Perilous Encounter

by, Pam Parisi

Copy right 1998



Outpost 475 -- 1900 hours



O'Brien was tired. Not the sort of tired that comes of wholesome physical activity, and certainly not the type that came from engaging in recreation. No, this was the type of lethargy that one could only come by via the command meeting. He could feel it between his shoulder blades, like the stitching in his musculature had shrunk. He could feel it at the base of his skull, as if someone had short sheeted his medulla oblongata. And he could feel it just behind his eyes. It thumped there... Bang, bang, bang.



He would rather have faced the whole damn borg fleet than to have sat through the battery of meetings which had been scheduled for him. After all, he had been lured here under false pretenses. A short briefing, Rear Admiral Hastings had said, and then a well deserved R and R.



"Bollux," he growled to himself, stretching again as he powered himself down the corridor on his stiff legs. He narrowed his eyes at a passing ensign, scowling for no reason except to see the youngster run off in terror. That, at least, made him smile. Then he entered the turbo car. "Deck 17, Section ."



Theta, O'Brien grinned, he wondered who had had the brilliance of foresight to utilize the Greek letter signifying danger to designate the recreation section of the station. It seemed to him to be asking for trouble. A sly smile crossed his lips as he realized that a little trouble might be welcome after the days formalities. He thought of the several bars and the many holo-suites on -17. In fact there were also a number of restaurants of note. Having achieved rank he no longer had the camaraderie of a brawl as he had in days past when he had been a junior officer, but the admiral's rank actually was a benefit when meeting ladies... and some not-so-lady-like persons.



His mind wandered to a certain lass named Sadhbh. Her kerry blue eyes, her corkscrew curls of fiery chestnut... He headed for the Golden Hen. With any luck she would be working tonight.



As usual the Hen was crowded. As usual his Admiral's pips earned him a quick trip to a table and one away from the kitchen door. The smell of the food was almost narcotic, and it sent his stomach reeling. Certainly a day of sandwiches and coffee made even less palatable by the end to end dronings of theoreticians had not done anything much toward satisfying his boyish hunger. And then he saw her. Sadhbh, her locks pinned loosely up upon her head, her bow lips smiling as she walked with a tray hoisted above the heads of the patrons...



"Saidhbhin!" He called to her, using a diminutive that only he shared with her.



"Tim!" Turning to walk up to him she balanced her tray on the edge of the table. "What a pleasure to see you again! It has been a long time." Sadhbh had never lost the lilt of her accent of County Cork. Nor had she lost the girlish light in her eyes. But O'Brien noticed a most alarming thickening about her mid-section.



"Sadhbh..." He said a second time, in a less enthusiastic manner.



"Ahh, you've noticed." She turned a profile to let him see the full arc of her belly. "I'm due in three month's now." Her voice and her smile both were clear clues that she was well pleased. "Micheal and I were married a year and a half ago." Her hand thrust out and showed him a beautiful ring. "I'm hopin' it's a boy. Have you found someone yet, Timmy-luv?"



Several long seconds past while O'Brien decided whether to lean forward and bang his head upon the table or not. He decided that his decorum would not allow this activity, so instead he said: "Congratulations, Sadhbh. And give them to Micheal too, he is a good man."



"That he is." She grinned merrily and followed by asking: "So, what shall I bring you?"



A new heart? Your younger sister? A phaser? O'Brien smiled back at her, "Bring me a special, and a drought of lager."



"Right up."



From behind, he noticed, she didn't look pregnant at all. Micheal was indeed a lucky man.



Suddenly the Golden Hen seemed too crowded and too noisy, and full of men who had women sitting at their tables. Men who were not married to their jobs. Men who had not had to listen to a Vulcan interpretation of tactic for six hours today, and be polite about it. Still, he brought up a smile, there were plenty of fish in the sea. And the food was good.



*****



As the corridor lights dropped to half, signaling the beginning of third shift, O'Brien walked toward his room fingering several strips of gold pressed latinum. He had at least proven the old adage: Unlucky in love, lucky in cards. And even tho' the federation didn't use monetary units, well he traveled to diverse locations where latinum spoke as loud as his photon torpedoes (and left the recipient in a much better mood.)



Now his step was much lighter. The dullness had washed away from him in playing against four caoglians in a rousing game of fizzbin. Yes, he had done his duty by leaving them older and wiser, and lighter on latinum. Come to think of it he had proven two old adages...



It was then that a hand popped out through (yes through) the grating of the ventilation duct above him. He felt long fingers grip his shoulder securely and, before he could react, a bright flash of phaser fire ripped through him. Literally.



He felt, for the barest moment, a slight tingle like to when someone walks on your grave. Then he heard the klaxons sounding weapon's fire in V.I.P. quarters. In the shadows of the adjacent corridor he heard the sound of feet in hasty retreat. All this in less than a second.



Behind him feet hit the floor. He turned and saw a woman standing there. A tall woman, although shy of two meters tall. She had red hair, pulled back, and grey eyes, alert. It seemed, to him, that she was wearing some sort of uniform, but he was not quite certain. What he was certain of was that she had fallen out of the ceiling, and there was no hole.



"Let's not stand in the hall." She suggested. Then she smiled at him.



"Who..." he began to ask, but she totally disappeared. No shimmer of a transporter, just a faint wuff of air rushing in to the space where she had been.



"Admiral!" A security team ran round the corner and was looking left and right, weapons ready. The lieutenant in charge came to attention only briefly and then asked: "Sir are you alright?"



He eyed her for a moment, wondering what to say. "Yes. Yes, Lieutenant I am. Your intruder ran off that way..." As he motioned to the dark corridor the lights running down it came back up. Another security team was running toward them from that direction.



"How did you avoid the phaser blast, sir?" The Lieutenant asked, looking at the discoloring of the bulkhead near where the Admiral stood.



O'Brien turned and regarded the rainbow striations on the tritanium of the bulkhead. It had to have been a serious weapon to have caused that level of damage to infrastructure.



"Corridor Zed, secured." The security chief in charge of the second party said to the lieutenant as he ran up.



O'Brien scratched his head. "You didn't run into anyone?"



"No, Sir!" The chief said pertly.



"And no one could have gone by you?" O'Brien asked, just to be sure.



"No, Sir!" The chief looked like a serious man. He had to be in his forties. His eyes flitted to the blast mark behind the admiral, and his face was very skilled at hiding his displeasure in seeing it there. "The area was searched and secured, Admiral. All jeffries and maintenance conduits had fully maintained security seals in place."



The Lieutenant frowned. She was no more than in her late twenties. Her hair was plaited into corn rows under her security detail helmet. Her large brown eyes were expressive, and the emotion they expressed was puzzlement. "Recheck the seals and also go through sensor logs, chief. If that blast did come from Zed, then bite me."



Hiding a grin at her use of this particular phrase, O'Brien said, "let me know if you get any more insight into this, Lieutenant." He said it very calmly. Not like one might be expected to speak having just been shot clean through by a phaser. "Good-night." And, leaving the security team buzzing all around the area, he went into his quarters.



It was only when he had changed into his lounging robe and had a pull at a tall Romulan ale that Timothy Drew O'Brien allowed himself to review what had happened in the corridor. He sat and shut his eyes and pictured in his mind the sequence of events which had just transpired. A hand, a person, had come through the ceiling. Not a drop ceiling on a land based structure, the support hull of a Federation Outpost. The air vents could not possibly be large enough for someone to crawl through... That was only true in holo-novels.



Then there was the amazing disappearing assassin. Where did he (or she?) go? How did the security team miss a weapon the size of the weapon needed to burn a bulkhead like that? You couldn't just smuggle a contraband phaser onto a station. Nor could you sign out a regulation phaser without authorization, and he hadn't been that rude to anyone. Had he?



O'Brien shook his head. Not even a disgruntled Ferengi would risk the displeasure of the commander of an outpost over some latinum... And he really had had no time for women of late.



Stymied, he decided to let it lay and sleep on it. It had more of the feeling of a ghost story than reality. He could hear his mother's voice in the dusky light of his bedroom when he was a boy telling him tales of the Sidhe. She had always stated that he was kissed by the fair folk, and that they would protect him. Until today, he had never given that tale a second thought.



Bolting his ale down as he realized that he was giving credence to a fairy story, O'Brien opened his door and said: "I'm going to sleep now," to the husky pair of security technicians posted outside his room.



Neither replied, although the one in charge nodded. He had not expected them to reply, they were on duty. But in his guts he felt that they would do him no damn good when the assassin came back. If... And he wondered why he had not mentioned the amazing diaphanous woman.



