— Chapter 37 —

"Enter," said T'Pol, and a moment later Ke'Zrell entered T'Pol's office on Tek'Xzen, the Vulcan combat cruiser drafted into service of the Uhlans years earlier.

"Hail, Commander," said Ke'Zrell politely, for while Klingons did not generally hold Vulcans in particularly high esteem, Ke'Zrell had learned enough of T'Pol's story to respect this particular Vulcan in consideration of the odds she'd overcome - this one was a warrior, unlike the vast majority of her insipid species.

T'Pol nodded towards the Klingon, indicating that he should take a seat with that dip of her head, and then the Vulcan got directly down to business.

"Since you are the one primarily responsible for Minister Tucker's safety, I have some matters to discuss with you, Ke'Zrell," said T'Pol.

The Klingon grunted and waited for the Vulcan to make her point, though in truth the woman was being gracious in saying that he was the one primarily responsible for Tucker's safety… he'd seen her quietly watching her mate, and watching out for him, as subtly and yet as intently as a she-vrok in heat, and Ke'Zrell had long recognized a trained operator in the woman's constant readiness, just as he'd long recognized a trained unarmed combatant in her graceful movements, her fine motor control, and her discipline.

"I am certain that your input will aid me in the performance of my duties, Commander," said Ke'Zrell courteously, "if you'd care to discuss your concerns with me."

And speak she did for the next few minutes, for the Vulcan quickly painted a sparse description of the prophetic visions she'd had of her mate's assassination, and dressed those visions in some Vulcan psycho-babble of psychic premonitions and such, but Ke'Zrell took it all in stride… if T'Pol believed all this to be real, well it did no harm to hear the woman out, and consider her words carefully.

"Hmmmm," said Ke'Zrell, once T'Pol had given voice to her concerns. "So your mind-priest was able to draw no more of this threat from your visions, than a distant shooter while Minister Tucker gives a public speech?"

"No more than that, though I have calculated the passage of time, angles and elevation carefully," said T'Pol, sliding a PADD unit with some mathematical data towards the Klingon. "If my visions are true, the shots will come from this vector, 1.34 degrees more or less to either side, and a minor variance in elevation. I will of course be receptive for more clues, and perhaps..."

"Certainly, but if you truly believe your visions, Commander, caution demands we cancel all of Minister Tucker's public appearances," said Ke'Zrell.

T'Pol sighed and nodded her agreement, then said, "Rest assured that I will push for that from my end, Ke'Zrell, but Minister Tucker is notoriously stubborn. Worse yet, his duties may demand a public appearance from the man."

Ke'Zrell thought for a bit, then said, "And there was nothing distinctive in your visions, nothing you recall? The uniform he wore, the look of the venue, nothing at all?"

"I am afraid not," said T'Pol placidly, though privately just as frustrated as the Klingon seemed to be on the surface. "All were cloaked by darkness, save for Minister Tucker on his well lit podium, and the flash of a weapon, shooting from the darkness."

The Klingon nodded, and said, "Political figures generally employ counter measures to prevent assassination. Podium mounted force shields to protect the speaker, defensive fibers woven into clothing, infrared strobe lights to disrupt range finders and such, etc… We can discuss these measures and many more, in depth, and come to a—"

"Ke'Zrell," came Minister Tucker's voice over the intercom, Tek'Xzen's computer having automatically routed Trip's voice to Ke'Zrell's location. "To the Bridge."

Ke'Zrell growled in frustration.

"No matter, Ke'Zrell," said T'Pol, studying the Klingon for a moment. "I'll seek you out this evening. We will discuss our options at that time."

"As you say, Commander," said Ke'Zrell, gaining his feet. "Until later."

And with that the Klingon left T'Pol alone with her thoughts, and those thoughts turned to her mate, and now T'Pol's lips lifted into a very slight smile as the Vulcan recalled their first days together… she'd been more than half crazed in those days, her mask of control painfully brittle and only the darkest of despair as her constant companion - and then she'd met Trip. He'd seemed so threatening to her then in the way that the man allowed his emotions free rein in his psyche, but much more compelling than the fear for T'Pol had been the sense of strength and stability which she'd clearly perceived in the Human, a controlled masculinity which had soothed the Vulcan's tattered psyche in so many ways, and caressed her so deeply…

…and now this, for if her visions were true, someone meant to rob her of her mate. That couldn't be allowed to happen, and if such a thing happened despite her best efforts, and if she lived past such a dark day, T'Pol had every intention of cruelly avenging her mate before she ended her misery by her own hand, for in truth the Vulcan had never entirely come back to logic as the guiding force of life - she'd grown much stronger since then, true, but she'd done so twined about her mate, like ivy growing lushly twined round a stone pillar, and T'Pol had no intention of clinging to life without her mate... well, no longer than needed to avenge him.

First-Claw Telserrej, the Gorn commander in charge of this strike force reviewed the final preparations for attack against the disgusting melange of alien filth which formed the Federation, and which seemed as similar to the Gorn as if they were one and the same, despite their separate genesis and evolution on their respective but worthless planets scattered thorough a half dozen sectors of space.

