Chapters 16-20

Chapter 16

The Endeavor was as luxurious as any Galaxy class starship, and while I didn’t have any time to see the holodeck, I did have a good time in tenforward getting to know some of my new colleagues. Derrick was a human from Portland who had graduated two years before me; he was a pilot and was joining the Xinjiang in the engineering crew; he’d been to space countless times and was chuffed to be back after being stuck working at UFP headquarters supporting the shipbuilding resource allocation council. Then there was Tax, an unjoined Trill who had also been stationed on Earth for the last five years, working at the United Federation of Planets as a diplomatic attaché. He had a love for Earth martial arts although he was the thinnest and most unathletic person I’d probably ever met. Finally, Ji-Soo, Sarah, and Tom were all human like myself; unlike me, they mostly kept to themselves.

I had no interest in that. This was my first official trip off Earth and, as much as I did not like being away from home, I very much did like the opportunity to meet as many of the officers and enlisted people as I could. Derrick and Tax agreed, which is why we spent most of our time in tenforward, chatting with as many people as we could about life on the ship.

I learned a lot about my soon-to-be shipmates, but it was Derrick whom I spent most of the time with. I don’t want to say it was because we were both human--the stereotype that Earthers prefer the company of humans exists for a reason, but I do try to befriend as many people as I can. Still, Derrick had a lot to say about piloting and the history of Starfleet ships that was genuinely fascinating to me, a surprise since I’d never found science all that interesting. But Derrick told me of some crazy stories, such as the time Voyager had gone to Warp 10 (once thought a theoretical impossibility); that story wasn’t one that made it to all of the books, articles, and interviews about Voyager, and learning this extra bit about my obsession was a delight.

And it also made me realize I was, in fact, moving away from Voyager and Tuvix in my mind, intellectually and emotionally. Derrick had as many questions for me about the future of asylum seekers to the Federation and what this all meant for the quadrant. I was a lowly clerk, but he clearly saw me as more of an expert than he. And so we shared knowledge: I on law and history, he on science and technology.

That’s not to say we paired off and ignored the others. For the two days on the Endeavor, we engaged Tax as much as possible (although Tax definitely retired to his quarters much earlier than Derrick and me); Tax had been accepted to the Academy at 15 and started classes a month after his 16th birthday, a fact that he did not boast about and seemed to blush when Derrick mentioned it in jest (the two had been assigned together for a year already and seemed to know each other well). I figured that likely accounted for his shyness; while Tax was certainly friendly, and willing to answer questions when sent his way, he did not ask nor give too many details. I wanted to ask why Tax chose not to be joined (or was it a choice? Few Trill are given the honor, I suppose), but did not want to embarrass him, so I refrained.

The morning of our departure, I awoke to find Ji-Soo, Sarah, and Tom having breakfast together at tenforward, with five padds on the table and a lot of talk that I couldn’t overhear. They hadn’t been quick to welcome me to their table, so I hesitated to join them; but as I didn’t know anyone else in the room, I was about to make my way to them from the bank of replicators when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Morning, Jason. Excited to see me pilot?” I turned, and there was Derrick, smiling ear to ear. He was clearly excited not just to fly, but for us to see him fly.

“I doubt you’ll impress me in a shuttlecraft.” We were about forty-five minutes away from the departure point, where the Endeavor was going to drop out of warp, let us disembark via a shuttlecraft that we’d then fly the remaining 1.5 parsecs to the Omicrom Armada. The Endeavor was headed elsewhere--but their mission was above my security clearance, so I had no idea where.

“You’d be surprised,” Derrick said with a cocky smile. I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but at the back of my mind I was getting nervous. Every once in a while I remembered that I was on a starship in the middle of space, with a thin sheet of duranium separating me from a painful, horrific death. Whenever I remembered, I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

My stream of consciousness must have clouded my face, because Derrick went from cocksure trickster to sympathetic friend. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything crazy to impress you.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping the relief didn’t come through too much in my quavering voice. I knew I was a coward by Starfleet standards when it came to spaceflight; while I wasn’t ashamed of this fact, I didn’t exactly want to advertise it, either. “Just getting us there alive will impress me.”

“You’re an easy customer,” he said, then turned to the replicator. “Hash browns, three eggs, five rashers of American bacon,” he said. I’d quickly learned Derrick liked to eat a lot--he also exercised a lot too, which was why he was a towering and powerful figure. I’d never been intimidated by tall men; having been average height my whole life, height had never been a concern of mine. But I’d always been thin and uninterested in being anything but, so Derrick’s musculature was a point of envy and, I admit, admiration. He promised to teach me weightlifting at some point, a promise I at the time hoped he’d break.

“Shall we sit with Ji-Soo and the rest?” I asked. He nodded, and we proceeded to join them.

The group was quiet before we arrived, but as we got there Tom gave us a nod and a “morning.” And with that, we sat together in a mostly quiet and uneventful breakfast. That suited me well; my pork congee was delicious, being one of the few foods that replicates well.

The call came onto all of our communicators at once. “Xinjiang party report to the Apollo in Shuttlebay 3,” we heard the commander say. I was surprised that we got a personal note from such a high ranking officer on the ship, and I admit it tickled my ego. It shouldn’t have. We got up at once, took our trays to the replicators, and left for the shuttlebay.

I knew little about Galaxy-class ships, so I was surprised when we got to the shuttlebay to see how cramped it was. We exited the turbolift together on Deck 13, with Derrick leading the way--both because he knew the layout of the ship better than the rest of us and because he was about to be, as soon as we stepped foot on the shuttle, our commanding officer. I was already practicing calling him “sir” in my head, even though I probably would have nothing to do on the ship when we got there.

When the shuttlebay doors opened, we were immediately faced with a wall of barrels and other containers. A hard right and another left to get past them, and we saw the rest of the bay, which was cramped as far as I could tell. Going through the maze created by all of the containers there, we finally got to the back of the shuttlebay where the Apollo was waiting, next to another shuttlecraft. “I had no idea shuttlebays were so tiny,” I said.

“They aren’t,” Derrick replied. “Not all of them. The main shuttlebay is a lot larger--and less full of cargo. We’re just not important enough to get a sendoff there,” he added.

That was true. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I thought at least one senior officer would be there to see us off. There was only a technician behind the glass who opened the doors to the bay after we got into the ship, said “Apollo, you are cleared for departure” over the intercom, and closed the doors behind us. My ego was thoroughly untickled.

Looking out at the stars from this small ship for some reason felt less terrifying--being in a vehicle whose dimensions I was more experienced with, my subconscious possibly interpreted our trip as if I were on a transcontinental shuttlecraft back on Earth at night; the fear of the vacuum of space didn’t cross my mind.

Then we went to warp.

This was only the second time I’d experienced such a thing, the first being on the Endeavor. It was weird in how much of a non-experience it was. The stars blurred and we seemed to zoom past them, but no engine sound, change in inertia, or rise in pressure inside the cabin meant it was a purely visual phenomenon. Derrick had told me you can feel going to warp when you’re more experienced with it, but I wasn’t sure if he was fibbing.

Our shuttlecraft was certified to go Warp 9 maximum, and Derrick set a Warp 8 cruising speed--which even I knew was standard operating procedures, meaning we’d arrive in just over a day.

The first sixteen hours were uneventful. Derrick contacted the Xinjiang on subspace and confirmed their position was where we expected; Ji-Soo ran a diagnostic on the ship which came up clean, and the rest stayed either at their seats or in a bunk in the back. I noticed an immediate change in mood from our two days on the Endeavor. While that felt like a vacation, this felt like a business trip; everyone was prepping for the work they were about to be doing, except Derrick and Ji-Soo, who were already working.

I was no exception. I called up the reports from the legal attachés that were managing the refugee asylum project at the Omicrom Armada, including their training materials and background information. The legal details are perhaps too boring to go into, even for a fellow lawyer, but let me just say there was a lot. I was surprised at how standard the process already was; the legal theory and administration that had been put in place over the last few decades had prepared the Federation for a wave of migrants, although no one had expected the sheer quantity of people that we were now facing.

Exactly what my job was supposed to be and how to do it was clearly laid out in the documents Lieutenant Price had prepared for us clerks. That was a relief, but I can’t say a shock; Starfleet was the most professional and well organized institution in the known galaxy, which was why so many people wanted to work for it, even if they came from Federation societies that were post-money. Starfleet attracted people who wanted to do good jobs, so it wasn’t surprising that Price had done a good job himself.

