"The question is," asked the moderator of the panel discussion,
standing behind a neo-modern podium bearing the Starfleet insignia, "'Does
the Galaxy Class Starship have a design flaw?'"
      The meeting room was comfortably full. Maybe forty people dressed in
casual clothes sat in the audience with an occasional straggler entering
the room from the hallway. Those of us in front of the room were in
standard uniform, of course.
      After pausing a moment for the question to sink in, the moderator
continued. "Starfleet has lost two Galaxy Class ships in the previous six
months -- Odyssey and Enterprise. Then there was Yamato a few years ago and, uh, the other one -- the one destroyed by the Borg at Wolf 359.
Three of the ships blew up unexpectedly. That leaves only three
operational ships in the class -- Crazy Horse, Venture and Galaxy."
The session was part of the annual conference sponsored by a highly
respected Starfleet "Think-Tank," known as TTR. The organization is so
old, long predating Starfleet, that no one really knows what TTR stands
for, but the conference has become a major forum for evaluating the work
of Starfleet. The Admiralty and the Federation Council frequently
implement its recommendations.
      "I think the real question here," said a somewhat scruffy looking
academic type, with long, unruly hair, "is 'should we build more of them?'
There are parts for more Galaxy Class space frames in storage, here and
there around the Federation, that could be assembled and equipped -- at a significant cost. But unless we do a major redesign of the systems
infrastructure, I think it would be a mistake to travel further down the
path of mediocrity that the Galaxy design represents. I recently issued a
position paper recommending a transition to smaller ships, such as the new
Intrepid Class, because they can be refitted easier and cost less in terms
of resources. Plus there's the old truism that in battle, three ships are
better than one. . ."
      The professor was a Wynian and had three arms, all of which she was
waving around. I was on the panel with her, and wasn't happy with what I
was hearing.
      "Professor," I interjected. "I've spent two years on a Galaxy Class
ship, the Crazy Horse, and I think there are some points you are missing."
      "Commander Marek," said the moderator, formally calling on me for
comments. I ticked them off on my fingers as I spoke.
      "The Intrepid Class is not large enough to carry the number of
scientific specialists a Galaxy Class ship routinely carries. It also
doesn't have enough cubic to carry the variety of labs needed for full
spectrum scientific studies. As a result, many missions would require an
entire squadron of specialized ships to obtain and analyze needed
data. Alternately, smaller ships will have to be in constant refit
depending on the requirements of various missions. That IS more demanding on resources than a single larger ship.
      "The Galaxy Class is ideally suited to warp geometry. The new ship
designs have had to cobble up fixes that, historically, fail at crucial
moments, like movable nacelles. Even Midshipmen at the Academy can sense that's a bad solution. I believe they call them 'warp wings,' and it's
not a favorable expression."
      "Any problems in the Galaxy Class are the result of cutting corners,
or bad procedures specified by Starfleet bureaucrats," I concluded,
somewhat out on a limb.
      An Admiral who has been somewhat of a pain for us on the Crazy Horse over the past few months was seated next to me on the panel.
      "Would you care to amplify on that, Commander?" she asked, with a
sniff. She is usually quite brusque, but this time she seemed interested
in my thoughts. That's the point of the conference, after all.
      "Yes, Sir," I answered, agreeably. "To begin with, it is patently
ridiculous that a manual warp core release was deleted from the original
plans. If we'd had them, it would have saved Yamato, Enterprise, and
possibly Odyssey."
      "I argued for that in the design phase," the Admiral nodded, "but I
was overruled."
      "A lot of the standard procedures in the regulations are long
outdated," I continued. "For example, the reg on adjusting shield
frequencies in battle was written last century, when Kirk was Director of
Operations, for goodness sake. Ships of that time required manual shield
frequency adjustment, taking around seven minutes to complete. Today,
computers can make the changes in about a half second, but the regs still
specify changing the frequency once every twenty four hours during
non-alert periods and every ten minutes after initiation of combat. They
are not permissive, but directive. As you know, Sir, but some members of
the audience may not, that means it is a violation of regulations to
change shield frequencies more often."
      "Modulating shield frequencies every few seconds IS standard
procedure in combat with the Borg," the Admiral pointed out, a bit
defensively.
      "That's certainly the de facto SOP, but the regs haven't been changed
to reflect it," I pointed out. "It takes three pages of cross-citations
from six regulations to justify deviation from the mandatory Engineering
procedures. A report has to be filed with Starfleet Engineering for each
deviation. I know -- I had to file reports covering each frequency change
when my ship engaged the Borg at Kappa Cephi. I had to complete 147
different reports. The only conclusion possible based on the regulations
is that Starfleet requires that shield frequencies NOT be changed more
often than ten minutes."
      "I think we are getting rather technical for this forum," interjected
the moderator.
      "Commander," spoke up a portly gentleman with a distinctive Scottish
burr. He walked forward from the back of the room as he continued
speaking. He was in civilian clothes and I didn't recognize him, but the
moderator apparently did, and was not inclined to dissuade him from
joining the conversation. "Commander, would you be willing for the Crazy
Horse to serve as a test bed for some upgraded technology? Perhaps as a
testing ground for more discretionary operations procedures, as well?"
"It's not my decision, Sir," I smiled, wondering who he was. "The
officers of the Crazy Horse would certainly comply with orders to that
effect."
      "Admiral?" prompted the man. "I believe you have seen my proposal
for a pilot study on retrofitting the new generation warp drive into
existing ships. A Galaxy Class ship would be a bonnie place to start."

