Chapter Text
Reaffirmation
Megara t’Khnialmnae moves into the darkened chamber, escorted by her sisters of many decades. She isn’t armed, as all of them are, the tan valanqs slung over their shoulders in easy reach. It isn’t lost on her that any one of them could slice her head from her shoulders with ease.
They would only do that if it had been determined that she had betrayed the Qowat Milat, or the Way of Absolute Candor.
She had not, she had merely obfuscated her loyalty to that Way, in order to accomplish her quest. A quest that had started when she had been a child. A quest, like all quests undertaken by the Qowat Milat, adjudged to be a lost cause from the beginning. One that had taken her to the very heights of the Romulan Star Empire, as the sole remaining Praetor, outside of one who desired above all else to be the sole ruler of the Empire.
The two sisters at her elbows reach out and stop her. Her eyes lock on the head of this particular branch of the Order. Her eyes play over the dark skin of the Mother, Tiyana t’Lorcana. The sister of a woman murdered on the orders of the current Praetor-Prime.
The rest of the brief ceremony is a blur.
Later, Tiyana joins Megara in her own small cell in the House. “I’m glad that you did come to us for a Reaffirmation,” the Mother says. She hands Megara a glass of their own House-distilled mead.
Megara says nothing, but sips the mead. Something that she has missed and only enjoyed occasionally since her leaving the House of this particular Chapter.
“So tell me. How close do you get to the Abomination?” Tiyana asks.
“As close as we did in this ceremony,” Megara replies, knowing who she speaks of.
The woman who had ordered the painful, slow execution of Tiyana’s older sister.
Tiyana nods. “I’m not sure that I could’ve gotten that close. Not without killing her. Even if it meant my death, it would’ve been worth it.”
“Perhaps that is why someone else is undercover in the Praetorate,” Megara says dryly.
If Tiyana is angered by her words, she doesn’t show it. “I know. I can’t let my passions get in way of the ultimate prize.” She examines the liquid in her drink.
Megara finishes her drink up and asks, “How is the Klingon connection with this whole thing?”
“So far, so good. The Klingon Free States seem to be in disarray, with the defeat at Leelix III. That has thwarted the Praetor-Prime’s plans to subvert the Klingon Empire. For now at least. If it became known that she had sent those unmarked Tal Shiar dartships to aid in the attack, she could lose some face in the Senate.”
Megara shakes her head. “I think she’s got built-in plausible deniability with her and her consort’s Tal Shiar boy-toy.”
Tiyana nods. “I know. But it might help chip around the edges. Especially if she uses him as a scapegoat in whatever little way.”
“And what of the House of Klinzhai? Are they totally subverted from the path of the IKS?” Megara asks.
“Perhaps not totally. But it is a start.”
“And your human-faced sister?” Megara asks.
She doesn’t reply. Both of them turn and look at D’aina t’Sonrees, formerly known as Commander Daina Reese of Starfleet, as she stares into the flames of the brazier. A woman now dead to both sides of the conflict.
Setting It Up
Decker watches as Chandra is greeted by several people with a great deal of braid and gold on their uniforms. Three of the higher-ranking well-wishers are people that Decker knows in varying degrees.
Including the acting Vice Admiral and chief of staff to the C-in-C of Starfleet. The woman whose own body she had emerged from, twenty-one years and few weeks ago, Mary Elizabeth Decker.
Newly promoted Vice Admiral Hunter embraces her foster-daughter. Chandra’s own foster-sister, Kaylin Stone-Hunter, Hunter’s birth-daughter embraces her as well.
Decker feels a familiar presence move up beside her. Dr. Kim Sinclair, Decker’s other mother, and the woman who was most responsible for raising her reaches over and kisses her on her cheek. “Hey brat,” Kim says.
“How’s my favorite barber-butcher?” she snarks, earning her nickname from Kim. Kim rolls her eyes at the mention of the ancient side occupations for surgeons.
