As the old saying goes, “That’s gotta hurt.”

Temar hated Pakleds. He always had.

It was absurd, he knew. Genuine, undiluted hatred should be preserved for those truly worthy of it. One could healthily despise Romulans, Klingons and Terrans, for example. One could even revile Jem’Hadar and Vorta—provided it was done silently, or in very select company.

To hate Pakleds, though, was an embarrassing waste of effort and energy. While the race as a whole possessed a certain animal cunning they’d long employed to their advantage, when it came to genuine intelligence they were little better than morons… and not quite as good as Bajorans.

Still, they had their uses.

Though the war was progressing well, and the Federation in retreat on all fronts, the resources necessary to continue on the offensive were formidable, nigh staggering. Cardassian shipping had been severely depleted during the conflict with the Klingons, and in the understandable haste to rebuild military force to its previous strength, construction of merchant vessels had been, for the most part, ignored.

This was, of course, where the Pakleds came in.

They were ideal for such work—content with going from place to place, time and again… so long as, on occasion, they were thrown a scrap of new technology. Pakleds were greedy and acquisitive, granted, but far more manageable on those points than Orions, Yridians or Ferengi, none of which the Union wanted running cargo unescorted in their territory during wartime.

And so, Glinn Enak Temar, Associate Logistics Coordinator, Cardassian First Order, had watched from his Operations Center at Central Command as Pakled starships had slowly grown to be a common sight in Union space lanes over the past few years.

He had to admit, grudgingly, that they’d proven an asset—especially bulk carriers like the one currently on approach to its parking orbit at...

Hmm.

His associate, Glinn Peras Ravel, Orbital Logistics Traffic Control Officer, let loose with a grunt that told him she’d immediately seen it, too.

Before either could react, their comm board sounded, and transmitted the kind of message they’d heard all too often.

“We are Pakleds. Our ship is the Grumbor. It will not go straight.”

Ravel shot Temar a put-upon, “Why-am-I-not-surprised?” glare, and then inquired, in a slow, carefully-considered sentence, “Why will it not go straight?”

“It is broken.”

She sighed.

Temar scanned the Grumbor.

“Their starboard and ventral thrusters are operating only intermittently. It’s pushing them off course.”

“And, naturally, they have no idea how to rectify it.”

For a moment they were both irritated, but then bowed to the absurdity of it, and chuckled.

Ravel consulted her database, and then signaled the errant vessel.

“Grumbor, cut your power and stand by. We are diverting the tug/freighter Meklinar to assist. It will tow you to your berth, where repairs can be made while your cargo is unloaded.”

There was a momentary delay, while the Pakled think tank considered that. Finally, the response came.

“You will fix it?”

She fought off a round of giggles, and assured them, “Yes. We shall fix it.”

The Pakled captain gave her what was without question his most heartfelt compliment.

“You are smart.”

The Cardassians watched, still amused, as the Pakled vessel continued its lazy tumble, making a complete 720° circuit even as she strayed further from her assigned approach vector.

“Even their ships look stupid,” Temar noted.

Ravel nodded, grinning, and went back to her other work.

Grumbor’s nose once again faced the planet’s surface… and, just then, its bumbling twirl stopped. Her bay doors slid open…

…and, as Temar watched, frozen for the instant his reaction might have mattered, another ship emerged into the light of Cardassia’s sun.

For the first time in months, Central Command (or, at least one person there) knew the precise location of the USS Liberty.

She cut loose with her entire weapons array: Phasers; quantum torpedoes; and some sort of concentrated discharge from her main deflector dish—all aimed at Temar… or so it seemed from his perspective.

Of course, the target was the massive Central Command complex in which he stood, gaping… and the installation’s shields weren’t even deployed.

They say the speed of thought surpasses even light, and in the instants before his death, he acknowledged this otherwise un-provable fact to be true.

Temar hated Pakleds. He always had.

Now he knew why.