I was reading about terrorist screening protocols when I heard the sound of an alert from the front of the shuttle. I was in my bunk with the screen door ajar just barely, so I didn’t hear any response to the alert. Still, an alert on its own made me nervous--that was definitely not supposed to happen.

“Unidentified vessel closing in heading 210 mark 5,” Ji-soo was saying, now sitting at her station next to Derrick at the head of the vessel. Tom was at a support con closer to the back of the ship--while I couldn’t see Ji-Soo or Derrick’s panel, I could see Tom had switched to battle mode.

That was terrifying.

“Opening a channel,” Ji-Soo continued.

“This is the USS Apollo Shuttle,” said Derrick confidently as he continued to steer. His voice sounded strong and authoritative, which made me even more nervous. “Please identify yourself.”

No response.

“Can you get a positive ID on that ship?” Derrick called out.

“Negative,” Tom said.

“Distance to the Xinjiang?”

“Still 2.3 light years,” Ji-Soo replied.

“Hail them, inform them of our situation, and request fighter support to meet us at maximum warp.”

“Acknowledged,” she said.

At maximum warp at this distance, it’d take them over 6 hours to get here--even I knew that math. Surviving a gunfight for six hours wasn’t impossible, depending on how heavily armed our friend was. But a six-hour fight would be both exhausting and taxing on the ship.

It quickly became apparent that we had no choice.

“I believe it is a modified Jem’Hadar fighter,” Tom said suddenly. “I am not quite sure, but the ion trail it is leaving behind is a close match, but if it is, it's a modified engine.”

“Theories?” Derrick snapped.

Theories? I wanted to know how far that damn ship was from us.

“A modified fighter would indicate it isn’t a Jem’Hadar but someone who found some space debris,” Ji-Soo replied. “That would indicate either a freelancer or a pirate, so we can assume a one-on-one fight.”

“Agreed,” Tom said. “In either case they’d have a show of force to minimize the chances of a fight.” As he said it I realized how much that made sense. Just one ship meant we had a fighting chance; several and we’d have to surrender immediately, giving them whatever cargo or resources they wanted from us.

But that didn’t rule out the possibility that this was a desperate loner looking for resources with no choice but to fight for them. Nor did it rule out the possibility of it being just some rogue homicidal maniac who liked killing random ships for fun. There wasn’t much of that, but it wasn’t unheard of. I knew the case law.

One ship, I quickly realized as my pulse quickened and my extremities tingled, meant a greater chance of death. I could feel the panic attack welling.

Then Ji-Soo said something that snapped me out of it.

“They’re hailing us. Audio only.”

“Open a channel,” Derrick said.

“This is Fenris Ranger Shizuki, requesting your immediate cooperation,” the voice said--a female and, by the name of it, a human. “We do not want to destroy your ship, but we will.”

We?

“This is Lieutenant Derrick, acting captain of the transport craft Apollo. We are on a peaceful mission--”

“Lies will not save you,” Shizuki responded immediately. “Identify yourself.”

I could hear the exasperated and annoyed tone in Derrick’s voice. That somehow put my mind at ease.

“I just told you,” he said slowly, condescendingly. “I am Derrick of the United Federation of Planets. Who are the ‘Rangers’?”

Suddenly, the Jem’hadar fighter shot a phaser beam across the hull, lighting up the starboard side windows and just barely missing us by maybe 10 meters. I quickly glanced over to Tom’s panel and was relieved to see shields at maximum, power at 100%. Whew.

“We know you are working for Sukral and you are transporting illegal Borg technology,” Shizuki continued in a tone very clearly laden with anger. She reminded me of Lauren at that moment. “We will not let you leave.”

“Cut communication,” Derrick said. Ji-Soo did. I was waiting for Shizuki to attack, but she didn’t. However, her ship had now aligned itself with ours, and was staring straight at us. “Thoughts?”

“She thinks we’re Romulan,” Tom said, “so we need to prove we aren’t and avoid this entire fight.”

Derrick nodded. “Open a channel, onscreen.”

Ji-Soo did, and we saw Shizuki--a human perhaps in her mid-30s, whose very angry face was a mismatch to her very petite figure. It was unnerving to see a human sitting on a Jem’hadar bridge, made even weirder by the fact that the chair she was sitting on was Starfleet. Next to her and facing away from the camera was a Klingon.

“Nice trick,” Shizuki said, apparently not believing we were human.

“If you don’t believe us, beam onto our ship, or I can beam onto yours,” Derrick said, now more annoyed than anything.

“And lower our shields? Hardly--nice try, though. You will accompany us to our rendezvous where we will hand you over to the Ranger council. They will mete out justice.”

“Who are the rangers?” Derrick asked.

“Now I know you’re just buying time,” Shizuki said. “What an absurd question.” She ended the call.

And that’s when the first phraser hit--our starboard nacelle. I could feel the impact as the ship teetered back and forth.

“Superficial hit, shields holding,” Tom said. “Clearly a warning shot.”

“I honestly don’t know what to do,” Derrick said suddenly. Not really what you wanted your commanding officer to say--and not something I expected.

Ji-Soo turned to him. “We just need to postpone this for a few hours. When the Omicrom fighters come they can clear this all up. It’s clearly a misunderstanding of some sorts--whoever the Rangers are, they seem to be on the Federation’s side.”

A naive conclusion, I thought.

“Agreed,” Tom said. “But how?”

He asked the right question at the right time, because Shizuki lit us up again. This time another phaser to our hull. “Shields down to 95%,” Tom said.

Not a hard hit, which oddly calmed me. And the phaser fire meant she didn’t want to destroy us completely. Possibly because she thought we were Romulans smuggling Borg technology.

“Listen,” I said immediately. Everyone in the cabin turned to me. “I know this isn’t my job, but I have experience with criminal minds--and whoever the rangers are, they are criminals.”

“Sorry, Jason, but--” Derrick began, but Tom cut him off.

“Derrick, let’s listen to him--sir,” he added belatedly.

Derrick gestured. He played an egomaniac, but I knew he really wasn’t one. I nodded gratitude to Tom.

“I think the rangers, however many there are, are some kind of vigilante group, maybe like the Maquis,” I continued. “And vigilantes tend to shoot first, ask questions later--or never. They also see everyone else as potential enemies and liars, because they themselves will lie to whomever and make enemies more willingly than make friends. No matter what we say to her, she’s going to find a way to think we are lying, trying to deceive her, etc. And she probably thinks we’re trying to buy time until backup arrives--any minute now her paranoia will spike and she’ll strike us again, but with more force.”

As if I’d jinxed us, another phaser strike--this one straight to our engines. “Shields still holding at 70%,” Tom said. Then another phaser strike--they weren’t waiting.

“Fire photon torpedoes, target their weapons system,” Derrick said immediately, his tone gone flat. Humans were not supposed to fire on other humans. This was not what our civilization had worked so hard to become. This wasn’t 1939.

But we had no choice, and Derrick made the right call with the information in front of him.

What happened next was chaotic, and I’d rather not relive the details too much, so let me just tell you the outcome of this battle. Our first strike didn’t hit their weapons system--or if it did, their weapons were still functional. It did cut out their shields and cause a hull breach, which would have ended the fight right there if, at the same time, her ship hadn’t fired phasers back at us that knocked out our shields and caused our ship to spin a full 360 degrees.

Instinctually, I held on to a handlebar on the wall next to me, so when the ship rolled around at 200km/hr my legs hit the ceiling and caused me to slide on the side of the ship and onto the ground, so only my left leg was broken in three places. Tom, Derrick, and Ji-Soo were not so lucky--they were all thrown about the cabin and died instantly.

I didn’t know it immediately, but since Sarah and Tax had been in their enclosed bunk, the whirling of the ship just caused bad headaches for them both but no other major injuries. Thankfully, because otherwise we probably would have died.

When the ship’s inertial dampers adjusted to the turning and I was on the ground, pure adrenaline took over. I knew that my three crewmates including our pilot were dead, but there was no time to feel anything about that fact. Nor was there time to feel pain from my broken bones. Instead I had to crawl to the pilot’s station and get us out of this situation.

“Computer!” I yelled as I crawled, “attack formation epsilon!”

It immediately began a preprogrammed attack formation that was probably extremely easy to predict and counterattack--I only had the most rudimentary understanding of space battle theory from a course I did not do very well in over three years ago. But it apparently was enough, perhaps because the Jem’hadar ship’s jerryrigged technology was not robust enough to survive much of a fight. Which, I later understood, was a symptom of the Rangers’ bravery and stupidity.