In the end, he found that he did not sleep. Instead he listened, and peered into the dark until he had to call the lights up a quarter and get himself another ale.





Aboard the USS Pantheon -- 0930 hours



"Nice set of bookends... Admiral, sir."



O'Brien knew that voice anywhere. "Johnson." He spared his friend a smile. "Yes, I got them for my birthday."



Both officers eyed the pair of security specialists walking with the Admiral. Johnson would never let his concern show openly, especially in front of others, but he was concerned. One did not shoot at an Admiral lightly. "Were they attempting to cook your banger for you?" He asked wryly.



"No, I don't think that was quite the motivation..." Tim smiled. Neither of the guards had the cultural background to appreciate bangers as did he and Johnson.



Johnson fell into step with his superior. "Any clue what?"



"Well, I am not really supposed to discuss it as it is an ongoing investigation," the fleet admiral replied, "but sciences can't identify the weapon signature."



Johnson pursed his lips and nodded. He wished he had an extra days leave for every time sciences had told him "the origin is unknown." He watched O'Brien shrug it off. So he asked, "exactly how did you avoid the weapon's discharge?"



"Bad shot." O'Brien grinned widely. "My hope is that these boyos don't get into my way if the bloody scoundrel tries again."



"In your way?" Johnson laughed, "their job is to throw themselves between you and the blast."



"Hmmm." O'Brien looked at the two people with him. Just his luck, two vulcans. No sense of humor. Faces carved in stone. "That might not be logical."



"Perhaps not." Johnson agreed, "but it would be a challenge."



"You're hoping they're too slow; don't deny it. I can see it on your face." O'Brien teased back.



"Well," Johnson admitted dead-pan, "I wouldn't mind a promotion..."



The Admiral noticed just the least bit of squirm from the younger Vulcan. They had hit a nerve. Good, he thought. They can use their pulse beats going up a tenth. But Johnson's patter told him one thing: His friend was concerned. And he had not heard a word. Security must be tight.



Lock those bay doors tight, after the shuttle's out.



"I have orders to warp out in an hour." Johnson almost whispered these words.



"Lucky you." O'Brien clapped him on the shoulder. "I have more meetings." He met the man's eyes only briefly, "don't worry about me, I have more lives than a cat."



Johnson nodded, saluted and took his leave of the Admiral. He would not put a jinx on their parting by uttering banal words such as "be careful." O'Brien was always careful and they both knew it.





Outpost 475 -- 1730



All day he had been followed, by his security detail, by his feeling of being watched, and by at least one or maybe two unknown agents... One of which he had to assume was friendly, or at least not currently hostile.



It was tiring to have a security detail hanging on to him all day. Going as far as checking out the head before allowing him to use it. He almost asked if they weren't going to taste his food for him, but knowing vulcans, they would have actually done it.



He wondered why there had not been an attempt on him while he slept. It always seemed a marvel when the villains did things half-assed. Then again, perhaps something had forced the assassin's hand... And now this calmness which followed was pregnant with threat. There was an air of anticipation about the day, which as it progressed gave a sense of less and less reality to the occurrences of the previous evening.



So, he decided to skip the tonga game and the holo-suites and go instead to the research library to see what, if anything, he could add to the sketchy picture sciences had given him regarding the weapon he had, miraculously, avoided. Not that the prospect of visiting the recreation deck was all that pleasant with two Vulcans on his tail anyway.



He grinned at his security detail. He had been doing so on and off all day, just to give them something to ponder. It was the worst part of becoming "brass" -- having to deal with people being assigned to guard you. Well... that, reports and meetings. Rear Admiral Hastings did not feel he was taking the threat to his life seriously enough, and to be honest he did enjoy the rush of adrenaline that had flooded him during the attack. But he couldn't bring himself to tell Hastings that he was kissed by the gods, and protected by the Sidhe. Hastings, with his English roots, would just not understand.



A search of the station was damn near impossible. Everyone knew that. There were enough hidey-holes that a true professional could evade even Star Fleet security, even though acknowledging that wasn't exactly PC.



Captain Storver, in charge of 475's research facility, was a pleasant woman with an ample body and a face that always smiled. Her eyes were large and so darkly brown that they almost appeared black. Like all betazoids she looked into as well as at you, but Tim had known her since he had been a Commander, and he felt confident that she never infringed on his brain-space. "Lona, how are you?"



Lona Storver looked up from her task and smiled more widely than usual, "Tim!" Rising she walked around her desk and studied him for several long moments. "Heard you had a little trouble..."



"Nothing much to talk about." It amused him that her smile contracted itself into a little pout as he said this.



"Must've been enough to make Hastings give you those..." Indicating the two security techs she shrugged, "but I understand that you like to make light of these little adventures you run into." Taking his arm she moved off toward one of the research rooms, "I had actually expected you earlier, Tim. I have materials all set up for you."



Bussing her warmly on the cheek, the Admiral laughed, "you are a mind reader."



The Captain made a flourish with her hands which clearly stated that of course she was and what else did he expect. Then she showed him the computer station which she had prepared for his use and went back to her own work.



***



Central Research Facility Outpost 475 -- 0330 Hrs



One half hour before the duty shift was due to change, O'Brien was still looking into the science reports regarding the mysterious weapon. The facility had the quiet of the midnight of the soul, and then all in a moment the quiet was shattered as one of his security guards came crashing through the door to the carrel and into his unit. Immediately noticeable was the limpness with which the young man's neck lolled to the side and he slid to a halt. The sharp odor of ozone filled the area as the second security tech sprayed a wide beam phaser shot into the dimly lit area surrounding her. Then she spun and fell, clutching at a seeping wound at her hip.



"Tell her to hold totally still."



O'Brien started to lift his head to see who spoke.



"Hold still--" The voice was strident, but suddenly cut off.



"Hold still, Yeoman Macy." O'Brien called out. "Don't move at all."



There was a leap of faith. He wondered as he eyed the limp body of Yeoman Farth, what he was thinking about. And that was when it floated into the room. All darkness, as if it were soaking up the light around it, an elongated ball of nothing began sweeping back and forth in the private carrel. He could guess that it had focused in upon the sound of his voice. Or maybe the vibrations? Now it swept from side to side in total silence.



"Admiral?" Macy called in a whisper.



The miasmic organism froze, spun fired. The glassynth wall shattered, and each bit was immediately targeted and vaporized. The odor of oxygen radicals became incredibly pungent. But, to her credit, Macy held still as a corpse, thereby preventing herself from becoming one.



O'Brien risked moving his eyes, utilizing reflective surfaces to take in a much of his surroundings as possible. He saw none to whom the voice he had heard could belong. What he did see was the enormous bunch of cat-tails on Storver's desk. What would the dark-cloud-thing do if confronted with a jillion little flecks of fluff? It was obviously blind, or else it would have noticed him laying there under the desk. Could it be that the desk itself was interfering with the beastie's perception? And where was the woman who had spoken? Had it hit her as well?



That very thought immediately aroused O'Brien's sense of chivalry. He had to do something. It had to be something that would buy him a few moments. Moments in which to move. In his incredible frustration he forced himself to formulate a course of action which would not require movement until the dark-cloud was distracted from his notice. For that he had to have the faith that it was automated, or at the least, not sentient.



Pressing his knee against the chair he had so recently occupied, O'Brien unsettled it enough so that it started rolling on it's own. As the cloud emanated whatever destructive weapon it was using at the chair he took the opportunity to get his phaser into his hand, a small movement by comparison to the chair. Breath held he waited. Then he allowed himself a small dose of satisfaction. The cloud could not perceive movement through objects which were dense. That meant that his hand was free to thumb the phaser setting to a wide dispersal. He also could assume that light and dark made no difference to this mass of death. It had to be a drone of some sort.



He thumbed the phaser control and shot the vase out from under the dozen some brown punks on Storver's desk. As they fell the cloud moved toward them firing. The first one hit, it exploded into a thousands tufts of flaxen fluff, drifting throughout the room. Others did the same. O'Brien rolled and turned on the internal cooling system and the blowers came on throwing the fluff from the punks into a frenzied dance. He rolled toward the fire control station and tossed his phaser at it. Instantly the room filled with a fog of retardant. The black cloud went wild, shooting in all directions at once as it perceived the movement of the dense suspension around it.



"Admiral?" Macy was flat on the floor, by him.



Good girl. He thought, as she had taken the initiative to move during all the hulla-baloo. "Shhh." He grabbed her hand, and Farth's and activated his automatic transporter sequence to the Voodoo. He was not there to see the black cloud fire at his location, nor to see it disperse as it's prey shimmered out of existence.



Neither was he on the Voodoo when the two youngsters from his security detail appeared there.









