This is my third piece set in the War of the Masters shared universe. It involves events in MV 2411, which get really nasty. Reader discretion advised for: Mild sexual content, language, blood and gore.

A Good Compromise

Close your eyes now time for dreams,
Death is never what it seems.
Did the things you thought you should,
All the things they said were good.

All your faith in ancient ways,
Leaves you trapped inside a maze.
Take the lives of those you need,
Sow the death then reap the seed.
Reap the seed.

Born an angel, heaven sent,
Falls from grace are never elegant.
Stars will drop out of the sky,
The moon will sadly watch the roses die.

In vain,
Lost, no gain,
But you're not taking me.

You can't have my life,
I'm not your sacrifice.
You can try, but I'm free,
And you won't conquer me.

I won't crawl,
Most of all,
I won't fall,
For you.

Show them gods and deities,
Blind and keep the people on their knees.
Pierce the sky, escape your fate.
The more you try the more you'll just breed hate,

And lies.
Truth will rise,
Revealed by mirrored eyes.

What if all the plans you made,
Were not worth the price they paid?
Even with the lives you stole,
Still no closer to your...
Goal.

You can't have my life.
I'm not your sacrifice.
You can try, but I'm free,
And you won't conquer me.

I won't crawl,
Most of all,
I won't fall,
For you.
— "Sacrifice" by Jeff Williams and Casey Lee Williams, from RWBY Volume Two

Hamir's Bed & Breakfast, Port Ikrina, Moash, Federated States of Trill, 10 Kiris 8412 Central Date (2411.03.02 Earth Standard), 1605 hours local

Jolin Tabris rolled off of his wife, the both of them soaked with sweat, breathing heavily. Tyria Sark laughed lightly. "Ah, that was good."

"Nice not being the one in command for once, eh, Captain Sark?" he teased her.

"You know, I'd punch you for that, but I can't seem to move my arms right now."

"Huh? Oh, yeah." The other Trill rolled over and reached for the necktie securing her wrists to the cast iron headboard. "Let's see, now how did this go together, again?" He glanced down at her. "Just kidding."

"You'd better be," she said as the knot came undone. "If we're late for—"

An insistent chiming from the suitcase interrupted her. Jolin rolled off her again and dug through it. "Tyri, you seriously brought your combadge along on our romantic weekend getaway?"

"You know how it is," she grumbled. "We're always on duty, especially when we're not. Gaunt's hosts…" She took the triangular chip of metal and plastic from him. "Captain Tyria Sark."

A basso male voice said, "Captain Sark, this is Rear Admiral Levchenko. Can you come on vid?"

She glanced at Jolin, who was lying on the covers grinning evilly at her. She rolled her eyes. "No disrespect, sir, but I'm not decent."

"Fine. I need you to come in to the office in Leran Manev as soon as possible. We have a situation in the Gamma Quadrant."

Tyria suppressed a shiver. 'A situation in the Gamma Quadrant' could only mean one thing: Dominion trouble. "All right, I can be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you."

"They'd better be giving you holiday pay for this. And our reservations are shot to hell."

She rolled off the bed and gathered her underwear. "Isn't there, I don't know, a case you can prep for until I get back?"

"Aaaaagh," he grunted irritatedly. "Just boring probate crapola I can do in my sleep."

"As opposed to… getting freshie ensigns out of lockup?"

"I don't recall you complaining," Jolin quipped, tickling her along the spots on her ribcage. She squealed, dropped her bra and snatched up a pillow they'd knocked off the bed earlier. He blocked the blow aimed at his face, laughing, and grabbed her around the waist to pull her back down to the bed.

"Ahhh, we don't get nearly enough time for us," he added, kissing the tip of her nose, "not since Sameen and you going back to active duty."

He was right about that. They'd been lucky Tyria's mother had been able to take Sameen for the weekend.

Tyria disentangled herself from her husband and got back up up to dig her uniform out of their suitcase. "So tell me about this case."

"Stupid stuff. Some bozo named Gard tried to will half his estate to his next host, even prepaid the attorney."

"Gard? Not Kyros Gard?"

"Perrick Gard now. You've met?"

"Yeah—no, Fillis Sark did," she amended. "Went on a blind date with him. He was an *sshole, not to put too fine a point on it. Wait, wait, you're calling that boring? Case like that could go constitutional, touches the heart—"

"Yeah, except the frakker apparently tried the same stunt on his previous host and it was tossed then, too. Hey!" He tapped her hipbone. "There's an idea: cite the legal precedent from his own case."

"You're evil," she answered, bending over to kiss him. "And I love you for it."

Starfleet Satellite Office, Leran Manev, 1540 hours

Tyria paused in the ladies' room to make sure her ponytail was tidy, then headed into the admiral's reception room. The admiral's adjutant was a fellow Trill, also a captain, but black-shouldered with a gold stripe. "Captain Tyria Sark to see Admiral Levchenko."

"Wait one." A light on his console went out. "All right, you can go on in." He pressed a key and the frosted glass door slid open.

Rear Admiral Nazariy Levchenko was a tall, slim human with a receding hairline, prominent ears, and the confident but tired bearing of an old soldier as he handed her a file. "Can I offer you something to drink?" he asked in Federation Standard. His accent was interesting, almost like Russian but with some Germanic twists, but she filed that thought under 'irrelevant'.

"No, thank you, sir." She looked over the file as he poured himself a shot glass of some clear liquor, noting the code word on the front, LEONID LEPER BIRTHRIGHT. "What's going on, sir? Something's familiar about this code word."

"One of your previous hosts was an epidemiologist, yes?"

"Yes, Adril Sark, but—Wait." Between that and Levchenko's earlier reference to the Dominion, she realized where she'd read the code word before. "This is about the Teplan blight? I worked on some of the analysis of Doctor Bashir's samples. Nasty stuff, but I thought that was over and done with."

"Well, Starfleet Intelligence has, of course, been monitoring things, and there's a new chapter in the story, Captain. Thanks to Bashir's handiwork they're rebuilding themselves, their population is increasing again. They've also built a few starships—just light freighters, nothing major for now—but it seems to have struck a nerve."

