"This is almost exactly how it started with the Romulans."

Duran smiles, a bit embarrassed. "The difference here, Histlin, is that we
aren't asking you to kill anyone." He finds himself gulping a lump of air as he
gets a moment to think about the statement.

Duran helps her to her feet, and wraps the blanket around her for warmth.
"Let's go." A moment later they're outside the brig, Turak still meandering
around the corridor.

"What about that Tricani?"

"Ignore him," Duran keeps walking until they're safely inside the nearest
conference room. Histlin takes the seat the Tricani had occupied only a short
time ago, specks of blood on the table in front of her where the medics didn't
do a very good job cleaning up.

"Okay, here it is in a nut shell," Duran begins, hoping she understands the
phrase. "They want you to assume the shape of Sarin and pose as him until we
reach Rigel. You will stay in his room, and he will be secreted elsewhere. You
will be guarded and protected, and the guards will NOT know you are not Sarin.
Unfortunately, if all goes well, neither will anyone else. I think you know
what that means." Duran casts her an ominously stare. "If you help, Vince...
er... the Captain... I'm sure he'll note your cooperation to help you out at
your trial."

She looks to the floor again, still silent.

"However," Duran continues, "if you want, I may be able to do even more for
you. I can't promise anything, but if you want, I would be willing to help
you... well... get lost on your way to trial."

She looks up, somewhat surprised.

"You'd have to have a new identity, of course. Preferably as a Federation
citizen."

"Identity is not a problem," she changes herself into the likeness of Duran.
"I could be you."

"True, but you'd also need a passport... if you wanted to travel legitimately
that is."

Changing back again, "You can do that?"

"No... but I know people who can. I don't know if I can get their help, but I
will try for you if you want."

Histlin narrows her eyes, "Why?"

He smiles, "Why? Because you are an intelligence agent, albeit not by choice.
What you did was, in some strange way that only seems to make sense to me, your
job. You did it for that reason and for whatever ransom the Romulans held over
you. You shouldn't be held accountable for that. You were a pawn in the game to
be sacrificed as needed for the good of the Empire. Well, there is in my eyes
no need for that sacrifice, and if I can save you from that, I will."

She looks at him, this time with a sort of look that he hasn't seen in a very
long time. Gratitude, perhaps? Whatever it is, it make him feel an inch taller.
Duran suddenly remembers his mission, and his moral confusion. That's one thing
the SFIC never taught him to deal with. It was something they didn't even want
their trainees to think about, much less their agents.

"Look, I need an answer. To both questions."

"Where is T'lar? I want to see T'lar."

"No, Histlin. You have to decide this for yourself."

She makes a worried face, caught somewhere between confusion, inertia, and
indecision. "Please let me see T'lar, Duran. Please."

"I can't. The Captain..." Duran's voice trails off. He walks over and takes her
trembling hand in his, 'Damn, I hate when women do this to me...' "Look,
Histlin... I'll get T'lar down here, but you can't tell her about my offer to
help you... well... escape. I'm probably going to be in jail by the time this
is over as it is. I just don't want the fleet to have any more charges against
me than they already do." Duran pauses, "Please."

"Jail? Why would they put you in jail?"

"It's a long story." Duran goes to the comm-port, "Khemsa to Lt. T'lar."

"T'lar here."

"Lieutenant, please report to the security conference room immediately. Your
assistance is needed."

"Acknowledged."

Duran returns to Histlin's side. "She's on her way."


Stardate 6003.28 at 1730 Hours: USS Phobos, Deck 7
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the turbolift doors finally open on deck seven, Vince, Hawkins, Kris, and
Dr. Bannister step out together, Jake catching his bearings and making a
beeline for sickbay. "Lots to do. I'll let you know when we're ready, Captain."

"Excellent," Vince turns around to resume his discussion with Hawkins. "Look,
Commander. It's not that I have moral qualms about using the cloaking device."

"Then why not use it? It's gonna take a good twelve hours for us ta convert the
ship's warp signature ta look like a freighter. Any ship that's followin' us'll
have plenty a time ta figure out where we are an' what we did. We'd be far
better off usin' the cloak if we can."

"Exactly... if we can."

Hawkins shakes his head, "If we spend the twelve hours aworkin' on the cloak,
we should be able ta git it workin'. It's a Klingon design an' K'tar seems ta
know 'bout it. It shouldn't be that hard. I understand the basic theory. All we
have ta do is tie it inta the deflector grids." Hawkins pauses and scratches
his head, "I guess I jus' don't understand why we aren't plannin' ta do that?"