Telserrej was in a foul mood indeed, but that was to be expected, for a species as fierce and predatory as the Gorn would not be pleased at the humiliation of fighting a defensive war to defend the Hegemony, and yet this was what they'd been reduced to by the cowardly attacks on the Hegemony's core territory by those cursed Human Bands that first time not all that long past, and now much more recently by those green blooded newcomers which data intercepts had named the Romulans.

No matter, for Telserrej and his strike force meant to atone for the former Conclave's missteps in handling this war, and they meant to do so in spectacular fashion in a matter of hours, all due to the development of the Vilssak side-step technology just recently developed, in which a daisy-chained string of 43 massive cold fusion reactors housed on the small planetary satellite named DT-004 opened what essentially amounted to a giant gate onto the tau and maun layers of sub-space, allowing the Hegemony's troops to travel undetected through said sub-space for a few lightyears, which was more than enough distance to aid the Gorn in better patrolling their core territory… and if one day the Hegemony's scientists could figure out a way to extend that range by a factor of a thousand or more, the Hegemony could once more take war to the enemy on their terms, and honor the dictates of the Black Sun… but that was a matter for another day, and on this day Telserrej's combat group planned to side-step travel with a distinct goal in mind, to surprise the enemy force which had raided Hegemony space for months now, wiping them out in the process.

Automated probes had been launched all over Hegemony space in recent months, you see, and the data collected by these probes had been fed into the Central Computer which filtered and then sorted the billions of bits of collected data, after which the Central Computer analyzed the data threads deemed most relevant and finally reached conclusions and laid plans, when a subtle pattern had been noted in the movements of the elusive force, composed of Romulan cruisers and the Human Band, The Breed, which seemed to pass through sector FT989a every 7 to 16 days… and the computer had studied the patterns, and seeded the surrounding sectors with sensor nets in order to accumulate more data, and thus the Central Computer had predicted that the Federation raiding force would once again pass through FT989a, a few tenths from now… and Telserrej's strike force would be waiting for that alien filth!

"Tactical, report," said Mosby, commander of The Breed from the Bridge of Cannae, his flagship, as the Breed altered course to pass through what Humans called the Frost Nebula.

"All readings are nominal, Captain," said Cannae's Tactical officer.

Mosby murmured and pulled Tactical's data feed, viewing it on the small video screen built into the arm of his command chair… the feed showed The Breed's convoy of hundreds of ships flying in a loose formation, as well as the Romulan flagship flying on Cannae's port side - the rest of the Romulans were cloaked, and thus invisible to sensor nets, for the Romulans traveled cloaked in Hegemony space. A sensible precaution. The Breed would have such capabilities soon as well, for all species of the Federation had freely shared their technical data, but for now The Breed would have to be satisfied with strategic invisibility from Gorn sensors, if not visual invisibility, and all that due to the the innovations brought forth by Trip soon after the Bands had formed in the Vulcan system. They'd worked well enough, until now that is, for all of a sudden, an obscene portal opened in space, disgorging hundreds of Gorn ships flying parallel to The Breed.

"Evasive action!" said Mosby. "Get us out of here."

Tactical passed the captain's command to the rest of The Breed without delay for The Breed was a fleet composed of very fast but lightly armed ships, scouts and raiders rather than true ships of the line, and facing the Gorn was best done on The Breed's own terms… still, despite The Breed's quick response, what followed was a blood bath, for the Gorn had achieved tactical surprise and their fire cut through The Breed even as the Gorn were themselves surprised in turn when cloaked Romulans, to their credit, struck back in defense of The Breed, with a ferocity and a focus which took even the Gorn aback.

Soval entered the recently purchased house he shared with Bronte, breathing free at last after a long day as he looked about. It had been an impulsive purchase for the Vulcan, a brownstone row house built in 1876 and renovated many times since, and though it was a relatively humble property for one of his rank, and situated on an oddly shaped lot at that, it had an unusually large backyard and Soval had turned half of it over to Bronte, for the woman had a love for gardening, and took to the task of converting her allotted space to a vegetable garden with the zeal of a mole… and even as he glanced out onto the back yard, Soval saw Bronte happily digging through the dirt, and the Vulcan gave a slight snort of controlled amusement.

He'd go out there soon enough, but first the Vulcan filled an over-sized moka pot with water, intending to greet his mate with a cup of fresh coffee for the woman was addicted to the brew, yet charmingly insisted that his coffee tasted better than her's, and dramatically claimed that she could drink no other - Soval, of course, saw it for the manipulative tactic it was, but such things were a small price to pay for the pleasure he took in his mate.