"The Dominion."

The admiral nodded. "Jem'Hadar attack ships have apparently been making reconnaissance flights in the area for about a month, even buzzed a Teplan freighter as it was docking in the Stakoron system. Three days ago their current Lord Protector, a man called Julyeen, sent a request for Federation protectorate status to Deep Space 9 via the Karemma. The President has tentatively approved it."

"Don't tell me: I'm going out there."

"Yes. Not alone, you'll be leading a small flotilla. Stage at DS9, then direct to Yarmta, what we've been told is the local name for the planet," he added by way of explanation.

So much for my vacation… Tyria squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. "I'll need a few things." She started ticking things off on her fingers. "Some luxury goods for bribes: booze usually works. A communications officer fluent in Dominionese, and BUPERS still hasn't gotten me a CMO."

"I'll call Captain Wake. And I think we can handle the booze: will Romulan ale work?"

"I think so. How many ships are we talking about?"

"Defiant wolfpack, two flights, plus the McCoy, Crazy Horse, Tlingit, Croatoan, and Yar."

"Plus Black Prince makes twelve." She raised an eyebrow. "What aren't you telling me, sir?"

"It's a very fine line: we're trying to have a presence big enough to secure the system but small enough to not be an 'overt offensive threat'."

Tyria heard the emphasis and groaned. "In other words the brass wants to have their cake and eat it: they want a PR victory but not at the expense of a shooting war with the Dominion."

"Well, with this Moab povna sraka radoshchiv all over the news, other talk of secession, the President wants to show that we can still effectively defend the fringeworlds. But you're right: we're spread far too thin to win a fight with the Founders on their own turf, and if they're willing, you get the Hell out of there. That rock is not worth it."

"I think I'll take that drink, after all."

Levchenko poured her a shot and raised his glass to her. "Za vas," he said, before draining it in one gulp.

Wardroom, USS Black Prince, five hours out of Idran system, 2411.03.10 Earth Standard

Captain's Personal Log. We entered the Gamma Quadrant twelve hours ago and the fleet is approaching the boundary of our commerce patrol zone. I'm ordering all ships to yellow alert. Hopefully we'll reach Yarmta without any trouble. If not, well… We'll see what this Hephaestus-class starship is really capable of.

Jazz Velasquez was blunt: "This is chickenshit, sir."

"Wow, Velasquez, tell us what you really think," S'ulluru commented in response.

The human shook her head, tossing back her streaky brown-black hair. "Look, we're poking a bear for no good reason and we can't even properly back it up. An Olympic, a junker Excelsior, two Dakotas and half a dozen tacscorts?"

"And a patrol escort. And us," Dr. Irim Valder pointed out. "A shiny new multi-vector escort has to count for something."

"Yeah, shiny," Velasquez shot back at the Bajoran. "Except I'm still fixing control screwups those Yoyodyne pendejos should have got squared away before the christening two weeks ago."

"Commander, cool it," Tyria broke in. "Look, I don't disagree on any particular point. This is not going to be easy. But we've got our orders. We're Starfleet: the Teplans want our help, and by Gaunt, we're going to give it our all."

The brown-skinned woman sighed. "Yes, sir."

Tyria addressed the medical officer. "Doctor Irim, I'm going to need you to liaise with Captain Merdok on the McCoy. He has lead on the sample collection end but you'll assist."

"Very good, sir."

"Try not to step on his toes," she warned him. "He's probably still miffed about me getting the commodore slot." The Benzite had a couple years' seniority over her, but he didn't have combatant command cert and his battlefield experience was limited to a couple Klingon raids on starbases where he'd served in the hospital.

She turned to the blonde Jelna Rigelian sitting with her hands folded in her lap. "Lieutenant Shelon."

"Yes sir?"

"You're to be on-hand whenever I talk to either the Teplans or the Dominion. There's nuances to the language that Federation Standard doesn't have; I need you listening with your translator switched off."

"I understand, sir."

"All right, anything else? Chief Filipek, you haven't weighed in."

The chief of the boat leaned forward in his chair. "Not much to say, sir. The crew are restless about the mission—I don't blame them—but they'll do their jobs."

"Okay then. Keep an eye on that?"

"My job, Captain," the human agreed.

"Get some rest, all of you. We're at Yarmta at sixteen-hundred."

"I still say this is chickenshit," Velasquez fumed in the ship's mess, tearing into a plate of something brown and breaded like it had insulted her parents.

"Pardon me for asking, sir, but what's a chicken?" Gilad Ronson asked.

"This…" She held up a roughly triangular piece of the brown stuff. "… is not chicken. This is something programmed by a replicator engineer who'd maybe heard of chicken." The carrot-topped Trill stared at her blankly. "It's a bird, all right?"

"I'll stick with the hasperat." He bit into the flatbread wrap. "Whoo! Spice on that." He grabbed for his cola.

"Yeah, advantage of stopping at DS9, you can get better patterns local. Stupid Yoyodyne crap pain in the ass…" She tossed the bone from her not-chicken back onto the plate. "So, did you really have Captain Sark for military history?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, in rot-cee."

"So I guess you know her better than anybody on the ship."

"She was my professor," he said defensively. "It's not like I dated her."

"I'm asking, what do you know about her?"

Ronson took another few bites off the hasperat. "Well, she's married, apparently an Academy hotshot, and she's got a really old symbiote, something like eleven hosts."

Now Velasquez was the one with the blank look. "Is that important?"

The carrot-topped man shrugged. "Well, from us Trill, I guess it gets a certain respect. It means she's forgotten more than you or I will ever remember."

"Huh. Okay, what about this 'Gaunt' she keeps talking about?"

"Gaunt? Ha!" He chugged the last of his cola. "Gaunt's a tall tale. To hear Iklani like the Professor talk about it, he's supposed to be the first symbiote to take a host, lived for a thousand years and joined with forty, but that's ridiculous: no symbiote's ever survived more than twelve."

"That you know of."

"That I know of," he allowed. He gave her a strange look. "Pardon me for asking, sir, but what's with the interrogation?"