"Do what?"

Hawkins just about jumps out of his shorts. "Jesus, K'tar. Don't sneak up on me
like that."

"Klingons don't sneak." K'tar grimaces appropriately for the occasion, causing
Vince to break out in a jovial grin thinking how nice it is to have a few
officers who take orders unquestioningly.

"How are you feeling K'tar?"

"Adequate."

"Good... good. I'm glad you could be here on such short notice, especially for
an interrogation... not exactly the usual sort of duty we give our combat
engineers in Star Fleet, but then you're a special case."

"Sir, what questions am I to ask the prisoner? What information do we hope to
gain from him?"

"We have good reason to believe that he isn't telling us everything he could be
telling us. I just want you to confirm that hypothesis, and rectify it. Find
out who he really is, what he's doing here following us, and most important,
who sent him. You know what to do, don't you?"

K'tar nods, "First, I will smash his face into the interrogation table."

"No, we don't want to be repetitive."

"I see," K'tar's eyes bulge our slightly in admiration. "Then... perhaps I
should just rend him limb from limb."

"Ehh... sorry, but that's not the way we do it. The prisoner is to remain alive
when the interrogation is over, and preferably without irreparable or life-
threatening damage. Other than that, I give you free reign."

"As you wish," the Klingon looks rather disappointed.

"Oh, and just for the record, you didn't hear me say you could rough him up.
Neither did you St. James. Understood?"

Duran slaps a hand on the Captain's shoulder, "Does that mean me too?"

"Hello, Lt. Khemsa. How did it go with Histlin."

"I'm giving her a few minutes to think over her options."

Vince nods, "For her sake, I hope she decides to cooperate. Okay folks. It's
show time." He enters the brig, his four trusted officers directly behind him.

"Well well," The Tricani smiles as he sees the welcoming committee, "if it
isn't Captain Kangaroo and his four apostles of anarchy."

Vince nods, "Silence or I'll have you flogged."

"Oh... I see. The beatings will continue until morale improves, eh?" The
Tricani angrily rubs his nose.

"I understand that you complained about the treatment shown you by our beloved
Lt. Khemsa here, is that not so?"

"Complained?" The Tricani glares. "Complained!?" He glares some more. "My God,
man! He's a pathetic, amorphous, quivering mass of amoebic feculence!"

"I take it that's a yes?"

"A hebetudinous, ignorant, maggot!!!"

"I see."

The Tricani nods emphatically. "And above all else... above even the ancillary,
simpering, coprophilic, trogdyloidism... he's a tacky dresser!"

Duran coughs, "Tacky dresser?! I'll have you know that I resemble that... er...
resent that remark!"

Vince groans, "Enough children. I've come to a decision. Admiral P'notto, I
think that you'll be happy to know that here in Star Fleet we do not take such
accusations lightly."

"I should think not!"

"I'm taking Lt. Khemsa off your case. He will not be permitted to speak to you
again or come in physical contact with you until such time as he is acquitted
of the charges if they are untrue."

"Finally... some sanity." The Tricani shoots a confused glance toward Khemsa,
as though to ask what the heck is going on.

"Lt. Khemsa, you are to carry on with your duties. Dismissed."

"Aye sir," Duran winks one last time to the Tricani before making his exit.

"In the meantime, Admiral, I want you to know that your accusations are being
taken seriously and are being investigated, especially that part about tacky
dress. Only spiffy officers are allowed in Star Fleet. In the meantime," Vince
looks over his shoulder to the Klingon, "Lt. K'tar here has been assigned to
debrief you. I tell you this because I want to make sure you to feel perfectly
safe."

K'tar grimaces menacingly.

"Eh... this is some new usage of the word 'safe' of which I was previously
unaware?"

Vince grins what is perhaps the widest grin in history, "I just _know_ that you
two will get along. K'tar, carry on."

K'tar, taking his orders rather literally, lets down the forcefield, grabs the
Tricani off the deck, and begins carrying him under one arm toward the nearest
interrogation room, his charge kicking and screaming all the way. Vince can't
help but sigh at the sight. "God, but it's good to be Captain."

Kris looks a touch worried, however. "Do you think he'll survive?"

"I hope not," He turns around to face her. "I'm heading back to the bridge. If
you don't mind, I'd like you to keep an eye on our andorian friend for me.
Those two seemed to be sending signals."

"Signals, sir?"

"Never mind. Just observe what he's up to, but don't get in his way. I can't
afford to piss him off just yet."

