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From: [e-mail] (james vassilakos)
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Subject: STORY: ST-PBeM Turn #33 - Poker, Hatred, and Trust
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Date: 24 Apr 1995 15:40:19 -0400
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*******************************************************************************
                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #33
                           Poker, Hatred, and Trust
===============================================================================
              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]
  Dr. Bannister            Jason Stripinis     [e-mail]
  Lt. K'tar                Steve Mays          [e-mail]
  Lt. Soroc                Jeff Ellis          [e-mail]


Stardate 6003.28 at 0900 Hours: USS Phobos, Brig
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After everyone leaves, Duran finds a chair and plops down in front of brig cell
#1. Histlin is there, staring back at him as though daring him to start
something. "Hi! I know you've had a rough time lately, as have we all. I would
like to ask you some questions about your mission but they can wait till later.
What I would be interested in talking to you about is the Empire. Anything you
can tell me about it. It's been so long since I've been there. I know you
probably have many bad memories but I'm assuming that there were some good
things. For example, have you ever seen Biscae in the Winter?"

Histlin makes a seat of the floor, resting her back against the far wall. "I
have not seen Biscae in Winter nor any other season," she replies.

Duran instantly bites his lip. While the Romulans are not complete bastards all
the time, there are various races under their domain which they treat more as
property than anything else, and the chameleons are one of those races. Asking
her about Biscae in Winter is somewhat akin to asking a pre-civil-war slave to
describe Washington D.C. in Spring. These people do not partake in Romulan
society. They are used by it.

"I'm sorry," he begins, "it's just that I... well... maybe it's better if you
pick a topic. By the way, have you had breakfast? Are you hungry?"

Though she probably is, whatever hunger is contained within her expression is
well over-powered by feelings of remorse and loneliness.

"Look... are you okay? I can get you food." When she makes no response, he
itches the base of his antennae. "I know. How about coffee."

"Coffee?"

Duran grins, "You know what coffee is, don't you?"

She shakes her head, wondering what manner of alien sustenance the word might
symbolize.

"Well, I don't promise that you'll like it, but personally, I can't live
without it. I'll get a cup for you. Just wait here for a sec."

Histlin waits, as though she had a choice is the matter.

When Duran returns, he switches off the forcefield and walks inside with a
steaming cup. "You have to promise not to escape, okay?"

Histlin wrinkles her nose when handed the cup. "Coffee?"

"It might need cream and sugar. I'll get some. Don't leave."

This time she could dart out if she chose, but she stays put with the steaming
cup in her hand, wondering if this is the way that all Federation prisons
operate. A few minutes later she's answering his questions, and he finds the
story of her people quite a disquieting one. They were barely out of the caves
when they were first contacted. They had thought the Romulans to be Gods, and
the Romulans, of course, nurtured the notion, but over time, it became apparent
that the secret of Romulan power was in their devices, not in themselves, and
the Chameleons conspired to learn the nature of these devices and use them to
rid themselves of the invaders from the sky. It never worked out, of course,
but as a result of the effort, the Romulans exterminated over half the
Chameleon population as a one-time warning. Since then, her race had been more
or less obedient. Until now.

"I'm sure you're not the first chameleon to defect."

"Do you know of any others?" She tries hard not to look hopeful.

Duran rubs the base of his antennae again, a bit sorry that he got into the
conversation. He'd known the Romulans were not the most pleasant masters, but
he never considered them particularly cruel. Until now.

At that moment, T'lar walks in carrying a blanket, a modest but comfortable
robe, and two large mugs.

"Hello, Duran. I hope you've enjoyed your chat with our guest."

Histlin looks confused. "I thought you said your name was Khemsa."

He grits his teeth, "Duran is what all my friends call me, or so it seems." He
casts T'lar a look of warning which gets promptly ignored.

Instead, the Vulcan's attention is focused on her charge. "My apologies,
Histlin. I fear the accommodations will not be very pleasant for a while. The
Captain barely conceded to let you accompany us at all. I am sorry." She turns
back to Duran, handing him one of the mugs. "Would you be so kind as to lower
the field for an official interrogation of the prisoner, Duran? Of course, as
her appointed guardian while in the brig, your duty is to join us and observe."

"I would be happy to." Duran walks into the cell without flicking any switches.
"Oh, I shut that down a while ago when I brought her some coffee. How was it?"
He takes the cup back, seeing that the dark liquid was barely touched. "Well,
maybe it'll take some getting used to, but after awhile, you'll love it just
like the rest of us." He downs her cup just to prove that it didn't contain any
drugs or whatnot. Duran slides his chair into the cell and motions T'lar to
have a seat, "Would you like that cup filled with something?"

