This type of tale has a long and distinguished history within the bounds of the Star Trek universe. It’s also the last one I’ll write for a while in which Kate Sheridan figures prominently—though not in the way you might assume.

There are a number of elements here that may become important in later stories. Then, again, they may all be red herrings. That’s for me to know, and for you to desperately speculate about….

"I don’t care who started it!"

Commander Erika Benteen glared at the assemblage of officers and enlisted personnel—seven men and women in various states of disrepair—sighed, and shook her head.

"In case you hadn’t noticed, people, we’re in the middle of a war... and our side isn’t doing so well. Beating on each other doesn’t help matters."

Benteen didn’t imagine she looked much better than they did, having been woken out of a sound sleep exactly eight minutes ago by Lieutenant Sito. The Bajoran had told her, with some trepidation, that there’d been another “incident” in the All-Ranks Club.

"That new squad of marines has been aboard for less than 20 days," she continued angrily, "yet the Starfleet personnel on this ship have managed to get into not one, but two brawls with them in that time."

And to add insult to injury, she left unspoken, our side’s gotten the worst of it twice now.

The two officers in the otherwise dejected line-up presented startlingly different pictures: While Vaerth Parihn was attempting to suppress a smirk, Johannes Müeller practically shriveled into a pocket dimension when Benteen stopped in front of him. She raked him with an infuriated gaze, and whispered, "Rather than waste my imagination, I’m simply going to let Sito deal with you, Mister... especially since she practically begged to handle the discipline for any security personnel involved. Far be it for me to interfere in a department head’s methodology."

She continued her glare for a moment, making certain he was thoroughly, evenly cooked, then concluded, "Report to security station alpha, Ensign... immediately."

Müeller’s expression as he trudged off made it apparent that he’d have preferred if the marines had simply killed him.

"As a matter of fact, all of you report to your supervisors. I’m sure each of them will find tasks which will put the abundance of energy you seem to have to good use. Since you obviously can’t take a few empty insults without feeling the need to express yourselves, let’s give you another outlet.

"Dismissed," she finished in weary disgust. As a group, they all filed towards the briefing room door.

"Not you, Parihn... or have you forgotten that I am your supervisor?"

The young Orion stopped abruptly, squared her shoulders, and turned back.

"No, ma’am... I haven’t forgotten," she answered silkily. "I just assumed we could discuss it on the way to the bridge... I’m on duty in three minutes."

"Actually, you’re right, Ensign," nodded Benteen in seeming agreement, as they strode down the hall and boarded the turbolift. "We might as well do it that way—especially because the captain told me he wanted to see, and I quote, “the ringleader,” personally... and, well, your rank and position as an alpha shift bridge officer makes you most responsible for what happened down there."

Strangely enough, the statement provoked a smile. When Benteen raised a curious eyebrow, she explained. "With all due respect, Commander, just because Orion animal women can incite men to riot, you shouldn’t assume I… well… incited the men to riot.

"At least this time."

Benteen frowned, not precisely sure what to say to that. She’d not been the only one to observe Parihn—who’d once been what she would have considered a model officer—beginning a slow descent into what some might term the lascivious savagery of her animalistic kin. It seemed that every time there’d been trouble aboard over the last six months, she’d been its focus. Each step downward in her behavior had coincided with news of another Federation defeat in the war.

And, unfortunately, there’d been a lot of defeats.

Erika had struggled with how to help her. The Orion still performed her duties brilliantly—in some ways, even more competently than she had before these troubles began. In addition, because of her skills, they simply couldn’t afford to relieve her as a disciplinary action: if she weren’t at the helm when they needed her because of behavioral trivia... well, there’d be hell to pay.

Captain Mantovanni had made that abundantly clear.

Thus, Benteen fell back on a time-honored device.

"You can tell it to the captain, Ensign, when we–"

The ship rocked with the impact of heavy weapons fire on her shields, and the two women were slammed into the wall of the car.

"Red alert!" came the voice of Sito over the intercom. "All hands to–" Another succession of blows cut off her announcement.

Benteen and Parihn managed, though, to get the gist.

***

"That seems to be it, for the moment, sir. Short range sensors are clear."

Luciano Mantovanni glanced around at the smoking consoles and broken bodies that littered the bridge of his ship, and managed a nod.

"Maintain yellow alert. Keep our shields deployed at least minimally, Sito... that squadron seemed to come out of nowhere, and I don’t want us caught nearly unawares again."

"Aye, aye, sir," she acknowledged. "Damage control teams report hull breaches on decks five, seven, eight and nine. Commander MacLeod relays that the port power coupling is down; no warp drive, she says, for at least fifty minutes. Shield generators one and five are..."

The captain wasn’t exactly tuning her out, but the litany of troubles was much like those they’d dealt with yesterday… and the day before….

When she got to "Sickbay reports 18 dead, 37 injured—five seriously,” though, the Sicilian was finally roused from his brooding.

He replied grimly, "Sito, you know the drill… just do what has to be done."

She fell silent for a moment, chastened… then whispered, "Aye, sir."

He glanced again at the main viewer, where the aftermath of the battle was displayed in unfortunate detail.

Though the assault force of 35 Jem’Hadar fighters and Galor-class cruisers had been shattered, Starfleet Task Force 119 was no longer worthy of the name. Of the nine ships which had comprised the cobbled-together assault group, only three remained... and from the looks of both Hood and Athene, they were never going anywhere again.

"Get me Captains DeSoto and Forrest, Lieutenant."

Sito manipulated her panel, and a split screen showing their counterparts’ bridges was the result. Maitland Forrest sagged in his chair, coughing profusely, while smoke poured from the tactical station behind him. Aboard Hood, a severe-looking Vulcan officer wearing the rank of commander held herself with a regal bearing, despite the weariness evident on her face.

Forrest, miraculously, managed a grin. "Hell of a fight, but we win again."

Mantovanni nodded infinitesimally.

"I regret to inform you," the Vulcan woman announced without preamble, "that Captain DeSoto is dead, sir."

This time, Liberty’s commander gave no reaction at all.

"Both of you... prepare to transport yourselves and your survivors aboard the Liberty... we’re getting out of here."

T’Kann, Hood’s X-O, yielded immediately to the logic of the circumstances; she nodded in assent. Captain Forrest, however, shook his head.

"I’m going to have to disagree with you on this one, Captain Mantovanni... we believe we can restore warp drive within four hours..."

"I know you could... but we won’t be here in four hours, and according to Liberty’s long range sensors, the Jem’Hadar will—another attack group is only an hour-and-a-half away."

"I’m willing to take that risk," Forrest replied stubbornly. "We may be able to shave the repair time..."

Liberty’s captain saw the direction in which the discussion was inevitably heading.

There was no way to stop it.

Reluctantly, he continued, "Captain Forrest, I have no doubt in the abilities of your crew to work miracles… it just isn’t an option in this situation. Prepare to beam over."

"Damnit, I will not abandon my ship! Not while there’s even a hope!"

Luciano Mantovanni knew without question that he’d never be able to persuade Maitland Forrest from his stance under normal circumstances... the man had a will of iron.

"Erika," he asked quietly, "I need your assessment. Is there any possibility Athene could be underway before the Jem’Hadar attack force we’re tracking on long range scanners gets here?"

Benteen’s voice nearly cracked. "In my opinion, none, sir."

"She could be wrong," Forrest argued. "I want that chance!"

He imagined himself in his counterpart’s position, desperate to save his ship… God knew he’d been there before. He sympathized, but he couldn’t afford to have sentiment cloud his decision-making.

"Sito," he ordered calmly, "lock phasers on the Athene’s starboard nacelle support pylon."Shear it off."

To her credit, the young Bajoran didn’t hesitate for a moment: Liberty’s formidable weapons struck mercilessly, and Athene’s warp capability floated away.

"You bastard..." Forrest whispered.

"OK," Mantovanni gritted, hating himself for what he’d done… and Forrest for forcing his hand.

"Now there’s no chance."

***

"Well... they insulted you, sir."

Mantovanni seemed less than impressed with this fact. "Ah… I see. And that standing order I issued to the crew that requires all of you to attack anyone who insults me must have been your motivation at that point?"

Benteen smothered a grin; her commanding officer had a way with sarcasm that left the object of his wrath squirming like a piece of live bait. Even Parihn was no exception.

She looked up at him through her shock of black hair. It was decidedly a sexual pose, but the captain either didn’t notice, or refused to acknowledge it.

"No, sir..." she answered, rather saucily. "It’s just that... there are insults and there are insults... "

That piqued the captain’s attention, and Benteen’s as well.

"I’m waiting, Parihn," he prodded.

"Mmmmm," she acknowledged; it was obvious from her rather predatory expression that she was thinking about him waiting for something other than a reply. Suddenly, though, she recovered herself, and straightened into a semblance of attention.

"They called you a… a… brooding, emotionless weirdo."

The Orion seemed genuinely angry on his behalf. Erika wasn’t surprised at the nameless marine’s statement—the captain, she’d been told, was essentially inscrutable even to many who’d served with him for years. Benteen thought back to what had happened with the Athene only an hour before; it was an excellent example.