Location and Time Unknown



The hair of the dog that bit him was clinging to his tongue. Tim considered that he must have had an incredible night before to be having a morning after with this amount of discomfort. Then he realized that he should be on the Voodoo, and that Storver's library was his last known location. It was upon this realization that he felt a warm cloth wiping his face, ungluing the mortar which stuck his eyelids shut. He opened his eyes warily and found himself encased in a fog, the only thing visible was the woman with the fiery hair who had dropped through the ceiling.



He reacted instinctively, grabbing her by the shoulders and rolling to pin her. As she offered no resistance he ended up straddling her quite easily, pinning her shoulders to the bed upon which he was laying. "What the bloody hell is going on?" He shouted. The sound of his voice made his head throb, but he met the grey eyes of the woman steadily.



"To start, you are momentarily safe," she said in a voice made husky by his weight upon her. "Second, if you let me up I can tell you all about it."



"I'll let you up as soon as you tell me what I need to know." His voice was gruff and graveled, and he did his best to scowl. "Starting with where my security detail is."



It occurred to him that the woman had to force herself to relax under his grip. As if her instincts were driving her to a reaction which she actively needed to school. Just as his were.



She wet her lips with a dart of her tongue. "Your detail is on the ship that you transported them to. The young man was somewhat injured, but it is well within your technology to heal him. The woman is just fine."



"And where am I? Why have you brought me here? Who the bloody hell are you?" He shot the questions off rapidly, heated by the fire of his own frustration. What he wanted was something to hit. A good fight would have helped him burn off all this adrenaline.



"You are aboard my ship, the Perilous, I brought you here because it will hopefully give us both a breather to sort things out. And my name is Blaze, Blaze Darque. You can call me Blaze, Admiral O'Brien." Pursing her lips she studied him a moment. "I understand that all this is very bizarre for you, but I am here to help you. I give you my word upon that."



"Why is everything around me foggy? Is your ship damaged?" Glancing about he could see nothing farther away than 30 centimeters or so.



"That is part of my ship's security system. If you'll allow me to get up, I can remedy it."



"Am I your prisoner?"



"No, not at all. It is just an automatic system. The ship does it all by itself." Drawing a deep breath Blaze said, "if you were my prisoner, why would I have kept you so mobile?"



"Dunno." He admitted, "sometimes people act foolishly, or with too much confidence."



A grin crossed her lips, "yes, I suppose they do. But you are not my prisoner. You are my guest."



O'Brien considered that for a moment. "Guest..." He now took the time to look at her. She was still in the same sort of outfit which he had first seen her in. Her hair was tousled and coming out of it's braid in tendrils of curls. She looked disheveled, and when he gave it a glance he saw that blood was seeping from her shoulder where his left hand bit into it. "You're hurt!" Releasing her immediately as he noticed this, he frowned. "I didn't realize that you were hurt."



"I understand. This has to be very strange for you, Admiral." Sitting up, she pulled the small round yellow pin from her lapel. It had two dots for eyes and a curved smile. She said, "close your eyes," and pinned it to his uniform as he complied. "Open them."



The headache and the fog had disappeared. Around him he saw the interior of a room that was obviously a stateroom. There were no windows, and no obvious light sources, although the room had the soft glow of twilight. "What the devil?"



"This is the guest room. My room is across the corridor." Pushing herself into a seated position she pulled her vest and shirt away from the injury. "Can you help me with this?"



O'Brien looked at it. A thermal garment under the shirt was slowly turning to crimson. "What happened?"



"Help me up. The infirmary is next door."



The ship was tightly built without becoming claustrophobic. He liked the way the doors slid silently open for them because that was familiar. The lights followed them as well. And the corridor was narrow, as if it were a military craft. He sat her down on the bed in the infirmary and helped her pull off her shirt and vest. "Better shear this away." He commented regarding the thermal shirt beneath.



"First:" she cautioned, "you aren't psionic, are you?"



"Psionic?" He grinned widely, "you mean like a Vulcan or a Betazoid?"



"Psychic... Any extra sensory abilities?"



"Not a one."



"Good." She spoke to the air: "Medical tray."



A tray appeared. It bore gloves, implements and shears. O'Brien pulled the gloves on. "Now, you know I'm not a medic..."



"It's an obvious sort of problem."



Lifting the shears he cut away the fabric of the last layer of shirt, carefully avoiding the dark strap of her undergarment. He grit his teeth as he saw an injury that was as much a burn as a hole. Lesions radiated outward from the central portion of the wound. "Sh..." He bit the word off. "What did this?"



"A... projectile weapon." Biting her lip she held very still as he took the bottle at hand and irrigated the wound. "The shell is still in there. Only I can't touch it. You'll need to pull it out for me."



"Anaesthetic?" He queried.



"No, I need to be clear of any foreign substances. Do you know any acupressure?"



"Lay down."



Nodding she allowed him to position her so that he had good access to the shoulder in question. "Just do your best, it'll be alright."



It had actually been several years longer than he wished since his last medical training session. And much of the equipment available to him, while familiar also seemed alien enough to make him uncomfortable. "Wait until I'm done to say that... Blaze." He tried the name out. It had to be a nick-name he reasoned. Probably because of her hair. But then again maybe not.



"Not the best way to meet for the first time is it?" She whispered as he lifted up the device which would grab the slug from her.



"But we already met. In the corridor... Then you disappeared." He attached the implement and then adjusted the angle. It extended a field into the injury and popped off of her skin, the slug firmly in the field. Her face grew momentarily pale, but she took several deep breaths and then nodded.



"Thank you Admiral."



"My pleasure." Retrieving the slug he watched her actually recoil from it. Looking at the scoring on her flesh, he didn't blame her. "Why isn't it effecting me? Are you sidhe?" He felt silly for asking this. "No, I withdraw the question."



"I like you." It was a simple statement. He could feel the sincerity behind her words. "Sidhe.



"I don't think I have ever been called that before."



"Well, the metal burns you. And you appeared at my moment of need." He blushed. That along with his dark hair falling over his forehead made him seem quite boyish. He placed the bullet on the tray and began to clean up her shoulder and seal the wound.



"Yes, well it's funny because it is close I suppose. We have similar roots. I am Bana-Churaidhnean. But also I am a scout."



"Bana-Churaidhnean?" He grinned. "Isn't that from a faerie tale?"



"In your continuum, yes. In mine, no." She laughed at his expression. "Where I come from Star Fleet and the whole bit exists only as a story. Our people have many stories based on other realities. We, our home world lays at the nexus of a vast assortment of channels... Worm holes if you will, that span space and dimension. At this crux of the multiverse we get a lot of visitors, and they sometimes stay or sometimes return depending upon their situation. Their realities work their way into our fiction. It goes in the other direction as well, depending on how open a universe is to us." She watched his well groomed hands, "you do good work, Admiral."



"Tim."



"Tim." She granted him a smile. "Thank you."



"And your people live in the midst of this influx of dimensions?"



"Yes, and we scout them out. We haven't made ourselves generally known, because some people react quite poorly to the knowledge that there are multiple realities." Her breathing eased as he finished the dressing. "That'll do it."



Snapping the gloves off he tossed them, and when she indicated it, the entire contents of the tray, slug and all into the disposal. He helped her as she pulled on her shirt and vest. Her hand touched the icon of a bizarre little green humanoid and suddenly she was in a new set of clothing. It startled him.





Outpost 475 -- 1045 Hrs



Macy stood at rigid attention in front of the Rear Admiral. Farth was in the infirmary, so his rendezvous with fate was postponed momentarily. Eyes front she could only see Hastings when his pacing took him directly in front of her. He was narrow eyed and red faced and thoroughly unhappy. Not unsurprising considering that one of his senior officers had disappeared with nary a trace, but both the security personnel assigned to said officer were present and accounted for.



"Give it to me again, Macy. Try to be more cogent this time through."



Macy replied: "Aye, sir." She drew a breath. There was not one shred of proof to back her story up, none of the cameras in the library recorded any of the havoc which had occurred. None of the sensors had picked up the cloud. "Farth and I were standing watch outside of Admiral O'Brien's carrel. We had good visual observation of the library entrances. The library was empty except the Admiral and the two of us.



"Our motion and power sensors made no indications as this cloud appeared. The cloud was dark, like the absence of light... A nothingness. Farth spotted it first and brought arms to bear. A bolt of force shot out of the mass and knocked him clear through the door onto the Admiral's work station..."



She repeated the series of events as clearly as she could, speaking in slow detailed fashion, but having far too few details to please the Admiral. It pained her that in the end it had been Admiral O'Brien who had saved them. It pained her even more that he was not around to thank for it.



