“O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.”

 

The Wasteland – T.S. Elliot (1922)

Chief Myron Hayes lowered his considerable bulk onto the offered couch.

The past hour had been one of revelations for the Chief of Security of the USS Savannah when he’d woke up this morning and had his habitual Coffee, Bacon & Grits.

For example, Myron had never though that he’d ever see (or stand by whilst) a Starfleet Captain shot a prisoner that he had been charged with the custody of.

That was a First.

Every facet of Chief Hayes’s training as a Starfleet Security professional had railed against such an act, but then – with the increasingly ruinous situation Myron found the ship that he was sworn to protect and serve, was faced by – the Chief had found he’d said nothing and felt even less when the Captain had requisitioned his sidearm, stunned his prisoner and returned the hand phaser to him.

Beyond what that said about his dedication to duty, Myron Hayes worried what that said about him as a human being and (more importantly) about his oath as a Starfleet Officer – if the confusion and threat implicit in the anomaly – could reduce the best and brightest of the ship to such actions – in such a short space of time?

Myron had been raised by his uncle Lucius and been running all round his Jazz – Bar “Fadin’ Times” in New Orleans’ Lower-Garden District when he was just a “knee-high”. The Chief remembered the one piece of sage advice Ol’ Uncle Lucius had ever imparted (when he was on the ‘right-side’ of sobriety) and that was…

“Just speak your truth, “Chief Myron Hayes rumbled to the latest name on his list, “Wordsa’ll Judge you soon as not they out.”

The Chief Medical Officer was a nervous man by nature and Myron was well aware that the man’s Aspergers Syndrome meant that the man was prone to gestures and behaviors that, a less familiar person – in another time – could (and possibly would) misinterpret as signs of guilty intent.

Myron held no such preconceptions, however. Beyond a solid upbringing in the morays and follies of human nature, gathered at this uncle’s knee – Myron was a professional and insightful man – but also knew when to squeeze in a certain place, to see if a reaction turned up that was unexpected.

“My Truth Lieutenant?” Aldren challenged in a charged tone. “The truth of this ‘interrogation’, is as moot as it is slanted!” The slim scientist frowned.

Myron never ceased to wonder how strange an Australian accent seemed to his Creole ears.

The Chief raised an oar – like hand and was about to respond, but Dr Ballard was not a man to be dissuaded in mid – ire.

“It’s plaintively obvious that you are investigating the series of incidents aboard ship, and it doesn’t take a Heisenberg – Prize winning recipient, such as myself – to determine that the likely suspect for such an act of obvious sabotage is someone with links to the New Marquis?!” Aldren hypothesis and accused.

“Now Doc I…” Myron tried to interject. He was quite unused to anyone but himself driving an interrogation. Let alone the suspect actually leading proceedings so vociferously.

“And of course your delving’s have brought your inevitably to my door!” Aldren raged and worries, his hand’s ‘stimming’ as he sought to contain his frustration and began to pace his quarters, his voice becoming shrill.

“Who else to suspect, but son of the known Marquis traitor?” Aldren laughed bitterly and Myron felt a deep pang of sorrow for what Dr Ballard must have gone through as a child. He had read the CSO’s Service – Jacket, as had he of all the people that he needed to speak to today, in an effort to narrow his search for the traitor onboard.

A traitor who had almost succeeded twice in destroying the USS Savannah and would (undoubtedly) try to do so again, If Chief Myron Hayes and his Security Team could not discover their identity in time and stop them – before they succeeded in their suicidal goal.

Myron frowned and held up his hand again and rumbled.

“Doc’, I’m sho’ yawl got good reasons for carrying on so – but yawl turned around and reading me all jus’ plain wrong.” Myron asserted, his voice redolent with the broad N’Orleans patois, that he habitually inflected.

Even Dr Alren Ballard’s universal translator balked at this barrage of colloquialism and Aldren was stopped mid – complaint.

“I beg your pardon Chief?”

Myron smiled. Of course, he could enunciate himself as clearly as any other Starfleet officer, but he figured he was how he was, should sound how he is and sometimes it was a very effective ploy in restoring equilibrium to an interrogation – so he wasn’t above letting his Creole just roll over folks.

“Doc, I think you’re mistaking the reason behind my calling on you?” Myron’s dark face split into the duplicitous smile that had led to his Memere dubbing him “Canaille” – as a child.

“I didn’t come here to accuse you of being the saboteur because of your Marquis-lineage.” The Chief explained levelly. “I come here, cos you probably the smartest man aboard and to ask you to help me catch the saboteur BECAUSE of your Marquis – Daddy, is all.”