Even after Mantovanni’s ruthless action, Forrest had still refused to leave his ship; he’d asked for a handful of volunteers, and had promised to prepare a surprise for the Jem’Hadar when they came to claim his “abandoned” vessel.

Liberty’s captain had found he couldn’t deny his comrade the chance; and, against his better judgment, had allowed him and some of the command crew to stay behind and make one last stand. Forrest, to his credit, had realized after cooling off a bit that Mantovanni had probably saved most of his crew with the unorthodox action he’d taken. They’d parted, if not friends, respectfully.

She was drawn back to the present. Whatever the captain had just said to Parihn had gotten past Benteen while she was in her reverie, but it seemed to have had an effect. The Orion actually looked apologetic—at least for the moment.

"Yes, sir," she murmured. "I’ll make an effort to do that."

The captain and his exec exchanged quick glances; then Mantovanni addressed Parihn again.

"That will be all, Ensign. The commander will inform you concerning additional disciplinary action, if any. Assume your station."

"Yes, sir."

She pivoted smartly, and left the ready room.

Benteen found herself wondering how long this particular bit of newfound discipline would last.

After the doors had closed behind her, the captain sighed minutely and muttered, "I didn’t have the heart to tell her."

She caught on immediately. "You mean the fact that you are a brooding, emotionless weirdo… sir?"

Mantovanni didn’t answer one way or another.

Instead, he simply told her, "I knew you were ideal for this job, Commander."

Erika grinned; the expression was charmingly impudent, but short-lived. It soured into more of a grimace as her annoyance at the crew—and the reality of their situation—returned to the forefront of her thoughts.

Just then, the captain’s comm badge chirped.

"Bridge to Mantovanni. The marine squad leader—a Lieutenant Smith—is waiting to see you and the commander."

"Tell him to stand fast, Sito."

"Aye, sir."

At his raised eyebrow, Benteen explained.

"I thought we could impress on him our collective… irritation."

He nodded, but she wasn’t finished.

"I was forced to make it an order… for some reason, he seemed loath to converse with you. Maybe he simply wanted to handle it ‘in house.’"

"Understandable," Mantovanni allowed, "especially considering we don’t have a lot of time for such minutia."

Benteen, though, shook her head.

"If he’d wished to do it that way, then he should have done it before the second fight broke out."

The captain inclined his head in assent. "That’s your decision, Commander... I’m not about to second-guess you. However, considering how successful you’ve been with Parihn, you may want to consider giving Smith a little more rope."

It was a very matter-of-fact observation… and hurt all the more for it. Erika nodded stiffly.

He motioned to the door, and she stepped close enough to trigger its mechanism.

"Lieutenant, would you step in here, please?"

In response to her request, a man in the black and green duty uniform of the Starfleet Marine Corps entered. He sharply turned towards the desk, marched off the remaining distance and saluted with an economic precision.

"Sir, Lieutenant Smith reporting as ordered."

Mantovanni examined the younger man. If there was anyone he’d ever seen that could have been labeled “nondescript” in appearance, Smith fit the bill: close-cropped brown hair, hazel eyes and a face that would neither stop traffic nor break mirrors.

Completely unremarkable, yet... there was something unmistakably familiar about him.

Benteen didn’t notice her captain’s unusual expression… or, if she did, chalked it up to irritation at her rather than curiosity about his visitor.

"Please sit down, Lieutenant," she instructed firmly. "We have a problem that needs resolving."

Smith lowered himself stiffly into one of the chairs across from his until now silent host. Sure enough, he sat at attention; palms down, arms parallel to his legs.

As Benteen took the other chair, the captain began.

"My executive officer and I wanted to discuss the disturbing trend towards brawling that’s manifested itself since the arrival of your new squad aboard the Liberty."

Smith nodded. "Yes, sir. Will she be arriving soon?"

There was an uncomfortable moment.

Benteen looked at him askance. "Excuse me?"

The young marine frowned.

"I apologize, Commander; I didn’t mean to offend you. You’ll be representing the X-O in this matter, then?"

Now Mantovanni spoke. "That’s not particularly amusing, Lieutenant."

"Begging your pardon, sir… I’m confused. Either the X-O is going to handle this with you, or she isn’t. With all due respect, which is it?"

Benteen leaned forward in her chair, and snapped, "I know you’ve only been with us for less than a month, Lieutenant. Generally speaking, though, officers who transfer to the Liberty take the time to learn the command structure of the ship before they come aboard… or at least some time in the weeks following that."

Smith’s voice hardened a bit.

"I did… ma’am. However, I hadn’t been informed of your promotion. It was my understanding that Commander Sheridan was the X-O."

"Commander… Sheridan?" She shot a perplexed glance at Mantovanni, who raised an eyebrow infinitesimally. Turning back to Smith, Benteen asked the only question now on her mind.

"Who the hell is Commander Sheridan?!"

***

"All right, Ensign… try to remember that no one here is dismissing your assertions,” Hatshepsut purred. She then added, "I haven’t even heard them yet, remember."

The object of the counselor’s attentions shook her head repeatedly.

"No... let’s just forget it... I was only joking, and my supervisor took it seriously. I admit that it was in poor taste, but..."

Hatshepsut wasn’t buying it. "I don’t think that’s the case, Alexandra," she replied firmly. "Lieutenant Pallini said that you were quite agitated as your... difference of perspective became more pronounced... that you actually yelled at her, and practically burst into tears when everyone in the department backed her version of things."

"Theresa’s not angry with you. She simply thought you needed to speak with someone."

Ensign Alexandra Cawley didn’t seem encouraged by the counselor’s reassurances. Her expression crossed momentarily from agitated to panic-stricken, and a stream of words flooded forth.

"I can’t have something like this on my record... I’ll never get anywhere in Starfleet... they’ll label me a... a..." as she struggled to complete the sentence, her expression grew wild eyed.

She’s on the verge of what they used to call a nervous breakdown, Hatshepsut realized. Besides, she thought bitterly, you shouldn’t worry too much, Ensign; in another two months or so, there may not be a Starfleet.

"I’ll make you a deal," the Felisian found herself saying. She had no idea why she’d done it, but decided to trust her instincts.

In the short term, at least, it seemed to have paid off: The offer managed to pierce through Cawley’s anguish.

"You tell me exactly what happened—leaving nothing out—and I promise not to include it in your official records as treatment, or even as a counseling session, if that’s what you want.

"We’re off the record. Now, please... talk to me."

After a moment, and a deep, shuddering breath, she did.

***

"I can see why you didn’t particularly want to meet with me."

Smith seemed to be a master at keeping an emotionless facade when such was necessary.

He sensed, though, that in this case it would be futile.

"I don’t suppose we can speak privately?" the marine asked. The change in his voice was startling: Gone was most of the formal rigidity; it had been replaced by something that was best described as “bitterly amused.”

Benteen had watched in growing confusion as her captain and his guest began what was obviously a private conversation within the larger discussion. She was able to tell that Mantovanni surprised Smith with his next statement, though.

"Erika, you have the bridge."

She’d learned some time ago that any protest when the captain’s voice had taken on that tone was an exercise in futility.

"Aye, sir."

As the door slid shut behind her, Smith stood, and motioned to the trio of swords on the wall—asking silently for permission to examine them in more detail. Mantovanni nodded, and the marine moved carefully around the desk.

"When did you recognize me?" he asked.

"Not until you got a little annoyed with Commander Benteen," the Sicilian told him. "You have a particularly recognizable—dare I say it—iron to your tone when you’re aggravated."

His guest smiled slightly. "I knew that Vulcan-inspired attention to detail might be troublesome... that’s why I’d determined to stay as far away from you as I could."

Liberty’s commander noted with interest that Smith’s entire demeanor had changed—he was simultaneously warier of his surroundings and more at ease with himself. It was an intriguing paradox.

The captain continued, "Your appearance hasn’t changed in the ninety-odd years since I saw you last. Considering that your personnel record has you listed as a ‘human male, age 33,’ I’ll take a stab at the fact that someone was naughty when filling out their Marine application."

That got a reaction.

"We don’t have time for this," Smith answered angrily. "You have a problem aboard your ship."

Mantovanni’s eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes... this... Commander Sheridan you claim should be Liberty’s first officer. A woman, I might add, that no one but you has ever seen.

"I’ll throw a few other possibilities your way, Smith, and you tell me which one is the most likely.

"One, you’re delusional: ‘Commander Sheridan’ exists only in your imagination, and the physical resemblance I noted is purely coincidental.

"Two, you’re an alien who’s decided to amuse himself aboard my ship by assuming the form of a man I only half remember from a century ago. Your goal: To spread confusion by inventing a woman about whom we can now worry—as if the fact the Federation is losing this war isn’t enough of a problem.

"Three, this is all some kind of elaborate joke, in which case you’ve managed to impress me with your attention to detail. I mean, cosmetic surgery for its humor value is a radical concept. You’ve also made certain that your next posting will involve pounding big rocks into little rocks at Dalarian Prime.

"Four, you’re telling the truth… and you, the supposedly-humanSmith, are at least 125 years old, in addition to being the only one who remembers an officer who, until recently, was my exec.