“Sarah, Tax! Get out here! Help!” I screamed to the back cabin, but they were already on their way to the front. I hadn’t gotten to the pilot’s chair by the time Sarah was there, taking the helm while I was still laying on the ground. That’s when I started to feel the pain in my legs.

I was facing the floor but I still heard the sound of someone beaming into the cabin--and I also heard the sound of a phaser. I turned and saw Shizuki was in our ship now and on the ground, unconscious. Tax was standing above her, phaser in hand.

“Can you help?” I rasped. “My leg hurts.”

Chapter 17

Fortunately they were clean breaks so the osteogenic stimulator took less than a minute to fix them, after which a hypospray took the inflammation and the pain away. I got to my feet and sat in Tom’s old chair before Shizuki regained consciousness, affording me some dignity.

My heart was still racing so I couldn’t think too much about it, but the horror was starting to hit me--my friend had died, and Ji-Soo and Tom were gone too before I had a chance to get to know them. This was not the kind of first space mission you were supposed to have.

“Shields regenerating, long-range scanners show no known enemy ships, warp engines remain fully functional.” Then I swallowed. “Enemy ship has been destroyed.” The Klingon, and whoever else had been on that ship, were dead.

“Resuming course to Xinjiang, maximum warp,” Sarah said. Now we’d be there ahead of schedule--and with bad news, dead bodies, and a murderer to deliver as well.

“Are you okay to drag her behind the force field?” Tax asked. I nodded. I helped pick up the still unconscious murderer and place her behind the main cabin. We stepped back, and Tax raised the force field that now separated Shizuki from us and the back cabin. It also kept us from accessing the back cabin as well, but since we only had about six hours to get to the Xinjiang, that didn’t really matter.

Shizuki awoke about an hour later.

“My god,” was the first thing she said.

I turned and saw her--she was now looking at us from behind the force field.

“Now you see we weren’t lying--we’re human,” I said bitterly.

Shizuki looked down. “Our intel was impeccable,” she muttered.

Quickly, she told us the story. Another human ranger had visited Shizuki’s team on Vashti, a planet in the Qiris sector that the rangers were using as one of their bases, and told them that a shuttlecraft of our name, registry, and description had been taken over by a Romulan warlord by the name of Sukral, who had acquired a cache of Borg technology he was transporting to his base, where Sukral planned to use it to begin assimilating and reprogramming Tal Shiar fighters to follow his commands.

It was a ghastly plan--if it had been true.

Shizuki told us she had seen the human ranger herself--in a bitter irony, he was also named Derrick. I fought back tears at that detail.

“Did you do a DNA test on Derrick?”

“No,” she said. “My boss, T’Mek, said that he knew Derrick and that he was a trusted source. T’Mek is a brilliant Vulcan, so I had no reason to doubt him for one second.”

“So brilliant,” I said dryly, “that he was fooled by some plastic surgery and someone who spoke very good English.”

Shizuki didn’t respond, but she looked deeply ashamed.

“It’s not that hard of a trick,” I continued, “and can be just as effective as a Changeling. Many criminals use plastic surgery to look like other aliens, and it’s something that’s been used by intelligence officers for centuries. Over the last century, the Tal Shiar has had an estimated 20,000 spies in the Federation who’ve had some surgery to look like humans.” I’d never expected my History of Military Intelligence class to be so useful. “It’s why Starfleet has DNA screening as part of its HR protocol on space assignments. I assume you rangers have no such thing.”

Again, no response. If Shizuki hadn’t just killed my colleagues, I would’ve felt the need for mercy. As it was, I wanted her to feel as much loathing for herself as I felt for her.

“You see, just because Vulcans are logical doesn’t mean they’re smart,” I continued. “That’s a mistake a lot of humans make. Hell, Vulcans make it even more often. T’Mek clearly didn’t think to confirm he was talking to who he thought he was, and he got duped by one of the best spy agencies in galactic history.”

Shizuki knew to say nothing.

“And now my friends are dead as a result, and you’re on your way to prison.” Now my lawyer instincts kicked in. “The murder of three on-duty Starfleet officers will likely result in sixty-years in a high-security prison, which is no fun place to be. Are you originally from Japan?”

“No,” she said. “I was born on Proxima Colony.”

“Ah, well, you are likely to see your ancestors' homeworld soon--you will most likely be in a Pacific Island cell where you will face rehabilitation and justice. Sixty years is a long time.”

I paused for dramatic effect. My lawyer muscle flexing gave my heart some relief. Was I being sadistic? Perhaps, but persisting with Shizuki was the only way I could avenge the death of these three young and courageous beings. It also had the welcome side effect of possibly eliciting information of value.

“Considerations will be made for cooperation, of course. As a primary witness, my testimony on your cooperativeness will set the tone for how the prosecutor will treat you. So I’d suggest you start telling me more about the rangers.”

“You really don’t know who we are?” she replied in an offended tone, telling me she replied more out of pride than out of a desire to save her own skin.

“I do not. We’re new to the neighborhood.”

“The Federation’s resources are strapped,” Shizuki said. “I’m sure you’re aware of this. As a result a lot of Romulan gangs have started taking advantage of the situation and attacking innocent civilian worlds; my husband and I were on such a world. So when we were saved by the rangers, we joined them. At the time they were just getting formed, a group of ex-Maquis and some Federation who didn’t want to wait around for the bureaucracy to clear us saving our lives and livelihoods.”

That made sense, and it hurt me. I was a proud Earther, human, and Federation citizen. I knew we were imperfect, and the disgraceful way we treated those stuck in the middle of us, the Cardassians, and the Dominion was an example of that imperfection. But I firmly believed by gaining more resources, having more ships, and being bigger, we could get closer to perfection. The supernova of the Romulan sun had happened too fast and had caused too big of a strain on the Federation’s post-war resources. We needed more time to rebuild before we could fulfill our destiny as a beacon of light for the galaxy.

“The rangers are protecting the unprotected, the weak, the victims of history and cruel forces of evil in the universe: the Borg, the Romulans, the Orions,” she said bitterly. “We do it because you won’t--not until you’ve exhausted every other option.”

I don’t know if she knew she was quoting Churchill; he was an obscure figure from Earth history. But the reference did bite, and I suddenly felt nauseous as my hatred for this murderer of my friends intertwined with my sympathy for her very understandable position.

But her error also proved that her means did not justify her ends, nor get her to achieve it. She’d been duped and made a stupid mistake that caused innocents to die, because she did not have the infrastructure, the protocols, and the professionalism of Starfleet to ensure bad mistakes like this were not made.

I turned my back to Shizuki, honestly mostly because I didn’t know what to say next. We rode in silence for a few hours, and it wasn’t until much later that I learned how much this conversation changed Tax’s and Sarah’s perception of me (we were all in the crammed shuttlecraft, so of course they could hear every word--and they listened). Tax was a diplomat and Sarah an engineer; neither were used to the sometimes cynical tactics of the lawyer, and seeing them play out made both uncomfortable, even when the target was a murderer.

We reached the Xinjiang about 8 hours ahead of schedule, but when we announced our arrival and got cleared for docking there was no question as to why. Our request for security to meet us at the bay also did not elicit questions--but three guards were there to take Shizuki off our hands when we arrived.

Technically I was not the most senior of the survivors, but Tax seemed uncomfortable explaining our situation when Lieutenant Commander Shapiro came on board.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” I said. “Unfortunately Lieutenants Sung, Tamil, and Robertson were killed in the line of duty. They fought honorably to save our lives.”

“Take her to the brig,” Shapiro said to the security guards as he eyed the handcuffed Shizuki. He turned his attention to me, “I’m sorry your tour starts off on such a bad foot, but we thank you for your courage. Please come with me for a full debriefing.”

We all began to follow him, but he stopped, turned around, and said, “just you, lieutenant,” he said, looking at me. “Tax, Sarah, you’ll be debriefed separately.”

Separate debriefings as a security protocol made sense, even if it did sting a little. The chances of us being culpable for what had happened was non-zero, and the procedure was standard. But when it happens to you, it still hurts.

I followed Shapiro as he took me to Deck 3, where he led me into his personal office. A small, cramped room with a big window facing the stars, I was surprised to see Shapiro was a book collector. As in actual, physical books made of paper and cardboard. I did not know if they were replicated and it definitely wasn’t appropriate to ask.

Shapiro, like me, was part of the legal corps and had a love of language, so the books made sense.

“Tell me everything that happened,” he said simply, exhaling with a twinge of disappointment in his voice as he sat down. I wasn’t sure if the disappointment was aimed at me, but I felt like a target.

