Mek moved the purple grains across the plate with his fork, scooping them into a small pile to engineer the perfect bite. To him Risian rice was the perfect balance of rich, creamy texture  with a hint of zest that carried just the right sour kick to his Pelian tastebuds. The fermented Kordar beans that formed a rough line beside the dome of rice carried fragrant breaths of ginger and Lentet spice up towards him. His eyes closed and Mek focused for a few seconds on the mingled flavours. He tried, and failed, to remember the last time he’d eaten non-replicated food. Brief thoughts of admonishment came and went from his mind as he contemplated his culinary crimes. They were soon dispelled by another mouthful.

He looked behind him towards the kitchen. Behind a transparent aluminium shopfront, six Risian chefs toiled over steaming pots, sauté pans over carefully calibrated stoves, and the infinitely fine chopping of herbs. Hisses, clangs and the clinking of cutlery spilled out across the veranda that demarcated the area in which Captain Mek, Captain Shilo and Commodore Tharc now sat.The covered structure jutted into the steady stream of passersby on the promenade, causing those walking by to course correct with heads turned, investigating the source of the enticing smells coiling through the evening air.

Commodore Ciffao Tharc chewed heartily. Her short Tellarite frame did not rise as far from the table as the bodies of her two colleagues, but she was damned if she was going to let that stop her from enjoying the meal. 

“I want to send an official complaint to the Klingon High Council,” Tharc’s all-business, matter of fact tone cut clean through the restaurant hubbub, “that kind of gross interference with a Starfleet operation, with those stakes… We have to say something.”

Francesca had been so engrossed by the food on her plate she wasn’t quite sure when she finally joined the group conversations, but as always it seemed she was too engrossed by her food. She swallowed and nodded at Tharc’s reply, as that was all she could do as she went in for another bite.

Brodie had just arrived at Starbase 86 and was not quite sure of where he was going. He still had his bag and was wandering the promenade when his nose was enticed by the smells of some delicious Risian food. He walked towards the restaurant and noticed three higher ranking officials eating. He didn’t want to interrupt so he went and found a seat by himself and ordered some food. Brodie was sure he would be noticed when the time was needed.

“I’d agree with you, Commodore,” Mek’s words escaped before he’d fully finished chewing, “but I’m just not sure they’d care.” His fork moved as he gave a slight shrug, and his eyes turned back to the food, “They probably approve of what Metraq did, the idiot. Testing our mettle, ‘for the glory of the Empire’.”

“Ugh.” Tharc rolled her eyes, “Cowards if we say nothing, complaining cowards if we protest. Either way, I want to be direct with them. There need to be consequences if they ever try anything like that again.”

Mek nodded, “Needs to be something more than words. What to do…” He mulled this over as he prodded the last of the beans, resolving to simply enjoy the rest of the meal and not let the Klingons ruin another evening. “How’s the food, Francesca?” 

Francesca agreed that the Klingons had caused some problems, but the biggest issue would be figuring out what they could do about it. She wasn’t in a position to make that decision and she would make sure to only talk about it if she was asked. 

She looked over at Mek and smiled “It’s good considering I haven’t eaten fully in almost three days. I am surprised I am not eating faster.” She chuckled as she took yet another bite of the food. The plate was empty and she frowned “Is anybody up for some dessert?” 

The looks from the others showed they were considering it. She waited to see if they would agree to some, if not she was still going to get something.  

Mek and Tharc both knew they shouldn’t. Both had, however, walked past the table of frendan milk puddings on the way to their seats. They shared a brief guilty glance, then Mek turned to Shilo, “I blame the Klingons for this.” He said, chair scraping along the tiled floor as he rose.

The trio were halfway to the dessert table when Mek caught sight of another officer in command red. The man looked human and was seated with his back facing them. It wasn’t hard to deduce from the standard issue grey canvas bag propped against the table that the officer was in the process of reassignment. Mek knew the situation well. The silvery hair, thinning slightly at the crown, bobbed down as the man ate with apparent enthusiasm. Then Mek remembered the transfer reports he’d reviewed that afternoon. Cutting a wide arc across the room, Mek tried to look discreet as the man’s face came into view. The failure of Mek’s operation was as instantaneous as the eye contact that was made. The figure at the table frowned, ceasing his chewing as if getting ready to ask Mek what the hell he was doing. Nevertheless, Mek approached and held out a hand, “Commander Lewis, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I trust you’re enjoying the food?”