"Yet, when you arrived aboard the Voodoo, O'Brien had not completed transport with you?" Hastings asked the Yeoman yet again. Maybe for the twelfth time. Not that he expected an answer, he was venting. He would regret it in several days, but for now he was too angry to care. "How could a transport centering on O'Brien successfully beam the two of you and fail to bring him?"



For that, Macy had no answer.



Neither did sciences.



Hastings fumed. His fuming availed him nothing. The library was scored and destroyed. He had no documentation to show who or what had done it. Not only that, but at the same time there had been some sort of fire fight down in the main power core of the station. Sensors had indicated a discharge of weaponry, but by the time security had manage to open the access doors all they found were the unconscious and bloody bodies of station personnel. Personnel whose uniforms showed the signs of life threatening injury, but whose bodies were entirely whole. Personnel who could give him no more information on what had happened than could Yeoman Macy.



As the person in ultimate control of the sector, Hastings had never felt a lack of control so acutely before.





the Perilous -- 1253 Hrs



Having cleaned himself up, and put on clothing which he had found in the closet of his room, O'Brien peeked in at the woman. He had laid her upon her bed after she had collapsed as they had been exiting the infirmary. He now was dressed in a deeply blue tunic and a pair of pants which tucked nicely into his Star Fleet issue boots. The yellow smiling faced pin showed up boldly on the clothing, but when he had put it out of proximity of himself, the ship had returned to its primordial appearance. That was what he called security.



Everything about the ship was a mixture of the alien and the familiar. He could guess what most of the workings in his room were, and he could feel comfortable, but just slightly off balance at the same time.



The woman was like that, too. Familiar, pretty, dressed in a uniform very unlike Star Fleet's but still a uniform. She also wore boots, but a soft suede type with no heel of any consequence. Her room had a holo image of a man, a great hairy dark haired man, who was standing with two younger men. The younger men were both taller than this central figure. They wore the same grin on their faces. One was dark, but had bright blue eyes. The other was leaner and had hair the same color as the woman's.



"My husband and sons."



O'Brien turned to look at Blaze. She had rolled toward him. "Married, are you?"



"Many years." Her smile said more than her words. "My husband is Sejanus, he designed this ship, and the one that looks like him is Wils, who built the ship. And that long drink of water is my eldest son, Micah. You are wearing his clothing. It looks well on you." Reaching out she smoothed the tunic absently. "I guess I passed out on you. Sorry about that."



"I took the opportunity to clean up. Borrow some clothing." He indicated and asked, "that is alright?"



"Of course. Micah is too tall for these anymore anyway. But I have a lot of people come through the ship so I try to keep clothing for all occasions on hand." Sitting up warily, lest she dizzy herself, Blaze waited. "Mm. Much better now."



"My communicator doesn't work."



"No, it can't. We are slightly out of phase with the area around us." Pulling her boots back on she stood up, smoothed back her hair and drew a cleansing breath. "Come on, I'll show you."



Tim allowed her to go first, following her forward in the craft. She moved into a small mess. "Can I get you a cup of something? A sandwich?" Grabbing a large mug which stated: Will work for klah upon it, she filled it with a chocolatey smelling brew.



"Coffee?"



"Sure." She handed him a large mug and dispensed another beverage. "Condiments?" Pouring a heavy dose of cream into her mug she offered it to him, but he shook his head.



"Black." He opened a box and saw all sorts of food within. Then he grabbed a sandwich. "Chicken?"



Blaze nodded. "Grab me one also, please."



They sat at the table for a while, eating. "You said that you were going to show me something? Are you also going to explain some things to me?"



"Such as?" She met his eyes. It made her wonder how the justice of the universe always managed to grant the male such a splendid set of eyelashes, while women needed to augment theirs.



"How you can move through bulkheads. How did you contact me in the library? Why you are even here?" The coffee was good. The sandwich was better. His host was less pale for the meal...



"I can phase. My people are psionic. It was an ability that began to develop centuries ago, and which has many different characteristics. I can change my molecular resonance so that I can move through objects which appear to be solid. Solid is a relative term. Most of everything is empty space. I move so that the empty space in my molecular make-up goes though the solid space around me, and vice versa. It is largely instinctual, but I do have to actively attempt it. Sort of like... well, uhm holding your breath under water. Except that I can also change a small amount of mass with me. You for example."



The physics of it made sense. Only the physics of it. He eyed her in a somewhat disbelieving state. "Phasing..."



"It's a personal resonance thing. I contacted you in the library telepathically. I was busy elsewhere. The Anti-mass would have sensed any motion. You must have done some quick thinking to outfox it." She awarded him an appreciative grin. "I can't tell you how much easier my job is because you can think on your feet."



He smiled back at her. "Okay, so you telepathically warned me because you were busy elsewhere... How busy and with what?"



"Twenty questions." Blaze laughed, "let us start with the beginning."



***



the Perilous -- 1930 Hrs.



O'Brien was sitting in the co-pilot's seat of the ship he now knew as a trans-phaeton vessel. He ruminated over the very enormously tall tale he had been told by the mysterious woman seated in the pilot's seat next to his. Only now she didn't seem so mysterious. A wife, a mother of two and a Solomani Scout. Bana-Churaidhnean, too, although that had less to do with things than being a scout, or so he supposed.

They were hidden inside his ship, the Voodoo. Her ship was filling the empty spaces between the molecules of his ship and was slightly out of phase with time, so that the additional mass would not show up on scanners. For her people, that was accepted technology.



She was in his continuum, not for this particular assignment, but rather to look around and see if the Federation was mature enough to accept the existence of her universe. She had made no further comment upon that portion of her "assignment." However, like all organizations, hers had seen the opportunity in her presence here to do a little extra work. Namely, saving the arse of one Fleet Admiral Timothy D. O'Brien.



As she had explained it, the bad guys (and yes she had used that exact term: "the bad guys") had discovered a way of manipulating the future. You could not, as far as anyone knew, ever change the past. You could, however, utilize the present to manipulate the future. (It was at this point that he began to feel that what she was explaining in such broad terms was in primary school curriculums where she came from.) The multi-verse was connected in such a way that changing the past only threw the protagonist into a parallel future. Each moment having many futures, and each of those futures existing all at once.



Ah, but changing the present could manipulate the future, any future. And by killing one Timothy D. O'Brien, her home team bad guys could alter things for some arcane purpose. This purpose was mysterious, as Blaze had explained to him that she had no skill at divination, and that it was a stroke of good fortune that her meager abilities of clairvoyance had sparked to life at his moment of need in the library.



In other words, her focus was to protect him, and there were other poor fools who had to track down and stop the bad guys. She was dealing with henchmen, because the driving forces were way too smart to be directly involved with any of the messy bits.



She had displayed a sense of humor while discussing this with him. Tim appreciated that, otherwise he would have been uncertain of his and her sanity.



On his side was the term "window of opportunity." It seemed that temporal mechanics needed to be done right the first time. There was that fuzzy past thing. If she could get him through the next two weeks, well then he would be safe from these outside influences again.



That was the good news. The bad news came in a larger dosage.



On board this ship they were fairly well hidden. Unless someone destroyed the Voodoo. Unless through luck or genius the "bad guys" found the ship. Blaze was not apparently worried by the genius of the opposition. So far she had found them to be fairly predictable. But that didn't mean she was about to let up her guard. Sometimes things had ways of escalating very rapidly when dealing with the enemy. Or so she said.



In a fire fight she knew that her ship could hold its own and could if need be run like bloody hell. She was not too proud to believe in fight and run away tactics. Still, he had a schedule to maintain. If she deviated too much from that schedule, well the future might be effected by that as well. It all depended upon whether he was being killed before he could do something or to prevent him from doing something.



There had been several pauses in the discussion for sanity checks. And the woman had been keen on admitting that temporal mechanics were not her forte. Her son Micah was great at them, but he got that from his father. She was a doer. Smart enough to get the job done. Inventive enough to enjoy her work.



O'Brien doubted that. He attributed it to modesty. She seemed more than smart enough to him. In fact, they connected somehow. In this stream of implausible conversation he could feel that she was being sincere. Not ever a gullible man, Tim agreed with himself to follow his instincts on this one, because his higher brain functions were definitely not applicable.



While he had been busy saving himself in the library, she had been busy saving the outpost in the reactor room. A more zealous henchman had deemed it acceptable to blow the entire outpost up in order to "do in the mark." That had taken precedence over Blaze's rushing to his individual assistance, because rescuing him from the anti-mass in the research library would not have done him much good if the entire station and the surrounding vicinity had all blown up.



He had to agree with that.



