Surefoot 56: Shelter from the Storm

Hrelle feigned insouciance as he glanced around the stations, identifying the ones controlling Security, Environment, Remote Probes, Cloaking Field, Power Management-

"Welcome, Captain Hrelle."

He stopped and turned slightly to see the subject of the portrait standing at the top of the steps leading to the office. John Agar wore the same type of black paramilitary uniform as everyone else, but with more colourful ribbons, epaulettes and gold braids hanging here and there, providing a resemblance of some sort of high rank, though not any Hrelle could recognise. "Mister Agar-"

"President Agar," the human corrected him from on high.

Hrelle blinked. "Excuse me? 'President'?"

"Yes." Agar smiled. "You are currently in the territory of Agar One, an Independent Sovereign State, of which I am President-for-Life."

Hrelle kept his expression neutral. Mother's Cubs... "Oh, I see. Well then, this is an honour, Mr President. Forgive my appearance; normal Starfleet protocol is to greet heads of state in dress uniform."

Agar nodded sagely. "I believe I can overlook it, Captain, given your current desperate circumstances."

Seven Hells, he's genuinely into the role he's created for himself here... Hrelle nodded back, stepping to the foot of the steps to ascend- only to stop when he heard the brush of the guard's gloved hands grasp the disruptors in their holsters. "Well, I thank you for your understanding, and for your cooperation-"

Now Agar began to slowly descend, his shiny black boots clamping on the metal steps. "Let me be clear from the get-go, Captain: I'm a busy leader, and my business is survival and self-sufficiency, not cooperation. You forced my hand. And I promise, it's going to cost you."

The Caitian folded his hands behind him. "And I wish the circumstances hadn't put me into this position, Sir. We were cut off from the rest of the Fleet at the end of the battle, loaded down with nearly two hundred survivors, we're suffering from shortages of essentials, and now we've detected Shiprot on our hull-"

Agar stopped halfway down the step and shrugged. "With all due respect, Captain, that's not my problem. I believe in Survival of the Fittest: I ask help from no one, and no one should expect help from me. And then you appear on my doorstep, putting my security at risk. I should have just fired upon you."

Hrelle bristled. "I shouldn't have to remind you that Federation law adjures private individuals and organisations to offer aid to Starfleet vessels during crisis situations-"

"I no longer recognise Federation law, Captain," Agar declared sharply. "Or any outside authority. As I have already explained, this is an Independent Sovereign State, unaffiliated and unbeholden to the Federation or any other government."

Hrelle made a show of casually glancing around, getting an idea of the area's weak spots, the guards, who here was armed, who wasn't... "And I have to admit, it's quite an impressive set-up, Mr President. It must have taken you years to organise."

Agar offered a smug reaction now. "I've seen the end coming for years. Seen it in the faces of my customers: soft, decadent, spoiled children clamouring for Romulan ale and silks, bleating like sheep when their replicated food is late or their Holodecks break down. Since emerging into the wider Galaxy, Humanity has allowed itself to become soft... mostly due to the influence of the weaker, non-human races we've encountered. No offence, Captain."

"None taken," Hrelle lied.

"And now, the Federation hangs by slender threads, threads now being torn asunder by the Dominion. The end will come in a matter of weeks. And then, like every bloated conqueror with no more Wars to fight, the Dominion will then tear itself apart."

Hrelle raised a defiant chin to him. "The Federation may be stronger than you believe, Sir. We've suffered appreciable losses so far, yes, but we're not down and out yet."

Agar offered a mirthless smile. "Sentiments I'm sure have been shared by the Iconians, the Hurq, the Kalandans, the Triacans... those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

Hrelle nodded diplomatically, wondering if such lessons included caveats about egomaniacal little tailstains setting up their own fiefdoms. "And so now you'll use those Stasis Rooms I saw on the way in here to put yourselves in suspended animation? To hide away?"

"To wait, Captain. I, and my selected group of physically and genetically superior specimens of humanity, will outsleep Universal Armageddon."

He turned and nodded to one of the technicians, who keyed something into his station.

Then music played, solemn organ music Hrelle didn't recognise. And all the technicians rose from their places and faced Agar, as he continued, his voice raised to address them all. "First there was the dream; now there is reality. Here, in this untainted cradle in the sky, the future inheritors of the Galaxy will awake at the proper time, and like Gods will be sent out to reclaim the stars... under my flag.