Brodie had been eating the food, not paying attention to his surroundings. The food was delicious and after his long trip it seemed to hit the spot. The food steaming on the plate and the aroma had made the food so inviting Brody had finished it just before he noticed a man looking over at him in the most obvious way possible. 

He looked to see the man finally walk over which began to make Brodie feel nervous. He had seen a lot and learned to trust nothing. Upon hearing the officer’s voice he lifted his eyebrow “And who are you exactly?” He asked with piercing eyes that would make anyone’s skin crawl. 

Mek straightened up, unaccustomed to the standoffishness on display. From the personnel file, he knew the Intelligence Officer was not likely to be the kind of person who engaged in idle chat. Nevertheless, Mek resolved that if they were going to be working together then there would need to be at least a degree of civility. He replied, “Captain Erill’Yun Mek, Fourth Fleet, Task Force 86 Command, which I believe is now also your assignment?” 

Brodie looked up and straightened his posture slightly “My apologies Captain, but in my line of work, you can never be too careful. Commander Brodie Lewis, the new Task Force 86 Intelligence Director. It is my new assignment, but with my late arrival I figured I would try to find my quarters and report in the morning, but here I am.” he said smiling in a somewhat sarcastic manner.

“Not a problem, Mr. Lewis. Better late than never, and I understand the need for discretion in your line of work.” Mek glanced around, pointing out his two companions who were now over by the dessert table, “That’s Commodore Ciffao Tharc over there, station CO. Then there’s Captain Francesca Shilo, Task Force Executive Officer. Care to join us for some dessert?” 

Brodie thought for a moment “I appreciate the offer, but I’m pretty tired. I think the best thing would be for me to get some sleep.”

Mek frowned, taken aback by the rebuff. He could see the man’s eyes were sunken, “Must have been a hell of a trip out here.” Mek recalled Brodie’s previous assignment at Deep Space 43, “Did you come by runabout? Not always easy to sleep on those things.”

Brodie looked over at Mek and nodded “It’s very true you can’t sleep well on a runabout, but then I don’t seem to sleep too great anyways. Hazards of the job I suppose.” he stated.

“Intelligence is a demanding field indeed,” The briefings he’d received so far were made by officers who never seemed to leave the Operations Centre, “but it might be a whole lot easier with a command staff that you get along with?” Mek’s eyebrows raised a little as he smiled.

Brodie thought for a moment, though Brodie only knew the little he had read on the CO he seemed trustworthy. “Ok I’ll join you for dessert.” he said as he got up from his chair grabbing his bags.

“Right this way, Mr. Lewis!” Mek ushered him towards the table where Tharc and Shilo now sat having returned from the dessert table, “I hear the frendan milk pudding here is excellent.” 

After finishing her prune juice in the Lounge, Carrie then made her way, not without having to ask the walls a few times where the Hell this place was, to the Central Spire and to the Task Force Commander’s office. Orders in hand, she signaled the chime to his door.

The yellabek plant’s leaves swayed a gentle to and fro against the air recycling system’s faint breeze. Mek looked up. The glass frontage of his office looked out across the Task Force 86 operations centre, staff officers, intelligence and communication specialists, science teams and diplomatic liaisons hurried from desk to desk. They collated reports, coordinated ongoing missions in the surrounding sectors, funnelling pertinent information towards the eyes of those who made decisions. It wasn’t glamorous work, but Mek could see from the expressions of determination that those who occupied that circular mission control room knew they made up a small but crucial part of Starfleet’s brain. That alone woke them up every day with a sense of meaning. Well, that and the raktajino.

An unfamiliar figure caught his eye, moving across the office floor and towards the door. Unlike the others, the blonde haired human seemed a little unsure of her surroundings. He recalled Commodore Tharc‘s words from that morning.

“Staff transfers today,” she’d announced in typical matter-of-fact fashion from behind her own desk in starbase ops, “new counsellor. Coming from the Repulse, no less.”

“Glad she’s still sailing,” Mek looked up from the PADD, “what’s it got to do with me?”

“I’m stuck in a meeting with the facilities planning committee all afternoon,” Tharc grumbled, “I’m going to tell her to report to you.”

“I see.” Mek nodded, not entirely pleased. He had been planning to peruse the reports of strange radio signals coming from The Triangle.

“Appreciated, Captain,” reaching out, she handed him a small box, “and I’d also be most grateful if you could give her this.”

***

“Enter,” Mek called, nonchalantly. He rose from behind the desk as the young woman walked through the door, “you must be Ensign Metrios.” He held out a hand.