She had been shot while sending him the telepathic warning. Doing too many things at once, she had explained, meant not being able to concentrate sufficiently on any one of them in particular. That was one of her limitations. Phasing, 'pathing, healing, all these things took concentration. There was only so much one person could do at a time. Admitting that, she seemed annoyed with herself, as if she wished she could do better.



Now they were doing a scan of the area. He was helping her with security codes, because he would not divulge them. They scanned within the other ships parked around the outpost to see if enemy vessels were hidden as her vessel was hiding.



It prompted him to ask yet another question: "Isn't it risky to be within another solid object?"



Blaze glanced at her guest. "Only if the technology fails."



"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" He grinned.



"Well, yes." Facing him she studied his features. He was lean and handsome and had to work at looking anything more than boyish. She admired his charm. "All things have inherent risk. A malfunction in the molecular meshing would prove a true disaster. You don't

break the laws of physics lightly."



"I try not to break them at all."



They laughed. It was a good sound, and broke much of the tension they each were feeling.



The woman rose and stretched. O'Brien could see that she was favoring the injured shoulder. Her movements were otherwise lithe. "Perilous will let me know if she finds any hidden ships."



"I thought that you said that com systems won't work when the ship is a-phasic." He too stood up.



"They won't. The ship will 'path the information to me."



"'Path?" He turned a little circle looking around the interior of the ship, "How can a ship 'path?"



"Perilous is psionically linked to me. In a way she is alive..." Blaze patted the console as one might pat the flank of a well loved steed. "Trans-Phaeton craft need to be linked to an individual in order to operate. It's a quirk. No one quite understands why that is, yet."



"Yet." His eyebrow raised itself quizzically. It appeared that he was in the presence of a true pioneer. He wondered what changes in his life were going to occur as a direct result of being exposed to her. "What next?"



"Dinner?" Blaze suggested, "on the station. We have to get you back into some sort of routine. Your people will be worried about you."



"My Admiral will be fit to be tied," he corrected.



"Blame me."



***



Brig -- Outpost 475 -- 0100 Hrs



"They, the proverbial they, say that you can tell about the humanity of a civilization by the quality of it's detention centers." Blaze remarked casually to the very drunk, somewhat bohemian Bajoran man in the cell next to hers. She now knew him as a Bajoran, because when they had searched him, they had left him his earring. Something about not interfering with his religion. Which was kind of them, but bad security protocol.



In response to her comment he vomited all over the floor of his cell. This had the additional effect of making the guard on duty turn very green for just a moment.



"I guess he doesn't agree." Blaze quipped to the youngster guarding the area.



The guard made no reply. He wasn't exactly certain how to react to a cheery, pretty prisoner who had been labeled as extremely dangerous. She had been chatting him up since arriving in the cell block. Which in itself would not have been so bad, excepting that she did so while relaxing on the shelf in her cell. Not pacing, not exploring the way most prisoners did. Her voice was calm and maternal, and she was not acting like a prisoner at all. His chief had warned him that these were the worst sorts. Ones who were used to the system.



He set the field in the Bajoran's cell to clean up the mess on the floor. Then he checked the security panels on both of the occupied cells. He came to attention as Fleet Admiral O'Brien came into the room. "Sir!"



"Let me in with the prisoner." O'Brien commanded.



"Aye, Sir!"



Stepping through as the security field dropped and feeling the tingle as it instantly went up again, O'Brien placed his fists on his hips and looked at the prisoner lounging on her slab. "Comfy?"



"Actually, I was just remarking about how very nice the cells here are. Really." Blaze sat up and tucked her legs beneath her. "If you want to see a prison, well then go to Zhoda. Zhodani prisons are really horrible. Although, I have heard that in olden times the Eliloh had these mines that they sent you to...." She trailed off, because O'Brien was scowling again. "Well, it's true!"



"Rear Admiral Hastings doesn't quite have my faith in you." Tim sat on the slab next to her, cutting to the chase. "And not only does he out rank me, ma'am, but he also happens to be in charge of this outpost."



"I guess he's never heard of the sidhe?" Blaze smiled.



"This is no joking matter!" Whispering this somewhat harshly, O'Brien grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. This time he was cautious about her injured side.



"Tim." Speaking softly she met his eyes, hers filled with sincerity, "your security people scanned me for weapons, then placed me in here with everything I was carrying, because none of it registered as a weapon. Quite frankly, this cell," she lowered her voice substantially, "couldn't hold me unless I was unconscious or dead."



Tim drew himself up in offense. It smarted his pride at being an Admiral in the Federation to here her speak so dismissively about the security measures.



"Think about it," she breathed the words.



"So, why did you stay here?"



"Good faith." Now she looked more serious. "And to give you a chance to talk to your Admiral without looking foolish."



"So, I should thank you?" He scoffed. Not because he was angry, but because she made him feel, for a moment, shallow.



Blaze reached out and touched his shoulder. Her hand was warm and squeezed him in a familiar way, as if they had known one another for years instead of hours. "Remind me sometime to teach you about a particularly interesting Arkaadannei thanking ritual..."



Hastings Office -- Outpost 475 -- 0100 Hrs.



Rear Admiral Hastings wanted all these problems to go away. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be able to go back to the simpler problems of the Borg and of the Founders. He didn't want to have to think about the multiverse, whatever the hell that was suppose to be. Even less did he like a senior staff officer, someone cool and competent like O'Brien, befuddled by a female alien. Not even the prettiest of female aliens... Shaking his head he thought about what O'Brien didn't say. The gaps in what he knew. Generally speaking, the man was more on top of facts than all that. It did not occur to the Rear Admiral that O'Brien was not being exceptionally forthcoming. People like O'Brien were never reticent with their superiors.



Grabbing his cup of racticcino, cold now, he stood away from his desk and walked to the replicator. "Replace with fresh."



As the new cup of beverage appeared, a man entered the Admiral's office. He stood politely and waited for the man to take his cup and turn. He even managed to hide a smile as Hastings startled. "Do I have the pleasure of addressing Rear Admiral Hastings?"



The man was two meters tall, immaculately dressed in a tunic and leggings of forest green which had a sheen to it, even in the sterile office lighting. His eyes were warm and liquidly brown. His jaw was square and firm. A man's man. The voice, deep and resonant went perfectly with the appearance.



"I am Hastings." Hastings felt somewhat compelled to meet the stranger's gaze. Then he felt relaxed, as if here was a man who would, somehow, lighten his burden. He reached out and shook hands with the gentleman.



"I am Gordon FitzHumphrey." The man continued to speak. "I am afraid that one of the citizens of my system has been causing you some problems..."



"Blaze Darque?" Hastings offered rapidly, hoping.



FitzHumphrey nodded, again hiding his reaction to the name. "Darque. How amusing. She tends to use several names, you know."



"Does she?" Hastings replied, offering his guest a chair. "Can I get you a drink?"



"Thank you, no." FitzHumphrey said dismissively.



Hastings sat opposite the man, his eyes remaining locked with the deep brown ones. "Well, then. What can I do for you, Mr. Fitz..."



"Lord. Lord Gordon." The tall man corrected peremptorily.



"Lord Gordon, of course," Hastings corrected himself, mesmerized by the depths of Gordon FitzHumphrey's eyes.



"This person, do you know where she is?" Gordon prompted.



"In the Brig. She kidnaped one of my senior staff..."



"Aha, how typical." Gordon kept his face neutral. "Have her brought here, and I will make certain that she won't bother anyone again."



"Certainly." Hastings moved his hand to the com.



"Wait!" Gordon stood up and closed in on the Admiral. "Don't mention why you want her, and... Would it be possible, as a favor...



***



Brig -- Outpost 475 -- 0145 Hrs



"...alright, I'll just try to have another go with Hastings." O'Brien was about to leave.



"I want to respect your laws... But I have my duty as well. Try to make him understand that." Blaze was once again looking out of the field that held the entry to her cell secure.



O'Brien looked at her through the shimmer and wondered if he would take things so calmly if he were the one in an alien prison. "He is a reasonable man, its just procedure..." Defending Hastings love affair with procedure made O'Brien want to hit something. But all of a sudden a miracle occurred.



"Admiral!" Yeoman Macy came running in to the brig. She snapped to attention.



"Macy, at ease." O'Brien regarded the young woman carefully, assessed that she was well and then continued. "What is it Yeoman?"



"Admiral Hastings sent me down here. I wasn't expecting to see you here, sir. I am to escort the prisoner to his office. First he wants her to agree to wear this tracking device until the affair is in order." She held aloft a very standard looking star fleet security tracker. The kind that were used in low security penal colonies all over the galaxy.