"Have I about covered it?" he finished.

Smith glared, but didn’t reply. Arrogant jerk, he thought.

"Now you have nothing to say." Mantovanni shook his head in disgust, and tapped his comm badge.     

"Captain to security."     

"Sito. Yes, sir."

Smith fixed Mantovanni with an unwavering stare, and the two locked gazes for a moment. Whether the captain would have relented, ordered his arrest, or simply had him delivered to sickbay for a psych eval, he never found out… because at that moment, the ready room’s door chime sounded.     

After a moment, the Sicilian snapped, "Come in."     

Hatshepsut had someone with her. The girl was a rather petite, pretty young ensign; her tightly curled hair very was nearly the same shade of brown-black as her skin.     

"What can I do for you, Counselor?" the captain asked.     

"I think it’s a matter of what we can do for you, sir," Hatshepsut answered easily. Her companion seemed ready to bolt for the door; only the Felisian’s strategic position between her and it prevented that very action.     

"I’d just had a rather disturbing meeting with our young Ensign Cawley… I was quite concerned for her. When I’d returned to the bridge a few moments ago, Erika was just exiting the ready room, muttering something about a ‘Commander Sheridan’ under her breath."     

"Yes," Mantovanni answered. "The mysterious ‘phantom officer.’"     

Unbidden, Cawley spoke.     

"But that’s just it, sir!" As one, the others turned to listen.     

"When I went to bed last night, Commander Benteen was our Chief of Operations…"     

She hesitated. The sudden, undivided attention of three rather formidable personalities had her slightly cowed. The young officer took another breath, and then continued.     

"…and our X-O was Commander Katherine Sheridan."

***

”Long range sensor probes have confirmed it... the Klingon High Council rejected the Founders’ terms 13 hours ago... the Dominion task force then swept aside what was left of the Imperial Home Fleet, and surrounded Qo’nos."

 Fleet Admiral Necheyev’s expression was haunted.

"They turned the planet’s surface into a molten graveyard."

Mantovanni closed his eyes for a moment, as if to fend off the news by refusing, somehow, to see it.      

"The worlds of the Empire must be descending into complete chaos."     

She nodded silently.    

Whatever chance the Federation had yet retained for winning the war had just plummeted from slim to none. Her staunchest ally had been decapitated; while the body might continue staggering forward a few steps, its eventual death was all but assured…     

…and wouldn’t take long.     

"What about the combined 7th, 15th and 22nd Fleets? I’d heard they engaged the Dominion advance force four days ago..."     

"...and actually managed to fight them to a standstill—at least for now... of 908 ships massed for the battle, only 417 are still space-worthy... of those, perhaps 300 are what I would consider combat ready." Necheyev grimaced.

"I think of the vessels lost in that engagement... Excalibur… Rotarran... Endeavor... and I’m forced to realize that their sacrifices likely bought the Federation another month at the most." For a moment, her tone was embittered. Then her legendary composure asserted itself, and she continued.

"We’ve assembled, in concert with what’s left of the Klingons, a fleet of ships—which is unfortunately being called, colorfully enough, ‘The Last Armada’... I’d try to discourage the practice, but it seems to be fostering a certain type of morbid courage. Gallows humor, I suppose.     

"The fleet will head directly for Cardassia Prime, in hopes of winning through our enemies’ defenses and breaking their will to fight. The Crazy Horse will serve as command ship; I’m going to direct the fleet myself."     

"That’s a daring plan... either punch a hole and strike a telling blow, or go down swinging," Mantovanni observed. Unlike most Starfleet officers, who respected her, but found her abrasiveness grating, he genuinely liked Alynna Necheyev. She was direct; he could appreciate that.     

"Admiral Pierce recommended it. He would have been my choice to lead the final assault... assuming he hadn’t died four days ago when the Liberator was destroyed. He went down trying to manufacture yet another impossible victory out of a borderline defeat."

Liberator, too... Sa’lanna...     

"I’d ask you about your progress, Captain, but from what you’ve already told me, I don’t believe your mission is an option any longer."

They both avoided the other uncomfortable truth—that after the disastrous fleet battle, their previous mission was essentially meaningless.

"Along with the Crazy Horse, Liberty is one of the last four remaining vessels of the Sovereign-class. So much for a brave new era of exploration and discovery, eh?     

"I’d like you here for the final battle, but I don’t know if even you and the Liberty can win through..."    

"Then we’ll try to shake them up from here, Admiral."     

Necheyev smiled. "I have no doubt you will, Captain... we hope to see you soon."

After she’d broken the channel, he found himself examining the Federation logo that filled the comm screen.     

Soon to be a historical curiosity, he thought. The answer to some 27th century exam question... "Draw an approximation of the old UFP logo"..."sorry, only partial credit for ‘Union of Federated Planets.’"

It’s over.     

There were those of us who’d seen it coming ever since Cardassia allied with the Dominion, and Jem’Hadar ships started pouring through the Bajoran wormhole. The Romulans, of course, slunk back behind the Neutral Zone to watch, and haven’t poked a pointed ear out since.    

 I only wish I could be around to see it when the Dominion turns on them.    

As for us... those of us that are left, that is…

Mantovanni emerged from his ready room onto the bridge. He practically flung himself into the center seat, and turned to Benteen, curtly telling, "Senior Staff meeting... fifteen minutes."

***

He nearly stopped short when he entered the observation lounge; Smith and Cawley were assembled with the rest of his officers.

"Congratulations on your respective promotions," he observed sarcastically. Cawley practically cringed; Smith simply rolled his eyes slightly, and waited for the captain to seat himself.

"At any rate... we’re headed back for Federation space; we’ll attempt to link up with a combined fleet the purpose of which…”

"...is to go down in a meaningless blaze of glory," Smith finished.

No one else at the table could remember the last time someone had dared interrupt Mantovanni while he was speaking.     

"I suggest you watch your tone and your attitude, Lieutenant," Benteen warned him hotly.     

The captain dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "That’s all right, Commander. " He turned to Smith. "I assume you and Ensign Cawley are here to push the ‘mass hysteria’ theory?"     

"I invited them to attend." This came from Hatshepsut.     

Mantovanni ignored her: They’d had a falling out a few months before over something both had refused to discuss, and the Felisian had decided then that using her office on deck three was far easier than constantly exchanging fire with him on the bridge.     

"I wanted to tell you all that I’ve appreciated every effort you’ve given on behalf of the Federation over the last two years. You are, without question, the finest group of officers with whom it’s ever been my honor to serve. You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you, and more… and I know I’ve asked too much."     

They were stunned into silence; if anything, coming from their captain, such a speech was essentially a concession… or a eulogy.     

"Remember how much I value you all. Stations, please."     

They rose, and filed out silently. Parihn paused at the doorway; it looked as if the Orion might speak, but then she simply passed through onto the bridge.     

Hatshepsut, Smith, and Cawley remained.     

"We ask that you hear us out," the Felisian began.     

The captain gave no reply.     

"I’ll take that as tacit permission," she continued, undeterred. "I believe this Commander Sheridan did exist as of just a few hours ago… and that her excision from our space/time continuum is the reason for the Federation’s current woes."     

What happened next caused her hackles to rise: Mantovanni started to laugh.

It began as a chuckle, but grew in a few seconds into an incredulous, sneering sound that let them know his current opinion of their theory.

Cawley, who was unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of her captain, frowned nervously, and glanced at the Felisian for support.

Smith and Hatshepsut, though, both of whom were students of human nature, exchanged looks of concern. Liberty’s captain, who had handled many, if not most, of the events in his life with true equanimity, was giving free rein to his feelings.     

It was truly a frightening sight.     

"So," he subsided slightly, "Commander Sheridan can save the Federation, eh? Must be one hell of a broad." This initiated another round of laughter.     

Smith got up, and walked over to the captain. For a moment, Hatshepsut thought the marine was going to hit him.     

She got the feeling Smith considered it, too—at least for a moment, at any rate.     

Instead, he leaned over, and murmured, "I don’t know precisely what you’ve heard, but I have a pretty good idea. The war’s basically lost, I assume."     

To hear it said was like a dash of cold water; and when Mantovanni acknowledged, almost matter-of-factly, "It’s a matter of days or weeks, now,” his voice wasn’t just emotionless.

It was nearly dead.

Everyone present knew they were on the verge of losing him—that the weight of the war, the magnitude of the disaster, had nearly drowned him.

Smith murmured quietly in response, "We’re offering you another option, Captain... your whole career has been about one man being able to make a difference." Desperate, he grabbed Mantovanni by the shoulders and asked, “Why not one woman?"

The physical contact, for a moment, seemed to break through whatever fugue had almost overwhelmed him. In that instant, Mantovanni’s expression was illegible... and all the more terrifying for that.

Then he spoke.

“Mr. Smith, I suggest you unhand me… while you still have both.”

A part of the man they knew had suddenly, unexpectedly resurfaced.     

"You’ve got two minutes to convince me.”

Alexandra Cawley stepped forward. They all noted the girl seemed suddenly to have a strength she’d lacked until this very moment. "Despite my name, sir, I’m not of English descent. I am Wiradjuri, Captain... what the whites of old Terra used to call Australian Aborigines.      