“I dunno. How’re the ribs?”
Decker shifts slightly. “Not bad. Glad I was finally able to get that damned orthopedic matrix off.”
“Crimping your sex life?”
“No, I was able to crimp that well enough my own self. Social ineptitude would do that, not some doodad on my chest.” She pulls Kim into a deep embrace. “You checked out your sickbay yet?”
“Don’t know that it’s mine, yet,” Kim says darkly.
“Why wouldn’t it be? You’re the Gr—squadron CMO,” Decker replies.
“Haven’t heard anything, yet,” Kim says. “No orders.”
“I think that Chandra will get the opportunity to form her command crew. I think you’d be a shoo-in.”
“Only because she doesn’t know any other doctors,” Kim retorts.
“Self-deprecating, much?” Decker asks.
Kim turns and stares at her. Her lips quirk. “I learned from the best. I’m surprised that you didn’t make some silly joke about how small your boobs are when you mentioned your sex life. What is it? Your ‘mosquito bites?’ Or something like that?”
Decker feels herself blush and look down at the mosquito bites in question. Kim decides to push further. “The mosquito bites don’t seem to be cramping your style with those two classmates that you’ve been dancing with.”
She grins as Decker narrows her eyes, knowing that Kim might’ve scored a point or two.
Decker looks over at Kaylin and her new captain, Saavik. She moves over to greet Kaylin and to meet the great Saavik. Chandra wanders over as well, as Hunter, Commodore Rosen, Chandra’s immediate superior, and Decker’s mother move off to confer, talking about admiral and commodore things.
Mary gestures Kim over to meet the other two admirals. Kim gives Mary a look, then moves towards them.
“Saavik, this is Ensign Decker Sinclair. She’s one of my hard-chargers. And no, you can’t poach her. Kaylin is the only one you get.”
Decker is surprised to see a brief, but very apparent smile appear on the Vulcan’s face. Decker holds up her hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Captain,” she says.
The eyebrow raises as Saavik returns the greeting, in both the gesture and the words. She extends her hand, shaking Decker’s. “It is good to finally meet you. Ensign Sinclair. Commander Stone-Hunter sings your praises and is always whispering into my ear to try and poach you.”
Decker laughs as Chandra looks at Kaylin with mock anger.
“Have you any ideas for your command crew, Chandra?” Saavik asks. “And no, you can’t poach Kaylin back.”
Chandra nods, smiling at all three of them. “I’ve got some ideas. Some are already in my squadron. They’re qualified for various positions, even though they’ve got light vessel commands now. They also have XOs and other officers that they keep whispering in my ears that they are ready for their own light vessel commands.”
She returns the question to Saavik. “How about you?”
Saavik exchanges a look with Kaylin. “We’re working on it. Kaylin has a lead on a tactical officer.”
Kaylin smiles with what Decker thinks is a devilish cast. “Just as soon as I can get her released from the brig.”
Interrogation
Special Agent Casey Ambrose stands well away from the door of the FOB’s detention facility. She inhales the smoke from the old-fashioned cigarette, letting the fumes relax her. The two Starfleet security operators watch her impassively as she enjoys the ancient vice, but one that is now a great deal safer for her lungs and the lungs of passersby.
The door opens and another woman dressed in civilian clothes steps out. Casey takes in the casual clothes. In spite of the cold, she wears no coat, only a long-sleeved shirt over work pants and work boots. A phaser is holstered on her left hip and a silver, haloed multi-pointed star is clipped to her belt.
“You Ambrose?” she asks, her amber eyes staring directly at Casey.
“Yeah,” Casey replies. She doesn’t bother producing her creds.
“Inspector Nina Bondarenko. Triangle Marshals. I’m the investigator assigned to this asshole,” she says, jerking her thumb at the jail.
“I’m just the comic relief. He’s all yours, unless we can uncover a connection to the attack.”