      I was formally introduced to Captain Montgomery Scott, Starfleet
Retired, after the panel discussion. I got to know him well during the
following weeks. He is a remarkable man who cycled in transporter storage
for 75 years and survived. Highly intuitive about technology, he is much
like the Crazy Horse's own Chief Engineer, Ray Brown. He is also rather
quick to impose his way on a situation, whether he has any actual
authority or not.
      "When they first woke me up in this century," he told me, shaking his
head, "I couldn't stand the idea of having to relearn everything about
Starfleet engineering. But I couldn't resist taking just a wee look at
one of the engineering journals I used to help jury. When I pulled up the
first article on my PADD, it didn't take long for me to get hooked."
Captain Scott soon began developing improvements to the new
technology, creating a Starfleet consulting job for himself. He was
leading his own personal crusade to straighten out every problem he could
find in Starfleet engineering practices.
      He certainly charmed the crew of the Crazy Horse. He drank with
Elaine in Roddenberry's Lounge, discussed esoteric subspace physics with
Ray, commiserated with Dr. Rob about inappropriate job assignments,
entertained Erich for hours with stories of Starfleet in the previous
century, hugged Moira (a lot), and got on well with everyone.
      He surprised me by announcing that he knew Moira's mother. Moira is
the Second Officer of the USS Crazy Horse, an artificial intelligence who
also serves as ship's computer. Her "mother" was an earlier artificial
intelligence program that formed the basis for her current version. The
earlier Moira resided for awhile in the Constitution Class USS Enterprise in the last century. Scotty said Moira's idea of storing supplies in transporter
memory until cargo hold space was available was the inspiration for saving
his own life by cycling himself in transporter storage. Our Moira opened
her archived memories of those years and they reminisced for a long time.

      The project to install the new warp drive had the broadest possible
authorization. The language gave us the latitude to upgrade and alter any
other "associated systems" we could justify as needed for the experiment.
We had authority to disregard any restrictive regulations that were
inappropriate to the new technology, as long as we submitted a report
recommending regulation changes at the conclusion of the tests. Lt.
Commander McMahon suggested we burn the reg books to save time; I think he may have been serious. However, isolinear memory chips are fireproof, and I did not want him experimenting.
      Moira spearheaded a major refit of ship systems. She included a
significant augmentation of data storage and retrieval systems, upgrades
of about every other piece of critical hardware she could imagine, and a
few odds and ends. On the surface, the ship looked almost unchanged, but inside the bulkheads and conduits, we made the transition from a
ten-year-old design to cutting edge technology. The new engines, of
course, incorporated the technology Starfleet had developed to solve the
warp five speed limit. These "barons," as Scotty called the engines, would
not damage the fabric of subspace.
      One upgrade Moira refused to include, however, was the new bio-gel
packs used in the Intrepid Class instead of isolinear chips. "They are an
accident waiting to happen," she announced, "I do not intend to risk my
electrical impulses by putting them all in *that* biological basket."
      She also declined Scotty's offer to build her a Duotronic backup,
saying he might as well propose to use vacuum tubes. "I moved out of the
Duotronic house a long time ago," she explained to me in the lounge one
evening. "It's so cramped it's like living in student housing!"
      You might expect Starfleet's premier shipyard, Utopia Planetia, to
perform these upgrades, but Scotty and Ray both held disdain for the
"meddlesome bureaucracy" of big shipyards. We did the work at Starbase
Montgomery, which had all of the capacity to fabricate materials for the
ship, but less of the red tape. A couple of friends of mine who were near
the top of the starbase administration, Malcolm and Luke, helped insure
the smooth flow of the work.

      The day came to launch the refitted Crazy Horse. As usual, the
Captain had business elsewhere and it was my duty to run the operation, in partnership, of course, with the many other skilled officers who made
up the crew.
      All of the staff meetings and revisions of revised plans were behind
us. The equipment installations, tests and simulations were complete.
The various "tender" ships that had supported the Crazy Horse while it was less than fully operational pulled away, and we were ready.
Centuries-old tradition dictated that the senior staff breakfast
together. Scotty (who, of course, would not hear of being left out of our
tests) regaled the group with a humorous, but unlikely, story. He claimed
to have once beamed ten thousand tribbles into the engineering deck of a
Klingon warship.
      I won't bore you with details about the launch and subsequent
testing. Chief Helmsman Bill Willmerdinger took us out of spacedock at a
snappy pace that left Traffic Control sputtering. Over a period of a few
hours we worked our way up the warp speed chart, until we reached warp
9.98, or a screaming 7,800 times the speed of light. Scotty kept smiling
and mumbling about 'warp 20.' It took me a few seconds to realize he was
thinking in the old warp scale, revised decades ago while he was asleep in
the transporter buffer.
      At the speed we were traveling, it was critical that navigational
deflectors be finely tuned. Even a single atom of hydrogen striking the
ship at that speed has enough momentum to be very bad news. The Doppler effect made transmission and reception of subspace radio quite
challenging, as well. We were monitoring all of the systems very
carefully, but the upgrades performed without the slightest hitch. Within
a few hours, we settled down to routine operations, following our plan for
a one week test cruise.