"Well?" He looked at Blaze. Her brow was furrowed. "Is it a problem?" He said in a voice that made her feel, for a moment, shallow.



"Is it a standard practice?" Blaze asked him.



"Yes, actually it is. I'll put it on you myself, if that'll make you feel any better." O'Brien grinned at her. He took the shackle and opened and closed it's maw, as if it were talking to her: "Come on, a Bana-Churaidhnean should have no problem with an ankle bracelet like me." He said.



Blaze looked at the floor, blushed and grinned. "Pride."



"It won't hurt a bit." He promised. "And I'll even get you a lollipop for being good."



Macy stifled a giggle at the Admiral's playful manner. The Security guard on duty in the brig looked uncomfortable to be witnessing the exchange. The bajoran prisoner began to croon a romantic and very off key love song in his native tongue.



"I trust you." Blaze whispered to the Admiral as she offered her left leg forward.



"There's a good lass." O'Brien knelt and clasped the security device over Blaze's boot. It was a snug fit, but because the suede was so supple he did not need to ask her to remove the boot for it to be secure.



No sooner had the device clicked shut around her ankle when Blaze felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She lurched forward, grabbing onto O'Brien for support. Her hands gripped his uniform, and she transferred the Gumby™ pin onto him. "Get out of here."



Macy, the burly young security man and even the drunken Bajoran all watched with surprise as O'Brien disappeared. Macy moved toward the prisoner as she fell to the floor bereft of O'Brien's support. "Corgan!" She called to the security officer.



Corgan did not respond, because he was busy turning to look at Admiral Hastings who was being brought in to the Brig by a large man. Hastings was pale, and blood trickled from his nostrils, ears and the corners of his eyes. "Stand or be fired upon!" He shouted at the man with his Admiral, firing almost instantly, certain that the fellow was not one to surrender. His eyes widened as the phaser shot went clear through the intruder without doing him any damage.



Macy also spun and fired, but the man moved faster than anyone she had ever seen before. He dropped the Admiral, who fell like a rag doll. Then he shot a small weapon at Corgan, who evaporated. His hand swung out and smacked Macy in the jaw, sending her into the wall opposite.



"Be thankful I like children, little girl." He said to her kindly as she fell to the floor unconscious. He strode over to where the Solomani lay gasping for air, and knelt over her. "Hello, Blaze," he said slyly. "I should have figured that it would be you."



"Lord Gordon..." Blaze whispered out of breath, "what a surprise... Have you run out of toadies?"



Gordon back handed her. It was a satisfying action. "No, dear. There are just some things one must do for oneself." He lifted her, casually tossed her over his shoulder, and disappeared.

the Perilous -- 0200 Hrs.



It felt as if he had been shot out of an airlock. O'Brien felt the involuntary lurching of his stomach as he faded out of reality and then back in aboard the sleek Trans-phaeton craft. In between there had been a brief moment of cold and weightlessness. He sank into the nearest chair.



"Hello, Fleet Admiral O'Brien," the computer's voice said to him. "Welcome back on board. Has something unforeseen occurred to the Captain?"



"Captain?" He muttered.



"Captain Darque. Blaze." The computer substituted.



"Yes, damn it." Leaning forward he put his hands to his forehead and wondered what had happened. The tracking device he had put around Blaze's leg hadn't even been metal, so why would it have had such an affect upon her?



"In such contingency, the Captain has authorized my compliance with your instructions in a limited capacity."



"Oh?" O'Brien looked up and around at the ship which had been described as being alive, but needing a psionic link to operate. "Am I stuck here?"



"No, Admiral; you have been transported here for your immediate protection."



He stood up and nodded. "Are there any weapons on board which I can appropriate and return later?"



"There is no contingency for arming non-military personnel."



"Damn machine." He growled. "Can you tell if she is still alive?"



"Yes."



***





The Ragnarok -- 0230 Hrs.



Blaze awakened, chained to a nicely floral papered wall, bereft of all of her clothing and dressed in a short white shift. Her eyes were slightly blurred and she felt rather nauseous.



"Took a seludium bullet before putting down that idiot Arthur I see," she heard a voice say. "And still jumped right back into the fray, like a good scout should."



Lifting her head she saw Lord Gordon decked out in his finest lounge wear. He was strutting back and forth, fingering the shackle which had so recently been around her leg. "Ah, Lord Gordon, how unlike you to make two mistakes in the same day," she said sarcastically.



Gordon paused from his long strides and cocked his head at her. "Always ready with witticisms, how impressive." He said laconically. "Really, dear, you do take this whole good/evil thing far too seriously."



"Oh, do you think so? That's probably because the cosmos likes balance, and you take it far too lightly." She could feel from the sluggishness of her body that he had drugged her. That was very bad. And he had foolishly kept her alive, which was also bad. Only time would tell who exactly this would be bad for and who it would be worse for.



"Lightly?" He laughed. "Ah, Captain. You are so very amusing. If anyone appears to be taking things lightly here, it is you."



"How so?" She goaded. It would do well to let him waste time on her.



Trying to fix her eyes with his, FitzHumphrey failed utterly. He hated her resistance. Even drugged to this dizzy extreme she still managed to resist his suggestions. He couldn't risk drugging her more, she would either lose consciousness, or possibly slip into a coma. That would waste his time. "Are you ready to trade your life for some nobody from this continuum?" He pouted at her. "Yes, of course you are. Don't even bother launching into more rhetoric... Are you ready to be tortured to reveal his location? That is the real question."



"If I say no, does that mean you won't torture me?" Blaze asked innocently. FitzHumphrey's hand shot out and grasped her by the throat, squeezing just enough to cut off her air. He wanted her to struggle to pull free, but she held still and continued to look at him.



"Just how much can you take, Captain... How many parts of your body are you willing to do without? Don't flatter yourself into thinking that you can hold out against my persuasions... Remember, I was doing this for a living several centuries before you were even born." He released her, satisfied at the rough sound of her sucking in air. It invigorated him to see her fastened to the wall and at his mercy. If he was not on a time table he would have hoped that she could hold out a very long time indeed. Of course she wouldn't. She was only Solomani. Barely worth his effort.



Coughing and trying to catch her breath all at once, Blaze shook her head at him, giving him a reproaching glance.



"You have misconceptions regarding your mortality," he informed her. "I intend to remedy that."



"I think," Blaze rasped at her captor, "that if you could afford to kill me you would have already, FitzHumphrey. That's your second mistake, allowing yourself to need me alive."



There was threat in her voice, and certainty. Lord Gordon despised those qualities in an enemy. Especially one from a lower form of humaniti. "If so, Captain, then it is a lucky mistake for you."



He turned and walked away from her. This was a small victory for her. She had riled him enough that he needed to leave her proximity in order to cool his hot temper. That was time. Time was friend and enemy, for her, but for Gordon FitzHumphrey, she knew, it was simply an enemy.



***



the Perilous -- 0300 Hrs.



Tim O'Brien sat in the dark velvety interior of the command center of the Perilous, and looked at the console for long moments. He had spent too much time thinking, he knew that, but it was going to be a puzzle on how to get the ship to do what he wanted, needed to do. He had paced the entire length of the trans-phaeton. The duty portions of the ship were starkly in contrast with the aft section, which was bright and cheery, rather than this womb-like decor. He had taken the opportunity to ransack Blaze's quarters.



Well, not exactly ransack, search and seizure came closer. He had found a blaster. It looked somewhat like a toy. There was a nicely tooled leather belt and holster for it, with a celtic motif, and a circular buckle depicting Pictish horses. The inscription inside the belt read: "To Mom, Love Micah and Wils" and had to have been written by the boys when they were very young.



He had also found an away kit. It's contents were that same mixture of familiar/alien which much of the accoutrements of the ship had for him. A medical kit, some sort of scanner, and so on...



Mostly, in this midnight of the soul, O'Brien was feeling guilty for being the one who had incapacitated his ally. He felt the click of the tracking device sealing around her ankle over and over. It made him wonder if lesions like those he had seen on her shoulder had formed beneath her clothing, or if the clothing had, somehow insulated her from that affect. He rubbed his hands together to dispel the sensation.



Prepared now, he was ready to take on a battle of logic with the sentient, but not autonomous, ship. He focused his gaze on the console and cleared his throat. "Ship." He said.



"Admiral." The ship replied.



It was a start. He nodded, "can you see me?"



"Not see, Admiral, but I do perceive your presence in the co-pilot's position."



"Aha." They had previously established that the ship would not fly for him, and it certainly wouldn't fire weapons for him. He was not allowed access to its memory system, schematics or plans. As a star fleet officer he understood these things even if they pissed the hell out of him. Rubbing his chin, he leaned toward the console, cajoling the ship as if it were a woman, knowing that he would have had far better luck with a woman. "If I asked you to, would you transport me to the bridge of the Voodoo?"