Carrie braced to attention. “Yes, sir,” she replied. “My orders, sir.” She handed him a PADD that had her pertinent orders on it as well as statements from her two previous commanders.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d gotten lost six times on the way here, and that she had poor kinesthesia. For what it was worth, the big Aurora-class starbase was a great deal larger than an Excelsior-class ship, her last posting, and was absolutely gigantic when compared to the Thunderchild, the Akira-class ship she’d first been posted to.

It’s a small wonder you don’t get lost going to the head, Caroline Renee, she thought to herself. If you’d bothered to look at a fucking map, this wouldn’t happen to you.

“At ease, Ensign,” Mek exhorted her, “and welcome to Starbase 86.” He quickly skimmed the PADD then placed it on the desk, “How was the journey here?”

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic attempt Mek had ever made to make conversation, but he felt the need to be at least civil to the new arrival.

“The journey here was rather uneventful, sir,” Carrie told him, relaxing a bit. “It helps when you have your own personal runabout so that you don’t have to deal with the headache of civilian transport or hopping a ride aboard a passing starship.”

Carrie, nervous as always about meeting a new CO, paused for a moment before explaining, “The runabout, a Danube-class, was a gift from my last CO aboard the USS Repulse. Her proper name is USS Oklahoma, registry number NCC-73107, named so after the section of the North Canadian River that runs through Oklahoma City on Earth.”

“Ah Earth… It’s been a long damn time.” Mek almost grew wistful, “I did enjoy Yosemite…” He snapped back, regaining eye contact, “The Danubes won’t let you down, Ensign Metrios, you can be sure of that. Spent plenty of time in them myself.”

He felt old talking to this fresh faced officer, but his eyes still creased into a smile. To Mek, it hadn’t been so long ago since it’d been him stood there back on Brreyt Station, a gleam in his eye and a song in his heart. He reached over to the desk, picked up the box and opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in a spongy lining, was a single hollow pip.

“Ensign Metrios, it’s my understanding that you are to be permanently re-assigned to Starbase 86 as Station Counselor. On behalf of Commodore Ciffao Tharc, Starbase Commanding Officer, and as ratified by Starfleet Command, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade.”

Carrie immediately braced back to attention as Mek pinned the new pip to her collar, as is tradition.

“I’ll do my very best not to let you down, sir,” Carrie said, a broad smile on her face. “That said, I do have some concerns about the mental health of the ships of the Fleet, sir. Namely the Altai, a ship that I’m told has spent much time out near the Breen border retaking Outpost Sierra Zulu One. With your permission, sir, I would like to take the Oklahoma out to the Altai and perform a mental health wellness check on her commander and crew, as one of my first duties to the Task Force. I am concerned, however, that Commander Streth may not want a ‘pink-skin’ psychiatrist aboard his ship.”

Mek pondered Carrie’s request for a moment. He knew vaguely of the USS Altai and its assignment to the coreward edge of Federation space, “The Altai does face a challenging assignment. We’ve also received some alarming reports detailing what they’ve encountered in the caverns below the outpost.” He took the PADD from the desk again and brought up Streth’s log, “Yes, I believe psychological evaluations could well be in order. That being said, they’re five weeks travel from here, Metrios. Are you sure you’re up for the trip?”

“Aye, sir,” Carrie said, a serious look crossing her face. “I’ll go wherever I’m needed, and it sounds to me like the crew of the Altai may require my services. It may be a long trip, but if the crew needs help, I’m willing to do it, and all you need to is give the word, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll inform Commodore Tharc there may be some delay in your assumption of duties aboard base,” he handed her the PADD, “These logs will no doubt help with your evaluations. Should give you a good idea of what they’re dealing with out there.” Looking approvingly at the new Lieutenant, he was impressed by her initiative, “As for Commander Streth, if he’s still worried about being in the midst of “pink-skins”, then he’s going to need more than psychiatric help.”

“Aye, sir,” Carrie said. “I’ll be back in a couple of months, so keep a landing pad open for me.”

Carrie was excited at this first mission for a new commander, and the thought of doing some good for the Fleet as a whole was something she was looking forward to. “With your permission, sir, I’ll take the Oklahoma and head for the Breen border immediately.”

She turned and left his office, sprinting down the corridor with PADD in hand, off to Landing Pad 14, where she’d parked her ship, and a brand-new adventure where she wondered what would happen next.