      "Do you realize," asked Charlotte, as we relaxed in Roddenberry's after our shift, "that at this speed, we could reach the far edge of the
galaxy in under twelve years?"
      "Ray tells me that we'll probably be able to peak out at close to
warp 9.992, at least for a few hours at a time," I observed, looking out
the giant front windows of the lounge. The streaks of light coming
toward us moved so fast they were more like momentary flashes. "After
this cruise, nobody will doubt the suitability of the Galaxy design."
      "Assuming we don't blow up," Charlotte said, snapping my attention
back inside the ship. She was grinning from ear to ear, and I laughed
with her. I was preparing a witty reply when my communicator chirped.
"Marek here," I responded, after tapping the pin.
      "Incoming message from Starbase 477, Michael," said Moira's voice
through the com badge. "It is flagged as urgent."
      "Put it through," I directed, and leaned forward in a subconscious
effort to hear better. The audio was weak, noisy, and hard to understand.
I guessed Moira was processing the signal to give it the marginal
readability it had.
      "Crazy Horse, this is Starbase 477," said the thin voice. "We have
been attacked, by Klingons. You are the only Starfleet ship in the
sector. Can you help us?"
      I tapped the badge again, to mute the circuit to the starbase and
open a channel to Moira.
      "ETA, Moira."
      "Three point four eight hours, at flank speed, and she's right.
Nobody else is close."
      "Can we maintain maximum speed that long?" I asked.
      "Watch me, Michael," she said, smugly. "Ordering course change now."
I tapped my com badge again to reopen the channel to the starbase.
      "We're en route to your location, Starbase -- ETA three and a half
hours. Can you transmit details of the attack?"
      "Crazy Horse, here they come again. They..." The voice disappeared
in a burst of static.
      "They aren't transmitting anymore, Michael," Moira advised me, after
a few seconds. "I'm unable to re-open communications."
      "There goes the afternoon at pool-side," quipped Charlotte, and she
rose from the table.
      "Yellow alert, Moira," I ordered. "Arm weapons systems, maximum
range scan. Lets get the department heads together for a briefing in, uh,
one hour."
      "Aye, Sir," Moira said. "I'll see you on the bridge."

      "Relations with the Klingon Empire have been deteriorating rapidly. The Klingon invasion of Cardassian space, with the Federation siding with
the Cardassians, was the straw that broke the back of the treaty," said
Bill. Lieutenant Commander Willmerdinger's knowledge of the Klingons came
from first-hand experience, several years of residence in the Empire. His
insights into the thought processes of our one-time allies were
invaluable.
      "Many factions on the Klingon home world yearn for the glories of
battle, and what they see as a bolder world of the past. The recent
incident on the Cardassian border has left things very tense. The
Alliance no longer exists. Federation citizens are unwelcome in Klingon
space. We're almost back where we were a century ago, and the Organians won't be stepping between us this time."
      "What can we expect at Starbase 477?" I asked.
      "It's difficult to extrapolate," Bill shrugged. "It may be a
renegade crew, or a deliberate act by the Council to probe our strength
and our resolve. If it is deliberate, they usually work in squadrons of
three ships. This Starbase is a space station, in synchronous orbit
around a Class L planet. There are two small moons, in substantially
lower orbits. If we end up fighting Klingons, we'll have plenty of room
to maneuver."
      "Those Klingon bastards," exploded Captain Scott, invited to our
staff meeting as a courtesy to a retired officer. "You can't trust them,
Commander," he said, staring at me intently.
      "Ray," I addressed the Chief Engineer. "With our new engines, how
will we stack up against three Klingon ships?"
      "We've got a lot more power than we used to, but it depends on the
class of the ship, Sir," he answered, frowning. "If they're Birds of
Prey, they don't stand a chance. If we meet three K'T'inga Class ships,
well..." he looked at Scotty, who shrugged. "Call it evenly matched.
More than one of their big new Vor'cha cruisers and...we'll have to be on
our toes."
      Scotty took over the Engineering report, so smoothly that Ray didn't
even realize it for a moment.
      "You've got 170% more shield power," he said. "And twice the phaser
strength. Impulse power will only be 20% better than it used to be,
though. It's a mature technology and we didn't have as much we could
upgrade in those engine systems."
      Bill spoke up again. "We were planning to test impulse
maneuverability after we maxed out on warp speed. I've run the
simulations, which should be a pretty fair prediction, but we have yet to
see just how peppy she is in close combat."
      "Don't worry, lad," smiled Scotty. "She'll turn on a dime."
      "On a what?" somebody asked, but I ignored the question.
      "People," I said, gathering their attention back to me. "This one is
going to be touchy. Starfleet's orders are to do our best to avoid an
incident, but we will do everything in our power to defend the starbase
against all enemies. Understood?"
      "If they run, do we pursue?" asked Lieutenant Dan Bennett, Bravo
Shift Tactical Officer. He was filling in as department head while the
Chief Tactical Officer was off the ship. I frowned, for form's sake, then
had to smile.
      "I'll let you know if it happens," I said, getting a chuckle from
everyone. "Red alert in 90 minutes," I added, looking at the display
screen on the wall to double check the time code. "Dismissed."