I proceeded to tell him what I’ve told you, and probably in just as many words.

“That is honestly not too surprising, but it is worrying,” he said. When he saw my face he immediately said, “relax--you’re not a suspect.” I was relieved to hear that, but also ashamed that my self-interest was so apparent. I was not acting or thinking like a Starfleet officer should--while that was often the case, I didn’t like it when it was so nakedly apparent.

“We’ve known about the rangers for a while now,” he continued. “They haven’t attacked Starfleet yet even if we see them as vigilantes outside the law, which is why none have been arrested or convicted or anything yet. So this is a bit of an anomaly.”

How lucky for Ji-Soo, Tom, and Derrick.

“It seems the Tal Shiar is changing tactics in an attempt to get us to start attacking the rangers,” he continued. “You see, they’ve been a growing thorn in the side of just about all of the Romulan groups, but the Tal Shiar above all. The rangers’ strategy so far has been to attack the Tal Shiar just when the other Romulan factions are doing the same. That way they have a war on all fronts, they’ll fall first, then the rangers can start targeting the various warlords. It’s a good strategy. Coffee?”

“No thank you,” I said.

“Coffee, extra strong,” Shapiro barked to the replicator. He took the cup, sat down again. “But good strategy isn’t enough if your enemy is more cunning than you are, which is clearly the case here. The Tal Shiar technically outgun the rangers, but they lack military strategic skill, which is why they’ve lost the skirmishes they’ve had. But the Tal Shiar is cleverer than the rangers, and they can use that to fight without wasting energy or resources on torpedoes. And now that’s what they’re going to start doing.”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” I said timidly, unsure of whether Shapiro wanted to think aloud or wanted me to contribute. He looked up at me enigmatically while sipping his coffee, causing my uncertainty to grow. I powered through. “If the Tal Shiar is intent on creating a rift between us and the rangers, one way to do it is to infiltrate their ranks. Another is to infiltrate ours.”

He nodded. “I am aware of this,” he said. I felt sheepish; had I said the obvious? “Our humanitarian effort to offer asylum to as many Romulans as we can has just gotten a lot harder. The last thing we want to do is open the floodgates to millions of Tal Shiar operatives to come live on Earth, Vulcan, Betazed.” He paused. “We’ve got a real problem here.”

I grimaced. The quest for power amongst the evil and power-hungry always meant the weakest would suffer the most. Now Romulan asylum seekers who have no home, no power, and no resources will suddenly face an even more uphill battle to get a new home and a new life. If the Tal Shiar could just give up their quest to be in control, billions and billions would have a better life.

And, on a more selfish note, it also meant I’d probably be here for more than six months.

This was, incidentally, the moment when Tuvix completely left my mind. It had been an intense day, and the ramifications of what I had just been through hit me hard. I realized that I needed to focus my energy on not just the living, but the living who were at the mercy of a cruel and self-interested bureaucracy that ultimately didn’t care much about the best interests of the innocent.

In my mind, those billions of homeless Romulans were like billions of Tuvixes, facing a cruel, singleminded, and uncaring Janeway--but in this case, that Janeway was the complex galactic politics keeping those Romulans from safety.

“I am eager to serve however I can,” I said. And I meant every word.

Chapter 18

The changes to the intake procedure were immediate, and suddenly resources dedicated to processing refugees quadrupled. It also meant a new policy, wherein the vast majority of Romulan refugees would be rehoused on uninhabited (or low inhabited) M-class planets in the Neutral Zone.

Suddenly Omicron Armada was in the job of patrolling Rangers first, defending against encroaching Romulans second, and processing refugee applications third.

That meant our target had gone down--now we were expected to allow just six million Romulans into the Federation during my six-month period, even though the amount of clerks working on the project had quadrupled.

But the job changed. Now I was to spend more time interviewing flagged applications and providing opinions on whether these asylum seekers were Tal Shiar or not.

Was I qualified to give such an opinion? Of course not. Maybe I’d been trained to be a shrewd and cynical lawyer, but that didn’t mean I was anywhere near ready to understand the subterfuge of your average Tal Shiar spy, let alone identify it. But Starfleet lacked the resources to do any better and, to their credit, the Federation still wanted to let in millions of Romulans.

I could not bring myself to have a political viewpoint on this particular issue, especially not when I was on the front lines. I had to take each Romulan I talked to as an individual, sticking to the facts on the ground to guide my decision making.

The job suited me well. For the next four months I spent my days going through asylum applications, interviewing applicants, and submitting recommendations. It was impossible for me to know who was telling the truth and who wasn’t; lie detectors don’t work on Romulans and I was smart enough to know my intellect was not equipped to combat a Tal Shiar operative intent on hiding the truth. So I stuck to the merits of each case as they appeared--I would recommend asylum be granted to applicants who were in the most need.

Determining who was in the most need wasn’t easy, though. Most stories were pitiful and depressing--it made me wonder just what humanity would look like if Earth were destroyed and the humans who could escape the disaster or were offworld at the time suddenly had to plead for mercy and charity to other worlds. Even if the Federation held, which it probably would without humanity, humans may not get much sympathy, and paradise would be lost in more ways than one.

It was a sobering thought and really made the post-progression movement on Earth seem quaint. Humanity hadn’t evolved at all; humanity was lucky that Earth happened to be where it was in the galaxy.

I quickly sympathized with the refugees that I talked to, and I tried to console them as best as I could during the interviews. The most painful were the children--they all seemed keenly aware of what was happening, and I could see a lifetime of trauma developing in front of me.

I was granted leave in the second month of my stay, during which time I was transported to Starbase 47, where Shizuki was on trial for her murder of my colleagues. The official charges were terrorism and three counts of murder, with a possible maximum sentence of 75 years in a high security prison. I was supposed to appear in the middle of the trial, and I was the prosecution's star witness.

Halfway on my way to Starbase 47, I was hailed. There were only two of us on the ship--the pilot and myself--so the hail showed up on my panel and my heart immediately skipped a beat.

“Onscreen,” Phlanx said.

A Vulcan admiral appeared. “Shuttlecraft Xinjiang Epsilon, please be informed you are no longer required at Starbase 47. Please turn around and return to your ship.”

Phlanx turned to me, surprised. I shrugged.

“Acknowledged,” Phlanx said. I looked at my panel--security codes cleared. This was an authentic order.

Phlanx turned the ship around and immediately closed the channel. “Guess we’re going back.”

I was more confused than annoyed, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at all annoyed. So I called the admiral back. He appeared on screen.

“Sir, this is Jason Li of the Xinjiang. May I ask why we’re being recalled?”

“The trial has been canceled,” the admiral said plainly. “You are no longer needed.”

“Canceled? Why?”

“Shizuki has been returned to the rangers in exchange for three captured Starfleet officers. The charges have been dropped.”

I was stunned. The admiral apparently saw the shock on my face, and then he said, “if that will be all, lieutenant.” He ended the transmission.

I was not angry at first. Possibly the shock was so great that I couldn’t orient myself to rage, so the fury had to build slowly over the trip back. I hadn’t met Phlanx before this trip and he had obviously never met Derek, Ji-Soo, or Tom, so it felt both pointless and inappropriate to talk to him about this. I sent a quick text message to Tax and Sarah, asking them both to join me for dinner in my quarters. Best to talk about this in private.

We came back at 1600, giving me enough time to process 14 asylum applications before dinner. One application was a family of three that looked suspicious, so I’d made an interview request; I’d talk to them tomorrow morning. The rest were all approvals, a rare streak. I hoped they’d all find a happy and meaningful new life in the Federation.

That hope postponed my rage, but it did not erase it. But an outburst would help no one, so when Tax and Sarah showed up that evening, I tried my best to stay calm.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” I said when they both arrived--they must have met beforehand, since they arrived simultaneously. “I need to talk to you about Shizuki; she was let go.”

“That’s why you’re back so fast,” Tax said, nodding.

“Sorry,” I said, remembering my manners. “Want a drink?”

Tax took an Earth beer and Sarah a glass of sherry, while I took a glass of water. “Alcohol and synthohol aren’t a good idea right now,” I said. “I’m too furious.”

“Okay, tell us everything,” Sarah said in a soothing tone. She clearly could tell how I was feeling, and that told me to try to contain my emotions. To be a Vulcan for a few moments.

“There isn’t much to tell, honestly--we were halfway to starbase when we got a message from an admiral, I don’t know his name, telling us the trial was canceled. When I asked he told me there was a hostage exchange. A three-for-one deal.”

