ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv2/turn16

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 36KB | 771 lines

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                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #16
                           Consequences of Knowledge
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************


  Cast & Crew
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  ST-PBeM GameMaster       Jim Vassilakos      [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. Duran          Tony Hayes          [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. tr'Remas       Jeremy Lakatos      [e-mail]
  Lt. Bellasario           Alan Ward           [e-mail]
  Lt. St. James            John Brengman       [e-mail]
  Lt. T'lar                Ronnie Simonds      [e-mail]
  2nd Lt. Morchainte       Brian Chrisman      [e-mail]


Stardate 6003.27 at 0915 hours: USS Typhoon, Captain's Ready Room
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Jacobson leans back in his chair, studying the service record in front
of him, when a placid *beep* comes from the door.

"Come in."

The door opens, to reveal a tallish woman, light blue eyes and brown ponytail.

"Lt. St. James reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant." Jacobson looks back to the record, wondering if he's
about to land himself in hot water. "I see that you've done personal protection
work. Bodyguard stuff."

"Yes sir."

"Aboard the USS Moonbeam. Not the shabbiest ship in the fleet. How did you come
to be a weapons officer?"

"Not much call for bodyguards in Star Fleet, sir."

"There is now." He looks up, his face a blank slate, almost bored in the light
of the terminal display. He switches it off and sits upright. "You know,
Lieutenant, I was never in favor of this stopover in the first place. My orders
are to get Sarin to his meeting. In the meantime, however, I've had to put up
with a lot of crap." The Captain takes out a hanky and blows his nose. "I
assume that you're aware that Sarin has just hiked over to the Excalibur
without his escort."

Kristin shakes her head. "No sir." She was under the impression that Bellenger
and his team of jar-heads were keeping the Ambassador locked up tighter than a
box of dilithium. If Sarin managed to ditch his security squad, Bellenger will
have to answer for it, and it won't be pretty.

"Well, he has. Knowing Jenifer, she'll probably try to co-opt the Ambassador
for some public relations stunt, which is exactly what we don't need.
Personally, I can't order him back on this ship. At this point, I probably
can't even send a security team without locking horns with Admiral Bellasario's
boy. So, you want to know what I'm going to do, Lieutenant?"

"Sir."

"I'm going to send you! And you're going to stick to the Ambassador whether he
likes it or not! And if Bellasario asks any questions, just tell him that
you're a little gift from Captain Frank Jacobson, and that he'd better put up
with a flea in his ointment, cause you're not going away."

"Aye sir."

"Any questions good dismissed," said without pause.

"Sir... why me?"

Jacobson looks up again, this time slowly. "Oh... you must mean, why am I
choosing you, a person who has a scant year of bodyguard experience versus
somebody like... say, Narakuma... who could probably bust my skull with his
pinky while stoned. The answer, Lieutenant, is that little incident on the
Gothmog asteroid base. I was just reading up on it. Very impressive. You and
Sarin seemed to work pretty well together back then. And if Sarin is attacked,
it's not going to be by a bunch of amateurs. I need somebody who can get Sarin
to take the logical precautions. Not somebody who will give him a false sense
of security. You talk to him, and you get him to keep his head low. If he
doesn't cooperate, no amount of protection will help him. That is all."


Stardate 6003.27 at 0930 hours: USS Excalibur, Random Corridor
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Do I have the fates to thank for this moment, or was it arranged well in
advance?"

T'lar winces almost imperceptibly, enough to make it screamingly obvious to
Sarin that she's reacting emotionally, but too subtle for most non-Vulcans to
take note of. She's been practicing this annoy-the-Vulcans-face for decades,
and has gotten quite good at it, so much so that it's become almost second
nature. Sarin, however, seems less annoyed by it than she intended. In fact,
quite the opposite.

"Indeed, T'lar. You have neglected to introduce your friend."

Tsandzia steps forward a bit, "Lt. Tsandzia arul Morchainte. Science Officer,
USS Phobos."

"The daughter of King Morchainte of Calainia. Your father could not stop
talking about you when last we met."

"You met my father?"

"More than once. He longs for you, Tsandzia, and curses the day that you joined
Star Fleet, though it is also the source of his greatest pride. When our minds
meet, you shall see him through Vulcan eyes."

Tsandzia wonders out loud, "What do you mean, our minds meet?"

"Have you not been told? I have come to gather the details on your
confrontation with the Borg. I have already read the Captain's reports,
however, there are still many details which interest me. Details that can only
be provided by a thorough investigation into the facts."