"Aye sir."

After Vince leaves, Kris steps over to a comm-terminal in the hallway and ties
into the ship's security channel. "St. James to Lt. Soroc and Lt. Ekstrom, meet
me in my quarters immediately." A moment later, she's in a turbolift on her way
to deck four.


Stardate 6003.28 at 1730 Hours: USS Phobos, Security Conference Room
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Greetings, Khemsa. Greetings, Friend Histlin. I am here... to help."

Histlin sighs with relief, "T'lar."

"Let's not get mushy, you two," Duran steps between them. "T'lar... did you
happen to spot the Captain on your way..."

"He just stepped off the turbolift. Why?"

Duran sighs, "I'll be back."

After the door hisses shut, T'lar suddenly finds the chameleon giving her a
firm hug. "They want me to play Sarin, T'lar. Who are they trying to fool?"

T'lar ponders, frowning ever so slightly. "What else have they told you about
what's going on? I haven't heard anything about this."

Histlin breaks the hug and proceeds to relay all that Duran has told her,
carefully excluding the part about his offering to break her out of Federation
custody. Instead, she adds the simple comment, "Perhaps it would be best if I
just ran away," then looks toward T'lar with a longing glance, realizing that
on her own, she'd have nobody to turn to for help or advice within the vast,
alien realm which she now finds herself contained.

T'lar sits for a while, obviously deep in thought. Finally, she takes Histlin's
hand and squeezes it gently. "I can't tell you what to do, my friend. Your will
is your own now. I think... you cannot trust the ones assigning you to this
mission; yet by the same token, I suspect that you're rather used to that by
now. But consider this. If you perform this task, you will be given somewhat
more latitude, both now and in the future. While our agent Duran is no saint,
neither is he... I think," her expression is briefly hesitant, "a killer. He is
a liar, a conniver, and he has killed to be sure, but he has been bound by ties
as strong to him as those the Romulans put on you."

Histlin blinks, thinking that perhaps she now understands the reason the
Andorian seems to sympathize with her, even to the point of offering to help
her escape.

"The decision is yours," T'lar continues. "But I strongly doubt your position
can get any worse than it already is."

"I've been locked up before," she states for the record. "It's not so bad,
really. Except that before, we were always locked up together. Me... Tani...
Kar." She looks toward the floor. "We'd always clung together, hoping that at
least one of us would survive whatever hell the Romulans had devised for us. I
just never thought it would be me."

A few moments later, the door slides open, Duran walking in with an edgy look
about him. "So... what's the verdict? In or out?"

Histlin looks up, wiping her eyes for a moment. "I'm in," she gulps. "So
what exactly do I have to do?"


Stardate 6003.28 at 1745 Hours: USS Phobos, Engineering Conference Room
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arriving at the conference room, K'tar shifts his load slightly, thinking to
himself that dead bodies are easier to carry than live ones. In the first
place, they're a lot stiffer, and in the second, they don't kick quite so hard.

"Let go of me you mangy beast!"

As the door slides opens, K'tar steps inside, making sure the Tricani's head
grazes the frame as he enters. "You sit here," K'tar throws him into a chair,
knocking it over the process. "I am Lt. K'tar tai-Umlarggt. And before you ask,
I really _am_ an Imperial Klingon, and this really _is_ a Star Fleet uniform."

By the time the Tricani has picked himself up off the floor, he sees K'tar has
produced something looking suspiciously like brass knuckles. "When I tell the
Federation High Council how I've been treated by you barbarians..."

"You speak to the Federation High Council?"

"I am the leader of the Tricani people, you dolt!"

K'tar nods, "Ah, yes. The fastest growing minority in the galaxy. Tell me,
Tricani. What are you doing so far from your homeworld? Er... that is assuming
you still _have_ a homeworld." K'tar grins.

"I don't have to answer your questions!"

"Good," K'tar stops polishing the knuckles and looks up. "In that case, I don't
have to restrain myself. I find self-restraint... difficult." K'tar stands
abruptly, glaring ominously in the Tricani's general direction. "You will
answer my questions, or you may soon find yourself asking the computer to
replicate your teeth."

"You wouldn't hit an a superior officer, would you?"

"Of course, not. But you are a fetid pile of targ droppings. You I _can_ hit."

"Wrong, Lieutenant." The Tricani leans against the edge of the table, "I am
Agent Maximus of the SFIC."

K'tar glares, "And I suppose your first name is Gluteus." He sighs, "And what
is this 'SFIC'? Star Fleet Ignorance Containment? Who let you out?"