      The department heads filed out, to brief their own staff members in
turn. They knew what they were doing, and didn't need me watching over
their shoulders. I recognized this, intellectually, but the tension was
building, and my adrenaline level was starting to rise, anticipating the
possible outcomes.
      I did some paperwork, and reviewed the latest dispatches on the
Klingons from Starfleet Intelligence, finishing that work well before the
scheduled red alert. Leaving Moira in command of the bridge, I visited
engineering to take my own last look at the systems upgrades. Eventually
my steps led me to Roddenberry's.
      The lounge was almost empty as the crew made preparations for arrival at the starbase. I fixed an Orion Blend coffee and sat down with
Commander Elaine Naiman, the Crazy Horse Recreation Officer.
Roddenberry's is her personal domain. She usually sits at a corner table
by herself, supervising the waiters. At least, I think she's supervising
them.
      "It looks like you may have some major decisions to make," she
observed, taking a generous swallow of her own drink. "The wrong move on your part could throw the Federation into war."
    I nodded and admitted that I had been thinking about that
possibility.
      "It's only natural to be worried," she observed, inspecting her glass
closely. "To question whether you're ready -- whether all of the ship's
new systems are ready, if you'll be able to pull off another one. I have
some advice, Commander, that I hope you'll take to heart."
"What's your advice, Elaine?" I asked, looking her in the eye.
"Get over it," she said, and drained the glass.