And they, and their descendants, will pay deference to the Ultimate Dynasty which I alone have created here, and which I will pass onto my descendants." He stretched out his arms to them. "From the first day of the New Era, they will be able to look out, and know that there is finally a Superior Being in the Heavens, watching over them!"

The technicians applauded. On cue. Their scents of fear at not appeasing Agar's ego telling Hrelle much more.

Hrelle remained cordial. Bubulah, you're crazier than a flea-ridden shithouse rat in summertime... As Agar smiled generously and waved to his people to return to their work, Hrelle spoke up again. "Mr President, my people are preparing for the delivery of the algorithm and the torpedoes, while also emerging outside our hull to make the necessary repairs. We will be as quick as we..."

His words trailed away as he caught sight of a monitor at an adjacent station, displaying the image of large yellow articulated clamps extending from Agar One to secure themselves to the dorsal side of the Surefoot. His hackles rose, and he looked back at Agar. "What are you doing?"

Agar looked to him, as if not aware of what was happening. "Oh, that? Just a safety precaution."

"I didn't agree for my ship to be clamped during our stay."

"Once our business is concluded, then we'll release your ship, Captain. I promise."

Hrelle studied him... every instinct telling him that the man was as deceitful as he was insane. They would overwhelm the Surefoot, strip it of everything of use, and prevent them from leaving to tell others of the existence of this place.

And that any demonstration of doubt on Hrelle's part would end his life, here and now, and leave his ship and crew unprotected. Of course, they would still kill him. It was just a matter of time.

He smelled the guards behind him, tensing, ready for his response-

So he made a show of relaxing and smiling, as if ignorant of the danger. "Well, that's settled, then... but I should contact my people, let them know everything's okay. After all, we don't want them to get worried... and maybe overreact?"

Agar regarded him -- did he suspect that Hrelle knew he was full of crap, that this was just a dance now? -- before nodding to another technician. "Go ahead, Captain."

Hrelle nodded. He could order an emergency beam-out... and if he wasn't shot in the back, he would return in time to die with everyone else, when the station's weapons carved them up like a roast on the table on Life Day before they could break free. He reached up to his combadge and tapped it, keeping calm. "Hrelle to Surefoot. Respond, please."

T'Varik's voice replied. "Captain, are you okay? The station has dropped docking clamps onto our dorsal hull!"

"I know, Commander, don't worry, everything's nice and meshuga here. The clamps are just to meet safety regulations while we get that repair work done outside. Speaking of which, is the work I assigned before I left proceeding?"

"...Yes, Sir. I trust you are returning now?"

"Yes."

"No," Agar interrupted.

"Sir?" T'Varik asked.

"One moment, Commander." Hrelle looked to Agar. "Excuse me?"

The human smiled. "We would love to give you a tour of our facility. As you can imagine, we don't often get the opportunity to show off. We'll be done by the time your people have finished their work."

Without looking, Hrelle heard the brush of leather gloves against the weapons behind him again.

Then he responded, "You heard that, Commander? I'm staying for a tour. You carry on."

"Sir," T'Varik protested. "Are you certain you're okay?"

He chuckled. "Of course I am! Calm down already, you've become a bundle of nerves since your husband got you pregnant! Just carry on, do what you have to do to take care of things at your end."

The Vulcan's voice hesitated, but only for a second. "Aye, Sir. Surefoot out."

The combadge chirped closed. The human and the Caitian exchanged glances, the latter noting, "Well, it looks like I'm all yours."

Agar smiled. "Yes. Yes, it does."

*

Deck 2 Fore -- Bridge:

The senior officers looked to each other, T'Varik initiating with, "The Captain is in jeopardy."

"Obviously," Sakuth responded, glancing at C'Rash. "Unless of course your 'husband' has indeed impregnated you, in which case, I will offer my congratulations on your fecundity."

The jet-furred Caitian hissed.

T'Varik drew closer. "The station's dampening fields are blocking our sensors, communicators and transporters, and they have weapons targeted on us. Can we raise shields?"

"Not with the clamps on us," C'Rash answered sourly. "And the clamps are in a place that our ship's phasers can't reach."