The dark-skinned woman smirked. "Well, isn't it obvious? I'm chatting you up to get into your pants." Ronson nearly choked on the last bite of hasperat. "Careful, there."

"Um, wow. Uh," he stammered. "Uh, I'm—you're—" He closed his mouth as she started giggling. "Uh, besides the difference in… uh, rank… Bad idea sleeping with… an admiral's daughter."

She snorted. "Dad gave up on me ages ago. And I could use the distraction from dealing with those Yoyo yahoos' leftovers."

He stood up and took his empty tray with him. "Uh, it's a… nice offer, but, uh… I have to go do some… uh, calibrations." And he walked very fast out the door.

Velasquez picked up her coffee cup. "Nuts."

Teplan System, 2411.03.11 Earth Standard

Twelve Federation starships blossomed out of warp in high orbit over a green-brown planet in perfect unison. Squat Defiant-series escorts quickly fanned out ahead of the bigger ships, sensors panning across the area with rapid-fire pulses of energy, and the Prince took up a guard position alongside the larger Crazy Horse.

"Captain," Lieutenant Shelon announced, "local traffic control is hailing us."

"Onscreen."

The olive-skinned and rather sleepy-looking alien who appeared was, to Tyria's eyes, indistinguishable from a human or any of a dozen other species from the Alpha or Beta Quadrants. "Unidentified starships, this is the Yarmta Traffic Service. Identify yourselves and your reason for visiting."

"Yarmta Traffic Service, I'm Commodore Tyria Sark of the Federation Starfleet, Captain, USS Black Prince, here on request by Lord Protector Julyeen."

"Oh, uh!" The traffic controller quickly straightened in his chair and accidentally knocked something that looked like a mug out of the frame. "Uh, good, we've been expecting you. I'll, uh, transfer you to Government House."

The screen went staticky for a second, then another Teplan appeared. He was a beefy man with a gaunt face and an unruly mop of dark hair veined with silver, wearing a black robe with silver piping at the seams. "Commodore Sark."

"Your Excellency," Tyria greeted him back, inclining her head respectfully.

"Julyeen, please. 'Excellency' is for citizens, not offworlders. We're sending you coordinates to beam in; I'd rather do this in person."

"I understand. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Tyria and Azira Shelon quickly changed into their dress whites, service dress, not full regalia, and beamed directly in. Another Teplan, female with bronze skin and brown hair, wearing what was clearly a military-style uniform, was waiting with the Lord Protector. "Since we sent our last message there has been no further direct contact with the Jem'Hadar," she said with an understandable degree of barely-suppressed distaste. "But we have our minutemen at their highest peacetime readiness level; we'll fight for every hectare."

"Hopefully it won't come to that, Strategos," Tyria told her, recalling the form of address from Starfleet Intelligence's files. The ancient Greek word was an approximation at best but the universal translator could handle it.

The woman gave her a grim look. "You really think twelve Starfleet ships will stop them?"

"I think twelve Starfleet ships will give them a reason to consider alternatives, ma'am. Look, I've dealt with Vorta before. As long as there isn't a Founder around, they're pragmatists. That's our 'in'." She turned to Julyeen. "Tell me about the blight."

Julyeen sighed. "There are still surviving pockets of Afflicted. Not everybody who has the blight necessarily dies in the Quickening, not if something else gets them first, at any rate. And there's always persistent rumors of transmission in remote areas the Public Health Ministry has trouble reaching."

"Our medical staff will be taking samples, and the McCoy and Crazy Horse can manufacture vaccine and beam it directly to problem areas."

The Teplan chuckled. "You say that as if it's the most ordinary thing."

"Well, I'm not exaggerating when I say we're as good or better than the Dominion in most areas," Shelon piped up proudly.

"Which is light-years ahead of us," the strategos pointed out. "Our fastest ship can make warp 4 on its best day."

"We can negotiate technical upgrades," Tyria offered, "although I have to work within the limits of the Prime Directive. Any new technology we give you, we have to be sure you're ready for. I know"—she held up a hand to forestall the inevitable objection, and let a motherly tone into her voice—"you're worried about the Dominion. So am I, but I'm also worried about you. I'm sure you know the precariousness of your civilization. Never mind the Dominion coming back, if we're not careful about how we deal with your people, something we do with the best of intentions could lead to civil war, or worse. Believe me, I've seen it happen."

"So we're just supposed to trust you that you'll do the right thing?" the strategos summarized in a suspicious tone.

"In a word, yes. But I swear by the forty hosts of Gaunt, I'll do right by you."

"That's good enough for me."

"Your Excellency—" the strategos began.

"My decision is final, Sakoria!" he cut her off. "We don't have any other choice: without Commodore Sark we don't stand a chance."

"Very well, Your Excellency."

"If you'll excuse me, Lord Protector," Tyria said, "I have to get back to my ship." He nodded and she and Shelon rose and strode out the door.

"Did you hear anything odd from them?" Tyria asked the Rigelian.

"No, sir. They're scared, but they're also hopeful. Sir," she added hesitantly, "permission to speak frankly."

"Go ahead."

"Are you exceeding your authority here? Don't our marching orders say to run if the Dominion shows up?"

"Our orders are to not provoke a military confrontation and to cede the system if the Dominion is willing to go to war over it," she corrected professorially. "But the exact text of the orders is intentionally vague and I intend to exercise every last iota of discretion I can."

Village of Kournaka, Glastron Territory, Yarmta, 2411.03.13 Earth Standard, 0305 hours task force time

The Teplan boy was little more than five years old and already clearly infected, and Irim Valder's heart broke. He hid his feeling as he took the samples, maintaining a friendly smile. "All right, see? Just a mouth swab." The white-uniformed Bajoran dropped the no-longer-sterile foam wad into a sample bag and reached for an extractor needle with his other hand as he passed the bag to a petty officer from the McCoy. "Thank you."

"What's that for?" the boy asked.

Irim kept his voice quiet and kind. "I'm just going to take a little bit of your blood from the small vessels in your shoulder."

"Will it hurt?"

"You ever been bitten by an insect?"

"I was stung by a gorsefly once," the boy said, uncertainly. "It hurt a lot."