The Myeldric Ocean stretched as far as Mek’s eyes could see. The Pelian sun glinted, sparkling across each choppy undulation as his boat gently rose and fell. It was as if Beta Moon itself was breathing, and on every wave Mek could see a little further inland as the hull was carried up on the upswell. The salt air swept across the foam edged peaks, bringing with it distant caws of circling gulls that peered down for morsels in the churn below. 

He tugged on the halyard, taking the last of the slack from the mainsail. The wind fell in behind and the sloop kept a steady speed, cutting a straight path on the afternoon currents. The boat’s wake radiated out from the stern in a v-shape, inviting in those rays of sunlight that skimmed across the water’s surface. Glittering on the side of the boat, lettering painted in a neat black sans read simply, “Moonrise”. 

What was left of Mek’s grey hair was tousled and blown about by the crosswinds. His skin was reddened from the constant buffeting he’d received on the journey out. Eyes squinting in the low sun, a smile crossed his face as the sloop picked up speed. He ducked his head momentarily and the boom swung across the deck. It was time to see what lay on the other side of the headland.

From nowhere, a chime sounded, “Task Force Ops to Captain Mek.”

“What is it?” He asked, annoyance clear in his tone.

“Ambassador Grecht is here, sir. Says he wants to speak with you.”

Mek winced, “Can it wait?”

“Uhhh, he says he wants to relay a message from general Metraq.”

Sighing audibly, Mek lifted his hand from the tiller and stood up, “Computer, end programme.” All that surrounded him dissipated in a holographic fizz. The land, sky, clouds and waters of Peliar Zel Beta were replaced by the luminous crisscross of the holo emitters, “Tell him I’m on my way.”

***

There was nothing but awkward silence as Grecht, large even for a Klingon, glowered over the junior Lieutenant. 

“Perhaps a raktajino while you wait, Ambassador?” The nervous officer asked with uncertainty.

Grecht looked through him, and further still through the glass front of Mek’s office. He could make out only a few of the Captain’s personal effects. These were, in Grecht’s opinion, dull even for the greyest of the grey Starfleet bureaucrats. They consisted of a holo image, a diploma hanging on the wall, and a series of model sailing boats. The simplicity of what the latter represented as a pastime confounded Grecht more than the sterile chambers in which Mek and others of his kind ensconced themselves. There was no vigour to it, little risk of death and no chance of glory. What simplistic, unenriched lives these people led. Yet they seemed not to mind. 

It was Grecht’s curiosity, described to him by others as a somewhat un-Klingon trait, that had allowed him to live amongst Starfleet for as long as he had. He’d been as disdainful as any watching them scurry around in their pristine uniforms, sidearms stowed, their martial culture shunned. To many Klingons this was an affront; a shying away from that which they held up with pride. But, as best as Grecht could tell from his years working alongside Starfleet, it was an organisation of contradictions. There was a fierceness and utmost bravery within them, not far under the surface. All one needed to do in order to see this for oneself was to be in the unenviable position of having crossed them, or worse still, having triggered their moral indignation.

Of course, his current train of thought was something of a contradiction itself. It was not a Klingon’s place to engage in such whimsy. He was here, he represented the interests of the Empire, and that was that. There was no honour in indulgent introspection. He laughed idly to himself at the prospect. The young Lieutenant, still standing nearby, shifted uncomfortably.

Then suddenly, “Grecht!” Another Klingon voice exploded from the turbolift doors, decidedly deeper and more guttural than his own, “Where is Mek? What are you doing loitering around here like a lost D’Gresh hound?”

“General Metraq,” Grecht nodded towards the approaching warrior who wore the uniform of the Klingon Defence Force, “Captain Mek has yet to arrive.”

“He keeps us waiting?” Grecht’s genial demeanour took a turn.

Arms folded, Grecht stared down at Metraq, “The station is large, General. We would do well to allow the Captain some time to reach us.”

“An honourable warrior would be sure to arrive before his guests,” Metraq scoffed.

“Honourable warriors,” Grecht cautioned, “would stand by their allies in a time of crisis. Let us not forget that we are the ones who now seek to rebuild trust.”

Metraq’s face soured, but he remained silent. This proved to be a fortuitous decision, because at that very moment the turbolift doors swooshed open to reveal the disgruntled form of Captain Erill’Yun Mek. 

“I trust you’ve not been waiting long, gentlemen.” He called out as he walked the length of the short corridor that marked the entrance to Task Force 86 Ops. The polite words conflicted with the glib manner in which they were delivered. Mek didn’t really care.