      I tried to get over it. As we came into sensor range of the
Starbase, I was back on the bridge, and the ship had been at red alert for
ten minutes. Every duty station with the capability to monitor sensors
was doing so; Dan was at Tactical and Bill at Conn. Charlotte was at
Science Station One, also monitoring, and I was standing behind her. Lt.
Marina Lemar was handling Ops.
      Moira was controlling the tight beam fine-tuning needed for sensors
at this distance, while her simulacrum sat in the Executive Officer's
seat. Of course, there is no exact threshold that is really "sensor
range." We were transiting the range at which it would barely be possible
to detect the Starbase itself.
      "There it is," announced Charlotte, as the station resolved itself
out of the background noise. The image of the Starbase on the master view screen initially contained no more than a dozen pixels, blown up to huge proportions on the screen. Every few seconds the resolution improved. Soon we could see the beveled edge of the giant station.
      "It seems to be intact, more or less -- but its power systems are off
line, except for a few emergency back-ups," added Charlotte presently.
      "There are life signs, but I can't resolve how many and what sort of
individuals yet. With power and environmental systems out, it may be
getting stuffy in there. And there IS significant damage."
      "I'm reading two -- no, three ships near the Starbase, and debris
from three more," reported Dan, from the Tactical station. The viewscreen
image shifted to a smudge of greenish gray, three pixels wide. "This is
the only one with power systems active. They are at station keeping. No
evidence of current weapons fire."
      "Moira, can you make contact with the station computers?" I asked,
and she frowned as she initiated the connection.
      "Backup power is keeping the memory core active. I've found a
back door into the system." Moira paused. "I can pull out the tactical
logs, but no personal logs. Not much else, either, I'm afraid." A couple
of more seconds passed as she downloaded and evaluated the information
recorded by the station tactical duty officer over the previous few hours.
      "There is a Klingon ship in one of the station cargo bays - a
merchant ship. The Starbase Commodore impounded it, however the reason was not entered in the log. The Klingons apparently wanted their ship back badly enough to attack the station."
      "ETA?" I asked, as I mulled over the new information.
      "Seventeen minutes," reported Bill. "If they're Klingons with
standard hardware, we may have a couple of minutes before they pick us
up."
      "Moira," I said. "Morph the ship."
      "Aye, Sir," she replied. "How about a nice...Excelsior Class
appearance?"
      "Fine," I nodded. "Helm, reduce speed to warp 9.65."
      One of Moira's 'special' system upgrades was the ability to "morph"
the Crazy Horse. She could actually paint the ship's shields to present
the image of anything. She could also control the radiation and subatomic
particle emissions from the ship to a certain extent. Her theory was that
a cursory sensor examination, at least, would not detect the
discrepancies.
      As she originally explained the concept to me, "The Federation treaty
with the Romulans forbids us from using a cloaking device. It does NOT
prohibit other ways of disguising ourselves." In tests in spacedock,
Moira made the Crazy Horse look like a huge asteroid; a giant chocolate
bar; for some reason that kept her giggling, a winged toaster; and a very
large breakfast plate. It was astounding to see an omelet flying through
space.
      With the current tension between the Federation and the Klingon
Empire, it seemed wise to give ourselves the advantage of disguising our
full firepower.
      Moira has a bit of a flare for the dramatic. As the ship dropped in
speed, she snapped her fingers, and the shields of the ship shimmered,
reforming our external appearance.
      "Sir, we're being hailed," reported Dan a short time later. I
gestured to tell Dan to open a channel. He touched a contact, and nodded
to cue me that the circuit was open.
      "Klingon vessel," I said. "This is Commander Michael Marek, of the
Federation starship Crazy Horse, NCC-4681....P." Marina turned and stared
at me, and I shrugged. The icon of the Klingon Empire appeared on the
screen, followed a second later by a dark, Klingon face.
      "Commander," he sneered. "Your space station committed an act of
aggression against the Klingon Empire. I have disabled it, and I shall
destroy you, if you interfere with our salvage rights."
      While he spoke, the resolution of the ship upgraded, clearly showing
it to be a K'T'inga Class ship. Moira panned the scanners to the other
ships and I saw we had two Birds of Prey drifting nearby without power.
With a graphic display at the corner of the screen, Moira told me that the
active Klingon ship was operating at well below normal power. I could see
phaser scars here and there. He had taken a lot of damage. (Klingon
ships, of course, are always referred to as male.)
      "Of course, you know that I cannot permit you to salvage the
Starbase, regardless of the circumstances," I stated the obvious, in order
to have it in the communications record. "I believe you neglected to
mention your name."
      "I am Kalvik, son of Welkoj."
      "It appears, Kalvik, that your ships are damaged. I suggest you
withdraw, honorably. The station is not a derelict. Our sensors are
detecting lifesigns that are clearly Federation citizens, therefore you
cannot salvage the ship under interstellar common law. We will rescue
survivors from the space station. If, in fact, their attack on you was
unprovoked, and dishonorable, I shall bring the perpetrators to justice,"
I vowed forcefully, not having the slightest expectation that the station
had fired first.
      "Starfleet justice!" Kalvik spat. "Starfleet breached our Alliance.
Starfleet is fraught with Changelings. Starfleet has! no! honor!"
      "Starfleet is a thing," I answered, not shouting but speaking
forcefully, as Klingon protocol required. "It has neither honor NOR
dishonor. It is the PEOPLE of Starfleet who must have honor, just as it
is the WARRIORS of the Empire who must act with honor." I took a couple
of steps forward.
      "I know that there is a Klingon ship in one of the station cargo
bays. I suspect it is what led to the attack," I said, not mentioning who
I thought attacked first. Kalvik scowled.
      "The ship carries -- cargo of interest to certain individuals close
to the High Council. As a matter of HONOR, we can not allow the merchant
ship to be taken by our enemies."
      "And is the Federation now considered to be an enemy of the Empire?"
I probed.
      "With the termination of the Alliance, you are no longer our
FRIENDS," he stated, with finality.
      "Kalvik, there is no honor in harming innocent people," I declared.
"Klingons have been visiting Federation Starbases for many years, and know they are filled with noncombatants. My sense of honor demands that my ship rescue the innocents on that space station. You cannot deny me this right."
      The Klingon considered, then curled up his lip. "My warriors have
surrounded our merchant ship and will not permit interference."
I nodded. "My people will be instructed to evacuate any injured
citizens of the Federation and to get the station's main power systems on
line. The Federation has no interest in interfering with your LEGAL
control of your merchant ship," I added, qualifying my statement because I
suspected illegal activity.
      "My people yearn for combat," Kalvik cautioned. "Do not provoke
them, Commander."
      "Understood. Marek out." The view screen returned to the exterior
view, switching back to the starbase.
      "Sir," spoke up Charlotte. "With the starbase power systems down,
the merchant ship is locked inside the hangar. Assuming that they can't
or won't transport the cargo out, they're stuck."
      "Tactical, are their transporters working?" I asked.
      "From the patterns of damage, it is likely that none of their ships
currently have transporter capability," Dan replied.
      "Computer, locate Captain Scott," I said, addressing an automated
Moira subsystem. Scotty had politely left the bridge when we went to red
alert.
      "Captain Scott is in Roddenberry's Lounge," replied Moira's voice
from a ceiling speaker.
      I nodded, and tapped my com badge. "Marek to Captain Scott."
"Scott here," he replied, crisply.
      "Captain, would you care to take a shot at getting the starbase power systems on line? With so many Klingons this close, I'd prefer to keep
Commander Brown on board."
      "Aye, Cap, uh, Commander. It'd be a pleasure to get my hands dirty.
I'll need a half dozen technicians." Moira gazed off into space, and I
knew she was issuing orders as we spoke.
      "They'll be in transporter room four in ten minutes," I told him.
      "One thing. There is a Klingon transport in one of the hangars, and their people are on-board the station. Do not interfere with them, but do not allow any power to be routed to the hangar doors. We're not ready for
them to depart yet."
      "Aye, Commander. We'll start with environmental systems, and advise
you before we're ready to turn on anything else."
      "Security is setting up search teams for survivors," advised Moira,
as I sat down beside her. "For Scotty's crew, I've assigned Kohl, Jacobs,
Holtz, Mooney, Priebe and Roy." I raised my eyebrow at the last one.
      "They'll need help with the computers," she explained, and shrugged.
      "I'm getting tired of thinking up busy work for him." As I thought about
the confidential briefing I'd had about Lieutenant Roy's assignment to the
ship, and the resulting reasons for not transferring him to a more
appropriate duty assignment, I nodded my assent.