"He means a mind meld," T'lar inputs.

"Oh joy," Tsandzia murmurs, not particularly thrilled over the concept.

T'lar quickly changes the subject, "Have you been invited to the poker game,
Sarin? It would give you an excellent chance to know everyone better, and catch
up with those you already know. It promises to be... fascinating."

"Poker? Already I am fascinated."

However, just at that moment, the doors of a nearby turbolift slide open. A
pony-tailed lieutenant walks over, taking quick inventory of her surroundings,
before stopping beside the trio.

"Ah... Lieutenant St. James. Meet Tsandzia and T'lar." He turns to T'lar, "Lt.
St. James has been sent to serve as my bodyguard... if I am not mistaken that
is."

Kristin feigns innocence for a couple seconds, then scowls, "I hate it when you
do that, but yes, until your stay with us is completed, I will be your shadow."

Hearing this exchange, Oein, Bellasario, and Duran finally churn up the nerve
to approach the huddle. (And for a brief if alarming instant, the GM suddenly
realizes that all the PCs are at the same place at the same time, a most
perplexing coincidence... and in a random corridor no less! The PC glow here is
quite blinding!)

"Did I hear that right? You're the Ambassador's bodyguard?" He looks her over
in mild disbelief, wondering what idiot sent her hither.

"And who might you be?"

"Lt. Bellasario, Security Chief."

"Ah, I figured that I'd bump into you sooner or later." Kris looks over
Bellasario's firm physique, wondering how any mere lieutenant could ever make
it to the post of Security Chief on the USS Excalibur. Her own supervisor, Lt.
Cmdr. Bellenger, is the security chief of the Typhoon, and it's an older,
smaller vessel with about a third of the Excalibur's crew. Must have something
to do with being an admiral's son, she figures, wishing pointedly that she were
an admiral's daughter.

"Indeed," the Ambassador interjects, "the choice of Lt. St. James was at my
personal though tacit request. I hope she will not be an undue burden on your
facilities, Lt. Bellasario."

"Sir, I am prepared to put a fully-equipped security detail on..."

"That will not be necessary. I am quite certain that Lt. St. James will
adequately attend to all of my security needs. I am aboard the Excalibur, after
all. What could possibly happen?"

"Sir, perhaps you've not been made aware, but there was an unfortunate incident
regarding gothmogs..."

"I have already read the station's report."

The one that's full of holes, Tsandzia thinks to herself. "Lt. Bellasario, the
report of the starbase investigation is ready for your access. You'll find it
in your mail."

Gunner nods, "Thank you, Tsandzia." He then looks back at the Ambassador and
this impromptu bodyguard. "It's not my business to step on your personal
security staff, Ambassador. However, I can add more precautions. If you would
like to come this way, I would be happy to show you to your personal suite and
lounge. I can assure you that you will not find your accommodations lacking."

Sarin nods, "Considering what they paid for this ship, I find your assumption
highly logical. Very well then, lead the way." He looks over his shoulder, "Oh,
T'lar. Tell your poker companions that if they need more space, my
'accommodations' should suffice."

Oein and T'lar follow along, wondering what these accommodations look like.
Meanwhile, Tsandzia and Duran are left staring at each other.

"Sethon, I was wondering if a stroll through that park might yield any rare
insight into what might have happened there. Perhaps you might accompany me on
an inspection sometime in the near future. I have noticed that Albuquerque
security really didn't do much of a job looking through it."

"A stroll through the park? I assume you mean Surreal Park?" It's the one where
his so-called "lady of the night" went ka-boom!

Tsandzia nods "Yes, that's the one. If you weren't an officer, I would ask you
whether you felt 'up to it'" Tsandzia smiles.

Duran casts Tsandzia a strange look. "I'm not sure I follow." But, as he looks
down the corridor, seeing the receding shapes of the Ambassador, Oein, T'lar,
Bellasario, and St. James, he realizes that he isn't going to have an
opportunity to get close any time too soon. "But what the heck. I have nothing
better to do with my time."


Stardate 6003.27 at 0930 hours: USS Excalibur, On the way to Sarin's Pad
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

T'lar murmurs to Sarin, "Is it really necessary to mind meld with Tsandzia?
Other races find such things somewhat... distressing, and the Lieutenant tends
to be particularly private with her thoughts. I believe I know as much relevant
information about the incident as she does, and as I am both more experienced
psionically, and have melded with you before, I think it would only be
logical that I be the choice."