“Good day, Captain.” Grecht began. His eyes flicked quickly to Metraq, then back again to Mek, “We… Regret to disturb you in your off-duty hours.”

Metraq rolled his eyes.

Grunting in acknowledgement, Mek shooed the considerably relieved Lieutenant away with a wave of his hand then ushered the Klingons into his office. He took his seat behind the desk. He’d been off duty for twelve hours, and already the viewer built into the desk displayed countless notifications and internal messages. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Mek sighed, “So, General, Ambassador, how can I help you?”

Metraq leaned back on the chair, looking as though he would have been more at home on a metal slab. Another side-eye shot his way from Grecht, who began his explanation, “Captain, we bring news of our archaeological site, in the Azure Nebula.”

No longer only half listening, Mek sat forward, “683-Lambda?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“Three days ago, all contact with the outpost was lost.” 

“Three days?” Gobsmacked, Mek turned to Metraq in hope that the General might correct his colleague. Metraq barely moved.

Grecht inhaled, “We were ourselves informed only 24 hours ago. Communications within the Nebula-”

“Tell me you’ve sent a ship?”

Metraq broke his silence, “You think us fools? Cowards? We may not celebrate our scientific work as overtly as you do, Captain, but those Klingons are warriors just like the rest of us! To suggest we would abandon soldiers of the Empire is to cast dishonour over all our houses.”

Mek did his best to ignore the General’s remonstrations, “Then what were the findings? Your ship must be within sensor range by now, even with the nebula scrambling things.”

Grecht looked grim-faced as he explained, “The IKS Brecht was dispatched two days ago to investigate. Upon its arrival at the outpost, all contact with our ship was also lost.” 

Mek paused for a moment in disbelief, “Oh.”

Metraq filled the gap, “As allies, we thought it prudent to warn you, in case Starfleet has any assets in the area.”

“Perhaps Starfleet could be of some assistance?” Mek ventured.

Metraq scowled, “Pah! An entire ship of warriors, gone! All that remains is to vanquish whatever foe lies in that Nebula. We shall dispatch more ships in due course, but please Captain, heed our warning.”

“Very well, General Metraq. I’ll inform Commodore Tharc and our commanders immediately.” Mek saw no reason to push further, despite remaining slightly puzzled, “We appreciate you bringing this to our attention.” 

“Hmph,” Metraq grunted, “Whoever is responsible for this will rue the day they crossed the Empire.” 

“Im sure.” Mek nodded, “Nevertheless, Starfleet stands ready to assist.”

Metraq’s head tipped back and a peal of hearty laughter poured forth. Flecks of spittle flew across the room, narrowly avoiding Mek as he looked on in silence. After a few seconds of this Metraq looked up again, wiping his chin, “Very funny, Captain. Next you’ll be telling me to make peace with whoever’s responsible.” He rose from the chair, “I’ve heard enough. Good day to you both.” 

Grecht and Mek watched as the General swooped out of the room, trailed by a long mane of black curls. The glass door slid shut in his wake. Grecht shook his head, “Captain, I must explain. To lose a ship in this way, without explanation… For the General this is a great loss of honour.” 

“I had a feeling honour might have something to do with it,” Mek said, stony faced.

Grecht frowned, “Yes. It is difficult for a Klingon to ask for help.” 

“This, I can also see.”

“Metraq’s position is weak. Should any more of the Empire’s vessels go missing, he will be disgraced.”

Mek merely raised an eyebrow, “And I should care why? Seems like it’s his reluctance to share information that’s gotten him into this mess in the first place. Not to mention the Omega debacle.”

“True, Captain.” Grecht could not help but agree, “But there are more productive paths to take.”

“I don’t know, Ambassador, having General Metraq banished out of harm’s way sounds productive enough for me.” 

Grecht held back a smile, “Have your ships on standby. If Metraq’s operation succeeds, all is well. If not, you can render assistance, and we can all learn the true nature of this threat.” Grecht stood, “You’d salvage his honour. He’d be in your debt.”

“That’s now how we do things, Grecht. Personal favours mean nothing to me.”

“Ha, I know.” Grecht smiled, “But it is the best outcome here for all; something that would appeal more to your Starfleet sensibilities. Think about it, Captain.” He turned to leave, “What is it the humans would say? Let cooler heads prevail.” 

Before Mek could blink away the confusion of hearing a Klingon rationalise with a human turn of phrase, Grecht was gone. He sat for a minute in silence. Then two. Then three. Then he decided.

“Computer, open a channel to the USS Majestic.” 

