Morning arrived, bringing with it an unexpected weather front of heavy, driving rain. Church had lain awake since the early hours, unable to sleep and listening to the sound of the rain falling on the rooftops of Ben-Marjoram. It was now just before 7.00 am and he stood on the hotel veranda, at the top of the wide steps, sheltered by the porch roof and looking out at the precipitation as it fell in diagonal lines across the resort. In the distance, on the far side of the bay, he could see that the rain clouds extended at least as far as the dormant volcano Haratha and the lush and verdant forests which surrounded it.

Well, he reasoned, they wouldn’t be lush and verdant if there wasn’t a healthy amount of rainfall to support it, would they?

Snapping up the collar on his raincoat, Church adjusted his hat by pulling forward on the brim, descended the steps to the paved pathway and splashed his way through the hotel gardens to the grey-pink stone sidewalk beyond.

So much for a summer vacation with wall-to-wall sunshine, he thought. He’d remind Rellis of how he’d originally described the trip to him when he got back from his walk.

Church walked along the seafront, the fishing harbour and Marjoram Bay to his left, the hotels, bars and restaurants of the resort to his right, on the far side of the wide road. Ahead of him in the distance, through the rain and in the not-quite-daylight of the early morning stood the white-painted lighthouse which was his chosen destination.

He didn’t really know why he was walking there, just that it was a specific landmark. And he needed more landmarks in his life. Especially recently.

As he splashed through a particularly expansive puddle, Church was reminded of a time earlier in his life. Kofi, maybe only three or four at the time had been jumping into puddles, trying to splash water high enough to clear the tops of his red wellington boots, hoping to splash rainwater high enough to run down his bare legs, inside his boots and in turn make his socks wet. Kofi’s mother had been telling him to stop as she hadn’t brought any spare socks for him to change into, but Kofi had carried on regardless and eventually had succeeded. His socks had been soaked through. The boy had laughed so much that day. They had both laughed so much together, even though he didn’t have any spare dry socks, and even though it had been raining hard. Just like it was this morning.

A small dark shape on the sidewalk caught Church’s eye and brought him out of his reveries. It looked to be a small black wallet of some kind. He crouched to pick it up. The wallet was wet but not wet enough to suggest that it had laid there for hours. It had obviously only been there for a short while. Perhaps someone had just dropped it.

Church stood up, bringing the wallet closer to his face, the sudden realisation that this wasn’t the accidently dropped wallet of a stranger causing him to frown. That fact should have triggered a response, but for some reason Church’s brain wasn’t making the connections as fast as it should have done that morning. Maybe it was because part of him was still thinking about Kofi.

He flicked open the wallet to see what he already knew would be there. An image of his own face staring back at him.

Thomas G. Church, Fleet Captain

Deputy Director Operational Development, Fourth Fleet, Starfleet Command

Serial number SC-368-450.

He hadn’t dropped his ID here. So, somebody else must have done that. The Ferengis from last night. One of them must have picked his pocket and then placed it here knowing that he would stop to…

The first blow caught him unawares from behind, striking the left side of his head hard. Church staggered under the impact, his vision blurring for a second as he picked out a figure through the rain ahead of him, not his attacker, but someone else. He steadied himself with his left hand on a large stone planter which held a tall tropical plant in the middle of the wide sidewalk, turning slightly with his right hand raised to fend off any further blows from his unseen attacker.

The figure ahead of him came closer as Church’s vision slowly returned to normal.

“Good morning, Mister Church,” said DaiMon Lok as he approached.

Church shook his head to clear it. He could feel the stream of blood running down the back of his neck, under the collar of his coat where the rain hadn’t yet been able to penetrate. That hadn’t been a punch, he’d been struck with a weapon of some kind.

His attacker moved into his peripheral vision – unsurprisingly it was one of Lok’s thugs from the previous night, this time brandishing what Church recognised as a Brak’na the short, rough-hewn traditional Ferengi club whose name translated literally as ‘debtor’s lesson’. The second thug, similarly armed, approached from across the road to stand beside his Lok.

Church raised himself to his full height, his chin raised defiantly towards Lok, the rain running down his face.

“What do you want, Lok?” Church demanded, his voice hoarse.

“Payment. Penitence. Revenge. However, you want to describe it,” replied Lok in a friendly voice. “You humiliated me last night, Church. You humiliated me in front of an entire restaurant of people. You mocked me. And you will pay for that.”

“Will I?” replied Church, his fists clenched.

“Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Yes. You’re DaiMon Lok.”

Lok’s increasing frustration was becoming more evident now.

“No! Do you know who I am in Ferengi society? My standing? My family?”

“I’ll be honest, Lok… I don’t actually give a shit about who you are in Ferengi society. Or your standing, or your family.” Church was estimating the distance to the thug who had hit him, calculating whether or not he could take him down before the second thug had time to get involved. “You could be the principal wiper of the Grand Nagus’s arse for all I care.”