"Last night I was in my quarters, performing an ancient ritual of my people. It involves an altered state of consciousness; we enter a transcendental state through the use of meditation and song."     

"And the aborigine bola," he added, following her train of thought.     

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged. "It’s a perceptual realm called ‘dreamtime.’" There was a certain pride in her tone that oddly pleased the other three; she’d seemed a little mousy until discussing her traditions.     

The captain, though, still looked skeptical. "And it’s your contention that this... ‘dreamtime’... protected you somehow... somewhat... from the changes in the timeline?"     

Her expression grew almost pleading. "Why else would I remember her so vividly?"     

She continued, shyly, "She’s a tall, statuesque blonde, sir. Very pretty, as well—the type of strong beauty many women envy." It was obvious from her rather rueful expression that Cawley was, on some level, one of them. "She has a real tactical gift; rumor had it you took her aboard after she’d had problems on the Argus, as a favor to Captain Lex.     

"She likes you, too, sir—a lot. Everyone seems to know it but you and her."     

"Well, that, at least, sounds like you, Captain," Hatshepsut avowed, trilling.     

It’d been a long time since he’d smiled at her; almost unconsciously, she began to purr in response.     

Smith came forward again just then.     

"Add this to the equation: I took it upon myself to get an examination from Dr. Matsuoka about an hour ago. Believe it or not, I’ve managed to avoid or fool doctors for the better part of... well, that’s not important right now… let’s just say physical exams aren’t something to which I’ve looked forward in my life.     

"I never knew it until today, Captain... but evidently I’m not fully human. I’m part El-Aurian."     

El-Aurian.

Suddenly, everything clicked.     

"And it’s been speculated that they possess an intermittent sense that transcends linear time," Mantovanni continued, his Vulcan-trained mind leaping immediately to the conclusion. For a moment he hesitated, and the others leaned forward in anticipation.     

After pondering the possibilities for another moment, he announced, “Your… assertions… definitely deserve further investigation—in part because it’s unlikely you’d both remember the same nonexistent woman… and in part because we’ve got nothing better.”

The problem, of course, was what to do—if, indeed, anything could be done.

"Bridge to Captain Mantovanni."

"Go ahead, Sito," he acknowledged crisply.     

"Long range sensors indicate that the Dominion task force we shook a few hours ago is in pursuit again. There are quite a few less of them, though," she mentioned. It was her way of acknowledging Captain Forrest’s sacrifice.     

"How many?" he asked.     

Another voice interjected. "This is Commander Benteen at the ops station, sir. My best guess would be six or seven Jem’Hadar fighters, three or four Galor-class warships, two Breen frigates... and a Dominion battleship."

"Way too much," Smith whispered, "even for Liberty under your command."     

Mantovanni accepted both the compliment and the assessment.     

"Estimated time to intercept?"     

"Unless Sera can repair the warp field discontinuities, just over three hours. The best we can do right now is warp 9.275, and the pursuing vessels are making Warp 9.6."

"Thank you, Commander," the captain acknowledged. Immediately he redirected the signal to engineering. "Mantovanni to MacLeod."     

"This is MacLeod."

"What are the prospects down there, Commander? Will I have some speed while I still have a ship?"     

Sera’s voice was not exactly even-toned. "I don’t know, sir. I’m no Irriantia."

For a moment, Mantovanni hesitated. He could hear the frustration and anguish in her voice. The death of Liberty’s chief engineer, as a result of an exploding plasma conduit during one of their innumerable battles with the Jem’Hadar, had forced the captain to utilize the multidimensional MacLeod in a role for which she lacked both temperament and enthusiasm. She should have been on the bridge, or sequestered in her lab.

The situation had taken its toll; her performance hadn’t met either officer’s exacting standards. The memory of the merry dolphin had haunted the engine room like a reproving revenant for five months now.

Mantovanni reached out to her as best he could.     

"Irriantia always told me you could have been a great engineer, Sera… and I know he was right."     

It was almost as if that show of confidence tripped a switch in her mind.     

"You’ll have Warp 9.8 in an hour, sir."

"I’ll plan accordingly. Captain out."     

He looked up at the trio of officers. When next he spoke, it was with a resolve he’d seemed until then to have forgotten.     

"Lieutenant Smith, Ensign Cawley… I need to know what you know on this subject, and we don’t have time for a long debriefing."     

"Perhaps a mind meld," suggested Hatshepsut. Smith looked ready to refuse, but something held him back.     

Mantovanni laced his fingers into a steeple. "That’s an excellent idea, Counselor… except for the fact that, despite my Vulcan upbringing, I’m much better at protecting myself from mental contact than I am at initiating it. Something about the nature of my personality, Sevek told me long ago."     

"I can’t say I’m greatly astonished at that revelation, sir," the Felisian observed sardonically. "There are other Vulcans aboard, though."     

"Uh, sir? My roommate, T’Vaar, is Vulcan, and we’ve had… well, we’ve had occasion to mind meld before." Cawley seemed about to squirm out of her uniform.     

"Indeed?" The captain again tapped his comm badge. "Ensign T’Vaar, please report to the captain’s ready room immediately. "     

"Acknowledged," was her economical response.     

Mantovanni smiled at Cawley. Somehow, it wasn’t reassuring.    

 "You’re about to have ‘occasion’ again, Ensign."

***

"Of course, they were waiting for us.

"Argus took the lead… she and what was left of the Seventh Fleet hit them hard and fast. You would have been proud of your old friend Lex, Captain; for a while, his ship was everywhere… they couldn’t touch her.

 "At first, the Dominion seemed to be playing it conservatively, and it gave us what we thought was an advantage—a real chance to break through and make a run for Cardassia Prime.

 "While the rest of the armada engaged the enemy, an entire wing of starships, including Argus, plunged though a weakness in their lines. Despite their initial caution, once the battle was raging, the Jem’Hadar overcommitted… it’s been one of their few discernable weaknesses throughout the war."

And you pounced on their error, Jonozia. Good for you, Mantovanni thought. The Sicilian remembered the all-too-brief conversation he’d had with Lex just a few hours before: Despite the near-hopeless odds looming over the badly outnumbered Federation/Klingon forces, Liberty’s captain had contacted the Trill over subspace and inquired about Kate Sheridan.      

It had been obvious Jonozia thought it a strangely inappropriate question on the eve of the most important battle Starfleet had ever fought; but had politely, if distractedly, informed his old friend that he had no recollection of the woman.     

What a surprise, Mantovanni had thought.

The admiral drew him back to the present when she continued, "The path to Cardassia was clear. Victory, or at least a victory, was within our grasp.     

"Then the Warbirds decloaked." Necheyev’s voice had become a monotone. "At long last," she continued, "the Romulans had entered the war.

"Not only did they take Argus and her assault group completely by surprise, they attacked in force all along the Neutral Zone border… we had only a token presence of starships there to resist them.     

"Evidently the Dominion promised them Vulcan in exchange for their intervention. I’m sorry, Captain… the planet is already under Romulan rule.     

"I’ve been instructed by the President of the Federation to inform all remaining starship and starbase commanders that the United Federation of Planets formally surrendered to the Dominion/Breen/Romulan Alliance just over an hour ago.     

"You are to proceed to the nearest Federation facility, Captain… in your case, that would be Starbase 117… your crew will debark, and the Liberty be immediately scuttled. The Federation Council has the Founders’ assurances that no harm will come to them. After all," she practically spat, "most of them are now under the protection of the Dominion."

"What about the Vulcans on my ship, and throughout the Federation?" Mantovanni whispered.     

It was clear she’d anticipated the question.     

"The Vulcan citizens in your crew are to be turned immediately over to the Romulan government; no doubt they’ll eventually be impressed into the Imperial Navy, after a period of indoctrination. You…" at last she hesitated.     

"…will be tried and convicted of war crimes against the Romulan Empire," he finished.     

She nodded. Her sense of decorum had eroded nearly to nothing; he could tell she was on the verge of tears.     

"I understand your instructions clearly, Admiral. Mantovanni out."     

Before she could protest, or even speak another word, he cut the channel.     

That’s not to say I’ll listen.

***

T’Vaar had once again proven herself skilled far beyond what her rank might indicate.

When the captain had explained what he wanted from her, Smith and Cawley had both gone pale. Even the usually serene Hatshepsut had growled uncertainly.     

The Vulcan had simply listened to his proposal, and then replied, "If your skills are sufficient to the task, sir, we can accomplish it."     

For the first time in months, Mantovanni had arched an eyebrow in that playfully logical fashion mastered by his adopted kin, and answered, "Look to yourself, Ensign."      

Her brow had risen in response. "I shall require four hours of meditation before we proceed."     

Mantovanni had put the intervening time to good use: Besides his conversations with Lex and Necheyev, he’d prepared for the upcoming ordeal with a brief interval of rest and focus himself.     

MacLeod had been as good as her word concerning the warp drive, and the Dominion force that had nearly caught them had begun to fall behind again.      