Irim shook his head. "All right, I wasn't thinking of that. See, I'm from a planet called Bajor. It's very far from here. We have these insects called sweatbugs, they're about this big," and he held up two fingers on his right hand about a centimeter apart. "They're harmless, they just want the salt in your sweat, but they'll bite to defend themselves. It's like a little pinprick, ouch!" He poked the boy in the chest. "But it's all over in seconds, so you're very brave and you get through it."

"I'm very brave, everyone says so," the boy told him brightly. "When are you going to do it?"

"Already finished," and he held up the extractor in his left hand, the vial now filled with red. He passed it to the corpsman and sprayed the spot of blood on the boy's shoulder with a coagulant.

"I didn't feel a thing, Doctor Irim."

"Then I did my job. All right, down you get, run along." He hopped off the exam table and ran out of the tent where they'd set up the clinic into the sunlight.

Irim turned to the boy's mother, a pale woman whose face and bare arms were marked with the dark streaks of the blight. "Can you do anything for him?"

The Bajoran grimly shook his head. "I'm sorry. We cannot cure the blight; it's proven very resistant to our usual antiviral treatments. But your son will probably live for a long time before the Quickening takes him." He picked up a PADD, a Nokia model with additional EM shielding designed for MACO field duty, and took some notes. "Now, you said this to Corpsman Forbes, but I want to ask you again: were you vaccinated?"

"Yes, I was."

"You're certain?"

"Yes, I'm certain!" She sounded insulted at the question.

Irim put the PADD down on his knee and looked her in the eye. "I'm going to ask you one more time, and I want to be absolutely clear that this discussion is confidential: nobody, apart from myself and other Starfleet medical personnel on this mission will be allowed to access the full file. Were. You. Vaccinated?"

"Yes!" By now the woman seemed near tears.

Irim held up his hands. "All right, ma'am, I believe you; my apologies. When?"

"Eight years ago."

"During a scheduled Public Health Ministry visit?"

"Yes, he came by shuttle. He had credentials and everything."

"Thank you." Irim noted this down and turned off the screen. "Your son, who was his father?"

"A terrace farmer, like the rest of us. The Quickening took him three years ago."

"I'm sorry." She accepted the condolence without comment. "All right, I don't need anything else from you; you can go."

She paused at the door. "Doctor Irim? Thank you."

He nodded. "Walk with the Prophets." She left.

Corpsman Forbes turned to him. "Poor kid."

"At least he has a mother who loves him; I never knew either of my parents. They died in—"

"Due respect, sir, please don't say 'the Occupation'."

"Prophets, I'm not that old, Petty Officer; it was a landslide. Militia dug me out but they couldn't save my family. They put me in the orphanage at the Shikina Monastery in the capital." He glanced out the door again. "Little Fredean reminds me of… well, of nearly every boy there."

"You were raised by monks, sir? Chanting and celibacy and all?"

"Well, chastity isn't a requirement, but yes. It's why I'm a doctor, though: I always loved listening to the Canticle of Kern Dara. A minor saint," he added by way of explanation. "Lived about twenty-three thousand years ago, cared for plague victims. The Federation Standard translations of the passage don't capture the poetry of the original Bajor'ara."

"Mm." Forbes sounded like she was listening but not really understanding; Irim shrugged and started logging the codes on the samples.

"You know she's lying, right?" Forbes said. "The mom?"

Irim frowned. "I disagree."

"Look, there's no way—"

"Petty Officer, I believe that she believes she was properly vaccinated, but that means there's something else going on."

"Medical scam?" the corpsman proposed.

Irim mentally kicked himself for not asking if the purported Ministry official had demanded payment. "Certainly possible; we'll check Ministry records. Prophets willing, that's all it is."

"'Prophets willing'?" Forbes repeated uncertainly. "What if it isn't?"

"Then we have a serious problem. Is there anyone else waiting?" She shook her head and he hit his combadge. "Commander Irim toMcCoy. Two to beam up."

Crew Lounge, USS Black Prince, 1306 hours task force time

Tyria walked into the lounge with a deliberately relaxed gait to broadcast that she was there for the same reason the crew was. The big screen on one wall was tuned to a football match and from the look of things the Denobulans were well on their way to denying Earth a spot in the upcoming Federation Cup tournament. A loud cheer erupted as she stepped up to the bar and ordered a synthale.

She felt more than heard somebody sit next to her and looked up. It was S'ulluru. "Shrimp cocktail," the Caitian told the barman. Then she looked over to her left at Tyria and her whiskers twitched. "What?"

"Nothing, just a joke somebody at the Academy told me about cats and fish."

"So I like fish, what of it?"

"Never mind, Commander. You got the results on that last battle drill, by the way?"

S'ulluru passed her a PADD. "I think we're as ready for the Dominion as anyone can be, sir."

"I hope so. With those sensor echoes the Erbil picked up this morning—"

Suddenly behind them there was a trumpet solo accompanied by swearing and boos from several people. Tyria recognized the fanfare; it was FNN breaking into the game broadcast. "We interrupt this program to bring a fast-breaking story to your attention. We're now going live to our studio in Lagos, North African Alliance."

Tyria didn't recognize the deputy anchor who appeared next. Human, male, black hair, olive skin. "At seventeen hundred hours GMT yesterday, we lost contact with our affiliate in the city of Nha Tranh on the breakaway colony of Moab III. I have an update now on what we erroneously believed to be a minor technical glitch on the subspace radio link. The world of Moab III is under heavy attack by a currently unidentified alien species, and according to sources with Starfleet, it is possible that the secondary colony of New Saigon has also been attacked. I advise anyone with small children to have them leave the room, as the footage we were able to salvage from the signal is graphic, and disturbing."

The screen shifts to a recording of a Klingon soldier and two humans in military uniforms with weapons. "You've got to get out of here, they're coming, they're right behind us!"

"What is coming? Why should we leave? What—" A man in expensive civilian wear is arguing with the militiamen and their Klingon advisor, when an unearthly howl issues from offscreen.

"Shut up, you need to go, it might be too late already, stop arguing and run!" The human infantryman's accent is lilting and his face is frightened. "Please! You need to go! NOW!"