She stares at him, somewhat unconvinced, "You cad. Trying to make me think
you're a decent andorian-being, and after all we've been through." She hands
the blanket to Histlin. "I've had this replicated from andorian designs, in
point of fact. We vulcans are not terribly known for designing items for
soothing comfort... blankets in particular for that matter." She pauses,
sipping from the mug she brought in. "It comes from living on a hot, desert
planet, I would theorize."

She offers the other mug to Histlin, since Duran has coffee. "I have never
gotten used to that collection of small ground particles simmered in water
myself, Histlin. Try this... I'm not sure what it is, but I like it." She takes
another, longer draught from her mug.

"Amusing. You've managed to find some andorian mint tea."

T'lar looks into her mug again, wondering if she'd better disable the
randomizer she built into the general mess food terminals (about which the crew
has already submitted numerous complaints).

"Don't worry, T'lar. It won't smack you." He steps over to the brig's food
terminal and returns with some Tellarite pastries, grabbing one which looks
like some cross-hatch between a cookie and a croissant. "Here T'lar." Then he
helps Histlin with the blanket which is rather unwieldy due to the sheer mass
of the thing. "Andor is a very cold planet. We KNOW how to make good blankets!
If you ever want a tour of Andor, my sister loves to talk about the planet and
its history."

Histlin tries the tea, a surprised look dawning her face at first.

"Cold, isn't it?" Tark smiles.

She nods. "We have a taste like this on my home world, but it doesn't have the
bite."

"You should taste the spiked version," he winks.

She looks at him for a moment, rather confused, then tries to wink back, but
ends up making a mess of it. Duran finds it hard suppressing a chuckle. "We
have programmed our replicators with the dishes of a number of different
cultures. I'm sure we can find other things for you to try." Duran sits down,
leaning his back against the wall. "T'lar might be able to help you figure out
what you might like. I like lots of different things. My family travelled a lot
when I was growing up." Duran takes another sip of coffee and leans his head
against the wall, feeling the cool metal draw the heat from his body. "Poker
anyone?"

T'lar produces something from her pocket with a flourish. "In point of fact, I
happen to have..." with an utterly magnificent deadpan look, she proceeds to
pretty-shuffle a deck of cards with her long, dexterous fingers.

"Cards for last night's game?"

"I figured that somebody ought to bring some. Straight five card draw, nothing
wild, for Histlin's sake..."

"Nothing _wild_?" Histlin intones.

T'lar proceeds to deal a hand out to each of them, explaining the rules as best
she can manage. Finally, she examines her cards with an impassive scowl.

"Quite the bluffer," Duran commends.

"Silence. I'm brooding."

After a moment, she discards two. "How many cards, Histlin?"

"Uh... what is the point of all this?"

"To win," Duran looks up.

"To win?"

He nods, "You know. Some people win. Other lose. You must have games of chance
on your world."

"Not necessarily," T'lar reminds him. "Such games were alien to Vulcan before
we met the humans."

"Yes. But that's to be expected. You're vulcans."

T'lar regards him with an indelicate gaze. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Take it however you like." He slides three cards in her general direction.

"Poor hand, Duran? I don't need to read your mind to know you don't have much
left when you discard three cards. Histlin?"

"I fold." Duran smiles at Histlin, "Gotta know when your beat so you can cut
your losses."

"You can't fold. We weren't betting anything. Histlin?"

"Uh..." she puts all her cards on the floor, still somewhat oblivious as to
what's going on.

"Oh, come on Histlin. Your hand can't be _that_ bad." T'lar takes a quick look
at the chameleon's discards, then slowly puts them back on the floor. "My
apologies. It is that bad."

"I understand the rules, I think. What I don't understand is... why."

"Mental competition," T'lar states, giving her five more cards. "Don't you have
games of mental competition on your world?"

"The men have a game where they see how ugly they can make themselves. Then
they make-believe they are monsters, and they try to scare us." She smiles, a
bit embarrassed by how it must sound.

"A sort of physical competition," Duran states. "My world has much of that as
well. But mental competition is also pleasing to us andorians. And to vulcans
as well, I believe."

T'lar nods, taking two cards and flicking three toward Duran.