On the down side, it had obviously become apparent to someone’s long range sensors that Liberty was not headed for Starbase 117. The ship had received three additional transmissions from Admiral Necheyev. Her tone in each of the messages had devolved from sympathetic to firm to threatening… and all of them ordered Mantovanni to alter his ship’s course and return to port.     

They’d reassembled in Sickbay five hours later: Drs. Carteris and Aiello, having been informed by Hatshepsut what was to occur, had both expressed their desire to monitor the procedure, and Mantovanni had reluctantly agreed.     

With the captain’s help, T’Vaar had been the catalyst for the utilization of a technique seldom employed by anyone but the masters of Gol on Mount Seleya. She and Mantovanni, instead of touching each other, had each placed a single hand upon both Cawley and Smith—seeking and finding the appropriate pressure points. When the ring had been formed, they initiated the disciplines necessary to create the meld.     

"Is this really necessary?" the young aborigine had whispered.     

"I shall endeavor to respect the privacy of your personal thoughts as much as is possible. However, I can make no guarantees."     

"Great," Smith had muttered. "No one learns anything about me in over a century, and now four people in six hours do."     

Hatshepsut had purred soothingly. "You’re not the only one having a bad day, Lieutenant."    

After a moment’s reflection, he’d conceded, "Good point."     

Mantovanni ended the banter with a firm, "We’ll follow your lead, T’Vaar."     

Patrick Aiello, ever the pragmatist, had then asked, "What exactly should we do if any of you seem to be in distress?"     

Drolly, the captain had answered, "Frown a lot and look concerned."     

The young doctor had shaken his head in disgust. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."     

With that, their eyes had closed, and T’Vaar had started to whisper in her native Vulcan… after a moment, the captain had begun to echo her words, and their voices had reverberated eerily through the sickbay.     

Hatshepsut had known something was happening when Smith and Cawley took up the chant as well—especially since, according to their records, neither of them spoke a word of Vulcan.     

The fur had stood up on the Felisian’s body, and, despite a determined effort to control it, her tail had twitched in nervous reflex.     

What is it human children say again? she’d found herself thinking. Ahhhh, yes.     

“Scaredy cat.”

***

"I don’t know what he plans on doing, Captain, but he has to be stopped. The Federation Council negotiated this surrender in good faith, and Captain Mantovanni’s apparent refusal to stand down has the Dominion threatening imminent reprisals. As you well know, we can’t do much to stop them if they decide to carry out such action."

"I understand completely, Admiral."     

"Good… this is perhaps the most difficult order I’ve ever had to give, Captain… but I believe it to be absolutely necessary.     

"You are to intercept the Liberty, and escort her to Starbase 117. If she resists…"    

He interrupted her gently. "We’ll do what we have to do, Admiral."     

Alynna Necheyev nodded. "A 700-ship Dominion fleet is approaching Sector 001, Captain.     

"I think it’s safe to say that you have until it arrives to carry out your orders."

***

Slowly, laboriously, the four pieced together a recollection of things that had never occurred. Memories, visions, hopes and dreams combined into an oddly coherent whole.     

It was compelling… and once, supposedly, it had been true, as well.     

Smith had been all too aware of the friction between his marines and the Starfleet crew; the dispute was the type of silliness that usually got started when an inebriated enthusiast declared something that an equally drunken opponent rejected.     

In this case, it had been a garbled, "I don’t care how tough your captain is supposed to be… the lieutenant would drop him like a bad habit."     

Smith, from the other side of the room, had risen to quell the argument before it got heated.     

Quick though he was, he never had a chance.     

One of the naval enlisted promptly replied, "Save your ignorance for your corps buddies. We know better here."     

Specialist Arnold Thompson had gotten to his feet, and gestured with his ale. It’d sloshed; and he’d slurred, "Hey… ’m sorry, but I calls ’em like I sees ’em, and your captain is a brooding, emotionless weirdo. If I had a fine piece like Sheridan sniffin’ around after me, I’d sure as hell do something besides hide in that ready room of…"     

That was as far as Thompson got with his “assessment.”     

He’d grunted and been hurled back over a table and onto another pair of Starfleet personnel. The one who’d hit him—a slip of an Orion girl who’d come out of nowhere when he started his little monologue—then let loose with a stream of sleek profanity that would have gotten her a court martial if her shipmates had understood.     

And about ten dates if the marines had.     

The All Ranks Club had held just enough people for a really rip-roaring, furniture-smashing brawl… and everyone there had known their parts.     

Just as the room had descended into complete chaos, the aforementioned “piece” had entered.     

There’d been more of the Starfleet crewmen, of course, and they’d been quite angry; but the marines had fought in hand-to-hand engagements regularly for almost two years. They’d had a decided advantage in most of the individual match-ups.     

In just fifteen seconds or so, the brawl had become a rather brutal spectacle. There’d been at least four people who wouldn’t be waking up in the ensuring few hours without the aid of a Klingon pain stick.     

Smith, surrendering to the inevitability of the situation, had simply put his head in his hands.     

Specialist Thompson, who was a good fighter, had somehow managed to regain his feet. No doubt he’d been sorry he’d done so: The Orion had still looked angry enough to tear his arm off and beat him with it.     

Then again, she hadn’t needed it. Smith had watched as she struck him three times in swift succession. The blows were rather precisely placed to keep him on his feet until she could administer the coup de grace… a crushing palm thrust to the chin that would no doubt leave Thompson requiring a doctor’s assistance in forcing his jaw back into place.     

A person could be in very different kinds of trouble in a fight. He’d seen people staggered, out on their feet, rolling about on the floor in a haze and a dozen other states in the borderlands between aware and insensate. The Orion had sent Thompson directly into what Smith affectionately called “La La Land”: When he’d fallen again, he hadn’t even twitched.     

Unconsciously, the lieutenant had rubbed at his own jaw.     

"Well, considering that they’re all on report already," he’d heard a comment from a few feet away, "they might as well get it out of their systems."     

He’d met her only once, when he and his squad had come aboard, but it wasn’t until that very moment Smith had decided he liked Commander Kate Sheridan.     

"Did you call security?" he’d inquired. She’d shaken her head.     

"Nope. I’ve just decided that for every one of my officers who can’t report for duty on their next shift, that’s one day your marines aren’t allowed to drink."     

Smith had looked at her with growing respect. "That’ll hit them where they live. I like it." They’d grinned at each other.     

The battle between ‘fleetie’ and marine had slowly built to a crescendo—only five or six participants had remained on their feet. The rest had been slumped in various states of unconsciousness… for some, whether it was a result of alcohol, fisticuffs or both was uncertain.      

It had been just then that the scene had changed from one of almost comic relief into something far more serious.     

As he’d watched in amazement, the great double doors of the All Ranks Club had shimmered and darkened into a pattern of inky blackness relieved only by occasional swirling streams of indigo light.

Through this miasma had stepped a man: Tall; good-looking, but not remarkably so; clothes impeccably-tailored civilian attire… something an affluent industrialist or politician might have chosen.     

He’d tossed something gently to the ground, and Smith had registered it as what looked to be a common black housecat.     

The man’s sudden appearance had startled both him and Sheridan into bemused immobility. His approach had been casual; he’d weaved his way through the mostly somnolent crowd with grace and little difficulty. Oddly enough, the cat followed, as would an attentive lapdog, heeling quite readily.     

He’d produced from his lapel what looked to be a writing implement of some sort, even as he approached to within ten feet of their position.      

Obviously, from his unwavering gaze, he’d been either captivated or compelled by Kate Sheridan.     

It was only then Smith’s sense of dread had warned him that whatever this being intended, it wasn’t something they’d want to have happen.     

He’d drawn his phaser with a gunslinger’s speed, and had almost brought it to bear when his ears registered an odd noise from the device the stranger carried, and his world had reeled.     

"You’re tired," he’d heard from a distance. "Go to sleep."

"Captain!"

 Mantovanni’s eyes opened; around him, the gathered group of officers was gazing at him in concern.     

His mind was still attempting to absorb everything he’d “seen.” It was certain, though, either that Smith and Cawley were sharing an amazingly detailed and elaborate delusion…

…or they were right, and the universe had been turned upside down.     

"I believe you," he announced finally.     

Smith looked at him searchingly. "There’s something else, isn’t there?"      

The captain nodded. "For the second time in a day, I found myself thinking, ‘I’ve seen that man before.’" He looked about to elaborate, but instead was interrupted by the sickbay intercom.     

"Bridge to Captain Mantovanni."     

He shook his head, attempting to clear the fog; and answered, "Go ahead, Sito."     

"Sir, a vessel has emerged from the nearby Tharaskia Nebula; a Federation starship, Sovereign-class, and she’s on an intercept course.    

"Captain… it’s the Enterprise."

***

Would that this were a nightmare, thought Jean-Luc Picard, as his vessel emerged from its concealment and approached Liberty with a speed the other ship couldn’t, at the moment, equal.     

"What is her condition, Mr. Data?"     

The android perused his readouts, and promptly replied, "Sensors indicate her warp engines are functioning at 89.7% efficiency. It has evidently been some time since she has received adequate attention in a repair facility."     