The Klingon barks an order in a language that isn't Klingon; the text at the side of the screen translates, "Too late, Sergeant, they are inside the building. There is no time!"

The militiamen start roughly shoving staffers back from the doorway as something smashes through. Gunfire and disruptors start cycling as first, the journalists stare in shock, and then, begin to panic and flee.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!"

The things that pour through are like some kind of animalistic nightmare, all stretched, leathery skin, slavering fangs, and claws, moving faster than the humans trying to repel them. In seconds first the Klingon, then two of the militiamen are torn apart—this is the point the cameraman starts to backpedal, and then, to flee, whispering prayers as the screams of the men being dismembered are picked up on audio.

The gunfire continues and a woman screams off-screen, a spray of blood from that angle and gurgling, tearing sounds. The cameraman accidentally gets a full shot of Dorothy Haylesworth, a fairly well-known war correspondent, being eaten by the creatures—and she's still alive.

The camera-view next goes sideways, and briefly there are bloody, rag-wrapped claws in the frame, before it dissolves into static and screaming, interrupted with wet tearing sounds and crunches.

OFFLINE.

The image reverted to the Lagos newsroom, and an anchor who looked very much like he wanted to vomit. But he swallowed and valiantly continued with the broadcast. "Representatives from Imperial News Service and the Klingon embassy have refused to comment until, and I quote here, 'The situation in the Moab System is stabilized.' Starfleet Command has verified that Vice Admiral Jesu LaRoca was in the system when these events occurred, conducting talks on behalf of the Federation, and that the admiral is, at present, alive and recovering. We'll post more as details become available; at present what officials on all sides have been willing to discuss is that what we just showed you is a mere sample of the violence that has overtaken that colony world, and both the Klingon Diplomatic Corps and Starfleet have stated that casualties may run into the millions…" The anchor looked to the left, then back into the camera's eye. "We have confirmation of the source of the attack on Moab III and New Saigon—the Klingons have confirmed that the attackers are a species called the Fek'Ihri, and that a similar, but smaller-scale attack by that species was conducted against Qo'noS three and a half years ago. Initial casualty estimates were just confirmed to be, at present, over forty million men, women and children on both planets. We'll have more as the story develops. Back to you, Ruus, in Geneva."

The image of the anchors switched again, to Ruus V'shala, the lead anchor for FNN's prime-time programming.

"That couldn't be real," an engineering rate who looked like she might be on her very first tour, interrupted the silence in the rec-deck. "It couldn't be—they'd never show something that graphic—this has to be a prank, or Klingon Psyops or something!" Her voice was edge-of-hysterical.

"It's real—it's really happening," said a part-Romulan tactical ensign who had probably come up from the ranks given the traces of age. "That wasn't some prank report, FNN doesn't do prank reports, and the Klingons don't fake losing a battle for propaganda… Elements… forty million people so far?"

"It's what the newsman said." An ebony Bajoran senior chief, Prince's quartermaster, said, "There's only three hundred fifty million folks in that system. Prophets… and they think it's the legendary demons from Klingon mythology?!"

"—Border fleet's probably going crazy at K-7…"

"…got a cousin on the Tiburon…"

The engineering rate shouted at the Tac, "NO, it's a LIE! It has to be!"

"I know you have family on New Saigon, Mai," somebody else snapped, "but that's not propaganda, it's happening and you're going to have to deal with it and do your damn job—maybe they got out? Maybe it missed them? Starfleet's got ships in the system, we'll probably get reports on survivors."

One of the Vulcans, a medic, stepped up behind the now-hysterical girl and administered a nerve-pinch, catching her before she hit the deck-plates. "My apologies, Captain."

"No, good thinking, Petty Officer," Tyria agreed. "Sickbay." The quartermaster lifted the unconscious human under the other arm and the two crewmen hustled her out the door.

"Spirits," S'ulluru murmured. "There are old legends from the Ferasa'an about creatures like that—"

"Yeah, we have stories like that, too," Tyria whispered back. "And I read SI's report on the Qo'noS attack when I was on the Warsaw. I would've bet you a year's pay I was reading bad sci-fi—"

"—but science fiction didn't eat Dorothy Haylesworth," the Caitian finished.

Tyria grunted agreement. "Gaunt's hosts, what in the hell is going on? Ever since Wolf 359 it's just been one thing after another: the Borg, the Dominion, Hobus—" Tyria's combadge chirped and broke her train of thought. "Yes?"

"Sir, this is Dr. Irim over on the McCoy. We've discovered something and I need you to come over here right away."

Biology Lab 3, USS McCoy NCC-58934, 1321 hours

The coppery-skinned Bajoran met her at the door of the lab. "I know from the files that your last host consulted with the Federation Medical Association and Starfleet Medical on the blight back in the seventies, but this is going to get technical, sir: how much do you remember?"

"About the blight? Ugh." Sark tried to bring the memories up, but microbiology wasn't Tyria Rohallin's area of expertise by a long shot. "The basics, mostly. It's a lysogenic virus that stains the skin during the initial infection, then causes a fatal degenerative disorder of the connective tissue when the repressor genes deactivate."

"Method of transmission?" Captain Merdok quizzed her.

"Through the amniotic sac during the third trimester." Tyria realized after a moment that she'd put her hand on her belly.

"All right. This is what we're dealing with." He brought up a diagram of a double-helix ladder, a DNA molecule. "This is the genome map of the original blight samples that Captain Bashir took in '72. Typical custom biogenic weapon: very clean genetic structure, few extraneous base pairs or noncoding strands. Now pay attention to these three genes I've highlighted in yellow." He tapped a key and a second DNA strand appeared below the first. "This is from a sample Corpsman Second Class Forbes and I took from a boy in the Glastron Territory this morning."

Tyria stared at it for a minute, then started to notice differences, a few base pairs out of sequence. "It mutated. Or it was reintroduced."

"Enhhhh."

"Doctor?" she prompted him.

"I don't know," the Bajoran said. "The changes are small, and there's pieces of the original genes left but inactive. It's likely this was just natural mutation creating a new strain of the virus, adapted to the vaccine. Probably."