"Star Fleet Command is interested in gaining a variety of perspectives,
however, nobody can force her to mind meld."

"Nobody can *force* her to do anything. Besides... after all we've been
through, it would be unpleasant to see you in a casket because you accidentally
touched upon a sensitive issue. Remember, Sarin, you can't meld with rubber
gloves."

"No, indeed. Now that I think on it, your suggestion seems increasingly
logical."

Gunner takes a small plastic card out of his pocket and presents it to Sarin
when they finally arrive at the large mahogany doors of the Ambassadorial
Lounge. He runs the card through the door's magnetic sensor, and they promptly
swing open to reveal a large chamber with glowing purple floor tiles.

"This room features the latest in configurable furniture modeling. You can
literally decorate to taste." Gunner wipes the sudden burst of sweat from his
forehead. "As you can see, we've already set the temperature for your native
homeworld of Vulcan. I can show you how to select furnishings if..."

"Thank you, Lieutenant, but I believe I can manage." He turns to T'lar, "I am
ready whenever you are."

She nods. "At your leisure, sir." She glances at the others still present.
"While, of course, I do not mind if you stay to observe, I have known people to
find watching mind melds uncomfortable in the past. In addition, with the two
of us, there is some possible consideration of," she pauses thoughtfully for a
moment, "...leakage. Of course little research has been done in the field,
perhaps due to the paucity of highly psionic lab rats; but feel free to
remain."

Bellasario winces, "I'll be outside if you need me."

Kristin turns to the ambassador. "Sir, may I ask what your itinerary is for
today, and how long my services will be required?"

He turns around and flaps his free hand in Kristin's general direction as
though shooing her away like some pesky insect.

"Be as you will, Lieutenant. I am not your master."

And he's right, of course. If she screws up, she'll be answering to Jacobson,
and he'll personally wring her neck.

"Don't worry," Bellasario reaches toward a comm-port. "I'll get some people
stationed here on the double."

Oein and Gunner exit the lounge and watch as Kristin makes her way to the
nearest turbolift.

"Just got on duty and she can't wait to run off to do her nails," Gunner
mutters. "That's women for you, eh Oein?"

"Most likely untrue, Lieutenant. You should attempt to refrain from such
comments."

Gunner smirks, "Typical politically-correct response, Oein. Believe me, it's
okay to speak your mind around me. I don't hold that against people."

As Kristin reaches the turbolift, however, she can't help but hear her
Captain's voice in the back of her mind. "I'm going to send you! And you're
going to stick to the Ambassador whether he likes it or not!" She catches her
breath for a moment and hits a comm port. "Get me the Typhoon."

Tracy's voice is on the other end. "Typhoon, over."

"Tracy? It's Kris."

"Hi there? What are you doing, calling ship-to-ship?"

"It's a long story. Are you planning to visit the station when you get off
duty?"

"You know it."

"Can you do me a BIG favor?"

"What do you need?"

"Can you scout around and find out if there are any micro-cameras and
very-small microphones available. If there are any available, please pick me up
two of each. I'll pay ya back ASAP. This is for a security project I was
working on that I forgot to wrap up before I went on duty."

There's an awkward pause at the other end. Then, "I'll see what I can find."

"By the way," Kristin adds, "keep this a secret, okay?"

*Sigh* "Am I going to get into trouble for this?"

"No! I mean, no, of course not."

Another awkward pause, "I've got another call coming in. I'll talk to you
later."

Kris lets the line disconnect, wondering whether using an intermediary was such
a good idea. She then turns around and heads back to the room, getting to the
outer doors a bare minute after leaving, and looking like she'll blow a
nine-inch hole in the first person who looks at her wrong.

"That was quick," Gunner observes, trying to mimic the infamous T'lar-patented
eyebrow.

Meanwhile...

Sarin seats himself gingerly on the floor, shedding his cloak and slowly
tilting his head from side to side, eyes closed in the dim purple light, the
joints of his neck popping so faintly that she can hear them only in her
memory. His elbows and shoulders come next, followed by his back, legs, feet,
and toes. T'lar mimics the performance, drawing the tension out of her body
from top to bottom, and flushing it down into the earth, or in this
case, down into the deck of the starship. In a way, she feels slightly
embarrased. The creak of her joints show what shape she is in. Sarin's,
however, are as silent as a tiger stalking its prey. When she is finished, she
finds him staring at her, eyes gleaming. But somehow, in a flash of insight,
she knows that they are not his eyes at all. T'lar considers for what feels
like an eternity, logic, fears, doubt, options, and countless other thoughts
warring in her mind; but it is only an eye's blink later when she says softly,
"Proceed, Sarin. I am ready." Her mind must be open to perform the meld... but
so must his.