“That sounds like a pretty good deal for us,” Tax replied.

“Not a good deal for Ji-Soo, Tom, and Derrick,” I snapped back.

“No, of course not, but imprisoning Shizuki wouldn’t help them or their families,” Sarah said, showing the insufferable pragmatism of so many Starfleets outside of the legal corps. “There is a chaotic situation in this sector that is getting worse, and getting our people back is a pretty big victory.”

“Not just that,” Tax continued, “but the families of those returned hostages will certainly feel extremely grateful. Starfleet definitely made the right decision.”

I couldn’t believe how the two of them were turning against me. In the last couple months we had been a close group, socializing often, made compatriots under the shadow of our fallen comrades’ death. And in that time I had seen both of them embody Starfleet’s ideals for better or worse.

And this was definitely one of the “worse” times.

“They should have told us a negotiation was going on,” I continued, trying to reason with them. “At the very least they should have braced us for this. I hope they had the decency to tell the families.”

Sarah nodded. “I can see where you’re coming from, Jason,” she said, “but such a negotiation was probably pretty sensitive, and letting it slip out to anyone who didn’t need to know was most likely a security risk.”

“Fair, I can accept that,” I continued, “but they dropped the charges as well. They could’ve returned her and kept the charges open, so when all this is over they can rearrest her. Now she can go back to Proxima Colony, get a house, have a whole life in the Federation if she wanted.”

“I doubt she wants that,” Tax said, “and I’m pretty sure she’ll break the law again pretty soon.”

“And I hope you’re right that this will all be over, but I think there’s no end in sight to this mess,” Sarah added. “The rangers have gotten a lot of resources in the last few months, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see them declare themselves a sovereign nation outside of the Federation.”

“From the studies I’ve seen, 70% of the rangers are Federation citizens--I can’t imagine them giving that up so easily,” I said.

“Jason, I’ve been on the front line with them. I’ve fought against them and with them. They are not happy with the Federation at all, and if anything that’s their most unifying feature. They’re more like Klingons than humans: they care about honor and victory, and they think we have no honor and cannot win this battle.”

“What battle?” Tax asked. “There’s no war here.”

“Well, in a way there is,” I replied. “A war to end the desperation and displacement of the Romulans, but beyond the metaphor there’s ultimately a cold war to gain control of Qiris.”

Sarah nodded. “And the rangers are most likely going to win.”

Now Tax and I both looked at her, startled.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “I want us to win and I think we are right--we are doing as much as we can to bring peace to this sector, but it’s just too big. We’re talking about 100 billion sentient beings across dozens of planets and species. The Federation isn’t big enough to manage this--the only way we could is if they all joined the Federation, and that’s not going to happen. Not with the slavery and the exploitation and the…” her voice trailed off. “The horrors.”

I nodded. This was why my job was so important.

“I don’t understand why the whole galaxy doesn’t just join the Federation,” Tax said. Internally I chuckled at his naivete; Tax was cute sometimes.

“We’re doing all that we can to bring in as many people into the Federation that want to come,” I said.

“Are you serious?” Sarah said.

Was I being as naive as Tax? I couldn’t believe it at the time; of course, now I know I was. “What do you mean?”

“The Federation doesn’t want refugees,” she said bitterly. “You can see now that the civilian government is straying from the ideals that established the Federation, and I only hope we get a new president who fixes things.”

Sarah was one of those Picard fans--she had talked many times about how much she wanted him to run for office, or at least recommend someone who was as moral as he was. I have always felt politics and friendship shouldn’t mix, so kept mum when the topic came up. But I made an exception that night, possibly because I was still reeling from Shizuki’s freedom.

“Why do you think the Federation is straying?” I replied, and I cringe to think back on it. Even then I was still stupid enough to believe in the Federation, but I shouldn’t have. Janeway evading justice and becoming a top-ranking admiral was proof enough, and even though I didn’t know of the conspiracy around her at the time, I still knew enough to know that the Federation made mistakes. But back then I didn’t know the problem was endemic, woven into the fabric of the Federation.

“Do you know how many asylum applications are approved?” she snapped back at me. Honestly, I didn’t, and I am embarrassed to admit that to you now. I spent my waking hours going through applications, passing off recommendations to my superiors, and I did not follow up on how many of my recommendations were taken up. I assumed all of them--again, I was naive.

“How many?” I asked.

“Four percent.”

I refused to believe her, and I told her as much.

“Ask Price,” she replied. “I know because Boral told me.” Boral was a Bolian and a friend of Sarah’s. I liked Boral well enough, but she was a bit too talkative for my taste, so I didn’t socialize with her much. The times I had interacted with her, she seemed honest enough, but she was prone to gossip and had a thirst for drama. People like that can be tempted to bend the truth if it makes life saucier, so I had to wonder if Boral had exaggerated to Sarah.

I made a mental note to check out how many of my recommendations had been approved.

“Then why are you still in Starfleet?” I asked.

“Because the Federation will not change if people with principles abandon it,” she replied. “The Dominion War has seriously handicapped the Federation’s ability to follow its guiding principles, which I totally understand. And it’s my place in history to rebuild what we lost in the war so that we can get back to being a beacon of light for the galaxy to follow.”

A sensible idealism--that was what made her Starfleet.

“Plus,” Tax added, “what else would we do with our lives?”

In the corner of every citizen of every post-money society was that existential angst. It was what made Vulcans cling to logic, Klingons to honor, Bolians to friendship, Denobulans to sex. A pet theory that I’ve held my entire life, and still hold in fact, is that humanity has become a growing caricature of itself because too many people live lives that are the opposite of quiet desperation: loud comfort. It’s what has made Earth a planet of tour guides, gardners, and athletes--we’re wallowing in hobbies because, unlike our ancestors, we have no need for toil. And, yes, I fully include myself in that category.

Maybe money wasn’t so bad of a thing. Hunger makes food taste better.

I did not share this theory with many--those I did were people I considered close friends. I had articulated this idea to Tax and Sarah one time, when we were having a party in the holodeck. Perhaps fortunately, I was so drunk at the time I probably made no sense, and they were so drunk they probably didn’t remember anything I’d said at all.

“Let’s eat,” I said. Everyone was eager to change the subject.

As we began eating, Tax was the first to talk. A quite unusual move for the introverted Trill. “Captain Gaberman ordered us to rendezvous with a Klingon fleet--we go to warp at 2300,” he said.

“I heard about that,” Sarah replied. “Providing support for a new offensive, isn’t it?”

“Right,” he replied.

I knew nothing of this--I appreciated them because they kept me in the loop, not easy when you’re in the legal corps. “What’s going on?”

“They’re going after a Tal Shiar-controlled battalion that is heading to leave the sector, possibly to attack Deep Space 5.”

“That’s pretty bold--are they sure of the intel?” I asked, genuinely doubtful.

“They are,” Sarah said.

“But why us? We’re supposed to be picking up more applicants. Isn’t there a Reman ship set to arrive tomorrow? I was told we’d have a new round of asylum seekers,” I said.

Tax shrugged. “I don’t know--I guess they’re going to have to wait, or maybe they’ll be assigned to another ship in the armada.”

I checked my padd--bad manners at dinner, but Tax and Sarah were pretty forgiving about it. “No reassignment orders that I can see,” I said.

“See what I mean?” Sarah said. “They don’t care about those refugees.”

I had to admit: it was a damning piece of information. I wanted to say there might be more to the story, but it seemed like a lame response.

We continued eating in silence.

Chapter 19

Before I went to sleep I wrote off a quick text message to Price. Fortunately, Mark was an affable boss, so I both felt comfortable asking him for the data and was sure he’d give me a swift and honest answer.

To: Lieutenant Mark Price

Subject: Approval rate follow-up

Hello sir,

I was doing some analytics and noted that I had recommended 60% of all applications. That got me wondering: is this a high recommendation rate? And how many of those recommended applications got approved?

Best wishes,

Jason

The number was true--I had recommended more than half of all applications, but my approval rate was a lot lower than I had expected when I first started. But many of the asylum seekers had stains on their record; the Romulan Star Empire had been a brutal place full of heinous misdeeds.

When I woke up a message from Price was already awaiting me. That made me nervous--no one can feel comfortable waking up after your boss.

To: Lieutenant Jason Li

Subject: Re: Approval rate follow-up

Your 60% is pretty standard. So far I’m seeing a 2% approval rate for your recommendations, but it’s 4% across the board. No reason to worry--well within normal parameters. -Mark

I almost dropped the padd. What the hell was the point of being out here? Why was I wasting my time and these refugees’ time with these applications and interviews? Was it all just theater?