"You're not sure?"

"We cannot be sure, Captain Sark," Captain Merdok said, "but it's our best theory. We've got similar samples from a few nearby villages connected by gravel tracks and mountain trails. So far this appears to be confined to an isolated cluster of settlements where the Teplans had trouble delivering the original vaccine. The Teplan Militia also hasn't reported Jem'Hadar ships coming close enough to the planet to deliver a fresh payload."

"All right, countermeasures."

Irim flipped to a different screen, this one showing a cross-section of a pregnant female. "Well, the vaccine works by impeding transmission of the virus to the fetus. Prophets willing, we can modify the original vaccine and have the Teplans administer both."

"How long do you need?"

Irim scoffed. "Sir, I'm a general practitioner, not a pharmacologist. I understand the concepts but I can't fix this myself."

"I can," a Coridanite lieutenant standing at another station piped up. "Those changes aren't big. Probably two weeks to adapt the vaccine. Our onboard industrial replicators can do the rest."

Tyria turned to Captain Merdok. "Captain?"

The Benzite nodded appreciatively and addressed the Coridanite. "Lieutenant Faz, send Commander Sirek a list of whomever and whatever you need. You just earned yourself a priority assignment."

The young woman swelled about a size. "Thank you, sir!"

"Don't thank him yet, Lieutenant," Irim commented. "The reward for doing a good job is more work."

"Uh, yes, sir!"

"Dismissed," Merdok told her, and she executed a proper military turn and marched out the door. Merdok left the lab a moment later.

Tyria frowned and turned back to the image. "You said you took this sample from a boy?"

"About five standard years old, sir," Irim said quietly.

"Damn it," she muttered. "How could… How could they…"

"How old is yours, sir?"

"Seven. You have any children, Doctor?" Irim shook his head. "Think about it before you do. Sameen was… selfish: I conveniently neglected my contraception on our honeymoon. Don't get me wrong, I'd burn the stars for her, but I see something like this and—" She bit off the sentence, gritting her teeth.

"Sir, the Prophets put you on the path they did for a reason. I won't dare to presume I know what it was, but I do believe there was a plan."

"I'd like to believe that. I really would."

"Then believe it!" he said with conviction.

Tyria turned and opened her mouth to answer, but her combadge beat her to it. "Gaunt's hosts, that's twice in ten minutes. Sark here."

S'ulluru wasted no time. "Captain, get back here and bring the doctor with you! We have a squadron of Jem'Hadar ships on approach!"

Bridge, USS Black Prince, 1329 hours

"Talk to me, S'ulluru!" Tyria snapped as she arrived on the bridge.

"Twenty-three attack ships, one strike ship, bearing one-niner-zero by five-five at high impulse," the Caitian quickly rattled off. "Their weapons are hot. Erbil's wing is on an intercept course."

"No capitals?" S'ulluru shook her head as Tyria vaulted the quarterdeck railing without slowing down and took her seat, hitting the comm switch for the squadron's tactical frequency. Might mean they aren't serious; we could still salvage this. "All units," she said into the mic, "scramble tac channel. Yar, Crazy Horse, stay with McCoy and get her out if they get past our fire. Dakotas, you're second hurdle: come in behind us and backstop. Ronson!"

"Sir!"

"Hard about and straight at 'em. Shelon, open a hailing channel."

"Channel open."

"This is Commodore Tyria Sark of the Federation Starfleet to Vorta field supervisor. This system is under Federation protection, and while I wish to avoid a military confrontation, we will respond to any overtly hostile act against either ourselves or the Teplans with all due force. Please respond. Break. Leave the channel open, Shelon."

"Black Prince, Cape Town, lead flight of bugs coming right at us—Commodore, they're going for torpedo lock! Do I have permission to fire?"

"Negative, Cape Town; hold your fire. Do not fire until fired upon." We shoot first, it's an act of war. They shoot first, it's self-defense.

"No, take evasive action! Damn it, Sark, we're engaged with five, repeat, five! We're in deep shit!"

"Keep your cool, Commander!" she snapped. "I repeat, do not fire unless fired upon! Edward!" she said to the air. A twenty-five centimeter hologram of a knight in black plate armor with his helmet under his arm flickered into existence atop a console. "Activate multi-vector assault mode."

"Aye, milady." The knight put on its helmet and winked out.

Tyria shook her head. Edward was definitely one of the more eccentric AUs she'd met. The personality even had an SCA membership for Gaunt's sake.

"All hands, stand by," the entity's tenor voice rang through the intercom as alert klaxons went off. "M-V-A-M in five, four, three, two, one!"

Tyria felt the rumble through the floor of the docking clamps retracting, then the upper lobe of the escort's bow lifted smoothly off the fuselage. The axial warp nacelles extended from the wedge-shaped Alpha section's dorsal and ventral surfaces as the lower half of the main hull separated.

She nodded, satisfied. All she had to do now was trust Edward to keep his two sections coordinated with hers. "Ronson, get us in firing range of the strike ship and get a solid lock."

"I thought we weren't attacking." Ronson sounded confused.

"We're not. Trust me," she said, forcing a smile. "Full impulse. Prep attack pattern Sitak Two."

Ronson assented and hit a command sequence. There was a squeal from his console; Tyria caught sight of a red light. "Engineering, Conn, I've got an alarm on the dorsal nacelle!" Ronson yelled into the intercom.

He was answered by the chief engineer yelling, "¡Que puta tu madre! Fucking Yoyodyne pendejo, imunna rip your spleen out through your—"

Tyria snapped, "Velasquez! Answer the comm!"

"Sorry, Cap, we've got a—no, that one goes there, that one goes there!—overload in one of the coils, blew out half a dozen—"

"Short version!"

"We have no warp core! We're minus half power and we can't run!"

"Wonderful!" S'ulluru snarled.

"I can fix it, but you won't have enough power for the main cannons unless you draw from—"

"If this works we won't need the main cannons," Tyria interrupted.

"And what if it doesn't work?" Ronson blurted out.

"Then things are about to get really interesting!"