"Yes."



"If I moved the Voodoo would you be able to maintain your position relative to her?"



"No, Admiral. I must receive orders to power up sufficiently to maneuver."



"Wouldn't that leave you vulnerable to attack? Or at least to detection?" O'Brien postulated.



"Yes."



"So, if I asked you to transport me to the Voodoo, and you knew that I was going to move her off, would you still allow me to go?"



"Yes."



O'Brien smiled, "then if I told you to wait a specified period of time after you had returned me to my vessel and come into phase with our continuum... Would you be able to do that?"



There was a pause. "Phasic variation is automated once there are no sentients on board."



O'Brien's smile widened. "Could you park yourself nicely in our shuttle bay, Perilous, darlin'?"



"Yes."



"If we came under attack, the Voodoo I mean, could you somehow help us shield her against weaponry from the enemy which your Captain was sent to protect me?"



***



the Voodoo -- 0310 Hrs.



Lt Commander Natook sat uneasily in the command seat of the Voodoo. Her round face was pensive. No one on the ship was, at the moment particularly happy with the situation. Not only had they lost, misplaced or otherwise managed to not know where O'Brien was, they had also heard about the condition in which Rear Admiral Hastings had been found in the Brig. No one knew exactly what was going on, of that she was certain. It made the officers antsy, and the crew even antsier.



Macy had not recovered sufficiently to give a statement yet, Corgan was missing and presumed dead, considering the statement that the Bajoran had given. She found it difficult to believe that O'Brien could have met that fate. The old man was smart, and foxy. If anyone could squeak out of a tight spot, the Inuit woman mused, he could.



"Admiral on the bridge!" L'tal shouted, coming to attention.



Natook rose out of her chair as if hauled by ropes. "Admiral!" All around the bridge the title was exclaimed.



"Natook, prepare main hanger for pressure changes, stat. L'tal cold start her and cloak. Move off three hundred meters, pick your own course. Then hold steady there." Now he was in his element. "Rivera, I want a rundown on any craft that arrived in the last twelve hours, crew and command codes."



"Aye, sir," came the responses.



"Moortel, contact the station and inform them on a secure channel, as senior officer in the sector I am taking command. All ships and station facilities are to lock down weapons for a ten section duration upon our signal. And cancel whatever outstanding warrants are issued for the red head, if anyone sees her or thinks they see her, report directly to me."



"Aye, Admiral." Moortel flew into action.



"Admiral, an alien craft has appeared in the main hanger." Chief Locke reported.



"Good, that's a friendly, put it on screen." It was good to be in charge. It was better to be in charge on his own ship, with a crew that knew his thoughts even as he did.



Several low whistles brought his attention to the main screen. There he saw for the first time, the dark silhouette of the Perilous. It was a sleek phantom of a ship. Barely visible even on the floor of the brightly lit hanger deck. Most amazing was its apparent size, No more than two meters tall and certainly not more than thirty meters long. O'Brien swore under his breath. An enemy with technology like that would not be a good thing even at the best of times, and the Federation was fighting on too many fronts already...



***



The Voodoo -- 0330 Hrs



"Sir," Lt. Rivera was at the ready room door, which had been left open. Captain Chitandra thought it best if anyone who wanted to peek in at the Admiral could. She was astute about the needs of the crew as always. There had been a virtual parade.



Now she beckoned the Lieutenant to enter, "yes, Rivera?"



"Captain, Admiral... It's the Ragnarok."



"What about the Ragnarok?" O'Brien prompted.



"Sir, she is showing the correct command signature, and all; but, Ensign Boulingham says that she knows for a fact that they were out in Sector 379 just two days ago. She spoke to her twin sister aboard the Ragnarok at that time."



Chitandra raised one of her elegant black eyebrows, causing the red dot in the center of her forehead to move just slightly. "Aha, and there is no way to come all that way in two days... Admiral?"



O'Brien nodded. Leave to Rivera to know who had kin on which ship. "Then we go by the assumption that that is our enemy. Have the ship in the hold scanned and when the black out period occurs scan the Ragnarok to see if it has a similar signature. Don't expect an exact match. Let's do it with imagination."



Chitandra nodded, rose from her seat with serpentine grace and prowled onto the bridge.



"You realize, Admiral, that if we open fire on another fleet ship..." Ship's counsellor Riga intoned calmly.



"Our collective ass is grass, Riga. That is not the Ragnarok."



"Well, Timothy, I wouldn't have put it in those terms." The Betazoid smiled calmly. He liked this assignment more than any other he had drawn before. It was a good ship. "Why are you feeling so guilty? It seems to me that there is no conferring blame upon your actions in any of this."



"Mm." O'Brien grunted in reply. He said nothing further, because explaining would waste time better spent planning; yet his hands still felt the sensation of the shackle clicking around her ankle and his memory associated it with images of the lesions he had seen on her fair skin.



Riga let it rest. He was nobody's fool: time was a major concern at the moment, and there would either be occasion for the discussion later, or none of it would matter.



***



The Ragnarok -- 0356 Hrs.



Not only was it a sign of deep mental disturbance, Blaze had told FitzHumphrey, but it was also a sign of considerable perversity that he choose to keep and question prisoners in his bedroom. While this was, perhaps a less than astute observation, it culled the required reaction from the man before her, and resulted in an action which sent her into unconsciousness. Not long after, she felt the icy cold sting of water bringing her back to her senses. To give credit where credit was due, Blaze had no choice to admit that Gordon FitzHumphrey knew his profession very well. If only he had been able to control his volatile temper... But that was the truest effect of his mental instability.



"You think stalling me is going to help you, Captain." He said this as she sputtered awake. He was dressed in morning attire, sipping an aromatic herbal blend from a very lovely bone china cup, the saucer of which stood on his night table across the room. "I assure you that I am more familiar with the time table of this operation than you might believe. I have twelve more hours of lead time, and I fully intend to use it."



She gazed at him tiredly. It was not a pleasant prospect, and he would not have boasted about it were it not true. Gordon FitzHumphrey was meticulous about scheduling.



"In that time I expect that either you will tell me what you have done to conceal your ship, and hence where I can find my target, or that person whom I seek will make himself known to me in order to rescue you." He returned the cup to it's place upon the saucer and lifted a pastry from the tray next to it. "Would you like a bite?" He offered gaily, and then chortled in extreme pleasure at his wry humor.



"Thank you, no, Lord Gordon." Blaze replied dryly, as if she had taken him totally at his word.



"Just as well," He bit the delicate puff pastry daintily, and then set the rest back onto the plate. "Can you imagine? Star Fleet (what a creative name) issues it own china! I almost respect them for that." Fingering the cup again he sighed. "You are a most annoying person, you know. You refuse to play with me in such a consistent manner. I think I shall have to make it my business to find an adequate way in which to repay your consideration." Approaching her again he eyed her up and down. "Perhaps I could send one of my operatives on a connubial visit to your sons? Gunnar, perhaps?"



Blaze snapped her head up, lunging forward to the extent the chains would allow her, in a vain attempt to crack FitzHumphrey in the nose with her head. But he had anticipated the maneuver, and was just clear of her by centimeters. She glowered at him.



"See, you do have soft spot." FitzHumphrey grinned.



Blaze spat a gob of blood at him. It missed his face, but landed on his oh so white cravat. In a way that was better. His hand shot out to strike her, but this time he checked himself.



"No, no I think that this time I will use something more... in keeping with the spirit of the occasion." Turning away he walked to his dressing room, reappearing in moments wearing a clean cravat, and carrying a small black device. It was oval and shone with its glossy finish. "Have you ever met one of these before?" He held it before her eyes, "no I think not," he whispered softly to her. "You are going to love this."



He placed the small object on her wrist, just below the chafe marks from the manacles. "Observe."



Blaze was and had always been a looker. By that, I mean, she watched all medical procedures performed on her, she wanted to know what was going on during any implants. And she had always performed minor self surgeries. It was not the best of quirks, but she had to look. The small black device was cold, and it began to burrow itself just under her skin. The sensation was, even understated, excruciating.



"I call it the flay-o-matic. I was saving it for a particular nemesis of mine, but you've riled me, Captain, so you've only yourself to blame."



Blaze was about to come back with a retort, but the small lump began to move, almost like a ringworm, or a boreworm, but far more precise. Instead of remarking on FitzHumphrey's state of sanity, she had to clench her teeth together in order not to scream.



***



the Voodoo -- 0356 Hrs.