"On my world," Histlin states, "we do have games, but this 'competition' is not
against one another. I mean, what is the point of this? One person wins. Two
people lose. It seems that it would make more unhappiness than happiness."

T'lar considers the question for long moment. "What it reduces to, Histlin,
is," she exchanges a glance with Duran, "our species bore easily. We have a
strong desire to fill every moment of the day with SOMEthing... even if there's
something, perhaps, more pressing to do."

Duran nods, "The art of competition. It is nurtured in everything we do. It is
conflict that entertains us."

T'lar lays down her hand. "Pair of sevens. Sex. Politics. War. They're all...
at some level... games, to all of us, whether human, vulcan, andorian, romulan,
klingon. We bemoan the losses... rail at the time, resources, and lives spent
on useless causes... but no one seems to seriously consider stopping the game."

"When you speak of 'us', you mean the romulans as well?" Histlin looks slightly
aghast.

"The romulans and vulcans were once one race of beings," T'lar explains.
"Indeed, there are some who speculate that all humanoids are descended from the
same ancestors," she glances toward Duran, "though personally, I believe there
must be exceptions."

Histlin stares at her newfound friend with sudden horror and perhaps a bit of
sympathy. "You mean, you are related to those..."

"Romulans? Of course. Do you not notice the physical similarities? Genetically,
we are almost identical."

Histlin gulps down, dropping her cards and revealing a pair of threes.

Duran speaks up, "At the risk of sounding like I'm defending anything that was
done to you or your race, not all romulans are like those you have interacted
with. Not all vulcans are like T'lar. Each of us is unique. Romulans are
aggressive and hostile. They tend to take what they want from whoever isn't
strong enough to keep it, and they have demonstrated a definite capacity for
cruelty. But not all romulans agree with the tactics of the government and the
military. You have every right to hate those people who have hurt you and your
people, but if you hate all things romulan or," gesturing toward T'lar,
"romulan-like, then you will have lowered yourself to their level and will have
lost something that..."

"You don't understand. You weren't there."

"I have been to Romulus," Duran proclaims. "I have known many romulans, and
there are those among them I consider as friends even to this day."

Histlin stares at him, her mood blackening with every syllable slipping from
his tongue. "You think you know so much about the romulans. Have you ever seen
them kill one of your kind?! Have they ever planted a bomb in your neck?!"

"Now wait a minute. I was just saying..."

"That I should forgive and forget and extend open arms to every sack of romulan
filth I happen to meet!"

"No, definitely not!" Duran stands up, trying to figure out how he got his
prisoner shouting at him, ready to attack if he should so much as sneeze in the
wrong direction. "Look, Histlin. If you choose to forgive, that would make you
a far better person than I. I have trouble forgiving. All I'm saying is be
certain that you direct your anger and revenge to the right individuals. The
Feds have been enemies with the Klingons and Romulans for a long time, but I
have learned that you need to realize that the people of these governments are
not always responsible or even aware of some of the things their government's
do. For better or worse, it is often true."

"I tell you this, Duran. It is their job to be aware, and to put a stop to it
if they have half the 'honor' they pretend. For myself, I laugh at romulan
honor, for I have seen it to be nothing more than a facade of cowardice used
for the purpose of dominating the weak."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"We always believed that all we had to do was conform to their system. Help
them with their goals, and we would have a place in their society. Carry out
our duty, and they would behave honorably! That is what Karameth believed. She
honestly had faith in them. But I have seen all that they said to be lies. If I
ever see another Romulan who pretends this 'honor', this greatness of the
Romulan Way, I will sneak up behind that sack of trash and slit his throat!"

Duran coughs, wondering what sort of rage she might fly into if she should ever
meet Oein. T'lar meanwhile, stands and puts a hand of Histlin's shoulder.

"Be calm, my friend. Duran has his points, even if he can't play poker to save
his life," She stands in front of the chameleon. "After all, if I hated
everything to do with romulans... I'd be trying to kill you, like that idiot
Bellasario, instead of bringing you andorian delicacies."

Histlin makes to start a reply, but is so overwhelmed by her feelings that she
can't properly phrase much of anything at the moment. "...don't understand...
killed all my..."

"I know." T'lar, though taught from her youth to recoil from such seething
emotion, instead takes the chameleon's hands in her own. "Hate is a powerful
tool, Histlin, so powerful that most of my kind have abandoned it because of
its dangers. Be careful who you point it at... and remember... *you* are the
user of the weapon, not the other way around." She then steps out of the cell
through the empty space where, by regulations, a forcefield ought to reside,
Histlin staring after her, somewhat dumbstruck by the response and wondering if
she's offended the vulcan.