A smile creases Bondarenko’s face. Just as quickly it is gone, showing her ‘resting investigator’s face’ to the universe.
Casey puts out her smoke on the heel of her boot, then pulls out a small metal tube, inserting the remnants in and resealing it.
“You like the equivalent of a structure fire in your lungs?” Bondarenko asks.
“These things aren’t much different than the candy cigarettes they used to let children have, back when the tobacco was actually harmful and addictive, but they promoted and marketed it.”
“So you just do it for the sophisticated look?”
Casey feels her irritation rise at the needling questions. They get through the ritual of getting in to see the prisoner.
The short, skinny human stares at them from the other side of an interrogation table, his hands cuffed to the bar on the table.
Casey takes her first look at him. The only word that she can use to describe him is
bland. The next word might be more polite, but mousy isn’t much more descriptive. This human would never stand out in a crowd.
Bondarenko sits across from him. Casey leans against the wall, just out of the Deputy Marshal’s peripheral vision. From the set of the woman’s shoulders, she can tell that her positioning is irritating her.
“I’m Inspector Bondarenko of Federation Security, and this is Special Agent Ambrose of the Starfleet Investigative Service. Why did you attack the woman who was trying to aid you?”
The man is silent for a moment. Finally, the colorlessness extends to his voice, as he replies quietly, “Because she wasn’t trying to help me. She was trying to kill me.”
“And why would she do that?” Bondarenko asks, the skepticism dripping from her husky voice.
“You’d have to ask her. You just need to realize that she isn’t what she appears to be.” He takes in both of them with a glance. “This interview is over. Someone is coming to get me out of here.” He looks behind him.
An Andorian stands there. Bondarenko’s PADD buzzes with a text. An electronic business card pops up on the screen.
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW is all that Casey can make out, with a Federation Bar Association identifier.
“Lawyer,” the prisoner repeats, this time more insistently.
K’hrella - Kissing Babies and Shadows
K’hrella walks down the street of the Federation settlement. She sees the angry, fearful looks at the Klingon part of her features, as well as from some who recognize her Romulan heritage. For this reason, she had chosen to wear Earth-standard civilian clothing, rather than her uniform and armor.
She spots her destination. She walks into the now empty remnants of the bar. The two owners were, as she had heard, discussing their options.
Options, her contact had told her, included one or both of them shipping out on a wealthy collector’s newly purchased ship. One that she isn’t sure won’t be separated completely from Starfleet, even after a massive purchase of the wreck.
She turns and watches as three of her soldiers stand erect, boxes of rations and medical supplies opened.
None of the locals seem to be taking them up on the relief supplies, as the three soldiers stand looking like they usually do, especially to those not Klingon.
Which is to say, entirely threatening and unwelcoming.
She spots the woman who she had come to meet. Usura, as she is known, reaches in and grabs a ration pack. She hands it to a passing human with a smile. She turns and gives the three Klingons a hard look.
They each reach in and take a pack, holding them out.
The passersby start to accept them. K’hrella walks over and lifts her own packs. She gives the denizens a careful smile. Soon the cases are empty, with others being brought to replace them.
She turns to follow Usura into the bar. A quick look around reveals that most of the debris has been swept away and cleaned up. One table in the center remains.
A look around reveals that no one else is in the bar.
“Report,” K’hrella says softly.
Usura narrows her eyes. “I managed to keep the locals from getting overwhelmed. I think that you coming here has helped reinforce that their anger should be directed at your traitors.”
K’hrella nods. “What else? Do the Feds suspect that you might not be who they think you are? Including your two employers?”
“They don’t,” she replies, her dark eyes hardening. “And one thing we need to get straight. You may be my other employer, but you aren’t my mistress. I could snap your neck without a second thought, before you could clear your disruptor or your knife.”
“Then you would just be a refugee, out of time,” K’hrella observes. She knows that her particular phrasing isn’t lost on the woman.
“What of the human that the Feds and the colonial authorities have in custody?”