"Star Fleet Intelligence Command. I was sent to check-up on Sarin's... well-
being."

K'tar nods thoughtfully, a wry smile coming to his deep brown lips. "A dead
politician coming back to life. Why is it that I am not surprised? And now a
Federation Security officer coming to check on his health," K'tar snorts.
"What? To make sure it's bad?"

Maximus blinks, "This is the Federation... not the Klingon Empire."

"Bah! Do not make me laugh. Hah!"

"I'll be brief," the SFIC agent looks toward the corner of the room for
inspiration. "Sarin is on an important mission to Rigel, a mission which may
spell the difference between peace and war between our two nations."

K'tar sighs, seeing that the meaning of the term 'brief' is rather dependant on
one's patience, a quality of which he has none of. "You have a cloaking
device," he states. "Two races make the cloaking device and two only: the
Romulans and the Klingons. Where did you get yours?"

"Pilfered from an Orion boat which apparently got it off your people, at least
judging from the remanufacture ordinance number."

K'tar looks skeptical, "How do you know so much about Imperial bureaucracy?"

"We know quite a bit about the Empire, just as I'm sure you know a lot about
us."

"Enough!" K'tar bares a few incisors. "You are answering my questions with
half-truths and lies! That cloaking device came from the Romulans! Admit to it
now, and you'll save yourself considerable discomfort."

The Tricani nods, slowing down. "Okay. You ask. I'll answer."

"Admit that you got the cloaking device from the Romulans."

"Is that a question or a command?"

"I don't believe your story about the Orions. Nobody short of a dead man would
dare let the secret of cloaking technology escape to the Federation."

"Look... maybe the Orions got it from the Romulans. I don't know. All I know is
who we got it from. Where is was before that... who's to say?"

K'tar pauses, folding his arms across his chest. "Even supposing I believe you
about the cloak, I cannot believe that you're being here signifies anything
short of Sarin's impending demise! If you're here to look in on his well-being
from internal sources, you would have already been onboard. If you were here to
protect him against Romulans, you would have cloaked the Excalibur. Not your
bucket of slog-excrement you call a starship. What are you really here for?"

The Tricani tries to nod agreeably, "I'm here to make sure the agent we have
on board does his job."

"Duran."

"Precisely. Even in the Federation, our spies are watched by other spies.
Unfortunately, we lost communication with the agent who was previously assigned
to Duran. His last communique was that Duran was... not carrying through with
his mission."

"So you're here to stop him."

Max smiles, "I think you're beginning to see the picture."


Stardate 6003.28 at 1745 Hours: USS Phobos, Kristin's Quarters
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Okay, we have little time for this, but I need a full report from each of
you." Kris looks mildly irate. "Ekstrom?"

"I was called to the bridge to man the top station after you guys finished with
your meeting. Lock status showed that the Captain had entered Sarin's quarters
at least twice. I was thinking of making a security recording of what was being
said in there, but after the rumors I've heard about people spying on the
Captain... well, sir... I didn't think it appropriate to..."

Kris nods, "Understood. Soroc?"

"Duran came by only a minute after you left. He demanded that I give him the
chip."

Kris glares at the vulcan, "And you gave it to him?"

"In a manner of speaking. The one I handed him contained a number of system
files I was intent upon studying. I suppose I'll have to re-gather them, now."
He smiles inwardly as she breaths a rather blatant sigh of relief. "After
dispensing with him, I reviewed the chip. It contained a conversation between
the Tricani and Duran."

"Get to the beef."

"The beef, sir?"

Kris sighs, "Condensed version. What did you learn?"

"Both the Tricani and Duran are SFIC agents, at least by their own admission.
They take their orders from somebody named Malcolm."

Eyes narrowing, "And what are those orders?"

"The Tricani's... to watch Duran."

"To watch him?"

"Supervise from afar, were, I believe, the exact words."

"And what about Duran's mission?"

Soroc takes a deep breath, "In his questioning, he indicates that SFIC wants
Sarin... dead."

Kris nods, not entirely surprised. "Did you destroy the chip as I ordered?"

"Of course," Soroc looks mildly affronted, as though she asked if he'd taken
a shower anytime in the past month.

"Damn."

"I did, however, take the precaution of making a copy."

Kris looks up, bright-eyed if a bit bewildered. "You vulcan scoundrel."

"Indeed, lieutenant." Soroc arches an eyebrow in her general direction,
finally forking over a new chip. "Take good care of it. It's our only copy."