For probably the first time in his entire life, Dr Aldren Ballard was genuinely and entirely lost for words…

Location: Underspace / USS Savannah / Officer’s Mess / Deck 6

Stardate: 2401.7.13 /17:01hrs (Shipboard Time)

Ensign Bysea Wanat made a B- line for the table where Ensign Lucia Ortez was sitting and quite obviously insinuated herself into the last free seat amongst the knot of Junior – officers, as they took their evening meal.

Since the Captain had ordered most of the crew to the saucer – section to conserve power and shelter from the effects of the terrifying ‘Tachyon – pockets’ that had affected Chief Herrera so terribly – the Officer’s Mess had become a much more egalitarian space, to Bysea’s mind.

All the better for her to get to the bottom of the latest mystery occupying her mind.

Although many of those here assembled were not exactly what you might call “fans” of Bysea’s best friend Ithariar Sh’eshikrar, she knew that Ortez was the OPS ‘Gamma – Shift’ Leader and was hoping that she might have some information as to why Bysea’s friend had been summoned to a meeting with the USS Savannah’s Chief of Security?

Ensign Ortiz was a well – known and trusted source of ‘scuttlebutt’ aboard ship, and the Bolian was sure that she could glean some gossip worthy of her interest. Makers only knew – with the dire situation aboard the ship since they had been marooned in the anomaly, a usually fun assignment had turned into a ‘complete drag!’

(Bysea had learned that term from an old – Terran entertainment she had streamed last night and was totally – taken with it. She had termed at least three things a ‘complete drag’ since coming on-shift and had been reasonably sure that at least one of those times – it had been reasonably accurate!).

“So hey, yeah everybody!” Bysea Wanat greeted jovially as she took up her spoon and began to spoon the infamously – caustic Bolian Tomato Soup into her mouth noisily. “What’s the what?” She asked innocently.

Normally you couldn’t make Ensign Ortiz shut the Shak – UP! Today, however– she seemed strangely silent, but Bysea was not a person ever to be deterred – socially. She frowned and slurped and continued her conversational ploy.

“SO, I heard that Crewman Loquat heard that Ensign Relenza said that Petty Officer Garza had it on ‘good – authority’ that Chief Hayes is WAY wound-up about the rumors about a saboteur onboard and is – like – totally going ‘Mundo-Inquisition’ on everybody’s ass about it all! Can you even – EVEN?” Bysea laughed and the frowned.

She looked at Ensign Ortez – she hadn’t said a word or even touched her salad since Bysea had sat down, which was odd on the face of things, the gregarious young Bolian Helmsman was forced to admit.

She put down her spoon and was about to ask Leading Crewman Harrison what his thoughts were and then she stopped and peered more intently at the young Maintenance Specialist. Tim was almost always fussing with something on his PADD (or more likely composing one of the 4D Holo-glyphs Bysea knew he loved to create, when he should have really been working) that must have been really good. Why else would he be frowning so intently.

“Hey Tim?” Bysea tried to change tack. “DO you think that the parts that the XO and the Master Chief are able to bring back from that wrecked – old Miranda will really be cross – compatible with our 24th century tech onboard?” She laughed lightly. “I mean, isn’t that like trying to fit a square peg into an Isolinear – board?”

Timothy Harrison did not answer (rude) or even react to Bysea’s joke (even ruder) and suddenly the Bolian was struck by a sense of “Wrongness” and felt queasy.

Ensign Lucia Ortez had still not moved her fork – her salad was no closer to her mouth than it had been when Bysea had sat down.

The finger of Leading Crewman Harrison was not moving aboard the screen of the PADD.

Crewman Sarah Mathers was caught in the process of laughing at something Ortiz might have just said and thin globules of her meal were frozen in the air – where they had exited her mouth.

“Oh Shitsticks!” Bysea dropped her spoon into her soup-bowl (which splattered reassuringly – red across the belly of her uniform) and keyed her Commbadge, as she cautiously rose and backed away from the table – lest she too become frozen in time from the unpredictable effects of the time – dilation effect being exerted by the Tachyon – Bubble that had obviously ensnared the diners at the table.

All caught in a literal ‘Frozen – Moment.’

“Bridge, this is Ensign Wanat.” She breathed, her voice suddenly quavering in shock.

“Bridge here – go ahead Ensign.” Came Ensign Vikander’s sure tones.

Bysea Wanat gulped and said, “Alert Sickbay – we got another one!”

Location: Underspace / USS Savannah / Sickbay / Deck 6

Stardate: 2401.7.13 /17:09 hrs. (Shipboard Time)

Sabreen el-Hannan laid a sympathetic hand on that of Carlito Herrera and reassured.

“I know that it’s a lot to take in Carlito.” The young Muslim Ships Councilor said calmly. “Just take your time and find what words you will.”

Chief Engineer Carlito Herrera gazed at the ravages of time in the reverser – field but could not find the words to adequately express the overwhelming sense of loss that gripped his soul.

