Surefoot 88: Arcana

"You really believe that?" Turai sneered.

"Watch that tone with me, young man; I am a senior officer as well as your mother. And yes, I do believe it. The Counselor and the Commodore are genuine, in their love for Urad, and in the strength and patience they both possess to help him-"

The door chimed, but slid open before anyone could respond. Urad stood there, wearing his modified Starfleet uniform to bare his arms. Flanking him were two Security crewmen, carrying large phaser rifles.

Nanda breathed in sharply, surprised and pleased to see her son back on duty - and apprehensive about everything else. "Urad, what's going on-"

Urad held up his hand. "Please, Mother, Turai, Gaia- stay exactly where you are, don't move. My Comrades here need to sweep your quarters with phaser beams."

"Phaser beams? Why?"

"There is the possibility that we have a shapeshifter onboard. These phaser rifles can project wide beams on a frequency that will not damage organic or inorganic material, but can still disrupt the quantum signature of shapeshifters, breaking them from whatever disguise they might be hiding behind, even a wall or machine part. Are the gravimetric controls set to our own homeworld levels?"

Nanda straightened up formally, recognising the serious nature of her son's appearance - and secretly pleased by his return to form. "Yes, Ensign."

He looked to his comrades. "Proceed."

The crewmen raised their weapons, and immediately twin wide, thin beams of electric blue phaser light danced over every surface, covering every point on the ceiling, before moving downwards, passing over every surface. Nanda endured it, having heard some terrifying stories about the Changelings of the Dominion and their insidious abilities. The Hroch Confederacy was still independent, wasn't involved in the War or even threatened... but they kept tabs on what was happening.

As they finished, Urad turned to the one on his right. "Both of you, remain on this side of the doorway; these quarters have been modified to project an increased gravimetric field comfortable for my people's physiologies, but can literally weigh heavily on others." He retrieved the phaser rifle and entered, moving to the bathroom and the closet, sweeping through each, before returning to the main room. "There will be a formal notification on the public network shortly regarding the security alert. Thank you for your cooperation at this time."

Nanda nodded. "Thank you, Ensign. Good luck."

Urad nodded back and left with his comrades, the door sliding shut and locking.

Turai harrumphed. "Look at Baby Brother, acting all grown up-"

Nanda reached up and smacked her son's muzzle. "You show him respect! He has been through more than any of us can ever understand! And it's obvious that he's not yet fully recovered. It will take him time.

But he is in the right place for that, I think..."

*

"Celestials: We come to you with heavy hearts and tearful eyes, seeking your comfort and strength for a beloved and respected woman who is recovering from an attack upon her person. It is a source of immense pain and grief to see her suffer, and we pray for her healing and restoration. Ease her pain and soothe her wounds, both physical and emotional. Grant her the strength to overcome this traumatic experience, and fill her heart with hope and peace. Surround her with your divine protection, shielding her from any further harm.

We pray also for the doctors and nurses who are taking care of her, that you may bless them with the knowledge and skills to aid in her recovery. May their hands be guided by your love and compassion.

Lastly, we pray for all those who have been affected by this senseless act of violence. May they find comfort in your presence and strength in their time of need-"

The chime at his door made Sre Gyver Timbrel end his prayer, rise from his knees to his full height, slip on his outer robes and walk to the doorway, just as it opened of its own accord, revealing Commodore Hrelle and two Security crewmen with rifles. Gyver stopped in place, arms crossed and hidden in his sleeves. "Commodore."

"Mr Timbrel, please remain still and where you are, while this team runs a sweep."

"Of course, Commodore."

He stayed focused on the Caitian, trusting that the Security team's actions would be quick and painless. They departed without a word, leaving Hrelle to offer, "Sorry about that, Mr Timbrel. Someone has posed as my wife last night, causing disruption, and could now be impersonating other people, or even as an inanimate object."

Gyver nodded. "So I have gathered."

He frowned. "You know who the intruder is?"

"No, Commodore, not specifically. But the calling of my Order has helped hone certain perceptions about what is around us.

For millennia, the Order of Paladel have ventured out from our world to perform acts of good. And we have long since learned that there are some corners of the Universe which have bred the most terrible things. Things of shadow, illusion, deception. Things of pain and cruelty. Things which act against everything that we believe in. They must be fought."