"You're leaving?"

"I must return to the helm. I have responsibilities there as well."

"Responsibilities?"

"I am this ship's helmsman," T'lar states. But as she's about to turn and
leave, she sees a look of despair in the chameleon's expression, as a child
might show it's mother as she steps out the door. T'lar leans down and
carefully places the deck of cards on the floor inside the cell. "My
recommendation, friend Histlin... do not think too much. I tried it for many
years before I learned that lesson the hard way."

The statement does nothing for the chameleon given her current state, however,
and she seems on the verge of tears. T'lar glances toward Duran. "Perhaps a cup
of coffee would be appropriate."

"One cup coming up."

T'lar waits until he's well into the next room, screwing around with the food-
rep, before she re-enters the cell.

"Don't leave, T'lar. I won't embarrass you any more."

"I have to leave. And you have never embarrassed me." T'lar leans over and
kisses Histlin lightly on the forehead. "I'll be back. Okay?"

Duran comes walking back with the cup of coffee only to see Histlin
pathetically clutching the Vulcan. She lets go, however, once she notices
Duran's surprised cough, and it clearly takes all her will to compose herself.
"I will be waiting here," she states, "when you return."

"I should expect so," the vulcan almost whispers in response. She turns and
makes her exit, leaving Duran holding a cup of steaming coffee which he quickly
downs once he realizes that she doesn't intend to have it after all. "I guess I
should go take care of some things as well." He pauses, "Look, I'm sorry if I
got you mad. I didn't mean to."

Histlin stares at the wall, "It's not your fault. You just don't understand."

"You're right. I don't, not completely. No one can unless they've been through
it themselves. I was only trying to... help... to be your friend."

She breaks her fixation on the wall to stare at him for a long moment.

"What I mean is, I wanted to try to make up for everything you've been through.
I feel... somehow... responsible. As you said, it is the peoples' job to know
what their government is doing and to make sure it's the right thing." He
thinks back to his mission regarding Sarin, straining to wonder how he'll
implement this wisdom. "I'm not a Romulan, but I feel connections to them. So I
feel like I need to try to make amends. Also, I have been where you are, only
for me it was a Klingon prison. Klingons don't even speak to their prisoners.
They just poke you with their pain sticks until you guess what they want you to
do." Duran's eyes glaze over in remembrance, and he instinctively rubs his
side. "As long as you are our prisoner, you will be treated correctly. You have
my word on that!" He shakes his head to clear away the bad memories. "Anyway, I
would like to be considered your friend, but only you can make that decision."
He exits the cell, re-energizing the forcefield. Then he smiles, "Don't go
anywhere. Okay?"

Histlin smiles back, if only slightly.

With that, Duran heads out on a quick visual inspection of the ship, his mind
still soaking with the words he's just uttered. Not only the ones about wanting
to treat her well, which were sincere, but also the ones about watching one's
government... to make sure it is doing the right thing. He swallows hard,
remembering his mission, and wonders what Histlin would think. Or what Eris
would think for that matter. Or Nien.

He finally ends up at T'lar's quarters, or more specifically, Sarin's Pad,
where Ekstrom is standing outside, stiffening to attention as the andorian
approaches.

"Everything okay here?"

"Yes sir, everything is fine."

"Is _he_ in there."

"Ahh, he hasn't left if that's what you mean."

"That'll do for now. Any visitors?"

"No."

"Hmm... okay, I'm going to go in and have a little chat with our guest. Don't
let anyone in until we're done."

"Uh, sir, Cmdr. tr'Remas ordered that nobody should see him alone."

"It's okay. I'm not a chameleon, and we're in the middle of space at warp
speed. Those orders were meant for while we're at dock."

"Well, I'll still have to clear..."

The door suddenly slides open, Sarin standing on the other side looking vaguely
annoyed. "What took you so long?" he says to Duran.

Duran stares at him, taking a moment to regain his wits. "My apologies,
Ambassador. I was just..."

"No time for that. Come inside."

Duran enters, allowing the door to slide shut on the security officer behind
him. He takes a deep breath, wondering if Sarin actually wants to be
assassinated. He was expecting nothing short of kicking and screaming, and yet
Sarin has actually arranged their privacy.

"May I interest you in a drink, Lieutenant?"

"No. Not unless it's coffee."

"It's after noon," Sarin reminds him.