He places his hands softly on her forehead as she does likewise. But, as T'lar
attempts to reach out, it is as though there is nothing there. It is as though
she is attempting to mind meld with a rock.

Sarin actually smiles, a faint smile, but a smile nevertheless.

T'lar is now, of course, more curious than ever. She considers all she has ever
learned about the powers of the mind, assembling theories and techniques, and
begins to methodically apply them all. More effort; less effort; completely
opening her mind; the works. There must be something... something there to hold
onto! Suddenly, she is reminded of the premise of an old Terran detective:
"When all possibilities are exhausted, whatever remains, no matter how
improbable, must be the truth."

T'lar shakes her head and breaks with a frown. "The meld is not working
correctly. I can't imagine what's wrong."

"Perhaps," Sarin stands, "we are as two alien species, having grown so far
apart over these past years that the melding of our minds is no longer
possible. Computer, select furnishing, fireplace."

Within a few seconds, a roaring hearth rises from the floor against the wall
where Sarin is facing. He picks up one of the brass pokers, and proceeds to
twirl it about, like a small version of the stahl, an ancient vulcan weapon and
relic from the race's emotional and destructive past.

"Do you think so T'lar? Do you think that you are no longer capable of sharing
that part of yourself you used to offer to me so freely? If so, I see no
purpose to this pathetic existence." He takes the poker and jabs it through his
ears, thrusting so hard that it quickly drives through the center of his skull,
and comes out his other ear, a dripping grey fluid oozing from the poker's end.

Then he smiles openly, this time not even attempting to hold back.

"What do you think? Do I look diplomatic?"

T'lar deadpans, "I'm told a poker-face is useful for the games we will be
playing tonight. Might I inquire what game we are playing *now*?"

He hits a comm-port on the wall. "Transporter Room #1. This is Sarin. Beam
Lt. T'lar to the holodeck."

After the tingling feeling washes over her, T'lar finds herself in what appears
to be the place she just left, except that all the walls are fuzzy, and even
the fireplace is a bit translucent. She can see Bellasario and Lt. St. James
standing on the other side of the door, even though it is closed, and even
the brass poker sticking out Sarin's ears appears like a half-tone hologram.
He yanks the poker out of his skull and tosses it to her, but though she
tries to catch it, it passes right through her chest without connecting,
making a dim thumping noise on the tiles behind her.

"Do you understand, T'lar? Or are you still as empty-headed as my simulacrum
back there?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Commodore, leaning against the
corner of the holo-chamber behind all the semi-transparent facades. Even
Ash appears to be admiring her confusion.

T'lar considers, then succinctly replies: "No." After this brings no
immediately reply, merely an appropriately scathing (for a Vulcan) look, she
nudges, "Please exposit for me."

The Commodore steps forward from the corner of the chamber, passing through
a semi-transparent wall. "It's a trick... a cheap pallor trick."

"Obviously," T'lar intones, cocking an eyebrow.

"That took me all night to program, I might add," Ash lets out a deep yawn.
"Not that I had anything else to do with this holodeck, mind you. Oh, but
what a convincing simulacrum it is, too. I purchased it from one of the local
merchants. Purchased isn't exactly the word. Appropriated more like. Never
thought I'd have a use for the damn thing beyond sheer novelty."

Sarin lets all remanents of his smile dissolve. "Let us show her."

Ash nods, "Excellent idea." He hits his comm-badge, "Transporter room #1,
please bring us that damn simulacrum."

It materializes next to Sarin, and for a moment, T'lar is confused as to
which is which. He turns from side to side, and the simulacrum turns with
him, mimicking his movements in precise detail.

"We've been using the Excalibur's internal scanners to provide tactical
data on the simulacrum's whereabouts directly to the holodeck. In this way,
I can interact with its environment as though I were it and it were I."

"That was the real challenge," Ash interjects. "But, after all these years, I
still haven't lost my touch."

T'lar blinks, not sure whether or not she's more confused than she was before.
"What is this... simulacrum?"