Hrelle appeared unsure of how to respond to that, instead raising his muzzle and announcing, "I've come to ask a favour of you: with my wife in hospital and Sasha and myself busy-"

"-You require a guardian for Misha and Sreen at this time." He moved to a stand and retrieved his staff. "I swear to you, on my honour as a Knight of Paladel, that I will protect them with my life."

Hrelle breathed in. "Thank you, Mr Timbrel, though I am certain it will not come to that."

I wish I had such faith, Gyver thought to himself. But his intuition, honed and heightened by training, told him something else.

*

Simon Latrelle sat at the table in the back of the Tarot Club, working the deck in his hand, pretending to not notice the flood of Security crewmen enter without warning, flooding the main room, the bar and tables, and the neighbouring toilets, replicator stations and the holographic stage equipment room with phaser sweep beams.

He only looked up at the approach of two humans in Starfleet uniforms: a older, pale-skinned, muscular man with auburn hair greying at the temples, and a taller, statuesque, dark-skinned woman with a severe crewcut and a scowl that looked sharp enough to scar neutronium.

Then he indicated the crewmen with the phasers. "While you're over there, can you pour us a shot of Crescent City Bourbon, please?"

"Mr Latrelle," the man announced, even as the woman signalled for one of the crewmen to approach. "We'd like you to come with us, please."

The club owner felt himself tremble. A little. But he had been in such situations before, with local authorities on other worlds, and had charmed his way out of those. "I thought that we were under Lockdown at the moment, Mister...?"

"Commander Somerset, Station Intelligence. This is Lt Cmdr Salvo, Station Security." As a crewman approached with a phaser rifle, he explained, "A beam will be passed over you, Mr Latrelle. It will not be harmful... unless you aren't what you appear to be."

He grinned. "That's not much reassurance; how many of us are truly who we appear to be?"

Salvo drew her phaser and aimed it at him. "Just shut up and don't move."

He smiled and complied, allowing the phaser beam to pass over him and his surroundings. Afterwards he began shuffling his cards again. "Do you like my deck?" He fanned them out fluidly in one hand, displaying the backs, all displaying a black and gold Art Deco design around a classic full moon. "Almost five hundred years old, these, one of the last surviving Clair De Lune decks as commissioned by Madame Malfaiteur herself. Alastair Crowley himself once received a very promising reading from them."

"I do not know who those people are," Salvo declared, her Nova Roman accent harsh. "Nor do I care about them, or about your children's game."

He looked up at her again. "This is no game, Mamselle. These are tools of divination." He shuffled them once more. "They offer insight, revealing more than even your high-falutin' gadgets and gimmicks can ever do."

She looked to Somerset. "Does he need to be examined for mental competency?"

Somerset waved off her remark, staying focused on Latrelle. "We've examined your record, and have discovered enough to take you into custody."

"Custody, Monsieur? Clearly you don't fear the inevitable censure you'll receive when I take legal action against you for harassment."

"Clearly."

He regarded Somerset as he dealt out cards, one at a time, looking up at him. "The Knight of Wands: you're a man of action and adventure... but prone to recklessness. The Tower - I know this one very well - you have brought upheaval, disaster-"

Somerset continued. "Your records indicate you are Human, born in New Orleans, Louisiana, on Earth."

"The Big Easy, Monsieur. Have you been?"

"Yes, actually... which is more than you can claim. You're actually half-Halanan, born on New Paris, and in a life of petty crimes and deception, the one truly redoubtable feature has been an ongoing association with another New Parisian: Bastien Dumont - a long-standing senior operative in the Bel-Zon."

Latrelle shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"You're a liar," Salvo declared.

Latrelle's gaze narrowed at her. "And you're quite a spitfire. But you have things to hide, too, I wager." He threw down another card. "The Queen of Wands: courage, determination, and a fine complement to our Knight of Wands standing beside you..." He threw down another card. "But Strength, Reversed? You doubt yourself, you fear failure, weakness. And what of the two of you, together?"

He threw down a final card: the Lovers.

Latrelle smiled again. "See? The cards speak for themselves."

"And you appear to be a few cards short of a full deck," Somerset countered. "Come with us, or my associate here will divine a very painful immediate future for you."