"Your point?"

The ambassador conjures a cup of replicated coffee, motioning his Andorian
assassin to a seat, one of T'lar's, fashioned from volcanic silicate from the
planet Vulcan. Strange symbols are carved upon the arms, no doubt something
regarding logic and self-discipline.

Duran gazes at Sarin for a moment. "I think it is safe to say that we both know
why I'm here and what I am supposed to do. The only open question is what we
are going to do about it. So these are my thoughts on the matter. There are, as
I see it, two options. We can follow the path we are currently on, and I will
do everything in my power to carry out my orders, or you and I can cooperate
with each other in the hope of finding a mutually acceptable solution to this
situation. What I want to know from you is how you intend to proceed.
Personally, I prefer the second option, for reasons of my own, but I'm giving
you the choice. Choose well, for a great deal depends on your decision."

Duran sits very still in a carefully neutral position, hoping that Sarin will
choose to cooperate but fearing that his stupid Vulcan arrogance will forbid
him from making that choice. 'C'mon, damn it! I've yielded. Now you must yield!
I'm giving you a chance to keep your life and still follow your heart to where
ever that twisted Vulcan logic has led it!' With an emotionless mask for an
expression, a poker face that T'lar would be envious of, Duran sits, quietly
waiting for Sarin's reply.

The vulcan diplomat, however, merely folds him hands together, his eyes
strangely bemused. "Let me see if I understand this arrangement you propose.
Either you kill me, which is what you came here to do, or I do exactly as you
say, and then you will probably kill me anyway. Have I missed anything?"

"Obviously. I can see where T'lar gets her attitude from. Is this something
that they teach all Vulcans or is it something you and T'lar have perfected on
your own? Never mind. What you missed were the words 'mutually acceptable'. It
was not my intent to tell you exactly what to do, but rather to discuss in a
rational manner your goals and see if we can find an alternate solution that
would allow you to achieve those goals without violating Federation law."

Duran stands suddenly and whips out his tricorder and scans Sarin, verifying
against the scan earlier that he saved in the tricorder. Confirming his
identity, he scans the room for other persons and listening devices. After
assuring himself that there are none and that no one else is present, Duran
continues, "Look, I'm putting my life and my career on the line by offering you
this chance. I'm not convinced that following my exact orders will be the best
choice for the Federation. However, the information I have leads me to believe
that if I do nothing, interstellar war is likely, perhaps inevitable. I'm
balancing you against millions perhaps billions of lives lost on BOTH sides.
Even Vulcan logic will lead you to a single conclusion. Now it is possible,
perhaps even likely that I don't have all the information, so my conclusion is
based on incomplete data. I'm asking you to fill in the blanks, so that
together we can try to find a solution that we both can live with. If you
refuse to cooperate, however, then I warn you, I'll have no alternatives,
logically speaking, but to carry out my orders to the letter."

Sarin nods, "Well stated. But what proof have I of your sentiments."

"My sentiments?"

"How do I know you're not simply plugging me for information before you slip a
kasha-string around my throat?"

"Logically speaking, Ambassador, you have no choice but to believe me."

"On the contrary, Mr. Duran, I do have a choice. I can call your bluff."

Duran shakes his head somewhat slowly, "I am not bluffing. I will carry out my
orders, if that is the choice you leave me."

"Kill me, and you'll never leave this ship alive. That, I guarantee."

"You think that T'lar would avenge you?" Duran smirks. "I can take care of
T'lar also, if need be. Besides, once I've completed the mission, whether or
not I live is moot. Upon becoming qualified as a terminator, I was forced to
accept that fact. I chose to continue because I thought the risks were worth
the benefits that the Federation gained from the missions. Recently, however,
I've found myself re-evaluating my value system and not by choice."

"Nonsense. All re-evaluations are by choice. It is merely the circumstance
which proposes them. Nonetheless, this is the substance of your will. That
which you cannot win by pleas of logic, you would coerce by threats of
violence. The perfect secret agent. Except in this instance, your will is most
transparent." Sarin leans over just slightly. "Or so you should make it, if
your sentiments are, indeed, as benign as you would have me believe."

Duran bites his lip, wondering in the back of his head what exactly Sarin
wants. He's already gone as far as he can go. Certainly, Sarin must see that.