"We are still connected via the airlock," Sakuth reminded them. "We could launch an assault team through it to rescue the Captain."

"Not without alerting the station," T'Varik replied. There was a communication on the Ops board. "Bridge here."

Neraxis' voice responded. "Bridge, I'm at Airlock 1; there are some station people looking to collect... torpedoes?"

T'Varik's brow furrowed. "Lieutenant Ostrow, under no circumstances is anyone other than Captain Hrelle allowed through that airlock. Inform the station personnel that we are still in the process of preparing the torpedoes for their delivery to them, but it will take one hour to implement. Then close that airlock and double the guards present."

"Understood. Ostrow out."

Sasha frowned at her. "They're holding my Dad hostage over there, and you're still gonna hand over the torpedoes to them?"

"Lieutenant, I assure you that the only way I will be delivering our torpedoes to them is via our torpedo tubes: fully armed, locked and loaded."

Sakuth raised an eyebrow. "Such a magniloquent statement is uncharacteristic of you."

T'Varik offered a cold glare in reply, and, "As we have not been on amicable terms for 24.72 years, I would surmise any assessment you might have as to my nature to be grossly out of date."

The other Vulcan nodded, typically unoffended. "That is a valid judgement."

C'Rash moved past them to her Tactical station, calling up visual images of the dorsal and ventral sides of the Surefoot, the huge docking clamps clutching them, and the weapons and sensor arrays on the station. Her tail grew still with concentration, and her intensity drew the others to follow, T'Varik prompting with, "You have a plan, Lieutenant?"

"I have an idea," the Caitian muttered, pointing to various areas. "We can send people out in exosuits onto the dorsal side, to take out the weapons and inhibitor arrays with a simultaneous assault from phaser rifles. We're probably being watched, but we can send them out with the weapons hidden in Engineering kits, faking other repairs to be done out there."

"You have neglected to account for our continuing to be contained by the clamps," Sakuth observed. "And the time it would take to phaser through them with rifles before Agar's people were alerted and responded."

C'Rash's fur rose, and through clenched teeth informed her, "No, I haven't. Our little Horta friend can burn through the duratanium in those clamps in seconds."

T'Varik nodded in thought. "That is a viable plan. Lt Hrelle, alert Jonas in Engineering to assemble and suit up a team to clear the Shiprot on the ventral side, and make appropriate repairs with immediate effect; he has less than an hour to complete the work and return. Lt Shall, I assume you will be leading the Security team on the dorsal side?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Along with Mr Stalac, I want Neraxis, Thykrill and the Twins with me, they were the best in their classes with phaser rifles." She indicated various places on the screens. "Once our Gearheads are done with their work and back inside, Stalac begins burning through the clamps, while we hit these points. When the dampeners are down, we locate and beam back the Captain and get the frick out of here."

"An additional shooter would be advised for redundancy purposes," Sakuth pointed out. "I have had considerable experience with a phaser rifle, and am willing to volunteer to accompany you outside."

"Really?" Sasha grunted. "Giving you a rifle? Spare us."

"Lieutenant..." T'Varik chided.

"I'd sooner have Spots out there," C'Rash lamented, "But he's been through so much this past week already."

"'Spots'?" Sakuth asked, bemused.

"The Hrelle's nanny," T'Varik replied.

The other Vulcan frowned at the Caitian. "You would sooner ask for help in extravehicular combat from a nanny than from me?"

C'Rash glared at her. "I'd sooner ask for help from Baby Sreen than from you."

"As I recall, your Academy scores in this field were superlative," T'Varik admitted. "I assume that your time flouting laws and ethics has not dulled your marksmanship skills?"

Sakuth stared back. "My marksmanship skills are not dulled."

T'Varik finally nodded. "Then you will join Lt Shall; she will be in command." To C'Rash she added, "Assemble and prepare your team. Lt Hrelle will take the Conn. I will brief Mr Stalac personally. I am certain he will be eager to participating in this mission."

*

"I am sorry, Commander," the Horta announced. "But I cannot assist you."

The Vulcan blinked. "Excuse me, Ensign? If you are refusing an order-"

The lump of brown fibrous mineral grumbled. "It is certainly not a question of refusing, Commander, I can assure you! It's that I can no longer generate acid to do as you ask!"