*

Salem One's Deck 5 was colloquially known as the Academy Deck: a self-contained section that could operate fully independently from the rest of the station, to afford maximum protection for the cadets who studied and worked there as part of the Advanced Work Experience program. It had classrooms, Holodecks, dining, living and recreational quarters, with forcefields over all accessways and even transporter shields to prevent unauthorised beamings in or out - lowered only twice since lockdown, to allow Security teams to sweep everyone and everything within. It was meant to offer the comfort of safety and security.

Rachel felt neither, as she and the rest of Macbeth Squad sat quietly in the dining hall. Which wasn't atypical, except for Gela, whose default mood would be verbal effusiveness over the latest Engineering exam or a potential business opportunity whetting his Ferengi appetite. Except that other cadets in the hall were almost equally quiet, except for streams of murmurs and rumblings that ran through them at random like energy through conduits.

"What is going on?" she finally asked in a whisper.

"They're talking about us," Gela informed her.

"And the Counselor," C'Riir added, the Caitian looking withdrawn and not touching his shuris salad.

"And the general consensus appears to be hostility towards us," Denek finished, the mood even affecting her usual composed Vulcan female. "For not stopping Mr Boladede."

Rachel's jaw dropped, and she looked across the table at Spychalski. "Do you believe that?"

The young Polish man shrugged. "Why not? Ferengi, Caitians and Vulcans all have superior hearing."

"I don't mean that! I mean- they can't blame us! That doesn't make any sense!" She looked at C'Riir. "Who's leading this? It's Th'kirat, isn't it? I mean, I don't know why I'm even asking, he was born with a spoon in his hand to stir up trouble-"

He reached out with his paw. "Rachel, calm down, everyone's just feeling claustrophobic and emotional over the shooting. It doesn't matter-"

She stood up, turned and walked over to the other tables, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around her at all the bemused, accusing faces. She steeled herself, surprised at how easily the words. "Listen: I'm genuinely sorry for what happened to Counselor Hrelle. We all are. But none of us had any idea that Ange would do what he did. If we had, we would never have left him alone-"

"A Commanding Officer," raised a voice behind her. "Is responsible for the actions of the officers and crew under them."

She turned, seeing Othello Squad's Command Cadet Shrys Th'kirat, an ever-scowling Andorian male, his azure skin darkening and his antenna pointed at her. "Yes... in the performance of their duties in Starfleet. What Ange did to the Counselor was done of his own accord, and not something anyone could have predicted-"

Th'kirat jumped to his feet, dark eyes flaring. "She almost died last night! Thanks to your squad! You should have known!"

He stepped forward, but before he took a step C'Riir knocked his chair aside and was at Rachel's side, claws and fangs bared, while the rest of Macbeth Squad quickly joined him... and others around them rose as well. Rachel glanced round, trying to find the words to de-escalate the tension in the room.

Fortunately, someone else took charge of that. "I believe that will be quite enough."

All heads turned to Lt Cmdr Idrisi, striding in, not looking at anyone in particular, but somehow making everyone feel the object of scrutiny. Rachel, however, felt the urge to speak up. "Lieutenant Commander, we were just discussing-"

"I believe I caught the gist of the discussion, Cadet." She stopped at Th'kirat. "Thank you, Squad Leader."

The Andorian started, his antennae turning up suspiciously at the declaration. "I- I don't understand, Ma'am. Why are you thanking me?"

Her coffee-skinned face creased with what could have been a mirror of his expression. "Why? Why, for volunteering to use your free time to produce a dissertation on Command Responsibility as Applied to Starfleet Regulations, of course. That is why you brought up the subject, isn't it? I made that assumption, since the alternative would be that you were making a formal accusation of negligence on the part of Squad Leader Nash and Macbeth Squad - a very serious action by yourself - and one I doubt will end favourably for you."

Th'kirat's azure skin darkened further. "I... If you'll excuse me, Ma'am, I will get started on that dissertation."

"Do so; you have until 1600 Hours to complete and forward it to my Inbox. As for the rest of you, I advise - in the strongest possible terms - to focus your energies on more productive activities than seeking to assign blame to your fellow cadets for perceived faults. If one of you has done something wrong, rest assured, I will let you know."

She turned to depart, until Rachel drew up to her. "Ma'am, is there any word on Ange?"