Usura nods. “He is a fellow refugee. One who has been trying to kill me for the last forty years, and I him.”
“Are you sure that’s all he is?”
Usura grins. “Once we were fellow soldiers, bound to each other and to our masters. Now we are just lost to history. Because of a choice he made for both of us.” She looks away. “I think that he has other guardian angels, as the Feds would say.”
K’hrella blinks, as suddenly the human-looking woman has been replaced by a large, male Klingon soldier, wearing naval insignia, indicating that he is a security officer. “I think I can get in to take him. Then we can figure out what his new employers have him doing.”
Building A Legend
Siobhan looks at herself in the mirror in the waiting room, dressed in an unfamiliar business suit, her hair slicked down and back within an inch of its life. She isn’t wearing the eyepatch; she can see the blurry spot in the midst of her vision, hopefully she won’t have to shoot anybody.
She’d been practicing with her left eye closed with optical sights, as well as iron sights, but she hadn’t exactly felt comfortable, not being able to see what else was around, other than the target. She starts as the door open. Her eyes widen as two other women step in. Both of them older than her, about Chandra’s age. She’d met both of them briefly. The slightly shorter of the two, with the large, round brown eyes that could be called sparkling, bronze curls tied back, who looks almost at home in her civilian business suit as Siobhan does nods at her.
“Report,” she barks at her supposed first mate.
Siobhan manages not to scratch her eyebrow with her middle finger. “Still waiting on the bureaucracy, Captain,” she replies. She points at the bureaucrat in question, who had taken her request for a ship registration and had placed it aside, while continuing with whatever the hell it was he was doing.
The Frontier Registration Office for Civilian Traffic at the Department of Commerce and Transportation wasn’t exactly doing a flourishing business.
‘The Captain’—newly promoted Lieutenant Commander Emma Rosewarne in her day job—turns and looks at the taller woman. One whose demeanor isn’t exactly as light and airy as Emma and Siobhan’s.
Both of whom stare daggers at the bureaucrat.
He suddenly realizes that Eleonora Cavendish is staring down at him, her entire persona suddenly screaming ‘lawyer.’
And an expensive one at that. The bureaucrat apparently sees that all three women are standing close to his desk, the two shorter versions looking at him like he was some sort of a bug, with their arms crossed.
Siobhan also is sure that he is looking at their business suits anew, calculating their worth. His manner suddenly loses the bored look of disdain.
“My name is Cavendish. I represent a very powerful businessman who has just purchased a ship from Starfleet surplus. As our officer told you, we’d like it registered for traffic in the sectors immediately surrounding the Triangle and border areas.”
The words are produced in an icy tone, one that Siobhan is certain might drop the temperature around the bureaucrat’s testicles, if he still has any in his job.
They may have just shriveled up at Nell’s look, accompanying the words and their tone. He suddenly starts to look on his desk. Siobhan reaches down and pushes the package she had handed in an hour ago.
He inserts the plaque into his computer. His eyebrows rise. “A Mr. Stone Lawless?” he asks, sounding if he is wondering if he’d read the name right.
Just as Siobhan had the first time she’d read it.
“Yes,” Cavendish spits.
“Ah, here it is. Sounds like the ship was registered as the Comstock in Starfleet? Registry number NCC-3007?”
Still is, technically, Siobhan thinks.
“Yes,” Emma says. “It will now be called the Stone’s Heart,” she says with barely concealed disdain. “Leelix III Registry number TK-9007.”
All three women stare at him with flaming looks. He fumbles for a moment, then pushes a button on his console.
“All done. Thank you ladies,” he manages to say.
When they are in the street, Siobhan looks at Emma and Nell. “What dumbass came up with a name like Stone Lawless? Sounds like a holoporn name.”
“Which dumbass do you think?” Nell replies.
Siobhan remembers what Chandra, Emma, and the others had called Nell, from those days in the Academy.
The Last Word.