"Probably hasn’t been off the front lines in months, knowing Captain Mantovanni," Riker observed.     

Picard nodded absently. It had been almost six years since he’d seen Luciano Mantovanni, but they’d become fast friends in the brief time the younger man had spent aboard the Enterprise-D. Unlike most “legends,” he lived up to his reputation in just about every way.     

There were very few situations into which Picard didn’t feel that Enterprise-E entered with a decided advantage. This, however, was definitely one of those times. The two ships were tactically equal, and their crews both the best of the best; in addition, Mantovanni had, until now, survived the worst two centuries had thrown at him. Both he and Will Riker knew from their experiences with the man that it most emphatically wasn’t a result of luck.

"Hail them."     

The all-too-young ensign at tactical complied. "Channel open, sir."     

Picard almost identified himself. Then he smiled slightly, and altered his conversational stance even before he’d begun.

"Are you even going to bother speaking with me, Cicero?"     

Immediately, the screen filled with the image of Liberty’s commander.     

"Of course, sir."

Well, let’s get this started.     

"I know how… seductive is the idea of changing history for what you believe is the better, but I cannot allow you to reach your destination."     

Mantovanni’s expression made Will’s poker face seem positively animated.     

"I’d think you know me better than that, sir. I have what I believe are excellent reasons for my actions… but I don’t have time to explain them."

Picard shook his head grimly.     

"I know you well enough, Cicero, to speculate that you decided to go down fighting rather than concede defeat. Unfortunately, the Dominion has no intention of enduring a series of grandiose, but ultimately futile, gestures.     

"We’ve been informed that for every starship that refuses to surrender, the Jem’Hadar will destroy the surface of one Federation planet…"     

He paused for effect, then added, "…and they’ve promised to start with Earth."     

"Let me speak with Guinan, sir. She may support my arguments."

 This time, the stately captain closed his eyes briefly.     

"Guinan died two months ago when an assault force of Jem’Hadar boarded the Enterprise-E in an attempt to commandeer her. We managed to repel them, but she and Counselor Troi were both killed in the action."     

Despite his steely control, Picard found himself lost in painful memories for just a moment. Then he roused himself angrily, and continued.     

"No doubt you knew that, though, Cicero. It’s an excellent ploy, but I shan’t let you distract me from my mission.     

"Stand down. Please."     

Mantovanni seemed moved by the obvious anguish in Picard’s request, but shook his head in refusal. Instead, he countered, "Veer off. Please."

They continued to lock gazes for another moment; then, almost as if they’d agreed by virtue of some preternatural affinity, each motioned to their respective officers to cut the channel.     

"I’m not looking forward to this," Riker muttered.     

"Agreed. But we don’t have much choice." After a moment, Enterprise’s captain inquired, "Has the Liberty altered her course?" He knew before the answer was given, but asked anyway. It delayed for another few seconds the decision he’d been deferring until this moment.     

Data supplied, "Negative, sir."     

The die was cast.     

Picard glanced back to the tactical station, where Ensign Karen Ryan stood her post determinedly. Despite a gallant effort to remain frosty, she wore what could only be termed a stricken expression.    

I understand your feelings more than you can know, young lady.

"Number One," he decided abruptly, "take over tactical; Ensign Ryan, please man the damage control station."     

Her relief was obvious as she gave way.     

Riker shot Picard a glance, but it was clear he understood, and agreed: A girl three months out of the Academy shouldn’t be asked to fire on another Federation starship.     

He assumed the station; not eagerly, but possessing both a sober realization of what would have to be done, and the resolve with which to do it.     

"Red alert," the captain ordered. "All hands stand to battle stations."     

As his crew made their way to combat posts for what he hoped was the last time, Picard watched the man upon whom he’d relied for twelve years move seamlessly into the role demanded of him.     

"Shields up… weapons ready," Riker declared. "Liberty’s coming about; her screens are in place, and her phaser array is powered—but only to 40%. Sensors indicate a full spread of photon torpedoes in her launchers."     

"Photon torpedoes," the captain echoed. That was telling. Mantovanni had opted for the less effective missile weapons in his formidable arsenal; obviously he didn’t want this fight either, and was unwilling to cut loose against his comrades in arms.     

Reviling himself, Picard nevertheless ordered, "Phasers to full; quantum torpedoes, maximum yield, full spread."     

"Captain, I am receiving a transmission from the Liberty," Data informed him. "They are attempting to utilize the prefix code of the Enterprise and deactivate our shields. It is fortunate that you took the precaution of having me change the combination, sir."     

"Weapons range in seven seconds," Riker warned.     

"Prepare to fire torpedoes on my command," Picard told him. I’ll take as much of the weight of this as I can, Will.

The two ships came together.     

"Dispersal pattern tango… and fire."     

The most powerful shipboard weapons at the Federation's disposal were turned on one of their own, as the quantum torpedoes streaked towards their target…     

… and then, without warning, suddenly looped back and slammed into the Enterprise.     

"What in the…" Riker gasped; it was all he could get out before the Bridge rocked to one side, as the great starship’s shields struggled to absorb a completely unexpected blow.     

They weathered it, but now it was Liberty’s turn. Her photon torpedoes hit home even as her reluctant foe tried to veer away… and for the barest moment, the screens of the Federation’s flagship flickered.     

It was long enough for Liberty.     

Her phasers lashed out with precision, finding Enterprise’s momentarily unprotected starboard nacelle. Again she reeled; this time, though, the great starship spun out of control, her damaged appendage venting plasma into space.     

"Return fire!" Picard commanded.     

Riker complied; his skills and reflexes were such that he was able to target Liberty while his own ship was tumbling, and their foe turning away. Even Enterprise’s phasers, though, couldn’t pierce Liberty’s shields with a single stroke—and that was the only chance they got.     

A moment later, she exploded into warp, and was gone.     

"Damage report!" the captain attempted to restore a semblance of order with his voice.     

"Shield generators one and three are overloaded," Data answered. "Backups are functioning at 33% only. There is structural damage to our starboard nacelle…"     

"Engineering. Geordi, how bad is it? We need warp drive," Riker demanded.     

There was a hesitation that stretched almost to fifteen seconds. Finally Enterprise’s chief engineer answered, "Well, you can forget it for the better part of two days, Commander. Liberty knew just what to do that would put us out of action without irreparably damaging us."

"Effect repairs as quickly as you can, Mr. LaForge," Picard acknowledged. He and Riker exchanged glances, and the taller man shrugged in dismay; they both knew two hours was more than enough for Liberty to make her escape.     

"What the hell did they do?" Riker asked, shaking his head in disbelief.     

Data, of course, had an answer. "I believe Captain Mantovanni used the same trick he had attempted against the Enterprise—in retrospect, obviously as a distraction—on our individual torpedoes. Since they are controlled by the main computer until their own independent guidance systems take over, they accept transmissions for point seven two seconds after launch. Liberty must have directed signals at each of them, using our original prefix code—to which the torpedoes were still programmed to respond—and convinced them to loop back and strike us. Quite ingenious."     

"True enough. However, Captain Mantovanni may have just destroyed the Earth with his ingenuity," Picard noted wearily. He sank back into his chair.      

The totality of their failure was beginning to register.     

Please have another trick up your sleeve, Cicero, for all our sakes.

***

"We’ve entered orbit, Captain."     

Mantovanni looked up from the display he’d been studying, and turned his attention to the main viewer.     

"Commander Benteen, have Lieutenant Smith and Ensigns Cawley and T’Vaar meet me in Transporter Room Two. Let’s go, Counselor."     

The Felisian studied him as the turbolift carried them to their destination.     

"I recognize that unwavering stare, M’Raav," Mantovanni observed. "Out with it."     

"Just speculating on the other timeline, sir. Ensign Cawley mentioned that this Kate Sheridan liked you."     

Mantovanni raised an eyebrow. "And?"     

The car came to a stop; just before the doors opened, Hatshepsut concluded, "And she has passable taste… for a currently nonexistent hairless monkey."     

"Nicely done, Counselor… an adroitly backhanded compliment if ever I heard one."     

She purred in amused contentment as they entered the transporter room. The others were already in place on the pad.     

"Chief, put us down right next to it."     

Mav grunted grumpily. "You’re nuts."     

"Is that a reference to the fact that I trust you to operate the transporters for us?" the captain inquried easily.     

The Tellarite didn’t respond. Hatshepsut, though, noted an odd cadence to the chief’s grumbling as he initiated transport.     

That’s right, Mav… if he’s actually shooting back when you’re insubordinate, it means he’s with us again.

***

Despite the Tellarite’s none-too-subtle misgivings, the transport went without incident.     

While the others glanced around them with varying degrees of interest, Mantovanni merely noted that, as he’d expected, nothing had changed since the last time he’d been here. The desolate landscape, the broken buildings… everything was the way he remembered it.     

With his usual single-mindedness of purpose, he stalked over to the only reason for their visit… and the source of their only hope.     

As his officers fanned out, scanning and analyzing the monolithic edifice that loomed before them, Hatshepsut, still at his side, observed quietly, "For some reason, I thought it would be… larger."     