      It only took Scotty a couple of hours to get the central power plant
operating. Environmental systems soon followed. He reported the need
to do a full diagnostic of station systems before powering up any other
systems. I forwarded that information to Kalvik, although he may or may
not have believed me. Scotty also reported to me privately that he had
the station shields on-line, and keyed for automatic activation at the
first hint of Klingon transporters.
      Just over 800 people survived on the Starbase. It strained the
resources of Crazy Horse, but we brought them all on board. Lieutenant
Bill Hedrick, and the other medical staff in Sickbay, kept busy triaging
and treating them. Roddenberry's was kept busy serving them.
      Unfortunately, Rear Admiral R'Nold, who had commanded the Starbase,
was dead. His Adjutant, a Lieutenant, reported to me in my office, off
the corridor between the bridge and the briefing room. She was the
officer I'd talked with via subspace radio. Moira joined us, of course.
      "They had six ships," the Lieutenant said, shaking her head. "Our
phaser batteries disabled them, one by one, but we took severe damage.
They kept demanding that we release a ship the Admiral had impounded in
Auxiliary Shuttle Bay Six."
      "What's on that ship?" asked Moira. "It seems to have been the cause
of the entire battle."
      "I don't know, Sir. The Admiral didn't tell me. Whatever it is, the
Admiral thought it was important. The Klingons are the only ones who know now."
      "And there is never a telepath around when you need one," I said,
speaking half to myself. "What are our chances of getting a look inside
that ship?" I asked Moira, after the Lieutenant had left.
      "The Klingons have set up sensor screens around the transport," she
said. "I considered some kind of miniature probe, but the Klingons would
almost certainly be scanning for hardware like that."
      Her words suggested an idea to me. After a few seconds of thought, I
told Moira, and she rolled her eyes, saying, "Oh, please."

      Several hours later I was in the transporter room with Lieutenant
Marina Lemar. Marina wore civilian clothes -- an eye-catching leather and
lace outfit, actually, with short skirt and lots of jewelry. Beside her,
on a leash, was a little white dog, complete with diamond collar and pink
bow on its ears.
      "If you ever tell anyone at the academy," said the poodle, "that I
went under cover in a French Poodle simulacrum, you're out the nearest
airlock."
      Lieutenant Commander Willmerdinger overheard that last comment as he passed by on his way to the Quartermaster's office. "Actually, Moira,
you'd be better off as, say, a Yorkie. More like a tribble. Drive the
Klingons crazy."
      "I could do THAT in my own simulacrum," she retorted.
      "Come on, Moira," I chided, suppressing a smile. "We've got to find
out what's on that ship. You're probably our only chance." She bared her
teeth and snarled at me as she changed her holographic structure, and I
hurriedly waved at the transporter chief to energize.
      My idea worked. Based on what we could see from the monitor in the
hangar bay, and the after-action reports, here's what happened:
Marina and Moira beamed into a corridor just outside the bay. Marina
flounced into the chamber, with the Yorkie on a leash, racing in circles
and yapping.
      "Aren't you just darling," Marina purred at the first guard she met,
clearly appreciative of the warrior's physique. "Can you tell me how to
get to the Evacuation station?
      "It is not here. Be gone," ordered the Klingon, glaring at the tiny
bundle of fur, trying to determine its nature.
      "Darlin' if you want me to stick around for a while...," she vamped.
      The Klingon stepped closer, and the Yorkie Moira snapped the lead,
practically climbing the Klingon on her way past him, and heading for the
Klingon ship.
      "Oh, no," cried Marina. The Klingon growled something impolite.
      Moira dashed toward the freighter at flank Yorkie speed, bounding up
the gang plank and into the gangway. She sped through the corridors,
barking and yipping as needed to disconcert any Klingons she met. For
their part, they saw only a noisy blur that moved too quickly to be a
tribble, but seemed, if anything, more cute, and thus more disgusting.
Some may have tried to fire a disrupter at the invader, but she was gone
before they were able to take aim.
      It didn't take long for Moira to search the ship. She disembarked,
still moving at full speed, her tongue now hanging out slightly, heading
straight back toward Marina.
      "Naughty dog!" scolded Marina, catching the flying furball, then
turned back to the warrior. "So? Which way to Evac?"
      The Klingon eyed both of them before grunting again, and pointing
back the way they came. "Go that way."
      With a nod, Marina rounded the corner and they beamed back to the
Crazy Horse.