"Now, Lieutenant." Chitandra said in her deep and authoritative voice.



For ten whole seconds the entire crew held it's breath. And then from the sciences station T'pol announced: "That is not a Federation vessel. It is displaying similar characteristics to the chronoton signature of the smaller ship, indicating similar origins." The Vulcan raised her eyebrow expressively, "however, in every other aspect, it does appear to be the Ragnarok. Hull density, massing, conformation, command codification and power signature all match."



"Hmmm. An effective chameleon." O'Brien folded his arms across his chest and looked down at Chitandra, who was seated in her command chair, presiding over this operation.



"The strongest readings emanate from deep inside deck five." T'pol continued.



"High resolution scan for life forms." Chitandra said to L'tal.



"Aye, sir."



O'Brien didn't realize that he was holding his breath until he inhaled once more. And by then, he could breathe, because he had a course of action to pursue.



***



The Ragnarok -- 0400 Hrs.



FitzHumphrey paused from his interrogation to realize, "we've been scanned." It enraged him that the puny excuses for humaniti in this continuum had scanned his vessel. "You will tell me where the man is, now!" He screamed the words at his prisoner. "Or you will suffer such agony as..."



FitzHumphrey slid to the floor. Blaze watched him do this and then looked up. O'Brien stood there holding her blaster. He blew across it's muzzle in an exaggerated manner, but then noticed her predicament as being more dire than he had suspected. "Blaze!"



"Hello, Tim. Could you take this thing out from my arm, please?"



He did, and that met with the business end of the blaster as well. Next he searched the unconscious man for a way to open the manacles, but they also ended up being subject to the finest setting of the weapon. The woman collapsed against him.



"Tell me you found my med-kit." She whispered.



"Not only that, but I have it with me." He opened it up, and settled her onto the floor. As she talked him through it, the very first injections got sprayed into the man, at the base of his skull. Only then would she allow him to see to her injuries.



"I think I should have killed him." O'Brien remarked as he saw to her.



"No. No, dead folks don't learn nuthin'," Blaze replied somewhat tiredly.



"Could you use this?" He offered her the little green pin fellow.



"Thank you kindly, sir." She attached it to the wet and rather revealing shift. Suddenly she was in uniform again, and just as suddenly, Gordon FitzHumphrey disappeared. "I did that."



"Good."



"Prisoners like Gord-o have to be kept in cryogenic suspension. We have never found another method that works as well."



"I see." Lifting her, despite her protests that she could stand, he said, "I am taking you to sickbay on the Voodoo. I don't want any lip."



"You're the Admiral."



He shifted her so that he could access his com-badge. The transporter shimmered around them and they were in sickbay.

***



The Voodoo -- 0415 Hrs.



O'Brien had lain her on a bed and watched his doctor go to work. She was not conscious by the time the transport had brought them here. Assessing the amount of damage to her, he realized that perhaps that was just as well.



"Foolish of you to go over there alone, Admiral." Chitandra said into his ear as she came up behind him. "But, I can see that your motivations were honest ones." His Captain regarded the woman on the bed and continued: "As far as we can tell, the other ship is malfunctioning. The away team reported that they were surrounded by heavy mist, and had no visibility. They also reported severe head ache and we had to transport them back."



O'Brien nodded. "As I told you, it is a security measure inherent to these vessels. Very well, Captain, keep the Ragnarok in tow and we'll see if our... friend can shed some light on the matter when she wakes up." He turned to the Doctor. "Gandalf?"



The Doctor turned from his patient to his Admiral. "There are some very bizarre chemical reactions occurring in this woman, Tim. Her metabolism is rapidly repairing the damage. But she will be fine, can't afford to lose my image as a magician."



"How soon 'till she awakens?" O'Brien looked at her features soft in this restful mode.



"I won't even try to guess. An hour? Seven? A day? She has to be seriously fatigued on top of the injury." He knitted his bushy white eyebrows. "Someone will be here with her."



"Damn right." O'Brien said, pulling up a chair and planting himself in it. "Chitandra, stand down from alert. Post shuttles around the Ragnarok until we can figure out how the hell to deal with it, and tell Captain Lotar on the Outpost that he can talk to me here if he needs me."



"Aye," the Captain intoned. But her grin that followed the acceptance of this command indicated that she thought it amusing that O'Brien would stay in sick bay any longer than he had to. It was, as a rule an area of the ship he was always in a hurry to leave. Still, she didn't tarry. Nor did the Doctor, as soon as he received one of the Admiral's dismissing scowls.





the Voodoo -- 1730 Hrs.



Blaze awakened reaching under her pillow. Only it wasn't her pillow, but the blaster was there. She looked over to where O'Brien sat next to her, reading some screen.



"Hello." He said this peeking up over his e-pad. "You are looking very much better."



"Thank you."



"Sorry about the ankle thing."



"No problem. It isn't like you knew it was a trap." She sat up and he handed her the belt and holster for the blaster. "I guess you found this aboard the Perilous?"



"I did a little ransacking when you sent me off from the brig. You don't mind? I thought you would wake up better with the weapon in it's usual place." He grinned, "you must be fun to sleep with."



"Wouldn't you like to know." She returned his grin as both holster and weapon disappeared. "Man," she pushed her hair back from her face and slid onto her feet, "he managed to disguise his whole ship! Impressive."



"Yes, I hadn't thought of that until I was talking to your ship for a while."



"You were chatting with the Perilous? How did she do?" Blaze grasped her hair and quickly braided it. "She isn't usually very good with strangers."



"Oh, we managed. It was not unlike trying to deal with a well trained dog, but one that isn't certain whether or not it likes you." It was easy to tell from her expression that she liked the analogy.



"I see," meeting his eyes she asked, "are you certain that you didn't use that rakish charm of yours to appeal to her feminine side?"



"Oh no, that would have been so much easier!"



They laughed together. The laughter summoned the Doctor, who scanned the woman without so much as a by your leave. "This is quite remarkable."



"Blaze, this is Frederick Godolphin, our ship's physician. Lovingly known as Gandalf." O'Brien indicated them to each other, "Gandalf, this is Blaze."



The Solomani offered her hand, "Leave it to a red blooded Irishman to come up with a nickname for a Godolphin. Pleasure, Dr. Gandalf."



"Miss."



"Please, call me Blaze."



"Or... Captain." O'Brien substituted.



She shrugged and nodded, making light of the title. "I think Star Fleet has enough captains around that you don't need to muddy the waters with one more."



"Captain, do you think you could utilize some of your medical technology to help the Rear Admiral?"



The woman's eyes opened wide. "He's still alive?"



"Yes." Both of the men said at once.



"Take me to him."



***



Outpost 475 -- 1740 Hrs.



The woman's face glistened with sweat by the time she looked up from Rear Admiral Hastings. "What a lucky man," she sighed.



"He is Betazoid on his mother's side." The nurse standing next to her, a Vulcan, informed her.



"Yep, and it saved his life. You should recommend he gets some training for these psionics of his. His latent abilities must be rather powerful in order for him to instinctively shield himself from an assault like that."



O'Brien leaned against a nearby wall and watched as the nurse took charge of the Admiral, who was now still unconscious, but no longer in need of life support. His brain functions had come back up to a nominal level.



"And you can induce this healing in anyone?" The nurse asked.



"Almost anyone. I can't rebuild the damaged pathways, they've been erased, so he will have some gaps in his short term memory of the events of the past few days."



"Almost makes me wish I'd been insubordinate to him." O'Brien jested lightly.



The Vulcan nurse gave him a reproachful glance.



"Oh, Timothy O'Brien, with your luck he'd remember that part, and that part only." Blaze shot back.



He slid his arm about her waist, to help steady her from the exertion she had just been through. "Right, if you say so." He noticed that she made absolutely no attempt to refuse this bit of physical assistance, and that made him happy.



"Do you Tango, Admiral O'Brien?" She asked suddenly.



"As a matter of fact, I do." He replied, moving her dapperly from one side of him to the other in a smooth dance move as they exited the infirmary.



"Hmm," she grinned. "What say I go to my ship, shower and change into something more appropriate to dance in and meet you for..."



"Dinner?" He prompted.



"Dinner," she agreed.



"Yes, I would insist upon it!" He said, giving her a wink.



"And, while we dance... Well, maybe I can tell you more about that ritual I mentioned." Her grey eyes sparkled as he looked into them, and she returned his wink.



"I will await your return then, Blaze." He released her. Instantly the warm spot of her body next to his felt cooler. He attempted to remind himself that she was married, and that all that would occur was dancing and dinner.



"It will take me a few moments, Admiral, then I will meet you at your quarters."



And she did.



-The End-

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