"Violence is as much a part of me as logic is a part of you." He glares at the
vulcan diplomat. "I can not deny my nature. I can not suddenly become something
else any more then a rock can suddenly become a bird. I am andorian, a warrior
from a race of warriors. I was raised to be a warrior by andorians, klingons,
and romulans, perhaps three of the most warlike races in all of explored space.
It is what I am. But that doesn't mean I can't strive to be more than just a
soldier."

"Precisely my point, young warrior," Sarin arches an eyebrow in response. "For
all a warrior would do is kill, maim, and slaughter... never asking and hence
never knowing why. But you have asked why. And before I respond, I must know as
fact the full measure of your intentions. You must convince me of your
sincerity."

Duran sighs, "How does anyone convince another of their sincerity? I will tell
you this, in my defense, if you will. Up until this very morning, I was
resolved to kill you after extracting whatever information I could get."

"And how am I to know that isn't exactly what you are doing?"

Duran blinks, remembering Histlin. "Because today I sat with a chameleon from
the Romulan Empire, a nation I held to be my second home, even though that may
seem a contradiction for an SFIC agent. She told me of the side I have never
seen, of things I would not have believed and which I still question, but her
anger and sincerity were clear; she believed these things and I couldn't ignore
that. It made me question the nature of governments in general, and the nature
of this government, the Federation, in particular. I began to question what
cards we keep close to our chest when I realized that *I* was one of those
cards, to be played when most advantageous to the Federation, sacrificed if
need be to further its aims, and I found myself questioning what those aims
were. Every government has bad apples that need to be removed... just as does
Star Fleet itself." He thinks back to Eris and the story she told of Sacrindor
and her dead brother, Sethon Khemsa. If there could be such villainy in Star
Fleet, who's to say what's going on in the High Command or anywhere for that
matter?

"And you believe that I am one of those 'bad apples'?"

"Somebody thinks you are. Otherwise, how do you explain my orders?"

Sarin almost smiles at the reversal. Just as he has questioned Duran's motives,
so Duran has questioned his. The only problem is that Duran is a trained
assassin, and he is but a diplomat. Hardly the makings of a fair fight.

"How do you explain them?"

Duran shrugs, "At this moment in time, I feel the need to question them. Orders
that would have me terminate you, a Federation diplomat... I've been running it
over in my head again and again. I mean, why not just arrest you? Why do they
want you dead?"

Sarin remains frozen still, as though the answer to that and much more is upon
the tip of his tongue, but he dare not say a word, for once the information is
given, it cannot be retracted, and there are no telling the consequences.

Duran grits his teeth. "Look, Sarin. I'm asking you to give me a reason... any
reason... not to kill you. I'm offering my help."

"I appreciate the delicacy of your position, and the leave that you have
apparently extended me. But until I can be certain that you are not merely
interrogating me before my 'termination'..."

Duran rubs his face, "You ask me for proof; I have none of offer. You accuse me
of using violence where logic fails, and I don't deny it, but at least I'm
making the effort. It is not for you or for me that I make this offer but for
the people who suffer from the things that people like you and I do or don't
do. I do not wish to die today, but I am prepared to." Duran draws his phaser,
"You ask me for proof I cannot provide. I am asking that you extend to me the
same benefit of doubt you are willing to extend to the Klingons. If you feel me
unworthy, then perhaps neither of us are fit to live in this world." Duran sets
the phaser on overload and hands it to Sarin, "Choose life and we can go
forward together in hopes of resolving this situation and perhaps even becoming
friends... or... join me in death as two people unfit for our lives. The choice
is, as it has always been, yours." Duran calmly sits on the chair, "I would
estimate you have ten seconds left to decide before the decision becomes moot."

At that precise moment, the cabin's door hisses open, and Kris stands there,
eyes bulging out at the audible whine of an overloading hand phaser. Sarin is
holding it, somewhat clumsily, and Duran is sitting across from him, blinking
somewhat sheepishly, and muttering something about her impeccable timing.

Kris rushes forward, grabs the phaser and deactivates it. It then becomes a
missile as it gets hurled against the door. Turning to Duran, Kris has the look
of Hell's fury on her face. "YOU are relieved of duty and confined to
quarters!"

Duran opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again, fully aware that the
mysterious force which constantly conspires to put him in awkward situations
just did it to him again.

"I'll be paying you a visit after I'm sure that I won't kill you on the spot
for this display of total ineptitude!"

"Ineptitude?"

"In case you weren't aware of this little fact, your little stunt could've
taken out this entire deck, or didn't you think of that?"

"What do you mean, 'my little stunt'?"