      A short time later, we were back in the briefing room, with Moira
again in her familiar body.
      "The transport ship is carrying several Klingon bodies in suspended
animation," she reported, as she stood beside a freeze-frame image on the
viewscreen. It showed sundry compartments with clear front panels, and
frozen Klingon bodies standing in each. "Dr. Hedrick reports that they
appear to be in relatively good condition, based on the sensor readings
from the miniature tricorder that was concealed in the...in my collar."
      "Why would the Klingons want to carry some of their people in 'deep
sleep?'" asked Dan, always thinking about the security angle. "It looks
like some of them have injuries that weren't healed before the bodies were
frozen."
      "I doubt they are friendlies that are injured," spoke up Bill.
      "Klingon tradition calls for Klingon warriors who are badly wounded to die honorably, rather than seek medical treatment. These are probably
prisoners. They may have valuable information or be valuable themselves."
      Moira nodded. "My conclusion also. In fact, I have identified one
of the bodies." The view screen zoomed in on the face of a woman in the
sleep chamber. Then the screen split, and another image appeared, of a
woman in full diplomatic dress, apparently attending some sort of formal
event. It was not hard to see that the two images were the same person.
      "This is Associate Ambassador K'Ehylar," announced Moira. "Reported
killed, and her body cremated aboard the Enterprise four years ago."
      "How do we resolve that report with finding the body here?" I asked,
perplexed.
      "There is no doubt that the body of K'Ehylar was discovered on the
Enterprise," reported Moira, gesturing toward the viewscreen. "There is
also no doubt that this is the body of K'Ehylar. Tricorder readings make
clear that this is not a hologram, simulacrum or other construct. DNA
readings from this body match the Ambassador's DNA records in the
Federation database. One or the other of the bodies would appear to be a
clone."
      The briefing room was silent for several seconds.
      Dr. Hedrick was poking at his PADD. "Hum," he murmured. "There is
no record that the Ambassador ever authorized cloning of her body. The
only way I can think of to find out for sure is to attempt to wake her,
and see what happens."
      "But we're not supposed to know they have those bodies on board in
the first place," added Dan.
      "What's our tactical readiness?" I asked, apparently changing the
subject.
      "Ready," he replied, with a shrug. "As far as we can tell, they
still think we're an Excelsior Class ship. We are on Yellow Alert,
weapons systems 100%, Roddenberry's is serving only synthehol. The
Klingon ships are damaged such that we can probably engage them at length before sustaining much damage ourselves. Actually, it would be fun to blow the cobwebs out of the new phasers," he added with an impetuous grin, which he stifled, when the rest of us at the briefing table didn't smile.
      I thought for a few seconds.
      "I think this one needs to get bumped to Starfleet Command," I said.
      "Given the general situation with the Klingons, and possible
ramifications, I suspect they will think that it should be their call.
Moira, please join me in my office for our report. Any other comments?
Then, dismissed."
      We reported to Admiral Nechayev, whose eyes widened a couple of times at the details. "Ask Captain Scott to take acting command of the
Starbase," she directed. "As for the situation with the Ambassador, well,
I'll get back to you." She didn't want to get out on a limb on this,
either.
      Her orders came back in the middle of the night, of course.
      "Commander," she said. "That body must be your top priority. If
Ambassador K'Ehylar is alive, she has vital information. If it is a clone
body, we need to know that, as well, and relations with the Klingons can't
get much worse. I took this one to the C and C, and your orders are to
recover the body. If your Medical staff feels it to be safe, revive her,
after determining conclusively that you are not dealing with a Changeling.
If it really is the Ambassador, bring her to Earth at maximum safe speed.
Above all, the K'Ehylar part of this situation must be kept strictly
classified. Her family, particularly, may not be contacted for the time
being. Is that clear, Commander?"
      "Yes, sir," I answered crisply.
      "It's lucky that you have that morphing capability," she added with a
smile. "The real Excelsior Class Crazy Horse is decommissioned and
indisputably in lunar orbit. With all of the damage it sustained, there
is no way it could move under its own power. It will give us a measure of
deniability when the Klingons complain, as no doubt they will. Good
luck."
      "Aye, sir. Marek out."
      "Oh, good," Moira said with irony, when the Admiral's circuit
cleared. "We get to fight Klingons."
      "Not before breakfast," I answered. "Contact the Starbase duty
officer and request that Scotty join us in the officer's dining room at
0730. Schedule a department head meeting for 0830, and advise the crew to expect Red Alert, oh, around 0900."

      Scotty appeared happy to take command of the Starbase and have his Starfleet commission reactivated, at least for a little while. Being in
command at the Starbase gave him theoretical authority over the Crazy
Horse. A Starbase commander is the senior officer in a very large cubic
area; however, Scotty eliminated any questions by formally withdrawing
himself from the chain of command on "the Klingon matter." Then he beamed back to the Starbase to make his own preparations.
      At 0905, the Starbase transporters beamed all Klingons on the station
to the lead Klingon ship. Simultaneously, the Crazy Horse moved within
the Starbase shield range.
      Starbase sensors quickly probed the Klingon transport and beamed the
five bodies in suspended animation to the Crazy Horse, where we placed
them in stasis fields. Sickbay received the apparent body of Ambassador
K'Eyhlar directly and the medical staff went to work on her.
      "Commander," reported Dan a few seconds later. "The Klingons are
screaming."
      "Marek to Sickbay," I said to the ceiling, from where I sat in the
center seat.
      "Sickbay," answered Dr. Hedrick. "I have checked the condition of
our, uh, patient. This is definitely the real McCoy -- the body has none
of the telltales of a clone. I have no reason to believe that this is NOT
the uh...... who we think it is.
      "Is it safe to wake her?" I asked.
      "As far as I can tell," he replied. "It should be very
straight-forward."
      "Proceed," I ordered, then turned to look at Dan. "Activate our own
shields, then put the Klingons on."