It was the closest thing to night time that existed on Starbase 86. Between the hours of 0300 and 0500, activity on the promenade levels had dropped to a thin trickle of passers by. Most shops and services had shuttered to allow those who manned them respite from the usual frenetic pace of life. Only Starfleet personnel monitoring essential systems remained on duty. They slept, most within the central dome beneath the base’s tall administrative spires and offices. But not Commander Saveq Dreylenn. The base’s Chief of Security had chosen instead to take a walk, relishing the chance to be far from the maddening crowd. She whistled a tune, proceeding along a maintenance walkway that ran the length of one of the bases’ structural connecting arms from the habitat ring to the central core. Up ahead, to his left, he made out the indent of a cargo bay entrance in the duranium panelling. The lanky Retellian approached the LCARS panel beside the door controls, punched in an access code and began to peruse the cargo bay’s entry/exit logs. She paused.

“Hmm,” She mused, audibly. A recent entry at 0328 hours, and no exit recorded. Her brow furrowed for a moment before she unclipped a flashlight from the wall mounted utility box. The cargo bay door opened with a whirr and she stepped inside. A few more steps forward, then quiet. That was when the faint rustling sound made itself known. She looked from one side, nothing. From another, also nothing. But once she went over to the back of the cargo pile, the sight shocked her. There was a young Caitian man, no older than 22, sitting next to a pile of Romulan ale, bottle in hand, looking really drunk.

“Wha…” Dreylenn paused, mouth agape for a second as she took in the scene, “What in the stars… On your feet, Ensign! Get up!”

“Ah shit.”

***

[A day earlier]

Mek was intrigued by the latest transfer in from the Academy. He held up the PADD containing the new officer’s particulars, making sure he’d read it correctly before glancing over to Commodore Tharc. The station CO sat across from him on the long conference table, signing and inspecting her own monthly personnel changes.

“Got a temporal medicine specialist…” He raised his eyebrows, pointing at the PADD.

“Huh?” Tharc looked up, “Oh… Maybe they can temporally de-age me.”

Mek exhaled sharply through all four of his nostrils in a stifled laugh, “You know, that kind of treatment is available now, I hear.”

“Yeah, but who’s got the time for it?” Tharc replied instantly.

“True,” Mek nodded, knowingly, “Wouldn’t be doing this job if we cared about that kind of thing, anyway.” He put the PADD down, pushing back his chair, “You know, I’m just about done here, and I need to go and see someone about this back pain. I’ll let this…” he slid the PADD back over to him and skimmed it, “Ensign Sh’Ill know you’re interested if I see him.”

“Wow, thanks.” Tharc rolled her eyes, “Get out of here. This tea’s still hot, wouldn’t want any more injuries to go along with that back pain.” He recessed Tellarite eyes glared at him, menacingly. Mek scurried out with a grin.

***

The turbolift ride felt comparatively short compared to Mek’s usual excursions on Starbase 86. There were two main medical hubs; a hospital spanning several decks in section 23 of the habitat ring, and the Starfleet run specialist clinics and research labs in the upper mid-section of the central core. Mek made for the latter. The entrance to the lab complex was marked by a set of glass double doors, marked with the winged pendant insignia of Starfleet Medical. He approached the front desk and, as if on cue, he felt the twinge in his lower back flare up. He massaged it with a clenched fist as he spoke to the teal shirted crewman in front of him, “Excuse me, been having some terrible trouble with my back that I really can’t ignore for much longer.”

“OK, Captain, please take a seat and we’ll have someone with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Mek complied, feeling his age as he sank down into a chair in the waiting area.

“Good evening, Captain, how may I be of assistance?” Sh’ill approached him, and happily asked.

“Hello, Ensign. Yes, well, my back has been acting up and I was wondering if you could help me out.” Mek replied, still sitting in the chair. He made to stand up, but a sudden flare of pain quickly put an end to these aspirations.

“Well, that should be easy to fix.” Sh’ill continues in his happy voice.

“Glad to hear it, Ensign. So how does this work?” Mek expected the Caitian to pull out a medical tricorder of some sort, or at least a scanner. Instead, Sh’ill shill stood the Captain up. Mek made a groan as Sh’ill, arms around Mek’s midriff, compressed Mek’s back with an almighty crunch. Mek could feel the decompression in his spine, accompanied by a clearing of his thoughts. He stood straight, the pain melted away.

“How…” Mek said, confused.

“An old Caitian trick.” Sh’ill responded, still in his happy, go-getter voice.