Sarah was right. And I had to face a family of three in twenty minutes, knowing full well that they weren’t likely to get the asylum they needed so desperately.

The father, Venrik, was a handsome man in his mid-30s, slender and tall, and his wife, T’Rel, was equally attractive. But they both looked very tired, clearly exasperated at the hell they’d been enduring. Their son, Vosik, was three years old.

“Jolan tru,” I said as warmly and with as much welcome in my voice as I could. I’d done this over a thousand times by now, and I thought I was pretty good at it. Still, they looked nervous--few of them didn’t. “I hope you’re doing okay today. Would you like anything? Water?”

“We’re fine,” Venrik said in that even tone so many refugees had. He clearly didn’t want to offend me by saying the wrong thing, but he also clearly was scared that he didn’t know what would offend me. Almost none of these people had met a human before, and they had been raised to think we were monsters. It was no surprise that being in this position, powerless and at the mercy of an Earther, was horrifying to them.

I sat down at the table opposite of them and gently put my padd down. I looked at them, tried to relax my posture, and put both of my hands on the table. In my experience this helped garner a smidgen of trust, but at the end of the day it was an uphill battle I’d never win. I’d come to accept that.

“I want to say something off the record,” I continued, following the script I’d developed over the last few months. “I know the Romulan government said a lot of horrible things about humanity over the years, and I won’t try to say we’re perfect and they’re wrong, but I want you to know I see you as an equal--a sentient being who deserves as many rights and respect as I do. And I’m going to treat you as fairly as I can. I’ll take everything you say in good faith, and I can only ask that you do the same with me.”

Again the response was a common one: he looked surprised and very off guard. T’Rel spoke, and the way Venrik looked at her made me think they’d rehearsed for this and her contribution was not part of the program.

“Romulans do not believe their government; they obey it,” she said. “Few of us believe the propaganda, but you have to understand that this is all very scary for us.”

I’d heard something like this hundreds of times, and I’d come to believe it. Romulan society was based on subterfuge, lies, and dishonesty. For a Romulan, the notion of being honest and straightforward was akin to mindlessly babbling your stream of consciousness to anyone who would listen. Being honest was being childish, something to be ashamed of.

Thus Romulan society had developed multiple layers of strike and counterstrike at every level, from the multiple nodes of administration in its government to the odd ways that Romulans structured their businesses and families. A couple was historically unusual in Romulan society, as many believed three people were needed to ensure disputes were resolved fairly without any need to bring matters to the House. That practice, I’d been told, was fading before the supernova, but I was always careful not to inquire about a Third to any Romulan couple I interviewed. For some, their loved one had died and it was not a subject they wanted to discuss--nor did they want outsiders to know the pain they felt.

I guess you could say I started playing the Romulan game of subterfuge. But I was never any good at it.

Nor did I want to be. “That’s honestly understandable, and a lot of Romulans have said that to me before,” I replied. “I am sure it’s really true.” It was a Romulan taboo to acknowledge the complex web of lies and mistruths in their society, but I thought it was good to break that taboo to introduce them to humanity’s love of honesty and to encourage them to start considering the value of honesty.

It rarely worked.

“My records indicate that you owned a restaurant,” I continued, picking up my padd. “On Romulus?”

“Yes,” Venrik said, looking now more comfortable that they could start acting according to their prepared script. “We were on a transport vessel on our way to Rendel to meet with a potential new supplier of lavienda.”

I had no idea what lavienda was, nor what Rendel was. I saw the ship’s registry and the destination--it was about 15 parsecs away from Romulus. “Tell me about Rendel, I don’t know it,” I replied.

“Rendel joined the Empire over two centuries ago,” Venrik said. I couldn’t help but smirk at the euphemism--in other words, the Romulans conquered them. “It comprises about 30% Rendelians, a humanoid race similar to the Kelpians, but without the threat ganglia. There are about 50% Romulans and 20% empire citizens of other races,” he said. Very prepared, even with memorized statistics--again, this was not unusual.

“And why would you need a supplier so far away?” I asked.

“Lavienda is expensive on Romulus because it is not native to the planet and so its roots have a tough time with our soil,” he continued. “Getting it from its native world was always more desirable, but my wife and I didn’t have enough credits to acquire a suspension tank to hold them.” As he spoke I looked up lavienda--a spice similar to saffron in temperament (although it tasted very different, and could not be sensed by human taste buds although several humanoid species found it something between savory and umami), it had a short half-life that meant it needed to be transported and stored in suspension tanks that would keep its freshness and potency. Commonly used in Romulan breads and, for the very wealthy, as a condiment on meats.

“How expensive was the average dish at your restaurant?” I asked.

“Three credits,” he replied.

So fast food. “Why would such a restaurant need lavienda?” I replied.

“It is used sparingly in okna,” he replied. I knew okna--a Romulan bread. I’d had it a few times; it was good. “We served okna with soup, and it was our most popular dish. We were hoping we could start making more dishes with lavienda and start charging more.”

The mechanics of capitalism were often confusing to me, being that I’d spent my life in a post-capitalist society and had no desire to experience capitalism. “Why would you want to start charging more?”

The question clearly surprised and confused Venrik. “Why, so we’d have more money, of course.”

“But you’d be spending more on the lavienda,” I replied.

“Yes, but you can get a higher margin on a higher priced product,” he said. I looked up “higher margin” on my padd--quickly read about profit margin. It made sense.

“How long had you owned the restaurant?” I asked.

“It’s been in my wife’s family for two generations,” Venrik replied.

“And if it was a business trip, why take your son?”

“My son hadn’t been born yet,” he replied. I looked at the records--it appeared he was indeed born after. So that made sense.

I was satisfied; these were innocent, hardworking people with a humble business on Romulus who were lucky enough to be offworld when their sun went nova--but unlucky enough to now be homeless and friendless. I suddenly felt guilty at my questioning of him; I often did. But, the rational side of me quickly came up to my own defense: there was no other way around this. I was doing what was best, for the best, for everyone.

“Thank you for the information and for your time,” I said, now going to my script. “I am satisfied with your story and I will approve your application.” I looked up at them, and I saw the relief in their eyes. It was as if I’d cured them of a terminal disease. Tears were forming in Venrik’s eyes.

Which made tears start to form in my eyes.

How could I think I was doing what was best for everyone? I was a bit actor in a really bad play--a cruel performance set up by a Federation looking to save face, not lives. They’d likely be sent back to Vashti, stuck in a cramped camp and forced to sustain themselves on rations and live in a hut, constantly at the mercy of the Rangers, who were morally dubious at best.

At that moment I decided to stop playing my part. I would go off script.

“I need to tell you something, Venrik,” I said. I write that I said it, but at the time it did not feel like I was saying it. It was an out of body experience, as if some external force had taken over my mouth and vocal chords. Of course I wouldn’t say that as a defense at my trial, but not because it wasn’t true; rather, because I didn't need to. I did absolutely nothing wrong.

“I want you to get refugee status and become a part of the Federation. You would make our society a better place, all three of you. I want Vosik to see Earth’s beautiful blue skies.” The boy, who had been extremely quiet and well behaved the entire time, turned and looked at me when I said his name. “But I want you to know the truth. Only 4% of applicants actually get asylum. I hope you’re a part of that 4%, and I’ll do everything I can to make that happen, but it’s ultimately not up to me. And I am sorry for that.”

This was to become my new script. I said it to every single asylum applicant I approved after I said it to that family. All of them. The responses were varied--some got furious, others stayed quiet, others still got desperate, began pleading, started crying. I saw the spectrum of Romulan emotions and moments of extreme candor that they probably were too embarrassed to think about afterwards. For them, they’d acted like children.

To me, they’d acted like souls in need of saving who had no savior.

Chapter 20

It took just four days for the riots to start. News of the low acceptance rate had been successfully hidden from the Romulans, possibly because few in Starfleet knew, and those that did either didn’t want to tell the Romulans or were too scared to. I wasn’t scared, though, because I knew the law. I’d done nothing wrong, no matter what anyone would accuse me of.

When the news spread and the Romulans found out we weren’t really interested in helping them, a riot broke out on Vashti where they took hostage a group of Federation attaches at their base. No one was killed (although many Romulans were injured), and the attaches were returned in one piece--but the damage had been done.

No, I do not feel guilty. And I do not feel like I did the wrong thing. Those people had a right to know they were not being helped, and the Federation had an obligation to be honest with the Romulan people. I may have been the man who leaked the information that caused the riots, but the fault lay with the Federation itself.