"It's a device. It's a copy-cat if you will. A most extraordinary find, really.
My guess is that it came from the ruins of Archoa. Some ancient civilization
found a use for these things. Who am I to snub my nose at history?"

"But how does it work?"

Sarin's voice turns icy cold, "Nobody knows."

"Hasn't it been studied?"

"Of course it has!" Ash assures her. "My dear lieutenant, we are but naked apes
in comparison with the wonders of the galaxy. Imagine a monkey trying to
decipher the technical aspects of a warp drive."

"It operates on psionic principles yet unknown," Sarin notes. "Here, give me
your hand." He rips a small tear in her finger with his teeth, drawing a drop
of blood.

"Ouch!"

"Do not fear, T'lar. You asked for an exposition. I am merely exposting."

He lets her blood-drop fall into the grayish ooze-like substance which is
dripping slowly from the simulacrum's ear where he'd punctured it. Within
seconds, the features of the face begin transforming as the body itself
becomes several inches shorter, and over the course of the next several
minutes, T'lar watches as the simulacrum changes from the likeness of
Sarin into the likeness of herself.

Sarin raises an eyebrow, watching her expression with a keen interest. "Well,
T'lar. What do you think?"

"I think, of course, that it is... fascinating," T'lar says, examining it
closely. "Are my ears really that... never mind. Tell me, Sarin. Why have I
been brought into the company of this little charade? If you wished me not to
know about it, surely an excuse might have been found to complete the mind meld
with Tsandzia instead. I might have been suspicious, but I believe it is safe
to say I would not have come up with even a remote approximation of the truth,
and your secret would remain most emphatically safe."

Sarin nods, "I felt that you, of all people, I could trust. And I may need your
help. It seems that I may be... in a spot of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?"

"I don't want to concern you with too many details. Suffice it to say that my
mission is one of importance, and there are those who would stop me, even if it
comes down to murder. Do you now understand, T'lar, why I opted for this little
charade?"

"I suspected as much as soon as I saw what type of game you had begun. Such
a... creature... item... has many uses, but logically only a few would be
appropriate to you at this time. I welcome your trust." T'lar glances over at
Ash again. "Not to sound rude, sir, but... is there a particular reason you are
also one to be trusted? After seeing this little demonstration, I can easily
believe just about ANYONE is anything."

Ash nods, "Yes... well, allow yourself to take comfort in the fact that I am
me." He grins, apparently satisfied with his attempt at humor.

"T'lar," Sarin begins, pricking his own finger as well as that of the
simulacrum, "We only have so long before the inevitable intrusion. Let
us make the most of this time." He seats himself on the floor, closing his
eyes, with one hand slightly extended.

Ash heads toward the doors, "I'll just fetch a cup of the local synthesized
coffee from hell. You two have fun."

T'lar nods, and recomposes herself, trying to pretend she's still not seething
with a thousand questions. "Assuming that there are no more... unusual
interruptions," T'lar seats herself on the floor beside Sarin, "I am ready."

<*> Good. <*>

As they link together somewhere in the midst of psychic space, T'lar feels a
flood of intense emotions, Sarin's emotions. Most are primitive and related to
fear, held in check only by her presence and the strength of faith he places in
her. But there is more. Something beneath the surface.

<*> You never could hide secrets from me, Sarin. <*>

<*> Secrets?! <*>

The surface emotion is like a thick bank of fog. T'lar realizes that some
delving will be required.

<*> Remember the Borg, T'lar. <*>

<*> Perhaps I'll teach you a bit about poker, instead. <*>

<*> Poker? <*>

<*> This version is called 'stud'. Why, I don't know. <*>

<*> You are wasting time, T'lar. <*>

<*> Patience. My reasons will become clear shortly. Here is the first card
I have been dealt. <*>

Images appear in Sarin's mind, images of cold creatures so full of logic as to
make Vulcans look like children. First in a flood, seemingly random, are people
dying. A Borg writhing under some sort of electrical attack on a planet's
surface. A strange oozing blob cuddling a blue shoulder. A Borg surviving a
seemingly identical attack of electric power, striding ahead unconcerned as a
green shimmering force field protects it.

The pictures shift now, aligning into lockstep order, marching on mercilessly,
trampling everything under their heavy metal feet, advancing in a mass of pale
white flesh. Many more people die. A ship screams in a helpless wail of terror
and futility as it is absorbed into a giant black cube, looming over and
dwarfing the insignificant vessel. Resistance is futile.  All will be
assimilated. Resistance is futile. All will be assimilated. RESISTANCE IS
FUTILE. ALL WILL BE...