Sh’ill then started walking in the direction of his office, “Do you need anything else?”

Mek followed, “No, thank you. But I would like to ask you a thing or two about your specialism, if you don’t mind?”

“Happy to help.”

“It’s just I can’t recall ever hearing of someone specialised in temporal medicine. Tell me, Ensign… I don’t think I quite caught your name?”

“Sh’ill, sir. Well, temporal mechanics and medicine have a weird way of colliding with one another. Diseases that are affiliated with time often revert certain parts to fetus-like statues, whilst aging others to a near-death state. Some others mess with your memory.” Whilst he was explaining this, they started walking in the direction of Sh’ill’s office. “Some others completely transport you in time, and then cause illnesses there. In those cases, I have to collaborate with the Department of Temporal Investigations. I can show you how all of these illnesses play out.” By that time, they were next to Sh’ill’s office.

“Most intriguing, Mr. Sh’Ill. I have to admit, I’d never considered that medicine might have a temporal dimension. I’d be very interested in taking a look at some of your research. Perhaps you could send me a paper or two over the station net? If you don’t mind, of course.”

“No, not at all. “The basics of temporal medicine” coming your way.”

Sh’ill then entered his office. He sat down in his chair, and pulled out a bottle of beer. “Come on, Sh’ill, the show must go on, or whatever the saying was.” He took a sip of the beer, and slunk down into his chair. “The show must go on, Sh’ill.”

[Some time later]

Sh’ill was resting in his quarters, when he heard the doorbell ring. “Who’s there?” Sh’ill yelled. “Commander Saveq Dreylenn, Ensign.” Sh’ill hurried to the door, and opened it. “How can I help you, Commander?”

“We’ve been informed that something is being smuggled aboard the station. I am here to ask you if you know anything about this.”

“No, no I don’t.” Sh’ill hurriedly responded, and then quickly closed the door. “How does she know? I need to talk to him.”

Sh’ill sat down at the table, opened a secured channel, and called his smuggling contact, Koth. “KOTH!!! You told me that no one would know.”

The Klingon started yelling too. “Sh’ill, you piece of qu’may! Why are you calling me? I’m just the supplier, I don’t ship it, and I don’t inspect the cargo. Now get off this channel, before I take that kitten fur of yours, and put it on my wall!!”

Sh’ill quickly closed the channel, fearing that the Klingon might not have been lying. “I’ll check out the cargo later, but for now, I’ll go back to the lab.” Sh’ill thought to himself.

When Sh’ill arrived at his lab, he saw the usual. People with back pain, plasma burns, the Tarkalean flu, etc. He looked at the duty roster, and saw that it was his turn to work in the Emergency Department. He walked through the door, into the ward, and saw about 15 people with severe plasma burns.

A nurse walked up to him, and explained: “They’re telling me that a couple of plasma conduits blew on deck 25. Most of the people here are okay, though we do have a more severe case. A Cardassian girl, the daughter of one of the shopowners on the Promenade. We haven’t told her father yet.” As the nurse was talking, Sh’ill recognized the little girl. Her father was not only a shopowner on the Promenade, he was also one of the main buyers of Sh’ill’s smuggled Romulan ale.

Sh’ill hurriedy said to the nurse: “Go tell her father, but by no means let him in here.”

“Yes, doctor.”, and the nurse walked into the nearby turbolift.

“Mr. Sh’ill,” A voice came from behind, “we’d like to ask you a few questions about several illegal shipments of Romulan ale found in cargo bay sixteen. After you’ve finished treating these patients, of course.” Commander Saveq Dreylenn looked on, flanked by two gold collared security officers.

“Yes, ma’am. This will take about half an hour. And also, don’t get in the way.” Sh’ill then rather rudely pushed them aside, and ran to his first patient.

Dreylenn merely raised an eyebrow as the Caitian shoved his way past. She and the other two security officers stood, expressionless, waiting patiently as he worked. Watching Sh’ill in action, it was hard to imagine an individual who demonstrated such care for others was involved in the kind of illegality they suspected him of.

Sh’ill’s hands moved with grace as he treated the patient’s plasma burns, and he slowly moved from one to another. He continued this cycle, until only one patient remained. A little girl, whose burns refused to heal.

Sh’ill then called out for Dreylenn: “I know that you’re busy pointing a phaser or whatever at me, but could you bring me a cortical stimulator?”