The first thug gave a low growl and bared his teeth at Church in response to his comment.

Lok’s face darkened. “We’ve wasted enough time with this Hew-mon fool. Finish him.”

Thug Number One charged forward, his Brak’na raised in the air, the arm swinging down towards Church’s chest. Church pivoted on his left foot, lowered his shoulder and dropped into a crouch as the Ferengi reached him. The vicious club missed him by centimetres and Church pushed up with both thighs, his dropped shoulder catching the attacker in the lower torso and lifting him off his feet. The Ferengi’s momentum carried him up and over Church to land in a sodden heap on the rain-soaked sidewalk behind him. Church gave a brief glance backwards and turned to face the second thug.

“Come on,” he said quietly through gritted teeth, baiting the second Ferengi, his breath sounded more ragged than he would have liked.

What the hell are you doing? He asked himself. Three against one would have been optimistic odds even when you were still in your physical prime – and your prime is many years behind you now.

Do you think Kofi would be impressed to see you brawling in the street with a gang of thugs? Do you? Do you think he would? Kofi’s gone, he snarled to himself, ending the argument as the second thug charged him.

Church waited until the last possible moment, watching as his assailant rushed closer, the club held high in his right hand beginning to come down towards his head. He pivoted left once more, stepping back once, then once more as the club cleaved through the space where he had just been standing. Timed to perfection, Church’s right arm lashed out hard, the blow catching the Ferengi on the side of the head with a crack, the familiar searing pain which shot through his hand telling him that he had likely just broken it. The Ferengi staggered forwards for several feet before collapsing full-length and face-down on the puddled stone sidewalk.

The sudden blow across his upper back came out of nowhere. Not nowhere, Church realised, it was the first thug who had now regained his feet and had circled round behind him for a second attempt. You stupid fool, Church thought to himself, berating himself rather than his attacker. You knew he was there and you knew he wasn’t out of the fight. You should have finished him, old man. You should have finished him before you turned your back on him. The younger Tom Church from fifteen, even ten years ago wouldn’t have made that mistake. You’ve spent too long behind that goddamn desk, you’ve gotten sloppy in your old age, allowed yourself to get distracted by other things.

Kofi isn’t other things! Church, now irrationally angry with himself, whirled with a roar. The thug was surprised by the anger, the raw emotion, which he now saw on the human’s face and that made him pause for a split second.

That was all the time that Church needed. He feinted with his broken right hand and punched his attacker hard in the middle of the face with his left. Reaching out, he grabbed the Ferengi by both ears and savagely slammed his head backwards against the large stone planter which Church had used for support earlier. The back of his skull connected with a hollow crack, and the Ferengi let out a high-pitched scream, his hands scrabbling frantically to get a purchase around Church’s throat in an attempt to push him away.

A familiar sound filled the air and Church recognised the long, high-pitched whine of a phaser being fired a fraction of a second before the beam struck him. He collapsed to the ground, the professional part of his brain realising that he’d been hit by a low powered stun beam – not strong enough to take his consciousness, but enough to bring him down.

He lay on his back; his clothing now soaked through. The rain had gotten heavier at some point, but he couldn’t remember when; the rain driving across his now exposed face and eyes, making it difficult to focus. His hat was gone and his right hand burned with the pain of a thousand needles. To his left, he could see Haratha, the dormant volcano on the far side of the bay which overlooked Ben-Marjoram like a silent sentinel and wondered idly if it was possible to climb it. The rain clouds looked to be parting over the volcano and shafts of sunlight from the hidden sun had begun to play along its steep, rocky inclines. Maybe it would stop raining soon and the sun would come out here again and everything would be like it had been yesterday. Yes, that would be good. The sun would come out and make everything warm again and dry up all the rain. And all the blood.

Lok looked down at him, the phaser he had used to take Church down still in his hand. He grinned mirthlessly, the pointed teeth looking vicious in the overcast half-light of the morning. He didn’t speak, but instead lashed out with his boot, the blow catching Church hard in the jaw.

The two Ferengi thugs joined him. The first of them mimicked his boss, kicking at Church’s head with his heavy boots. The other one stamped down hard on Church’s damaged, rapidly swelling hand, then began to jab the tip of his club down hard into his torso. Church though he felt a rib crack. Followed by a second.

He turned his head to the right, away from the sea and the distant volcano, in a vain attempt to move his face away from the kicks of his attackers. On the other side of the wide road, he saw a figure moving quickly, running towards them. The figure seemed to be shouting something, the mouth opening and closing while Church watched – but all he could hear was the sound of blood roaring in his ears. He strained again to focus on the approaching figure, but he couldn’t focus properly.

As the figure continued to approach, the three Ferengi suddenly stopped hitting and kicking, the small group turning as one to face the newcomer.

Was it Kofi? It looked like it might be him. Had Kofi come to save him? How did he even know he was here?

It suddenly all became too much for him, the exertions of the last few minutes overcoming the last vestiges of consciousness and the world finally, inexorably faded to black.