Kris heads to the wall's comm-panel, refusing to be baited, and punches the
switch with a vengeance. "Ekstrom, come in and escort Mr. Duran to his
quarters, and confine him there. If he so much as blinks at ya wrong, stun the
hell out of him and drag him there."

Ekstrom is inside a moment later, gripping Duran just under the shoulder. The
andorian, however, refuses to budge.

"Kris, I know this looks hard to explain, but if you'd just wait half a
second..."

"I am ordering you to return to your quarters. You can either walk or be
carried there. I don't care which."

"Kris, if you don't mind, the Ambassador and I are having a _very_ serious
discussion. I'll be happy to sit in my room or anywhere else after we're
finished, but not now."

Kris draws her phaser, if only to keep from backhanding Duran. "I GAVE YOU A
DIRECT ORDER, MISTER!" Pausing for a moment to calm down, Kris continues. "Now
move, before *I* move you."

Duran gulps, but doesn't comply, instead looking directly at the Ambassador. "I
hope I have demonstrated my sincerity to your satisfaction. Please, send these
people away so we may finish. Time is short."

"You have to the count of three, Lieutenant." She sets her phaser on heavy stun
and takes aim.

"Oh, give me a break."

"One."

"I don't want to cause you any more problems, Kris. Just give us a few more
minutes."

"Two."

"Please don't make me pull rank on you."

"Th..."

Sarin calmly stands, placing himself between Duran and the business-end of
Kris' phaser.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"I feel I must apologize. My ineptitude with Lt. Khemsa's phaser caused all
this. I was foolish to pick it up in the first place."

Kristin's mouth drops open in astonishment. After the incident with the towel,
it had never occurred to her that anybody but Khemsa himself could be
responsible for an overloading phaser. She slowly holsters her own, enabling
Duran to exhale slowly, only now aware that he'd been holding his breath.
"Thank you," he barely whispers, presumably to Sarin. He then looks at Ekstrom,
"Please, return to your post. I think Kris, Sarin, and I need to have a
conversation. I'm sure if Kris feels you are needed, she won't hesitate to call
on you for help."

"Sir?"

Kris shakes her head, "Go on."

After Ekstrom leaves, Duran looks toward the security chief with a repugnant
gleam in his eyes. "This is twice today you have threatened me with a phaser.
Do I scare you that much?"

She grits her teeth, but manages to stay her tongue.

"No, matter. I am unclear what provoked you into bursting in during our
conversation, but that too is irrelevant. I believe that Sarin and I would like
to continue our conversation. If you have an issue with that, would you please
tell us what it is?"

Her face grows bright pink with anger during this last bit of drivel, until it
is all she can do to restrain herself from drawing the phaser again and burning
a hole through his blue, commie, mutant, subversive skull.

"ATTENTION!"

"Trust me, Kris. You have my attention."

She grits her teeth again at his unbridled impertinence. "The captain has left
standing orders that any visitor to Ambassador Sarin must be accompanied by one
other person, preferably a security guard. Ekstrom reported your visit to me
and asked if the order was still in effect. I decided to come down here and
take care of the situation myself." Moving closer, Kris hisses, "If you so much
as breathe wrong between here and Orion, I'll have you scouring the hull of the
ship. Is that clear, Mister?"

"Yes," Khemsa replies, deciding that further confrontation would be
unproductive.

"That's 'yes SIR'. Either you get it right, or you can find yourself a
spacesuit and a sponge."

"Actually, Kris, it's you who should be calling me 'Sir'. But don't worry. I
won't take it personally if you don't."

Her eyes bug out in disbelief, "I'm through putting up with your blatant
insubordination, Mister! Just remember that whatever your rank.... whatever
your position in _Star Fleet Intelligence_, on this ship, you are 2nd Lt.
Khemsa, assistant to the security chief... ME. And you'd better not fuck with
me, because if you do, I'll make you damn sorry you did."

Duran blinks once or twice. "How did you find out?"

"What does it matter? You were about to tell me anyway. You angry that somebody
out there spoiled your little surprise, Agent Duran?"

He is, but he's more angry at the realization that for all he knows, the whole
crew may be aware of his true identity. He turns toward the wall, wondering
just how long she's known, and more importantly, who's been spreading the
information around.

"Look, Kris. I'm not trying to 'fuck' with you. I have not attempted to 'fuck'
with you yet. You are not my type."

"I don't think you have a type."