And as the coffee brewed, Soval considered the state of things he'd dealt with today, for just as he'd come together with Bronte, Vulcans and Humans seemingly charted a shared destiny together. The High Command had given up attempts to find another homeworld for the Vulcans, and the Humans as a whole, had made it clear that Vulcans had no reason to fear expulsion. Oh, certainly, Terra Prime, a separatist organization got a fair amount of publicity lately, but their numbers were dwindling, and support for the Vulcans strong, and unless Terra Prime could somehow turn things round in some dramatic fashion, Soval wrote that organization off as a relatively minor concern.

Much more interesting than Terra Prime, were the six cities which were organically growing in the deserts of the American Southwest, for the Vulcans had a great deal of experience in living within the ecological niche of a hot and arid desert climate, and they flocked to that region with EarthGov's blessing, intending to rebuild at least a small part of Vulcan on Earth, and these Vulcans were soon joined in the effort by a good number of Humans who were content to watch and learn and contribute to these Vulcan efforts while allowing Vulcan mores and sensibilities to guide the pace, process and design of these cities. It was something completely new and unexpected for both species, this extended joint venture, and the ambassador intended to visit Ve'relle, the largest of these fledgling cities, in the coming weeks, and he would take Bronte along as well, if he could manage to coax the woman out of her vegetable patch.

Just then, a tap on the glass drew Soval's attention, and he saw a dirt covered Bronte looking in on him with a crooked smile, and Soval gave the woman a pleasant nod and moved towards the door to greet her properly, but Bronte pointed towards the moka pot with a quick thrust of her finger… well, she'd get her coffee eventually, but Soval took his time, teasing the woman a bit, even taking a few sips of his coffee to taunt her, until Bronte finally held up the gardening hoe she leaned on, and mimed clubbing Soval to death, at which point the Vulcan thought it logical to end the dangerous game of teasing his emotional mate.

The remnants of The Breed formed up at fallback position T5 to await the Romulans, for The Breed had long ago outrun the pursuing Gorn, while the Romulans had tangled with the rest of the Hegemony fleet to buy The Breed time and space to make their escape. Escape it did, but not before losing 82 ships to the Gorn, and that was a grievous loss, amounting to 27% of The Breed, thousands of crewmen… worst yet, Cannae had tangled with two Gorn ships in an attempt to relieve pressure on two wounded Breed ships, and though those ships made good their escape due to Cannae's interference, Cannae had paid the price for aid, and Mosby, leader of The Breed had fallen along with his crew and his ship. Such grievous setbacks had happened before in standing against the Gorn, of course they had for the Gorn were no joke, but Mosby's loss shook his men, for Mosby had been one of five of the Old Guard which had established the Bands, along with Tucker and Babula, Hanshiro and Charbonneau.

Just then hundreds of Romulan ships decloaked about The Breed, many of them still bearing the same signs of battle which the survivors of The Breed themselves carried… plasma burned hulls, disruptor fire marks peppering the hulls, and piercing the hulls. That battle must have been a nasty one too, for the Romulans had held the Gorn back for the better part of an hour to buy The Breed time to run, and the Humans knew they owed the Romulans their lives.

"We're being hailed, Captain," said the Comm officer of the Red Hawk.

Given the losses suffered against the Gorn, Simmons was the highest ranking officer in the chain of command now, and he commanded The Breed until that Band could select a new commander.

Simmons spoke and Comm passed the comm stream to Red Hawk's main video monitor, to show a view of a Romulan officer, seemingly impassive despite the bandage which covered his eye, or what was left of his eye.

"R'Hael," said Simmons respectfully, recognizing the Romulan as the commander of this Romulan fleet. "We owe you our lives."

"It was our duty," said R'Hael, waving off the Human's thanks, despite the losses his fleet had undoubtedly suffered.

Simmons followed R'Hael's lead and said, "What now?"

"The game has changed," said R'Hael, "given the innovation we've seen from the Gorn just now. I will call for reinforcements as soon as possible, and will strongly suggest we finish this battle against the Gorn despite the heavy losses we'll all undoubtedly suffer in making the attempt. I suggest you do the same on your end."

Simmons, saw the logic of it: if the Gorn had discovered a new means of locomotion, one which was undetectable, the entire Federation was in danger, facing threats and operations along interior lines which would be hard to counter.

"I agree with you, R'Hael," said Simmons. "But for now we need time to make repairs, time to analyze this situation, so I suggest we fall back to Sector 14, just barely inside Hegemony space."

"I agree," said R'Hael.

"What do you think happened back there?" said Simmons, already looking past the current difficulties and looking to the future. "The Gorn were waiting for us, R'Hael."

"I think we allowed ourselves to become too predictable," said R'Hael. "Either that, or the Gorn have improved the quality of their sensor nets somehow. We will make our repairs, and then we will scramble our operational patterns for now, take some Gorn captives, and squeeze them for answers."

"Aye," said Simmons, knowing that the Romulans could get answers from a stone, so skilled were their 'Inquisitors' - Inquisitors... such a polite term for torturers, not that Simmons had a problem with that fact, as a cold hatred for the Gorn among the Bands nearly equaled that which the divinely inspired Gorn held for the rest of the galaxy.