In Sickbay 1, Kit and the other members of the Science Team looked to each other, the EMH's bald brow furrowing as he responded first, "What are you talking about, Ensign? Your medical file doesn't indicate any issues with your acid secretion glands!" He produced a holographic sensor wand like an act of prestidigitation and passed it over the Horta. "As I stated: you're perfectly healthy."

"You're mistaken, Doctor," Stalac replied, the synthesised voice from the voder unit bolted to the side of him taking on a taut annoyance. He seemed to shift in place over his patch of the Sickbay carpet, trembling, before stopping and announcing, "See? I cannot. I'm not able to secrete."

Eydiir drew up to him, looking suspicious. "How have you been able to eat without being able to dissolve minerals?"

"I haven't. I've... not been hungry. But I am certain that once I return home, I will be cured."

T'Varik regarded him, her brow furrowing, before ordering, "Everyone, please wait outside."

Kit, Eydiir and the others started for the door. T'Varik stared at the EMH. The EMH stared back. "You must be aware that I can't follow them, Commander. Frankly I'm shocked at the lack of understanding on your part of the limitations of holographic-"

"Computer: Deactivate the EMH."

The image vanished in mid-reproof.

Alone now, T'Varik faced him. "Explain yourself."

"Ma'am? I don't understand-"

She folded her hands behind her. "Mr Stalac, do not waste my time or insult my intelligence, I am too old and tired to tolerate either from your base lies."

"Commander, I am unable to secrete acid at this time-"

"More lies. Whether you are attempting to convince yourself or others, it is unbecoming in an intellect. It is more accurate to say that you refuse to do so. Ensign Stalac, have you not eaten since before the Jem'Hadar attack?"

Stalac rotated in place, the thin cilia along the uneven perimeter of his shell tapping anxiously. "Commander, Horta are capable of functioning for many weeks without food-"

"I did not ask for a report on the metabolic properties of your people, Ensign." Then she softened her stance and voice. "Mr Stalac, though our biochemistries are radically different, we share numerous commonalities: a logical mind, a thirst for knowledge, a desire to serve... and an inability to properly manage the guilt and trauma we have experienced in the taking of the lives of others."

Stalac rumbled. "Commander-"

"We have both killed. Not distantly, with weapons, but physically, viscerally... 'up close and personal', as the human expression puts it. Our reasons for taking this action, however selfless and justified, do not lessen that guilt and trauma that it engenders in us. Nor should it. We are beings of conscience."

"Commander... from hatching, all Horta are taught about the terrible, tragic circumstances behind our first encounter with human miners a century ago. We are taught about how very dangerous we can be to the carbon-based lifeforms that fill the Galaxy, even through a process as simple as eating or moving through rock.

You Carbs are all so very, very fragile to us. We must never forget how easily we can kill you.

Commander, when the Jem'Hadar beamed into the Shuttlebay and began ruthlessly killing the medical staff, the civilians, even the wounded... when they shot my squadmate, my friend Peter... I did not forget. I remembered. And I took terrible advantage of what I can do.

Commander T'Varik... effective immediately, I must formerly resign my commission from Starfleet. I am too dangerous to be around humanoids. I should return to my homeworld. I will eat then and there, where it is safe and I can't hurt anyone again."

"I see." T'Varik waited a heartbeat before responding, "Resignation Refused."

"What? With respect, Commander, you can't do that!"

"Ensign, do not even begin to attempt to instruct me in what I can or can't do. You will not discard your considerable time and training by resigning and retreating. You will remain, and you will fulfil your obligations, and the immense potential I see in you. And after this crisis has abated, you will resume your Counseling sessions, to help face your guilt, and learn how to move on past it. As I must.

And you will eat. I expect your next meal to be of such prodigiousness as to make even your squadmate Ensign Kaldron gasp in awe."

More softly again now, she added, "Mr Stalac, it is inevitable that as each of us travels through life, we will commit acts we regret. Acts we can never undo. Perhaps even acts that require punitive measures, though in your case, it could be successfully argued against that. We must not take from these acts the wrong lessons. Your returning to Janus IV will not erase your action, or your guilt; an ignored problem does not spontaneously solve itself.