PLANET 03F8, "SCRAPYARD"
			OUTER RIM TERRITORIES
			    APRIL 26, 2412

	The walls of the cavern carved into the side of one of
Industrial Reclamation Complex #1's many mountains of junk groaned,
shifting a little as metal, plastic, ceramic and garbage found a new
equilibrium.  The holes left by heavy-caliber slugs, phaser blasts,
blaster fire and flying debris slowly healed themselves, leaving only
the sprawled bodies on the floor of the scavengers' hideout to tell of
the short and savage firefight which had left them all dead.
	Dead.  Over a dozen bodies in all, sprawled across the uneven
floor of the "cave", their gore spattering the metal plating roughly
laid over the junk below.  No breath, no movement, no life in any of
them, not in the several filthy men and women in ragged, filth-covered
rags, not in the suited agent of the local underworld, not in the
female in the bright red trenchcoat.  Amid the creaking and squealing
of shifting junk and the quiet pinging of phaser-heated metal, no
other sounds could be heard.
	None, that is, until the trenchcoated woman gave a massive
head-to-toe convulsion and took a deep, ragged breath.
	The figure trembled for several seconds as her many wounds
healed themselves.  The bullet in her right lung found itself very
painfully coughed up as the entry wound closed.  The severed arteries
in her right arm and left leg knitted themselves up, fresh blood
flowing through them as the heart - all but liquefied by a direct
disruptor hit - reformed and began pumping again.  Bone and muscle
reformed on her hand, and her scalp sealed itself as the through-and-
through head wound which had finally dropped her ceased to exist.
	Yuri Daniels took a couple of seconds to assess her
surroundings, her regenerated gun hand wrapping itself around her
enchanted pistol.  Memories flooded back through her, and she noted
with satisfaction that she hadn't gone down without taking out all her
opponents.  Nobody had escaped, nobody had gone for reinforcements,
nobody lurked in some shadow to take her down again in a more
lasting fashion.
	Which meant that the object of her visit was still here.
	Yuri pushed herself to her feet.  She reached down for the
wide-brimmed red hat she'd worn to match the trenchcoat, noted the
gore still spattering the inner lining and the many holes running
through the suede, and abandoned it.  She'd just have to buy another
one... at the same time, she noted with a bit of embarrassment, as she
replaced the trenchcoat.  The bullet holes and phaser and disruptor
burns had left some unfortunately placed gaps in her outfit's
coverage.
	First things first, though.  Yuri looked carefully through the
loose piles of scrap that, prior to the fight, had been carefully
organized salvage piles.  Twenty minutes later, at the bottom of one
upset stack of material, she found the object of her quest: a cylinder
about two feet long by fourteen inches wide, silver duralloy end to
end except for a few electronic leads extending from one end.
Scorched and scuffed, but still legible, on the side of the cylinder
Yuri read:

FLIGHT DATA AND VISUAL LOGS RECORDER
UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS STARSHIP DANZIG NCC-10914
IF FOUND PLEASE FORWARD TO:
ACCIDENT INVESTIGATION BUREAU
STARFLEET HEADQUARTERS
THE PRESIDIO, SAN FRANCISCO, EARTH

	Yuri pulled the 'black box' out of the rubble and, with great
care, stripped down the torn leads and connected them to her pocket
tricorder.  As she ran silently through the records encoded on the
recorder, she began to smile, and as she reached one particular point,
she spoke: "Computer, enhance image in radio, microwave, and infrared
bands."
	A moment later, the smile turned into a grim laugh of triumph,
and she shut down the tricorder and disconnected the recorder.
	After two years of searching and many dead ends, Yuri's
mission was complete - or it would be once she changed clothes.