I sleep well at night.

The rioters’ demand that more refugees be approved ultimately caused an investigation to find out how this information had gotten out, and when Captain Gaberman held a staff meeting, Price was there. I don’t know if Price said it was me in the meeting or shortly thereafter, but I know he ratted me out pretty much immediately, because that evening two security officers and the head of security came to my quarters.

“Lieutenant Li,” said Lieutenant Commander Guitarrez after I opened the door. “You are under arrest.”

I was shocked and incredulous. I’d done nothing wrong or illegal, and I hadn’t made the connection between me leaking the stats and the arrest. “On what charge?”

“Leaking classified information.”

That was a court martial offense and, according to the Federation’s legal code, punishable by a maximum five-year prison sentence. The thought of five years in jail was pretty terrifying, I will admit, but as a lawyer I was comfortable enough with the law and the justice system to not be too scared. Furthermore, I knew I hadn’t leaked any classified information, so there was no way this was going to end up in a trial. Or so I thought.

“What information?” I replied, genuinely hoping to get this resolved quickly. I hadn’t leaked anything, not that I knew of, and so I thought this was a simple misunderstanding that I’d be able to clear up pretty quickly with a meeting with the captain.

“I don’t know,” Guitarrez said, frustratingly. So I went with him to the brig, got in my cell and waited.

Captain Gaberman didn’t pay me a visit until the next morning, after my breakfast of lukewarm water, a bagel, and butter.

“Good morning, lieutenant,” he said behind gritted teeth. He was clearly furious, standing over me from behind the forcefield, his arms crossed. I rose to my feet. “At ease,” he said.

“I’m at ease on my feet,” I replied. I refused to be bullied, even if that meant I wouldn’t be released immediately. I might anger the captain, causing him to wait a little longer to drop the charges, but I was fine with that--my dignity was worth another night in jail.

“As you wish. You have been charged with putting your crewmembers and fellow Federation citizens’ lives at risk. The evidence is irrefutable. So tell me, why shouldn’t we throw the book at you?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, honestly.

He didn’t believe me. “You have encouraged a riot by telling Romulans they most likely won’t get refugee status and we are making fun of them by letting them apply,” he said.

Then I realized: they were going to try to get me for leaking the 4% number. But this was nonsense, and I knew it was nonsense. So I went into lawyer mode. “That’s an entirely false statement,” I replied. “I have informed applicants of the statistical fact that 4% of applicants are approved. At no point in any interview have I encouraged or condoned a single act of violence, nor have I said anyone is making fun of anyone.”

My lawyer position didn’t sit well with Gaberman. That was putting it mildly. He was furious.

“You have told the Romulans classified information!” he snapped back. “Not only is that a violation of your uniform and everything Starfleet stands for, it is unfathomably dangerous. You might have cost the lives of millions of people.”

This melodramatic grandstanding was nauseating. I’d been in many courtrooms and I’d seen many rhetorical tricks, and I didn’t take kindly to anyone who abused them, whether a lawyer or a captain.

“That’s ridiculous on several levels,” I said, deciding to hold back on my counterargument for now. “But to the salient matter: you’ve accused me of leaking classified information. What exactly did I leak that was classified?”

“Don’t be cute,” he said. “You told them that 4% of applicants were accepted. You knew they’d react.”

“Where and when was this information classified?” I replied calmly.

Gaberman lost control. “How dare you, you bastard!” he shouted at me. Then he left the room.

When he left, I admit I regretted my tactic. Maybe some contrition or a more negotiable tone would have softened him up and helped him realize that I’d done nothing illegal. According to Starfleet regulations, information is implicitly open unless there is an explicit assertion that it is classified. That is why classification status is mentioned on every single memo and record. Messages between officers are all open as well, unless the words “classified” or “secret” appear anywhere in the message.

I felt slightly gaslit, and since I couldn’t access a computer or padd in the cell, I thought back to Price’s message. The more I thought back to it, the more certain I was that Price hadn’t said “classified” or “secret”. If he had, I would not have told any of the Romulans. Maybe if it had, I would have quit Starfleet in disgust. In that brig, I was already starting to feel that disgust.

Being a prisoner is not fun. I was stuck in that brig for three days until I was transported to Starbase 23, where I was then placed in a slightly bigger cell and, for the first time, had access to a computer. The computer was a relief: now at least I could check the message. My access was severely limited; no entertainment database, no news, just some nonfiction books and legal references. I had to request access to send messages, which I knew was rarely given. But that wasn’t a problem, as I didn’t need to send anyone any message.

On day 6 I was given my court date and asked if I wanted an attorney. Of course I did. I was assigned a half-Vulcan, half-human named Mitchell.

Mitchell was about twice my age and exponentially smarter than I was. He had specialized in criminal law and practiced it for over two decades. He was also very human. Having been raised in Kansas City, Mitchell preferred his human over his Vulcan side. That was a relief; meeting him not only broke up the monotony of incarceration, but it also made me realize just how innocent I was.

“This is a pretty odd case,” he said at our first meeting. “Apparently the accusation rests on the argument that there was an implicit classification of your superior’s message.”

I nodded. “There’s no legal precedent for implicit classification in Starfleet.”

Mitchell agreed. “I asked the prosecutor why she was pursuing the case, since the message wasn’t classified. She said they were going to make a precedent with this case.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

Mitchell laughed. “You don’t have to tell me that! I didn’t want to show her my hand, so I didn’t respond, but it seems pretty obvious what our strategy needs to be. We need to argue that regulations clearly state messages aren’t classified unless explicitly marked as such, and if they want to change the rules they need to do that--they can’t just lock you up because they decided the old rulebook is no good.”

I sighed, genuinely relieved. “That’s the approach I thought you would take. I’m just grateful we live in a society that respects the rule of law.”

“Yeah, good thing this isn’t Cardassia,” Mitchell said. “But I wouldn’t relax just quite yet. The judge may go rogue. I don’t want to scare you, but you need to be prepared for anything.”

Prudent, and it did make me a bit nervous. “Do you really think there’s a chance?”

“Well, let’s see,” he said. “If the judge really wanted you to hurt, he could find you guilty, force you to appeal, and cause you to end up in jail for a couple of months while we go through that process.”

I wasn’t so naive as to think judges didn’t do such things when they personally disliked a defendant, but I kept myself calm with the fact that judges who did this were a tiny minority--and they typically didn’t hold their positions for very long. The system defended against such vigilantism.

Over the next few days as we met and discussed the case, we inevitably came back to this topic, so when I learned the day before the trial that it was to be a tribunal, with three judges, I was relieved. One rogue judge was rare, but two was nearly impossible.

I was brought into the chamber handcuffed and out of uniform; my lawyer had insisted this was inappropriate, but the warden refused. That irritated me; most wardens knew their job was not to prejudice the judge, but some felt a right to have a hand in justice.

And, I admit, it made me a lot more nervous when the trial began. I knew the statistics; out-of-uniform defendants were four times more likely to be found guilty at trial (although I didn’t know if the numbers were different at tribunals versus trials; I later learned they aren’t). But that wasn’t the only thing that made me nervous. It was an open trial.

When I entered the chamber, I immediately saw the faces of over a hundred people in the audience. I wasn’t prepared for this; I had expected a closed trial, if only because my case wasn’t important enough to warrant anyone’s attention. Apparently I was wrong, and I later learned that the case had become a notorious and newsworthy event back on Earth.

The first thought I had when I saw that crowd was that Lauren must know, and she’ll probably leave me over this.

So when I sat at the defense table, I felt like I had already lost. Mitchell leaned over and whispered, “I’m sorry--they didn’t tell me this would be an open trial either. But don’t worry. That’s good for us.” Lawyers always tell their clients it’s good for them, whatever it was, and Mitchell must have known that I knew that. Still, what else was he to do?

“Commence the trial of Lieutenant Jason Li,” barked the large admiral who was at the center of the judge panel. His name was Keith Jenner, and I’d never heard of him before. All of the judges were human; all were admirals, and all looked like they hated me.

Admirals and an open court--my case was apparently a much bigger deal than I thought.

I won’t bore you with all of the details of my case--it’s been well documented and, if you’ve done your research, you’ve probably gone through the entire thing. Needless to say, Price and Gaberman testified against me. I was grateful Tax and Sarah weren’t there; I later was finally able to see the messages from both of them to the court, and it warmed my heart that both fully supported me and refused to testify (Price had asked both of them).