T'lar dives out of the recursion she has initiated, the blinding terror of
which leaves Sarin's mind temporarily frozen and unprotected against her
psychic infiltrations.

'Let us see what skeletons you have locked inside this mental closet, Sarin.'

For a bare instant, she finds herself in the Federation High Council. K'Bhar,
the President (and the chief representative from Vulcan) is there. There's a
look in his eyes, one of ominous purpose.

A moment later, she finds herself aboard a shuttle.

"Transporters are unsettling for the mind, Sarin. You will need to abstain
their use if you wish to remain in contact."

Back in the council chamber, "What are our alternatives?! Without the genesis
technology, the Klingon's will not be able to feed themselves. Too much of
their agricultural capacity has already been decimated in war."

"I say, let them starve!"

"And allow them to become consumed by civil war? What then of our peace with
the current government?"

"If we give them Genesis, they'll just use it as a weapon against us!"

Back in the shuttle, "They had decided the question long before this day,
Sarin. Their hearts are cold to the possibilities of the future. Their
constituencies would not understand such a policy."

"But your dreams..."

"How much credence do dreams hold to those who know not how to dream?"

T'lar blinks, seeing a swarm of fear below her, some resulting from the
knowledge of the Borg, but more coming for another source.

The room is dark, but from the luxurious furnishings, she can see it's the bed
chamber of some VIP, probably Sarin himself. A man is talking on the monitor in
front of her. He's wearing the badge of an IIB officer. Interstellar
Information Bureau. Counterparts to Star Fleet Intelligence.

"According to our sources, Koth eth Zokar was receiving information about the
upcoming shipment. Thanks to the SFIC, we now know he was part of the Romulan
connection. Our conclusion, however, is that the SFIC is now aware, at least to
some extent, of our operation. I don't think I need to tell you what problems
that could cause if this should prove to be the case."

<*> No! <*>

T'lar breaks contact and pushes away as psychic cymbals come crashing down on
her mind. For a moment, she leans back, breathless, as Sarin regards her with
smoldering eyes. Then, with some effort, she steadies herself and her gaze into
those eyes. The typical vulcan come-back to embarrassing emotion.

"All the cards on both sides," she continues after a moment, "continue to be
dealt face up... so both sides know all cards in play at all times... but the
final card, as ever, remains hidden until all have committed themselves fully."
She rests her hands lightly on her knees, gazing at Sarin. "Logic will not
solve poker as it will three dimensional chess, Sarin. How much will you gamble
on your hand?"

He nods, "As you know, T'lar, I gamble what I must. It seems, as of late, I
have been gambling as no Vulcan knows how. But if you knew the reasons..." he
lets the thought trail into nowhere, then takes a deep breath. "If you know the
reason... then you know that what I'm doing, I'm doing for the good of the
Federation. You should not have delved into my memory. Certain things are
better left unknown."

"I have never agreed with the withholding of information, Sarin. It has always
seemed to me, at best, counterproductive; and at worst, exceedingly dangerous.
I have myself some information on the presence of the SFIC here that you
may find useful -- and I intend to give it to you in full detail, as soon as a
somewhat more detailed definition of 'the good of the Federation' is
forthcoming. And before you mention it, yes, there is a distinct possibility
I'm bluffing -- but that, Sarin, is all part of the game."

"It seems you understand this poker rather well."

However, at just that precise instant, Commodore Ash walks in carrying a tray
of cafe mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and just a dash of
amaretto.

"Poker? Did somebody mention poker?" He places the tray between the two
vulcans, staring about with a rather clueless expression as though expecting
to catch a glimpse of cards or a stack of chips or even holograms of
Commander Elineva in various stages of undress. "If there is a game, by God,
somebody had best invite me. I get so very ornery when excluded from the
festivities. Oh... cafe mocha, anyone?"


Stardate 6003.27 at 1000 hours: Albuquerque Station, Surreal Park
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Duran has to blink when he sees the place. A far cry from the dim environment
of last evening, Surreal Park is now bathed in streams of blue and gold, true
morning colors if he ever saw any, making up in brightness what they lack
in texture. The blue waters churns in haphazard bubbles overhead, some the
size of droplets, others as large as olympic-sized pools, and all of it
suspended in mid-air. Along the sides, shallow gravity fields create an
environment for numerous tables, benches, and planters where people sit
talking, reading, and eating breakfast. Others are kicking back, feeding the
mechanical ducks as they waddle down the astroturf in quacking packs. Ash's
version of trashbots.