Kris nods, "Don't worry. I plan to." She gets up and heads for the door, "By
the way, security is bolstering its ranks with non-essential personnel from
other departments." She hands him a list. "I want you to round these people up
and get them organized. Also, just for your information, there's a plan in the
works to protect the ambassador." She briefly explains what the Captain has in
mind. "The one catch is that Duran knows about it."

"Not much of a plan then, is it?"

"No," Kris shakes her head. "I'll need you to continue your covert attack on
computer security. See if you can't carve a back-door into root. It'll be our
ace in the hole in case SFIC tries anything stupid."

Soroc arches another eyebrow, "Sir, in all likelihood, I'll be caught."

"Then tell them that you're acting on my authority, but keep it quiet. The
value of the whole thing lies in us having the benefit of surprise. By the way,
you're the new assistant security chief. Ekstrom, help Soroc however you can.
Dismissed."


Stardate 6003.28 at 1750 Hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The forcefield is sickbay is operational," Tsandzia informs Oein over the
intercom. "But I still think this whole plan is for the birds."

Oein blinks, "What whole plan? Who told you?!"

Tsandzia gulps, realizing that she's not supposed to know. "Er... this plan
about... uh... shielding sickbay from attack. Yeah, that's it. I mean, if
anybody attacks us, they'd just take over the bridge... not sickbay."
Tsandzia's glad he can't see the look on her face.

On the other end of the line, Oein grumbles to himself a bit uneasily. "If
you're done over there, meet me back at the bridge."

Once they meet up, Oein sets up programs to monitor the forcefields which also
act as sensor suppression fields. With a flick of a switch he's able to turn
them on or off, but it has to be done from the bridge. "Tsandzia, stay here and
man these controls. I'll let you know when you can lower the fields. In the
meantime, you have the conn."

She, in turn, hands it off to Ensign Higashi, and follows Oein out the door
only a minute later. "Just pretend you're me, okay?"

"Uh... yessir."

When she spots Oein again, he's busying himself with a tricorder, running one
final set of scans on the field in front of Sarin's quarter. He nods,
apparently satisfied, and hits a comm switch. "Okay, let down the field." A
moment later it's down, and he's ringing Sarin's doorbell.

Tsandzia watches as the Romulan obtains entrance, sneaking herself up to the
door and pressing her ear against the surface.

"Kohaeiamus, there was a question that I tried to press you on while the
Captain was still with us, but you seemed to avoid the issue."

"You think me a traitor."

Oein stares at him for a long moment, then starts stammering his denial. "I
never said..."

"You didn't have to. I could sense your feelings all too clearly. So long have
we known each other, that I did not need the aid of my telepathy. Every fiber
of my being told me what you were thinking... indeed, told me what you would
think... well in advance."

"I honestly hope I haven't been _that_ predictable."

Sarin steps back toward the corner of the stateroom. "Only as predictable as a
rat in a maze. I didn't know which direction you would turn, precisely, but I
knew you'd be lost. And that you'd come back to me, looking for answers."

Oein nods, "It seemed to me to be the _logical_ thing to do. I would be
interested in learning under what logic you have determined that _this_ is the
course to follow, this... forfeiting of scientific knowledge to the Klingons,
particularly about Genesis. Are you privy to other information that convinces
you that the technology transfer will be beneficial? There _MUST_ be a coherent
reason."

"There is."

"Then what is it?!"

"Did I ever tell you about the Rite of Vr'sag?"

Oein squints in the tepid heat, "I am not familiar with Vulcan ritual."

"No more Vulcan than Romulan, my dear friend. Here. Take a peek." Sarin reaches
out and touches his cheek, yet his hand never really seems to connect. Instead,
Sarin's face turns into Tsandzia's. She's helping him off the floor, some vague
excuse ushering forth from her lips. Oein pulls away out of reflex, stumbling
backwards toward the door. Tsandzia almost leaps in the air as the thin barrier
slides open without any warning whatsoever. In another moment, she finds
herself sprawled with Oein on the deck, babbling unconvincingly about how she
was taking readings on the forcefield, analyzing it for a variety of
weaknesses. She finally pulls herself back to her feet, helping a rather
stunned Oein do likewise, except for him, the entire thing is like instant deja
vu.

"Now do you understand?" Sarin queries.


                      _   /|        Jim Vassilakos
                      \`o_O'        [e-mail]
                        ( )         [e-mail]
                         U          Riverside, California

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 This Star Trek PBeM is archived on ftp.cs.pdx.edu in pub/frp/stories/startrek
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