On my side there was just me, and my testimony was quite short. Mitchell asked me if the document was marked classified or secret. I said no, it absolutely wasn’t. He provided the message as evidence.

The prosecution’s case took six hours in total; my side took ten minutes.

In his closing remarks, Mitchell said what he told me in the cell: it was not the court’s function to change Starfleet rules, and according to those rules I hadn’t leaked classified information. “It doesn’t matter if my client’s disclosure of the 4% statistic resulted in a million deaths or a billion; according to the letter of the law, he has done nothing illegal. You may think he’s betrayed his superior officer’s trust, you may think he shouldn’t have told the refugees that statistic. Personally, I think he has done the right thing and told people in need that their needs aren’t being met. Has that resulted in Romulan animosity? Unquestionably. But the fault lies in the Federation’s refugee policy and not with my client.”

I still am in awe at Mitchell’s closing remarks, because they squarely put the guilt on the judges themselves in a daring argument that I would have been too terrified to make. It could so easily backlash, causing the judges to act hastily out of anger and resentment. But it was an open case, and had they done so, the press would’ve hounded the three of them for years. Mitchell knew this, so he was forcing the judges to overcorrect and stick as strictly to the letter of the law as possible. If they failed, even one iota, it would look bad for them.

We adjourned that afternoon and Mitchell put in an immediate injunction for a next-day decision. This was another tricky move, but Mitchell’s instincts were right. Perhaps the judges had made their decision or not, but in forcing the trial to finish as quickly as possible, he was making sure that the news cycle didn’t move on from my case, keeping scrutiny on the judges as much as possible.

The tribunal’s judgment was hastily written, but coming from Jenner’s towering presence, it felt as official as it truly was.

“It is undeniable that Lieutenant Li’s actions have resulted in misery and have truly harmed not just the Federation, but the Romulan people,” Jenner began. “It is also undeniable that we do not know the true extent of the damage, as it will likely take months for the anarchy he has unleashed to unfold. We must wait to see what will happen to our brave men and women on the front lines. And for that reason, this tribunal feels it is of the utmost urgency that Starfleet better take care of its information, better protect its citizens, and work ever more diligently so that agents of chaos like this young individual are rendered powerless.”

As he spoke, I felt the anxiety give way to rage. This tribunal was flirting with fascism and using scare tactics. They clearly had no desire for an open society in which people feel free to have happy, meaningful lives. And for what reason? We’d beat the Dominion, the Borg had retreated, the Klingons were allies, and now the Romulans were a shadow of what they’d been. Basic rights had been sacrificed in the Federation before, all too recently as well, but we could afford to be charitable now, not authoritarian. And yet these admirals were arguing the opposite--and why? Because they wanted power?

I was enraged and I continue to be enraged at what happened that day.

“It is this tribunal’s opinion that Starfleet regulations will need to be modified, and we encourage Captain Gaberman to enact whatever steps are necessary to insure that leaks of highly dangerous information like that which this lieutenant so brazenly spread, with no conscious and no sense of responsibility, are not allowed again. But,” Jenner continued, his tone switching from anger to resignation, “the defense is absolutely correct that, on a purely technical level, Li has acted within the law, however flawed that law may be. And thus we, the tribunal, find Lieutenant Li not guilty.”

It’s weird feeling relief, joy, and rage all at once. I cannot say I’ve ever had that sensation before, besides at that moment. There were cheers in the courtroom which was the first hint that many in the Federation agreed with me (I have memorized the polls; a weighted average shows 73% believe I was right to tell the Romulans). Mitchell shook my shoulder and gave me congratulations, but I wasn’t listening--I just stared at Jenner, hoping he saw the anger on my face.

He stared back.

As I was leaving the courtroom, I caught Gaberman’s gaze. “You’re expected on duty at 0600 on Thursday; ensure you have beamed onto the Xinjiang by then.”

So there was the awkwardness of me still being assigned to the Xinjiang after this fiasco. It also meant I’d have to see Price again, and report to him. I’d record the entire event, just for my own safety, and I had to expect it to be awkward if not outrightly abusive.

Then I realized: they hadn’t put in reassignment orders because they were sure I’d be found guilty and stripped of command. They were probably already working on getting the reassignment undreway, but until it went through they were stuck with me. That meant at least another day or two on the Xinjiang, possibly longer.

Great.

I spent the night alone thinking about my future. I beamed back to the Xinjiang and went to my quarters. Fortunately no one who saw me in the hallways tried to talk to me, but enough people stared at me for me to know I was a persona non grata on the ship. I turned off my com and locked the door; I’d talk to Tax and Sarah, but I needed time alone.

My career wasn’t exactly ruined, but it had definitely been hobbled. I was of two minds about this. On the one hand, something I’d worked so hard for was marred by this tragedy, but on the other hand I had done what I always wanted to do--fought for justice. And maybe that wasn’t always rewarded.

But if Starfleet didn’t reward justice, was Starfleet a just place?

No system is perfect, not even the Federation’s. I’d always known that, but I’d always thought that we were about as close as was humanly possible to a perfect system, we just needed technological progress. Now I knew that wasn’t the case.

So how unjust was the Federation, really? And what could I do about it?

Mind you, at this point I had completely forgotten about Tuvix, so these musings didn’t even take into consideration how the Federation harbored and promoted a cold-blooded killer. Had I thought of it, I probably would have realized at that moment just how black the Federation’s heart is, and resigned on the spot.

Instead, I thought, what we had was a scarred and scared Federation that had gone way too far into a mode of fear and uncertainty following the Dominion war. It had been a brutal war, and I understood its effects. I’d been too young and too sheltered on Earth to really understand on a deep level just how bad things were. I knew Betazed was briefly occupied, but I didn’t really understand what that meant. It meant that, for the generation before me, there was a sense of anxiety and uncertainty that clouded everything. My generation was much luckier; we had the security of peace and the opportunity to rebuild.

So I came to the conclusion that I needed to work on rebuilding the Federation. That could mean many things, but since the admirals so clearly signaled a path forward that led to totalitarianism, I would need to do what I could to counter that.

On that note, a new and unexpected dimension of this story gave me an incredible opportunity. I didn’t know that my case had been front-page news on Earth, and that I had become a household name during my brief imprisonment. Of course, that could fade; fame usually does. But it gave me some cache in the short term that, if I acted quickly enough, I could turn into a political career.

There was precedent for it. So, I decided that night, I’d follow the path that made sense towards that end. I wouldn’t leave Starfleet, as that would hurt my image and hinder my goal. I’d continue, but I’d also release a newsletter and audio subscription where I’d discuss the need for an open society. I already had an audience waiting for me, and maybe I could build on that. Get enough notoriety and I could run for political office--maybe Earth Attorney General (Federation Attorney General would be pushing it--I wasn’t so arrogant as to dream that big). And there I could start to fight the authoritarian fire that Jenner and his ilk were so clearly trying to light.

That was my thought when I slept that night, and I was satisfied with it.

I awoke to a rumbling. Red lights near the ceiling told me a red alert had been called.

I opened the shipwide communication channel on my padd.

“Attention all decks: all hands to battlestations. We have engaged in battle.”

As a law clerk I had no battlestation, and technically I was supposed to stay in my quarters. And with my recent brush with the authorities, I had been given a lesson on how important it was to obey the rules, even the unspoken ones. Which is probably why I refused to stay in my cabin.

Instead, I went to the brig.

Why the brig? For one, they had an open channel to the bridge so I could hear everything that was going on and, in all honesty, I wanted the guard to see me on the other side of the force field.

When I arrived, the guard on duty was a Degran I’d never met before. He recognized me.

“Please don’t mind me,” I said. Since I outranked him, he couldn’t tell me to leave, so he just nodded and returned to his console.

“Hard aft, attack pattern gamma two one one,” I heard Gaberman say on the com. I had no idea what that meant. “Target their engines and keep firing.”

“Shields are holding,” I heard someone say--no idea who.

Then the ship shook again--badly. I fell to the ground. When I got up, I saw the Degran was on the floor and not moving. I rushed to him.

“Shields down to 30%!” that same person exclaimed. What hit us? That was a massive drop.

“All torpedo bays, fire!” Gaberman yelled.

I hit my com badge. “Li to sickbay, emergency transport. I have a wounded crewman here.”

“Acknowledged.” Immediately, the Degran dematerialized.

Someone on the bridge suddenly said: “lead ship has a plasma leak--it’s going to blow.”

“Beam whoever is on board to the brig.”

Another matter stream, and suddenly behind the force field a woman appeared.

It was Seven of Nine.