Prince's three sections arrowed in at the two Jems trailing the New Samarkand as the Cape Town whipped past a hundred fifty klicks below their bow, trailed by five—No, six—attack ships. "Flag to New Sam, on my mark, come off high to port," she ordered. "Three, two, one, break left!"

The squat São Paulo-class veered relative up and to port as Alpha swung right, bringing Black Prince's spade-shaped prow into line with the pursuing strike ship. "Cannons locked!" Ronson crowed. "Launcher locked and loaded!"

"Targeting sensors to maximum power! Paint the hull but do not fire! Edward, cover them!" The other two sections raced forward and moved into formation with New Samarkand as the advanced escort bounced harmless but very loud energy off the beetle-like frigate's hull.

Tyria might not speak Dominionese, but she was fluent in the unspoken language used by spacers. Painting the hull meant, "I have you dead to rights."

"Sam, Edward, full impulse two seconds, then Immelmann!" Tyria barked. The strike ship and attack ship broke to starboard and went evasive; the three other ships flipped end-for-end and came back at him. "Ronson, stay with him and keep those cannons locked! Shelon, hail them again!" The Rigelian waved her on as the stars on the monitor whirled. "This is Commodore Sark to Vorta field supervisor. I won't be the one to initiate hostilities, but you and I both know eventually your First is going to lose patience, so cut the crap and answer the comm before your next host has to explain this to the Founders!"

The channel remained silent for a moment, then an incongruously friendly female voice came through. "Commodore Sark, this is Kilana. If you would be so kind as to pull your ships back, we will stand down."

S'ulluru sent a text to the screen on Tyria's chair. "Negative, Kilana," she read aloud; "you pull back. You are in violation of the territorial space of a Federation ally. Treaty of Bajor, Article II, Clause Six—"

"—was intended to refer to existing colonies of the Khitomer Accords powers, not newly created protectorates," the Vorta interrupted, voice still friendly but now tinged with irritation.

On the screen the strike ship jinked right; Ronson swung to starboard and followed, keeping the torpedo tube in line. Tyria muted the channel for a moment. "Ronson, back off a bit, give her room." She turned the comm back on. "And it didn't explicitly specify either way, Kilana. Per paragraph seven you may leave an equal number of ships in-system as a diplomatic escort—"

"Which you would outgun by a factor of three."

"Should have brought a cruiser, then," the Zakdorn gunner's mate at the tactical station to her left muttered, sotto voce.

Tyria shot an irritated glance over her shoulder. "Even if I was the type to violate regulations on the treatment of foreign diplomats, that would be an act of war. And I'm not suggesting you meet with the Teplans, just me. If you'd agree to a face-to-face meeting, I think we can avoid any further unpleasantness."

There was a pause, then: "Your place or mine?"

"… Is she flirting with you, Captain?" S'ulluru whispered.

"I have no idea, but I'll play along. Kilana, I believe my ship has a bigger wardroom and better replicators."

There was a burst of tinkling laughter on the other end of the channel. "First Takat'alan, you will stand down. Commodore Sark, I will beam to your ship in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you. Sark out." Tyria stood as several of the Jem'Hadar ships blurred into the distance, and turned to the tactical station. "Gunner's Mate, my ready room, please."

"She's late, sir," the Andorian goldshirt at the technical monitor station remarked, glancing at the clock.

"I noticed," Ronson muttered. "Jessie, you got a likely point of origin?"

The senior cadet sitting at the science station answered, "Their entry vector tracks with a known Dominion base at a protostar thirty light-years rimward, catalogue number NGC-25286."

"Funny," Petty Officer sh'Quo said. Ronson gave her a quizzical glance and gestured at her to go on. "Well, sir, according to this intel, they've got three full battle groups at that base. Six BB, one DN."

Jessie Kahangi nervously prompted, "You mean—"

The shen was blunt: "They could've wiped us out."

"Oh, God."

"But they didn't," she continued, looking back to the report.

"There she is," Ronson said, pointing to the screen. The others on the bridge crowded around the console.

The image showed a woman in a cranberry-colored long dress, flanked by two scaly Jem'Hadar who raised rifles at the armed Security crewmen standing behind the Professor. Jessie tensed beside him, but the Vorta waved a hand and the Jems lowered their weapons; the redshirts did likewise.

"Welcome aboard, Kilana. I'm Commodore Sark."

"Well, on behalf of the Dominion, allow me to extend my apologies for the earlier… unpleasantness."

"That's an understatement," Ronson muttered.

"I can respect a woman doing her job. This way, please."

"She's cute," Jessie remarked as the party left the frame of the camera. Ronson glanced at her in surprise. "What?"

"Nothing." He shook his head.

"You think the Professor can pull this off?" Jessie asked.

"What, get the Dominion to back down?" Sh'Quo let out a breath. "I hope so."

"Damn. Damn, damn damn damn."

Ronson turned his chair around. "Hey. Like she said, they could've sent a lot more ships—"

"You saw that broadcast earlier?"

Ronson froze. "Moab?"

"I had a Moby in my battalion in freshman year."

"Close, sir?" sh'Quo asked, concerned.

"Study partners a few times but we weren't really friends. Anyway, Mizrahi defected when they broke away and now…"

"Oh. Frak."

"And we're off on the other side of the damn galaxy playing tag with the Dominion when that's going on?!"

"Can I offer you something to drink?" Tyria asked.

"I'll… have what you're having," Kilana decided.

The Trill poured two snifters of cerulean brew and handed one to the Vorta. Tyria took a sip. It was strong stuff, sweet and sour.

Kilana drained her glass in a single gulp and promptly choked, grabbing at her throat. "Are you… trying to poison me?" she gasped out between hacking coughs.

The captain hid a smile behind her glass. Even with the Vorta resistance to toxins, Romulan ale was Romulan ale. "This is a very good brew. You're supposed to sip it a little slower."

"I'll stick to water," Kilana managed, hoarsely.

"As you like. Now."

"Yes, ahem, the Teplans." Kilana coughed again; her eyes were watering. "I'll, um, be straightforward." She leaned against the table and flopped into the chair. "Once again, the Federation is, hem, interfering in matters that are not its, hack, concern."