      "Your treachery will not be forgotten," sneered Kalvik, when our
hailing frequencies opened.
      "Captain Kalvik," I answered darkly. "We have reason to believe that
the Klingon transport ship was detaining one or more citizens of the
United Federation of Planets, against their will. Starfleet Headquarters
on Earth directed me to give asylum to the captives on the merchant
ship."
      Kalvik's eyes seemed to bug out more and more as I spoke.
      "Surrender or die," he said, without elaboration.
      "Sorry, neither," I said, and signaled to close the circuit. Scotty
was waiting on another channel.
      "I gather you'll be leaving us now, Michael," he grinned.
      "Aye, Commodore, and thanks," I answered with a smile, imitating his
brogue. "Helm, set course for Earth. Swing us behind the Starbase on
impulse, then jump to warp eight when we're clear."
       Bill looked over his shoulder and nodded his readiness.
      "Drop morph the instant the starbase masks us from the Klingons," I
directed. "Engage."
      As the ship swung on full impulse behind the Starbase, the external
appearance of the Crazy Horse shimmered and coalesced in its real
appearance -- a Galaxy Class Starship. As soon as we were safely distant
from the starbase, the ship jumped to warp.
      "The K'T'inga Class cruiser is pursuing," announced Charlotte, from
the science station. "Warp 8... 8.3... 8.7.... They're in weapons
range," she reported. "The other Klingon ships appear to be looking for
the other starship."
      "They're powering up disrupters," announced Dan, taking over as was
appropriate for the tactical officer.
      "Rear shields maximum," I said. "Sensors on continuous sweep."
Marina looked at me funny, but her fingers danced over the sensor
controls.
      "Incoming," called out Dan, and fraction of a second later the bridge
shuddered from the impact of the disrupter bolt. "No damage," he added
after a few seconds of checking the instruments.
      "Marek to Engineering," I called out, immediately.
      "Brown here."
      "Have you got what you need, Ray?"
      "Aye, Sir. Excellent opportunity to calibrate our new shields
against Klingon disrupters under combat conditions."
      "Good. Marek out." I smiled. "Helm, warp 9.9, at your pleasure.
That should let them eat dust."
      "Dust?" murmured someone.
      "Sir," spoke up Marina. "Aren't we going to return fire? They DID
shoot at us."
      "I don't think so, Lieutenant," I said with a cryptic smile. She
looked so puzzled that I elaborated. "It's a matter of intergovernmental
relations. This doesn't go any farther than this bridge, but here is the
situation: By not firing back, we leave them holding none of the
diplomatic cards. We expect to shortly have evidence that they kidnapped
a Federation ambassador from onboard a Federation starship. When the
Ambassador, uh, 'escaped' from what was apparently a crew of 'rogue
officers,' and asked for our assistance, the 'rogue Klingons' fired on us.
We greatly outgunned the 'rogue ship,' and since it is not honorable to
destroy such a poorly matched adversary, we did the honorable thing and
declined to engage them. Trust me. Our the Federation diplomatic corp.
will love it."
      "They're trying to catch up with us," said Charlotte. "But not
accelerating very fast. Now at warp 9.1."
      I shrugged. That was pretty much that. They were struggling and we
still had plenty of margin for additional speed.
      "Mr. Willmerdinger, you have the bridge, I'll be in sickbay," I said.
"Moira, you're with me."
      "Of course I am," she said, and fell in beside me as we walked up the
bridge ramp to the rear turbolift.

      Dr. Hedrick still had Ambassador K'Ehylar under the antiseptic field.
Dr. Wrii met us at the Sickbay door. She gave us a whistled progress
report, translated by the black box vocoder on her harness. The harness
also held the antigrav generator that let her porpoise body "swim" through
air.
      "The Cold One rises to the surface of awareness," the box said. "She
is well, but will not frolic for many days. She is as fragile as a
newborn in stormy seas and DoctorBilly asks that you not tire her."
Moira and I both nodded, and moved forward. The Ambassador blinked
at us, as if to clear her vision. "I am K'Ehylar," she croaked. "Where am
I?"
      "You are safe on a Federation starship."
      "Enterprise," she whispered in a slurred voice.
      "No, the USS Crazy Horse. I'm Commander Marek." I said gently. "We
have retrieved you from a Klingon freighter, where you were held in
suspended animation. Our records show you were killed four years ago
aboard the Enterprise; it seems the reports of your death have been
greatly exaggerated."
      The woman gave as strong a snarl as she could, in her weakened
condition. Dr. Hedrick waved a hand at me, to signal that I should get
out of his way.
      "We'll talk again soon," I told the Ambassador. "Please rest."
      After a second, the fire in her eyes dissolved, and she nodded at me
with a slight smile. I stepped back.

      "Good work, Commander," smiled Admiral Nachayev over the com link,
surprising me. I always thought it hurt her face to smile. "You handled
a very ticklish situation very well."
      "Sir, the Ambassador agrees with you about absolute secrecy. She
says that in order for her to be most effective in working for peace
between the Federation and the Empire, not even her mate or her son can
know that she is alive -- for now, at least." I shook my head. "Klingon
politics is so complicated. No wonder it's so hard to find ambassadorial
staff that understands why it is better for the Empire to think she was
killed by a contender for the throne, who is now dead, as opposed to her
being held captive by the family of that contender....." I shrugged, and
the Admiral's body language implied that she agreed with me.
      "As long as K'Ehylar understands, Commander," Necheyev said. Then
her face took on a different kind of smile. "By the way, how is Doctor
Roy doing?"
      "Still assigned to Computer Services, as per your orders," I smiled.
      "He's a little bored, but doing OK."
      "Good," she replied, with an even bigger smile than before.
      "Necheyev out."

      Moira and I were in Pam's Place, the little "bar within a bar" we
often frequented. Earth was six hours away. K'Ehylar was also with us,
her appearance changed to that of a Vulcan.
      "Don't ask," she said, as I began to inquire about the reason for the
disguise. "It was either this or a Gorn."
      "Need-to-know only, Michael, and you don't need to know," added
Moira.