Despite the seriousness of the situation, the captain whispered a reply only she could hear.     

"I bet you can’t remember the last time you said that to a man, eh?"     

She never missed a beat in her reply. "As neat a backhanded observation as I’ve ever heard." They exchanged brief looks, and then returned to the deadly business at hand.

The captain spoke loudly.      

"Guardian of Forever, will you speak with me?"     

For a few seconds, there was only the distant wail of the wind as a response. Then, just when he’d almost considered addressing the great structure again, it suddenly pulsed with subdued luminescence and replied.     

"A QUESTION… FOR LO, THESE MANY YEARS, SINCE YOUR KIN REJECTED MY OFFER TO BE THEIR GATEWAY, I HAVE AWAITED… A QUESTION."     

The power of that singular voice was daunting, and each silently reacted. Cawley, without realizing it, drew closer to Smith; the marine took her hand. T’Vaar, despite possessing more than her share of a Vulcan’s usual unflappability, couldn’t help but have a degree of awe register on her young face. Hatshepsut’s irises narrowed to slits.     

"Guardian," the young captain continued, "is it true that you stand outside of time, unaffected by the changes in the temporal realities?"     

"I AM MY OWN BEGINNING, AND MY OWN END… I AM UNIQUE UNTO MYSELF."     

I’ll take that as a yes, Mantovanni thought drolly.     

"Then, tell me this… is our timeline intact, or has it been altered?"     

Again, the device remained quiet for an uncomfortably long moment. When it spoke again, the answer was simultaneously relieving and disturbing.     

"YOUR FUTURES ARE NOT WHAT THEY WERE."     

Now, the critical question. "May the timeline be restored by our actions, Guardian?"     

This time, the silence was agonizing.     

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Guardian who broke it.     

"Captain," T’Vaar reported, a sense of extreme urgency detectable in her usually well-modulated voice, "Lieutenant Sito reports a large Dominion battle group mere minutes away from the system."     

Mantovanni tapped his own comm badge.     

"Erika, take the Liberty out and slow them down."     

The instruction was akin to ordering his crew into martyrdom. It was a testament, both to his leadership and their loyalty, that no hesitation touched her voice as she replied, "Understood, sir."     

The Guardian finally answered.     

"IT CAN BE DONE."    

Before that could even fully register, Benteen practically yelled into the pickup. "Captain, four Romulan Warbirds decloaking in orbit with us!"

He made a split-second decision, and told her, "You’re in command, Erika… give ‘em a good fight."     

"Aye, sir," she acknowledged.      

He closed the channel, and turned to Smith.     

"When Liberty’s gone, they’ll be coming… defend this position, Marine… no matter what," Mantovanni ordered grimly.     

He knew the command was an impossible one to fulfill. He also knew that if his suspicions about this man were correct, he'd done the near impossible on more than one occasion.     

As one, his officers on the surface drew their phasers in response to Smith’s shouted commands; efficiently, he placed them in as defensible positions as he could and instructed them to adjust their tricorders to jam sensors.     

It wasn’t much, but it would probably keep them alive a few minutes—or seconds—longer.     

Through T’Vaar’s communicator, Mantovanni listened to Benteen issuing orders with an admirable composure. Unfortunately, this meant he could also hear the damage reports as the Warbirds concentrated on destroying his starship.

There would be no in-depth analysis of the timeline, no careful determination of what needed to be done. The Romulans wouldn’t allow that. 

Mantovanni played the only card he had left, the sole option that occurred to him as he scrambled for alternatives.

"Guardian, I know you can only can only display the passage of time at a certain predetermined rate," the captain spoke with rapid desperation. "However, can you direct a traveler to a specific point in time when they step through the gateway?"

Dimly, he heard his X-O’s voice from T’Vaar’s concealed position.   

"Two enemy targets destroyed, but we can’t…" There was a burst of static, then silence.  

Liberty was gone. 

Seconds later, the telltale sound of Romulan transporters told him the moment was at hand.

"If you can, Guardian, please take me to the precise temporal and physical location that allows me the optimal chance to restore the timeline."

Disruptor fire mixed with phaser discharges… the ambush Smith had prepared gave him a few more seconds. Mantovanni didn’t know if the Guardian had agreed to his proposal, or even if the enigmatic device was capable of it.

Leap of faith, he thought.

Unlike Orpheus, he managed not to glance back. Leaving everything but hope behind, he threw himself through the swirling portal…

…and emerged, momentarily disoriented, in Liberty’s All Ranks Club.

In the few seconds it took him to regain his center, a lot happened.      

The events proceeded precisely from the point in time he’d seen in the meld just a few hours before…     

Smith dropped his phaser and slumped to the floor, a peculiarly dreamlike smile on his face, even as the mysterious assailant turned.     

The woman, whom he suddenly knew was the mysterious Kate Sheridan, staggered too. Whatever he’d done to them, it was obviously an area-effect device, and she’d been caught in the periphery.     

It wasn’t enough to put her down, though; instead, she shrugged it off, stepped forward, and threw a punch.     

That was a mistake.      

While, from her stance and movement, Sheridan looked to be a formidable opponent in hand-to-hand combat, she still had the ingrained disadvantage many confident human women had in a real fight: They thought they could stand toe-to-toe with a skilled male of their—or any—race. Quite simply, except in certain circumstances, that was arrogant presumption: While there were any number of species whose females possessed the physical strength to do just that—Vulcans and Orions, to name a few—human women simply didn’t.     

Her opponent slipped the attack easily, and delivered a short, powerful palm thrust to the chin. Combined with her earlier disorientation, the blow was enough to send her plunging into swift unconsciousness.     

The bar was quiet.     

At last Mantovanni could move. He rushed towards the man, and finally got a clear look at him.        

It was, indeed, Gary Seven.     

After he’d seen the strangely familiar face in the eye of Smith’s mind, Mantovanni had, while recovering from the four-way link, gone directly to Starfleet’s classified archives in the main computer; nursing what he’d then believed was a vain hope of matching the face he'd seen with a name, and learning something substantive.      

After hours of work, he'd found it.     

It had turned out, just as he’d thought, that this was not Seven’s first encounter with a Starfleet crew. His old friend, James Kirk, had met up with him while on a historical mission into Earth’s past. Though they’d worked out their differences then, the legendary young captain had left a chilling account of the man’s physical capabilities as a warning to any Federation personnel that might encounter him in the future.      

He’d noted that Seven possessed seemingly superhuman strength and a martial technique that had rendered their attacks clumsy and ineffectual. “Even Spock’s Vulcan neck pinch” had failed to stop him.     

A warning yowl from his cat brought the agent around; clearly he hadn’t expected to see Mantovanni closing on him at warp speed.     

He’ll go for that device again, the universal tool/weapon that Captain Kirk described, trying to subdue me quietly, he thought. Sure enough, Seven reached back into his lapel, and was already withdrawing something slender and silvery when the Sicilian made his move.     

Despite his foe’s obvious speed, the captain’s research and anticipation made all the difference. His snap kick took the device neatly out of his foe’s hands and sent it skittering across the floor.     

"Let’s do this the old-fashioned way, secret agent man," Mantovanni proposed.      

Gary Seven glared unbelievingly at him; then he smiled, grimly, and nodded in assent.     

A second later, they came together.

Muffled grunts and other primal sounds accompanied Kate Sheridan’s gradual movement back towards consciousness. When her eyes could focus—barely—she gasped in astonishment at what she saw.      

Just a few feet away, two men—the captain and another she didn’t recognize—were fighting. They were moving with such fluid power, she could barely follow their feints and strikes, especially in her current state.     

With a supreme effort, she tapped her comm badge, whispering, "Sheridan to security…"

Though they didn’t know it, Gary Seven and Luciano Mantovanni each had, simultaneously, the same thought about the other.    

What does it take to put this man down?     

Mantovanni had realized, in the first few seconds of the fight, that there would be no quick knockout—either way. Everything that Captain Kirk had said was absolutely true. If anything, he’d understated it slightly. Seven was fast, strong and had the moves. If he’d been any less fit or skilled than he was, Liberty’s captain would already have been dumped into a quiet corner to sleep it off.     

By the same token, Gary Seven was coming to the conclusion that, though he looked human, Mantovanni was obviously somewhat more than he seemed. The man had blocked blows that should have either hit home or broken the interposing limb; and he’d tagged Seven not once, but three times, with shots that actually managed to stagger him. No regular human had that kind of strength or technique.     

They both settled in to go the distance.

When Luciano Mantovanni had simply disappeared without a trace from the bridge just moments before, Erika Benteen had coolly inquired of the computer his location. It had seemed to hesitate, and then, at last, replied, "Captain Mantovanni is in the All Ranks Club."

The Security team she’d dispatched, led by Sito, burst into the room, and took in a stunning scene.     

There’d evidently been a hell of a fight; marine and naval personnel were scattered everywhere in varying states of consciousness.     

Near the booths clustered at the club’s center, Luciano Mantovanni was leaning heavily on Kate Sheridan. He didn’t look that good.     

However, he looked better than the guy on the ground in front of him did.     

Sheridan ordered, pointing at the fallen stranger, "Search this man thoroughly, and then take him into custody."     