What can you say in memoriam to a spatial phenomenon that has robbed you of your very youth?

Tears ran down what was his once- smooth and boyish face, now cruel tributaries of crenellated age. The hands that held the reverser device were just beginning to show the faint mottling of liver spots and the Puerto – Rican Officer was both horrified and strangely fascinated to note that the skin that had been taut on those hands, just yesterday morning – now were patinaed with the fractal wrinkling of advanced middle age.

” ¿Qué delicioso infierno me ha superado?” Carlito whispered and habitually made the sign of the cross with his right hand. He was perturbed to note even his voice sounded different, wrong, both deeper and strained somehow.

The Councilor was right – it was too much to take in.

His body was not his own. Where he had become so familiar with his strong limbs, his tight abs, his generous dark Latin – hair – Chief Herra was beyond horrified to discover himself a veritable prisoner in this sagging frame – this alien – body with its strange and unfamiliar aches and pains.

He had no energy at all (even though Dr Reynard had assured him that this was a “natural’ physiological reaction by his body to protect itself as the intense exposure to Tachyon – Radiation has preternaturally aged his cellular – structure in a matter of seconds), his once lustrous hair was thinning on top and mantled by a spray of salt & pepper grey.

Every time he tried to cast his mind back to the incident, it seemed impossible to piece the experience back together – only dislocated fragments remained. He remembered the nightmarish sensation of his body aging years over the span of each passing second. The impression of Lieutenant T’Vran standing on the other side of the emergency containment field – seemingly frozen-in-time herself.

He remembered looking up through the gash in the outer hull where the sabotaged Deuterium – containment tank had ruptured. Remembered seeing the sickening sepia whorl of Underspace rotating past at impossible speed.

He should be thankful that he was alive, should be focusing on the state of his ship, but for now….

He looked once again at his reflection and whispered in abject shock, “Dios y todos sus angeles por favor librenme de esta pesadilla ruego”.

All Carlito Alejandro Yadriel Herrera could do, right now, was mourn the Death of his Youth.

Location: Underspace / USS Savannah / Gymnasium / Deck 8

Stardate: 2401.7.13 /17:15hrs (Shipboard Time)

Ithariar Sh’eshikrar’s pale – blue fists slammed in a Jab, Cross, Jab – Hook – slamming into the heavy – bag with ferocious speed before she pivoted her hips and slammed her right knee into the training – device HARD, making the chain jeke and jangle.

“So, you can account for all personnel present in the Ventral MMP when the Torpedo’s were being transferred from the TF72 Spacedock Ordinance Magazine?” Chief Hayes rumbled casually, as the lithe young blue woman in work-out gear pummeled the target with a singular determination.

Myron reflected that he wouldn’t like to piss the Andorian off on a good day – but with Ensign Sh’eshikrar’s perma-temper, the Chief wondered if Ithariar every really had what most folks considered a ‘good’ day. She always seemed to be on the brink of fury – no matter how well she managed to mask it.

Security Myron Hayes briefly considered if that fury could be motive for sabotage – but concluded it would be an unorthodox Fifth Columnist indeed that instigated a disaster and then inverted their actions to suddenly save the ship. Unless that person was trying to establish an unimpeachable alibi – that is?

Myron shook his head – in that line of reasoning, madness did lie.

“Of course I can Chief.” Ithariar snarled as her fists pounded the bag again and again. “It’s Standard Starfleet protocol that every person permitted in a live ordinance – handling space, during loading operations be vetted and accounted for by Spacedock and Shipboard OPS.”

“Yeah, I know that.” The Chief nodded. “Same as I know that Starbase 72 Security confirmed the outgoing traffic times in the transport logs – just the same as your team logged the receipt times in your receiving log.”

“That’s the protocol.” Ithariar nodded shortly, as she ceased her concerted assault on the Gym – equipment and threw back a draught of water from her bottle. She swabbed the sweat from her face and neck (being careful to avoid her vertiginous antennae) and draped it around her neck as she warmed – down.

“Hard to see how such a thing could happen then? “Chief Hayes remarked, deep in thought.

“Those were my thoughts Chief.” Ithariar agreed as she sat down on a bench and began to perform a series of bicep-curls with some free – weights. “For such a misstep to take place is almost unthinkable – that’s when I started to consider sabotage.” The Andorian frowned.

“Would have helped if you’d shared that suspicion with the Cap’n.” Myron chastised her flatly.

The haughty young Andorian Tactical Officer laughed bitterly and remarked. “Hah! Captain pink-skin and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. It’s her fault that we were all pulling double – shift duty as it was. Never a great idea when handling potentially lethal ordinance – but that show’s exactly how inexperienced and incompetent a commander she is!”

Myron Hayes frowned massively.