"I do," he sighs, "but she's aboard the Excalibur at the moment." He takes a
moment to wonder how they're doing down along the border and suddenly realizes
that he doesn't like the notion of Nien being there, regardless of the quantity
of firepower protecting her. "Look, I'm not trying to be confrontational."

"The hell you're not. If you aren't openly criticizing my judgement, you're
blatantly disobeying my orders, or passing perverse innuendos. I have been
lenient with you because of your special status, but that is coming to an end
right now!"

"Kris, I don't know why you are being so hostile. Just like you, I am trying to
do my job."

"And your job, Mr. Khemsa, is to follow my orders. If you want to act outside
the chain of command, you arrange that with the captain, but until then, I am
done putting up with you."

"Actually, it's funny you should mention that. I intend to talk with the
Captain at his earliest convenience and ask for a transfer."

"That's _fine_ with me."

"And let me just add that your blatant hostility toward me and the subsequent
friction is not conducive to maintaining the morale of the rest of the Security
Department. I'm not doing it for you, Kris. I'm doing it for them. I'm just
telling you now, because I didn't want you imagining it was some kind of plot
against you."

"Oh... don't flatter yourself." Kris steps into the doorway, causing the door
to hiss open and exposing Ekstrom pressed with his ear against it on the other
side.

"Uh, sir. I was just checking the sturdiness of the..."

"Yeah, right. Get back in here, Ekstrom."

"Aye sir," he steps in, looking rather nervously between Duran and his boss-
lady.

"Mr. Ekstrom. You will remain here until Lt. _Khemsa_ and the Ambassador have
concluded their conversation."

"No, that is unacceptable," Duran shakes his head.

Kris grits her teeth for what must be the 50th time in the last five minutes.
"Those are my orders. I don't expect to have to repeat them. I simply want them
carried out. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Aye sir!" Ekstrom responds, not wishing to get on her bad side. Duran,
however, isn't so compliant.

"If you want to insist that someone be present during my conversation in
accordance with the Captain's order, that is perfectly reasonable. However, the
conversation is of a private nature, and if someone needs to be present, then
it should be T'lar. I will contact her and arrange a mutually convenient time
to continue." He looks at Sarin, "If you will agree, Ambassador." Sarin nods
his assent. "Good," Duran remarks. "Then it's settled."

Kris fumes, "Fine. Then get out. No, not you, Ekstrom."

Duran grins, "I think she means me. Oh, and Kris. I just wanted to let you know
what a pleasure this conversation has been."

"OUT!"

He leaves with a decidedly evil smirk.

Kris then turns to Sarin, after the door has slid itself shut behind the first
andorian she's ever met who she'd absolutely love to strangle. The slower the
better.

"Ambassador, you have this little annoying habit of getting yourself into
trouble. Now, do I have to sedate you, take you to the medical center, have you
put into stasis, and then have you quarantined in order to keep you out of
trouble, or do you want to give me a clue as to what just happened here?"

"Happened? Here, Lieutenant?"

"The phaser... set on overload. Don't even try to make me believe that you did
that."

Sarin shrugs, "Accidents do happen. Even to Vulcans."

"Yes, but what I'm afraid of is that whatever happens to you won't be
accidental. Tsandzia already told me that you were afraid of the SFIC. She told
me that T'lar said you were being 'stalked'... that you told her that somebody
in SFIC had been 'assigned' to you... whatever that means."

"If you knew all this," Sarin says with a deadpan, "then why, pray tell, did
you assign that andorian to guard me?"

Kris sighs, "I was under the impression that Tsandzia had her facts wrong, and
that Duran was here to guard you just like the rest of us. I didn't know that
his purpose here would conflict with the trust I placed in him. But apparently
there's a lot more to him than I thought." Kris examines the vulcan's
expression, expecting some sort of reply, but if Sarin has anything to say, he
makes to intimation of it.

Turning to Ekstrom, Kris says, "As of this moment, Lt. Khemsa is relieved of
duties as related to Assistant Chief of Security. I'd like a security watch to
be put on him. Because he is a member of SFIC, all security personnel should be
advised to monitor Khemsa carefully so as not to let him know he is being
monitored. Mr. Ekstrom, you are now the Assistant Chief of Security, and I am
placing you in charge of the monitoring of Lt. Khemsa. I'm sure that with your
eaves-dropping skills, you will do wonders. I must return to the bridge. Carry
on."

Ekstrom suppresses mild burp as she exits, finally looking toward Sarin with
a somewhat bewildered expression.

"Will somebody please tell me what's going on?"


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

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