Duran points to the balcony/terrace where he'd been situated the previous
night. "It happened over there. She just," he grimmaces, "I don't think she
survived long enough to feel much pain."

"But you survived."

Duran nods, "Survival is my business."

Tsandzia glances furtively about for a moment, lowering her voice, "I'm
rather new at this, but I have been instructed to reveal to you my status as a
formerly inactive agent of Star Fleet Intelligence. My mission included
obtaining a certain chip from the port authority before they were able to
decode it's instructions. Then read it, destroy it, and carry out the
instructions it held." Tsandzia stops for a moment, then continues walking off
in a slightly different direction, strolling pleasantly and watching the
churning waters overhead.

Duran stops, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I don't understand. Are you telling me
that you are a part of Star Fleet Intelligence?"

"Yes. As I said, I was just recently re-activated."

Duran looks at Tsandzia, a genuinely panicked expression on his face. "I'm
still confused, why are you telling me this?"

"I've already told you... I was instructed to reveal my status to you."

"Aren't you concerned that this will damage your, what do they call it,
'cover'? And jeopardize your mission?" Duran make an expression of sudden
revelation, "Oh... you need help, is that it?  Help from the security
department of the Excalibur? You should really be talking to the Chief about
that."

Tsandzia whispers softly, "Wrong, I don't have a cover, Agent Duran. Why should
I be undercover? I haven't even been to training. It's just that, aside from
yourself, I'm the only one around here who's affiliated with SFIC. The
instructions on the lady's chip were to assist you as you required after
contact. They gave me no specifics on where to meet you, so I figured
that the lady knew best in choosing this as a meeting place, probably the least
likely place to be 'listened' in on. Sorry about my inexperience, but they
wouldn't train me as an operative both because of my diplomatic standing and my
rather obvious features."

Duran follows slowly, fingering his phaser, he thinks, 'Hmm...well informed.
Too well informed. She knows too much to be taking shots in the dark. All the
same, how can she be any sort of agent if she's never been through training, as
she claims? And why wasn't I informed of her presence? And how did SFIC contact
and activate her so quickly?!'

Duran catches up with Tsandzia, "Okay, hold on a minute. You say you're some
kind of SFIC secret agent but you've never been trained? Then you said you got
your orders on some lady's chip? What chip? What lady? Another agent? Your
contact? And why did you call me Agent Duran? And I still don't understand why
your telling me all this. Or more directly, what it is you want from me?"

Tsandzia frowns visibly, "You're not supposed to be the one asking the
questions. This is all wrong, just all wrong. I had better be going, before
people's lives are jeopardized. Sorry, Lt. Khemsa. There appears to have been a
most grievous mistake."

Khemsa nods, "A very grievous mistake."

Khemsa waits a few seconds while Tsandzia begins to walk off. Then he withdraws
his communicator.

"Khemsa to Excalibur. Transporter Room #2. Lt. Tsandzia is directly in front of
me, lock on to her. Beam her directly to security holding cell number one." He
hits the half-break, "Brig, this is Khemsa. Bring up the forcefield on cell #1
on my mark." He guestimates the delay, hoping he won't be killing her by
cutting it too fine. "Okay, now."

"Uh... aye sir!"

Tsandzia doesn't even know what's happening until the transporter beam is upon
her, and then she holds perfectly still, knowing the possible results of a
transporter lock failure. For a brief instant, she considers the prospect of
grabbing the nearest person, but quickly shoves the idea back where it belongs.
Not only would she run the risk of getting herself scrambled, but she'd be
risking some poor unfortunate's life as well. Her only consolation is the
realization that whoever is doing the transporting must be operating with
Federation clearance. Otherwise, they wouldn't be able to snag her so easily
off the Albuquerque.

She waits momentarily as the metallic walls of a starship emerge around her on
three sides. She tries walking into the corridor but suddenly slams herself
face-first against a forcefield.

Back on the Albuquerque:

"You got her?"

"Yes sir. Cell #1 is occupied. Uh... it's looks like Lt. Morchainte."

"Do not let her out, and do not let her talk to anyone. Isolate her until I get
there. Be sure to activate the communications damper, as she may have a
communicator. I'll explain when I arrive. Khemsa out."


                      _   /|        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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