“I’d mind your manners and mind your mouth if I was yawl, Ensign.” Myron had a warning edge in his deep – voice now. “Cap’n is making the best of a Boo-Coo bad hand right now. Ya’ll may not like her – but that woman is about to go out into that hell and parlay with the Devil hisself – in order to try save all our asses. You should have some respect, is all.”

Ithariar rolled her pale Ice – blue eyes and shrugged.

“Okay – the trick with the MMP of Photon Torpedo’s was a pretty ballsey trick. I would have loved to see the look on the True – Way bastard’s face when that little package blew up in his forward vector!” The antagonistic Andorian smiled thinly at the memory.

Chief Hayes returned to his line of questioning. Myron was sure that, if he could make sense of the earlier incident when the Torpedo storage had been sabotaged, he could get than little closer to understanding the causal link to the proceeding attack that had devastated the Deuterium Storage and Processing facility on Deck 13.

“So, your people pulled a double as the Skipper had Yawl on a shit – detail?” Myron continued to prompt Ithariar. “You’re sure that no one left the MMP in all of that time, you can account for everyone for all of that time?” He pressed.

Ithariar put down the weights and looked frankly at the Chief of Security.

“That’s what I said in my report and that is what happened Chief.” Ithariar retorted, her antennae fairly telegraphing her annoyance at this persistence interrogation.

“No one left – not even to go to the head?” Myron rumbled.

Ithariar sighed and rubbed her temples tiredly.

“There’s a fresher – unit in the MMP Chief, everybody uses that. The only time we stopped was when we took a 15 – minute meal – break and we all ate together before resuming the loading operation. I’m sure of it.”

At this, Chief Myron Hayes’s interest was piqued, and he asked.

“Yawl took a meal break. Would there be a replicator log of that?” Myron searched.

Ithariar shook her head.

“Negative Chief.” The Andorian began to unselfconsciously strip off her top, revealing her lithe, sweat – drenched torso as she toweled herself off. Myron was unperturbed.

“Can’t have a replicator active when onboarding.” Ithariar confirmed. “I put an order in for a scheduled menu at the allotted break time and it was delivered by Special Services, just as ordered.”

Location: Underspace / USS Savannah / Brig/ Deck 5

Stardate: 2401.7.13 /17:15hrs (Shipboard Time)

Praetor Gomek Irin was aware of movement beyond the containment field and turned his listless head towards its source and regarded that person with an indolent glare.

“Your food, as always, tastes like pig-shit.” The Cardassian prisoner remarked unkindly, then sighed and took up the plastic tray upon which his meal had been served and took the soiled trencher over to the transfer hatch. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

Gomek Irin was a true believer of the True Way. He was ready to lay down his life for the cause and was bitterly disappointed that he had failed in the execution of his part of Gul Ghallir’s cunning plan to set the pathetic Depta Council and loathsome United Federation of Planets at each other’s throats.

Now all he had to look forward to was an interminable period of bland incarceration with only the prospect of taunting his blithe gaolers as they spouted their ersatz dogma at him.

Still, you have to take what fun you can get.

“I’m sorry you think that way.” The Crewman shrugged non-committal, as he retrieved the plastic tray from the aperture.

 Praetor Gomek Irin was about to return a barbed rejoinder when the grey – clad figure asked casually.

“It doesn’t look like you’re having too much fun?” The human commented pointedly, then “I bet that you’d like to get out of there, wouldn’t you?”

The True Way Officer narrowed his eyes, suspecting another trick. After that cursed bloody woman had set her Pet – Vulcan on him and violated his mind, Gomek would put nothing past these Federation – dogs.

He peered over the grey – clad figures’ shoulder – the Guard seated at the Security Station had paid this person no heed. The other Starfleet Security Specialist standing guard at the entrance to the Brig had likewise showed no reaction to their presence. This was a person who could come and go at will.

A person everyone expected to see and thus no one really saw.

Realization dawned and the Praetor smiled a guarded smile.

“It’s you.” He acknowledged.

The Saboteur smiled blandly and nodded his head.

“Guilty.”

Gomek narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice.

“You’re the one attempting to destroy this ship.”

The Saboteur sighed and nodded.

“Not from want of trying.” They admitted ruefully.

“So, what do you want from me?” Praetor Gomek Irin was aware that he was speaking to the very person that had tried twice (unsuccessfully) to destroy the USS Savannah. “You’re New Marquis yes? You’re here to kill me?”

The Saboteur shrugged, as if that was the least of their intentions and confided.

“Yes – I have certain ‘convictions’ – same as you Praetor, but I’m not here to discuss that right now and I’m certainly not here to kill you.” They nodded.

“What then?” The Prisoner asked, intrigued by this development.

Special Services Division crewman Aldus Coe smiled and said.

“Have you ever heard the Terran Phrase ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’, Praetor?”