	       INTERNATIONAL POLICE STATION BABYLON SIX
	     BAJOR-B'HAVA'EL STAR SYSTEM, CENTAURI SECTOR
			     MAY 3, 2412

	Four people watched a viewscreen in silence.
	Their number should have been five, and Admiral Benjamin
Hutchins, commander of the International Police, knew it.  The
mysterious raids of the beings collectively called the 'Ktulhu' by the
IPO, usually in conjunction with Big Fire or Church of Man forces, had
led to the dispatch in 2409 of a joint 3WA-IPO team to a distant
planet well beyond the Outer Rim, seeking a possible enemy base.  That
team had been led by his wife, Kei Morgan, and it had vanished to the
last being.
	Not even the Lens could contact Kei now, but Gryphon refused
to believe that she was dead.  She had to be alive - she was too
stubborn to die on a simple investigation, and too potentially
valuable for an enemy to kill out of hand.  She was part of the
innermost circle, of the handful gathered here, in at the start of the
Wedge Defense Force, the Babylon Project, the Lensmen, and the
International Police.  She had to be alive.  Gryphon was convinced he
would feel it if she weren't.
	The remaining members of that innermost circle were present.
Gryphon, of course, was here as head of the IPO.  MegaZone sat next to
him, looking unusually subdued; the leader and main moving force
behind the Babylon Foundation had very little to say as events played
out on the screen.  Beside him sat Yuri Daniels, Kei's partner in the
3WA and IPO, the one who had used all her skills and died many deaths
to put the video on the screen.  Off in a chair beyond them sat
Dr. Lawrence Mann, AKA R-Type, who had as vice-president and then
Master of GENOM Corporation backed both the IPO and Babylon Foundation
(at one point while fighting a literal war within his own company to
maintain control).
	Others would see the video, and soon.  Dave Ritchie,
commanding officer of the Wedge Defense Force, and his three ranking
subordinates, Noriko Takaya, Saavik and Jim Kirk.  Derek Bacon,
commander of Babylon 6.  Queen Asrial Arconian of Salusia.  Optimus
Prime, Autobot Commander of Cybertron.  Terri Curtiss, current
commander-in-chief of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, and
Kris Overstreet, the retired founder of that force.  Others afterward.
Then, when preparations were ripe, the entire Federation would see it.
	For the moment, however, only four pairs of eyes watched
through the eyes of USS Danzig's internal cameras as one track of the
dead ship's log caught Speaker of the Senate William Clark, Senator
for the Earth Alliance, tinkering with the inner workings of the ship.
Computer enhancements colored the screen in green waves as Clark
paused to confer with someone else, invisible to human eyes but easily
detected as twin rings of energy with a peculiar signature: that now
known to the Federation as the natural form of the Mysterons.
	Those same enhancements revealed the same signature, muted but
present, surrounding Senator Clark.
	The Mysterons had worked to destroy the Federation for
decades, since just after Gryphon's name had been cleared at Tantalus.
They had instigated wars with Rarlgon, Barrayar, Kilrah, and probably
others.  They had attempted to destroy landmarks and murder public
leaders.  They had, in the early years, been ham-handed and inept, but
as time went by their schemes had grown more perilous... until, in the
past decade, they had seemingly vanished.
	Now the four watchers knew what the Mysterons had been doing
since.  They watched as Clark finished his tinkering, placed a small
timed charge on a particular power conduit, and fled.  They watched in
frame-by-frame motion as the charge took out a secondary plasma
conduit, as the Danzig's warp core and antimatter fuel supply
jettisoned without incident, as the primary plasma conduit sabotaged
by Clark failed under the heat of the initial plasma fire - and the
recorder ended its playback at the point where USS Danzig, a two-year-
old Galaxy-class Mark III battleship, the engineering pride of the
Federation fleet, went down with all hands but one.
	"Well," Gryphon said at last.  "It looks like we have a lot of
work to do."

		   /*  Taylor Dane  "Original Sin"
	 _The Shadow: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack_  */

		I have a message from another time...

		     EYRIE PRODUCTIONS, UNLIMITED
				 and
		     WHITE LIGHTNING PRODUCTIONS
			       present

		UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES FUTURE IMPERFECT

			   A DAY OF INFAMY

			   Kris Overstreet
			 Benjamin D. Hutchins
			 with Robert Shannon
			  and Janice Barlow

   With characters and situations compiled from many, many sources,
			  mostly not our own

		(c) 2002 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited


			      DEEP SPACE
			    ENIGMA SECTOR
			     MAY 4, 2412

	Through the heart of Enigma Sector hurtled two separate fleets
of starships, unwary of any danger - besides that which the hunter
poses to the hunted.  Both fleets tore through the fringes of nebulae
and skimmed perilously close to gravitational anomalies at high warp,
appearing in normal space only as a flickering distortion, gone before
it appeared.
	The leading fleet rocked and jolted its way through warp, the
long-range strikes of its pursuers' phasers bouncing the smaller
vessels around.  In the center of the formation flew two gleaming
white titans, one a ship of slender angles, the other a more solid
wedge.  Around these ships cruised a dozen smaller ships, ranging from
cruiser size down to the tiniest corvette escorts, all running
hell-for-leather through some of the most dangerous space in the
galactic arm.
	On the bridge of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet
starship Charlemagne, Vice Admiral Ayami Nakajima gripped the
communications console for balance and shouted into the voice intake,
"Admiral, PLEASE, we request permission to open fire!!"  Anger flashed
across her delicate features, her pageboy haircut bobbing with every
syllable, dark ripples running across her hair.
	On the other end, distorted by nebular static, the voice of
Theresa Curtiss, CFMF commander, replied, "I'm sorry, Aya, but if you
shoot back then the galaxy is at war.  We must avoid conflict with the
Federation at all costs."
	"At all costs??  Admiral, if we don't fire back, some of our
smaller ships are going to be destroyed!!"
	"Did you signal to them that you're on a diplomatic mission
to Kilrah?"
	"They aren't even responding to hails!!" Aya ranted.  "All
they did was send this snide little 'stand down and receive boarders
or be destroyed' message, and then they opened fire!!  They don't want
peace - "
	"Neither do you, Aya," Terri sighed.  "Look, abort the mission
and get back to Jyurai.  The Kilrathi ambassador will just have to get
to Babylon 6 by some other means.  And my word is final on this,
Admiral: Do not return fire under any circumstances.  Curtiss out."
	The static turned to silence, and Aya slammed a fist down onto
the console, cracking the hard plastic overlay.  "DAMMIT!!"