“Uh… sure.” She brought over what she thought was a cortical stimulator. “Are you blind? That’s a dermal regenerator, and believe me, that ain’t gonna do much good here. Put down the regenerator, and help me set up a tachyon reversion field.”

Dreylenn rolled her eyes at the obnoxious cat, “Here,” she passed the metallic cylinder to Sh’ill, “and tachyon reversion field? That one didn’t come up in field med training. Maybe one of the actual medical staff around here might be more help?”

Not receiving a response, she stood by as Sh’ill worked. She could see the concentration in his feline features, his yellow eyes transfixed in concentration as he programmed the cortical stimulator to emit the tachyons at precisely the frequency required to effectively phase the burned tissue back in time and out of existence. Dreylenn’s ridged eyes were themselves fixed on the Caitian’s movements, and the gentle bobbing of his tail that formed the shape of a shepherd’s crook as he leaned over the girl to check the healing process.

Finally, Sh’ill stepped away, and Dreylenn stepped forward, “Ensign Sh’ill, I can’t say I’ve ever seen or heard of a medical procedure quite like that. Nevertheless, as per Starfleet regulation six, paragraph three, you are required to accompany us to station security for questioning.”

“If I may ask, why am I a suspect, or is this just routine poking and prodding of station personnel?” Sh’ill’s eyes slightly squinted.

“You, in this case, are considered both a suspect and a witness. According to the security logs, you’ve been in Cargo Bay 16 a couple of times this past week.” Dreylenn replied, whilst measuring him up, and trying to determine what he was thinking about.

“Of course I’ve been in there a couple of times. If you’d have checked the bay more closely, you’d have also noticed a large amount of medical supplies. And if you’re wondering why I’m in there in the middle of the night, I have a fair bit of insomnia.” Sh’ill said all of this as if it had been pre-recorded.

“Well, no matter what’s in the bay, you’ll still have to come with us.” Dreylenn said, completely dismissing Sh’ill’s last statement.

[Station security office]

“As you can see, the Romulan ale is in the corner, right there.” Dreylenn had been showing Sh’ill a plan of the bay for the last 5 minutes, in the hopes of having him reveal something crucial. The Caitian, surprisingly, had managed to sit there with almost no body movement whatsoever, except for the autonomic movement of his tail.

“That’s great.” Sh’ill finally spoke up. “And as YOU can see, the medical supplies are on the other side of the bay. All of your evidence is circumstantial. You have nothing to arrest me on, or even accuse me. It could have been anyone who has been in that bay since the last station inventory.”

Dreylenn pursed her lips. It seemed the Caitian was determined to make this difficult. She looked towards the ceiling, partly with disdain and partly to concentrate on what she was about to say, “Computer, access the personnel entry/exit logs for cargo bay sixteen. Authorisation Saveq theta-two-gamma.”

“Authorisation acknowledged.” Came the monotone response.

“Give the names of  all personnel present in cargo bay sixteen on stardate 77038.5.”

“Personnel present in cargo bay sixteen on stardate 77038.5, in order of entry: 0126 hours, Lieutenant James Beychelle. 0703 hours, Petty Officer Third Class Pon, Crewman Jennifer Orvan, Crewman Y’Indala. 0938 hours, Ensign Dret Holdinar, Ensign Steven Baker-”

Dreylenn grew impatient, “Computer skip to personnel present after 2130 hours.”

“2147 hours, Ensign Sh’ill. 2308 hours, Senior Chief Petty Officer Xal, Petty Officer-”

“Computer, that’s enough.” She turned to Sh’ill, “I can guarantee you every other name you just heard had a reason for being in cargo bay sixteen that evening. Care to explain what you were doing?”

“As I’ve just told you, there are medical supplies in that bay. Seeing as I specialise in Temporal Medicine, they are very specific supplies. As I recall, the crates contain large quantities of tachyons suspended in 2 parts solanagen and 1 part tau particles. Also some equipment necessary for my research, such as-” Sh’ill was stopped mid-sentence.

“I’ve heard enough. I don’t don’t believe you, Mr. Sh’ill, as I’m sure you’re aware. You’re free to go, but believe me I will be watching. Furthermore, I have revoked your permission to leave the station until my investigation is complete.”

“So, may I leave, ma’am?” Sh’ill asked Dreylenn, just as she pressed the button which opens the door. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Sh’ill walked out.

Dreylenn’s left hand clenched into a fist. This cat was bad news. A simple shipment of Romulan ale and she might have been prepared to look the other way, but not now. Not with the kind of contempt that he’d just put on show. This was war.