Tyria took pity on the Vorta. "Water?"

"Please. Um. The Teplans are rightfully citizens of the Dominion; you are beyond your jurisdiction and, I think, violating your Prime Directive."

Tyria passed Kilana a glass of ice water. "According to most customs I'm aware of, I think it's fair to say any de facto jurisdictional claim ended in"—she paused to remember the date—"2192 Earth Standard when you pulled out."

"Yes, after they rejected the beneficence of the Founders and tried to warp a commandeered attack ship into the Karemma homeworld."

"Well, I don't condone that." Then she leveled an icy glare at Kilana. "Any more than I condone the deaths of 47 million Benzites, 70 million Betazoids, and, oh yes, eight hundred million Cardassians."

"We were at war." Kilana's easy smile had long since faded.

"What happened in the occupied territories went well beyond war and you know it," Tyria snapped. "I can't speak for the Teplans, but if what I saw at Weller's Star after the Jem'Hadar came through is your idea of 'beneficence', I'd've taken my chances. And the fact that you completely abandoned the planet after bombing them back to the Gunpowder Age and releasing the blight suggests you didn't have much use for them to begin with. I mean, look at the place." She got up and waved a hand at the mud-colored world hanging in the blackness outside the viewport. "Minimal dilithium and duranium deposits, barely enough to support civilian space travel. No other significant renewables or nonrenewables; their only real export commodity at the moment is arts and crafts. You leaving tells me the Teplans were never much use except as a jewel in the Founders' crown or as an example to potential rebels."

"So why does the Federation care about them?" Kilana countered.

"Because they asked."

Now the Vorta did start laughing. "I like you, Sark. You're good. Ahhh…" She leaned back in her chair. "Starfleet really enjoys its creature comforts, doesn't it. Do you know why you want this system?" She slid a small silvered disc across the table. Tyria tensed momentarily before remembering the weapon scanners, then her suspicions vanished with the appearance of a holographic starmap. "It's strategic. T-Rogaran, Malastare, and 415 Belial, major systems within forty light-years."

Tyria raised a skeptical eyebrow at the Vorta. "Really? That's what you're going with? If Starfleet needed a secure beachhead in the Gamma Quadrant we'd just fortify the Idran terminus, like we did on the far side during the War. Certainly not a system this far out."

"You've already fortified one planet even further out."

"What, New Bajor? Not my responsibility."

"Interesting: you claim the planet and it's people as your territory but deny any involvement in their actions."

"You understand, we're a federation, not a unitary state," the Trill pointed out. "The Articles of the Federation state the Bajorans are entitled to maintain military forces of their own, and they disbanded their space warfare arm ten years ago in any case." She waved one hand dismissively and took a sip of ale with the other. "But if you have a specific accusation about a breach of treaty by the Republic of Bajor or the Militia, make it through channels and we'll take it up."

"Well, you're a perfectly good channel for this message, Commodore. Not an accusation, a warning: the Dominion will not tolerate Federation interference in our affairs."

"And the Federation will not abrogate a freely entered agreement with an allied state simply because you want us to."

"We will not allow you to build a base here."

"Fine."

Kilana froze just long enough that Tyria caught it. "You agree?"

"As I said, we don't need one; our ships have enough range it would be superfluous. It'd just be needless provocation."

"Well, of course it would. And we want diplomatic access."

"With a small Jem'Hadar garrison, naturally," Tyria nodded. "In return, I want it in writing that the Dominion accepts de jure Teplan independence."

Kilana laughed. "Ask no small favors, eh?"

"Look, they're already a de facto independent world, you'd just be making it official."

"It will be difficult."

"All right, how about this?" She clicked through a few screens on her PADD. "I can get Dominion trade ships a small credit on wormhole fees."

The Vorta's expression didn't change, but Tyria caught a twitch. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Possibly," Tyria answered, suppressing a grin. "Is it working?"

"Possibly."

Government House, Keralaton, Yarmta, 2341 hours

"You betrayed us!"

"Due respect, Your Excellency, I saved your lives."

The Teplan's reaction to the deal wasn't unexpected. "You promised you'd keep the Dominion out, and you're letting them in! And you say I have no say in the matter?"

"Sir!" Tyria shouted before he could continue. "Just because the Dominion has a presence doesn't mean you have to actually listen to them!"

Julyeen seemed to almost short-circuit at this. "What?"

"They're going to have a consulate, a few Vorta and enough Jems to provide security. I have it in writing from Kilana that—"

"Kilana?! That one ordered the blight!"

"Sir, may I please finish?"

"I thought your Federation prized self-determination! You should have consulted me before you unilaterally decided the fate of my entire species!"

Tyria was impassive. The Lord Protector was an autocrat. An elected one, but an autocrat nonetheless, and as a rule autocrats were jealous of their power. "Sir, I didn't consult you because I knew you'd react like this. This is the best deal you could get."

"No military technology, no permanent defenses, no reparations, and a Dominion military presence on my world, a world they tried to destroy!"

"Legal independence, continued Starfleet naval presence, Dominion presence small enough you can counter it, and it's only the Federation who can't sell you weapons!" Tyria countered. "A good compromise is when both parties are dissatisfied."

"But if you can't fortify Yarmta—"

"The Dominion at least tries to look like they keep their agreements, and they know if they break treaty they give us casus belli. We beat them once before, and without needing to use the weapons I worked on."

"What weapons?"

Tyria guessed that this qualified as need-to-know and hoped Command would agree. "You think the Dominion are the only ones who can make biogenic weapons? During the Dominion War—or I guess it's the Quadrant War here—I worked on a team developing a virus to target the Jem'Hadar genome. Alpha Red, we called it."

"It works?"

"It was never tested. President Zife had ethical objections and the war ended before it was anywhere near ready. But as far as I'm aware, the project was never actually cancelled."

The Lord Protector paused thoughtfully, then he gave her a quizzical look. "Wait, back up. You were alive during the Quadrant War? You don't look old enough for that, Commodore."

Tyria grinned. "I stopped counting after I hit three hundred."

"You really don't look old enough for that."

"Try talking to Q sometime."

THE END