The older woman regarded her coolly, softening her stony expression somewhat. "Cadet Boladede was located by Lt Cmdr Hrelle; he attempted suicide rather than be taken into custody."

Rachel's stomach dropped into subspace, and she felt the reaction from her Squad to the news. Suicide? "Is he-"

"He survived, has recovered and is being held in custody in the Hospital until he can be transferred to the Brig to face a court martial for his actions. And before you ask, if you do: No, he will not be permitted visitors. He is undergoing an assessment, as it appears he was affected by an outside force to commit his acts, a force we are currently seeking. If you'll excuse me..."

Macbeth Squad drew together as the Assistant Superintendent departed, Rachel lost in her thoughts. An outside force? Why? Why attack Ange? Or was the actual target the Counselor?

"That is disquieting," Denek declared.

"You said it," Spychalski concurred. "Wonder what's onboard this time? Another Dragon, maybe?"

"Odds favour a Romulan," Gela announced, tapping quickly onto his PADD. "With Changelings and a time traveller a close second and third, I'm taking bets now-"

He stopped as C'Riir snatched the PADD from him.

*

Weynik gripped the phaser in both hands, feeling more like a Squab sent to microscrub the Academy Hangar Bay as a punishment, as his team moved methodically from room to room on the latest deck, sweeping their phaser beams from ceiling to floor, even opening cabinets and crates that could barely contain someone his size. It was slow, it was boring... it was absolutely unnerving.

He had never encountered a Changeling in all his time fighting in the Dominion War. In truth, he knew that very few actually did, that the vast majority of the shapeshifting race remained on their homeworld in the Gamma Quadrant, allowing their Vorta and Jem'Hadar races to act as their voices... and their fists. But he knew that the real strength was just the very idea that the Changelings could be hidden among them, disguised as an associate, a family member, even a chair or painting. They were quintessentially insidious.

They reached Deck 11's largest Cargo Bay, a multi-tiered section consisting of varied-sized sealed containers, mostly equipped with cold storage or stasis field generators. Weynik saw his breath escape from him, feeling like he had entered a morgue.

"Spooky," Security Crewman Jayden Robins, a lanky, young human male with curly blonde hair and a soft face that seemed to flush as red as the Red Alert lighting strip on the Bridge of the Katana. Like now, when he glanced over at him. "Sorry, Sir."

Weynik grunted; when did the crewmen start getting so young? "No, it is spooky down here, even with all the lights on." He looked to the other members of his team. "Fenetry, Irving: Take the Upper Level. Glenn, Beaton: cover the doorway." To Robins, he finished with, "You're with me this time, Beanpole."

"Beanpole?" He smirked. "I'm not that tall, am I, Sir?"

"You're asking that while you're looking down at me?" He gestured to the corridor running down the long axis of the Bay, curving to match the cylindrical shape of the station. "Let's go."

They moved together slowly, side by side, phaser beams sweeping up and down. He suppressed a shiver; his people preferred warmer environments with thicker atmospheres. "Slow down a little, Mr Robins, we don't want to miss anything."

"No, Sir. Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"Go on, it's gonna be a long day."

"Thank you, Sir. Sir, do you really think there's a Changeling on the station?"

Weynik ground his teeth, wondering if he should be reassuring, or truthful. "I don't know if it's an actual Changeling, because I can't imagine the Dominion would be interested in destabilising Salem Sector. But it does look like there's a shapeshifter."

"And do you think these beams can flush them out?"

"Well, they definitely work on Changelings, and possibly other shapeshifting species with unstable structures like Chameloids, as per the assessment from some of the finest minds available. I suppose if a wall suddenly dissolves into goo and says 'Boo!'" to us, we'll know it works."

"I suppose, Sir... but what do we really know about why it's here? Has the Commodore any idea who sent it?"

"Well, it's obviously another Bel-Zon operative, like the Dragon, and the thief that stole the classified data. All part of a master plan."

"Yes, Sir... but surely there has to be more to this shapeshifters goals than getting Counselor Hrelle shot and playing mind games with the Commodore's daughter?"

Weynik tensed... doing his best to hide his reaction from the one beside him. He kept watching his own breath ghost in the cold air.

Then he glanced up at his companion. Seeing no breath escaping from his mouth.