As the guards hauled him to his feet, the young captain disengaged carefully from her supporting grasp. He retrieved the mysterious weapon, and held it before Gary Seven's face as the agent came gradually back to awareness.     

Mantovanni gritted, rasping for air, "You’re not so tough... without your pen, are you?"

***

Dr. Matsuoka frowned, as he completed his initial examination.     

He told the captain, "You have three broken ribs, a separated shoulder, and a moderate amount of internal bleeding—not to mention severe bone bruises over much of your upper torso."     

With a bit of a grimace, Mantovanni glanced over at where his foe lay on the next bio-bed, restraining field in place.     

"Nice job."     

Seven shook his head in amazement. "I don’t know what kept you on your feet."     

Matsuoka moved to examine him in turn. After a moment of scanning and a few deep rumbles of disapproval, he announced, "You aren’t in any better shape. Much of the same; just in a different arrangement."

He stood back, and looked at them both. "You two settle it with phasers, next time—less work for me."     

He left the room for a moment, and the two combatants simply glared at each other.     

"He has a point, you know," the young captain observed.     

Seven nodded, but replied, "It was your idea to mix it up. Next time, I’ll get to that pen faster." Then, amazingly, he smiled.     

Mantovanni grinned. "Next time, I’ll use quantum torpedoes."     

The light moment was just that. Seven’s expression sobered, and he leaned towards his opponent as much as the restraining field would allow.     

"I don’t know what you think you’ve accomplished. I have a mission; the fact that you stopped me once simply means I’ll take it to a place and time where you can’t intervene.     

"You won a battle, Captain, and I respect you for that… but you can’t win the war. This woman is going to die; she has to die."     

"Care to explain why, Mr. Seven?" Mantovanni inquired.     

"That’s not your concern... suffice it to say that humanity is better off with Kate Sheridan dead and eradicated from the timeline."

“Exactly how could disposing of her now change what occurred before that?”

Seven smiled, a bit patronizingly. “Captain, I don’t understand all the intricacies of temporal mechanics myself. I do know that her elimination resonates into the future… and the past.”

I hate this stuff, Mantovanni thought. Unfortunately, Sera confirms that what he says is not only possible, but mathematically valid.

Matsuoka returned, this time with Carteris, and they continued their ministrations. Soon he tapped Mantovanni on the shoulder and motioned for him to rise, muttering, "Stay out of trouble."     

Mantovanni gestured to the other biobed. "Let him up, too." Carteris wordlessly deactivated the confinement field, and Gary Seven rolled to his feet, nodding to both doctors in thanks.     

It was clear the two had come to an unspoken understanding; Mantovanni motioned for the four-man escort detail waiting outside Sickbay—two marines and two Starfleet security—to keep their distance while he and his “guest” spoke.     

“‘She has to die,’ you said. Who makes that determination, Seven?" the captain demanded. "Obviously the mysterious masters you serve seem to have appointed themselves guardians of humankind; I tend to think we needed them a little more in the 20^th century, when Captain Kirk encountered you, than now."     

Again Seven employed that supercilious grin. "That’s rather pretentious. You have no idea how many times I’ve saved humanity from itself, or from threats you couldn’t possibly fathom."     

"Hurray for you," Mantovanni answered dryly.     

Now the agent looked less amused. He declared, "Your sarcasm can’t change the fact that I know much more about what’s happening than you do, Captain.”

“Well, then… enlighten me.”

“Sorry. It doesn’t work that way. Suffice it to say that you’ve interfered in something that would have been better left to those who can best handle it."     

Liberty’s commander raised an eyebrow.

"Well, let’s just test that assumption, shall we?"     

Seven looked immediately suspicious.

"What do you mean?"     

Mantovanni didn’t answer. Instead, he activated his comm badge.     

"Bridge."     

"This is Commander Benteen."

"Erika, change course; come to 37, mark 45. Maximum warp."     

There was a pause. "Sir, the Athene is already waiting at the rendezvous point…"

The captain wasn’t feeling particularly patient. "Then I guess she’ll wait a little longer, won’t she?"     

"Aye, aye, sir." One could almost hear her cringe through the speaker.    

Gary Seven seemed taken aback at Mantovanni’s rather firm response to his statements.     

"Where are we going, Captain?" he demanded.     

The Sicilian's face was inscrutable, but he answered.     

"Since you and I, for the moment, are the only ones who know what's going on, I suppose it's up to me to convince you not to try again."    

He added silently, Or make sure you can't.

***

This time, when Mantovanni beamed down to The City on the Edge of Forever, it was with only two companions: Gary Seven and his cat, Isis.     

The agent looked around curiously. "A dead world, a forgotten civilization," he noted. "Is this supposed to be some metaphor, Captain, or were you simply looking for a particularly dramatic setting to stage our next fight?"

Mantovanni’s eyes narrowed. He’d just had one question answered. Despite Seven’s masters’ supposed omniscience, they didn’t seem to know about this place.     

"Guardian," he inquired, "has the future been repaired?"     

The powerful voice answered almost immediately. "THE FLOW OF TIME IS MENDED, BUT NOT RESTORED. THERE IS STILL ONE ELEMENT THAT MUST BE CORRECTED."     

Despite their best efforts to disguise it, the captain’s companions looked impressed. "Gary Seven," Mantovanni introduced sarcastically, "The Guardian of Forever."     

The captain had had a vague idea of what he was going to try.

He never had a chance

As he formulated the words to put his risky stratagem in motion, the mysterious being that loomed over them all suddenly intervened.     

"GARY SEVEN," the Guardian intoned. "LOOK AT ME."     

The cat hissed, and its hackles rose. The agent looked surprised.     

"Isis, what is it? Surely there’s no harm in seeing what this… ‘Guardian’ wishes to show us…"     

A yowl built in the feline’s throat, and it leaped down from his arms and fled behind an outcropping of rock. Seven took a step after her, concerned.     

"THEN TURN TO ME, GARY SEVEN, AND I SHALL SHOW YOU THE FACE OF TRUTH… AND LEARN IF YOU CAN BEAR IT."     

After a moment of struggle with himself and his uncertainty, he did.     

Mantovanni glanced towards the portal…     

"DO NOT LOOK, CAPTAIN."     

In response, the Sicilian shut his eyes as tightly as he could, for that sound was perhaps as close to the voice of God as he would ever hear in his life.

And the scream torn from Gary Seven was like a piece of Hell to go with it.     

The gateway was empty when the captain glanced up again. Seven still stood where he had… but his expression was vacant, and his eyes haunted.     

He touched the agent’s shoulder.     

"Seven… Gary!"

He didn’t respond.     

Mantovanni looked in horror at the Guardian. "What did you do?"     

Implacably, it replied, "I SHOWED HIM THE TRUE FACE OF HIS MASTERS."     

Suddenly, Seven leaped forward, towards the face of the portal. Mantovanni made a grab for him; unprepared, though, he couldn’t marshal the force necessary to restrain the powerful agent, whose strength now seemed fueled by madness as well.     

In the instant before he would have passed harmlessly through the aperture and tumbled to the ground on the other side, the Guardian of Forever again came again to relentless, purposeful life…     

…and Gary Seven was gone.     

A moment later, it spoke again.     

"THE PATTERN OF EXISTENCE IS RESTORED… ALL IS AS IT WAS."     

Mantovanni shook his head in astonishment and regret. "I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me anything about his masters?" he asked.     

There was no reply.     

"Or about why I remember both timelines, as well as things that never happened to me?"     

Again, the Guardian remained enigmatically silent.     

Disgusted, the captain tapped his comm badge.     

"Mantovanni to Liberty."     

"Liberty… this is Sheridan."

"Commander, I’ll be beaming up in a moment. Stand by."     

He glanced back and announced quietly, "You can either come now, or stay here with the Guardian as your company, Isis. It’s up to you."     

Somehow, seemingly from nowhere, the cat had managed to find his blind spot, and was even now sinuously wrapping itself around his legs.      

Then, though, it also turned; and, as had its master, moved purposefully towards the portal.     

This time Mantovanni didn’t try to stop what he knew was to come.     

Together forever, he thought, as she slipped into whatever realm, if any, was intended for her.     

As she faded from view, the Guardian grew dark.

***

On the bridge, as they left orbit, the captain found a number of his officers stealing covert glances at him.     

Silently, he made a wager as to which one would ask first. Of the obvious candidates, some weren’t in the running: Matsuoka had Sheridan in Sickbay under observation while she shook off the effects of Seven’s stun device; Smith had obviously decided to continue his disappearing act… and for now, Mantovanni would let him.     

Everyone needs his or her secrets, after all.

Cawley, no doubt, would remain the sweet but introspective young lady she’d been before this incident. Fortunately, he now knew a few things about drawing her out of that shell she’d built. Cawley, he’d decided, needed more friends.

Hell, who among us doesn’t?    

That left Benteen or Hatshepsut—and it was his once and future X-O who finally decided to try.     

"What happened down there, sir?" she asked quietly.     

He considered her question for a moment.     

"Whatever was supposed to happen, Commander."     

I hope.