	About five seconds behind them (at Warp 14.75) the second
fleet struggled to keep pace with its prey.  Most of these vessels
looked similar, more so than the various crystalline forms of the
Freespacer ships; a discus shape leading a large tubular lower hull,
with twin warp nacelles extended out beyond the ship proper on thin
pylons.  The largest of these, the United Federation of Planets
starship Galaxy, seemed a stretched and flattened version of the
others, but it wielded power every bit as formidable as the Freespacer
flagship's.
	On the Galaxy's bridge, Fleet Captain Styles caressed his
riding crop and smiled to himself.  "Those mercenary rabble don't dare
stand up to a true opponent," he muttered aloud.  He looked around his
personal domain, the wide sloping bridge, the luxurious spaciousness a
testament to the Federation's might.
	Styles pulled himself to his feet, brushing back his thinning
black hair and tapping a gloved finger on his pencil-thin black
mustache.  "Time to torpedo range, Mr. Jacobi."
	"Captain," a quiet voice called from the Engineering console,
"there's a question of -if- we can catch them.  They've maintained
distance for over twenty minutes, while we're straining to hold
speed."
	"Then increase speed and -catch- them so we can slow down!"
Styles growled.  Imbecilic creatures, these.  How they ever got into
Starfleet, much less on his flagship....
	"We can increase only by point two, Captain, and that only for
a few minutes," the engineer repeated.  "Any more than that and the
ship will shear herself apart.  And the Charlemagne class of heavy
carrier can sustain significantly higher speeds for an equal time.
Her escort ships can move even faster."
	Styles tapped the riding crop in his hand, slowly walking
around the railing and up the ramp to the rear of the bridge.  With a
snap of his heels he stopped inches in front of the engineer, a
Bajoran man slightly taller than Styles.  "Lieutenant Fu, when I want
a discussion I will ask you for it.  Consider yourself on report for
insubordination and withholding information from a commanding
officer... and increase speed.  Now."
	Before the engineer could obey or protest, the navigator spoke
up.  "Commodore!  The pirates are changing course to three-two-three
mark eleven!"
	"Intercept!  Maximum speed!  Fire another salvo and keep those
torpedoes at the ready!"  Styles grinned viciously, forgetting his
petty anger as he anticipated humiliating Aya Nakajima - once
Cartwright's pet, now his third greatest nightmare - on the bridge of
her own flagship.
	"Estimate time to torpedo range seven minutes at warp 14.8,
Commodore," the helmsman called out, and Styles nodded approval as he
settled into his seat.  Around him, around his ship, twenty of
Starfleet's finest cruisers matched speed and course with USS Galaxy
and streaked off after the Freespacer task force toward one of the
larger gravitational anomalies.

	Despite the chaos of retreat, the flag bridge of CFMF
Charlemagne was quiet, the crew and staff officers working calmly and
efficiently.  There were, as yet, no explosions, no shouting, nothing
but quiet status reports and the gradual ticking down of the tactical
display on the bridge's main viewscreen.  It made Aya want to scream.
	"Admiral, we will have to reduce to sublight for transit
through the Jormundgand Nebula," Captain T'Pall's voice echoed through
Aya's chair console.  "Estimate entry into the nebula in four
minutes."
	Aya, for the fifteenth time that hour, cursed the situation.
The gravitational anomaly which surrounded Jyurai prevented any form
of faster-than-light travel into the system; fold drives refused to
function, hyperdrives cut out (if the safeties were working), and
warping through a dense nebula with unpredictable gravity fluctuations
within was suicidal.  The nebula even cut Jyurai off from the
metaspace network.  It was as if a solid wall existed in metaspace
around the point equivalent to Jyurai in realspace.
	"CFMF Stormbringer reports direct hit on aft shields,"
Commander Claire Lemno said from her station.  "Shield efficiency down
to forty percent.  They renew their request to turn and offer battle."
	"Damn, damn, damn," Aya muttered.  "Shwarz knows we can't
fight, the idiot."  She missed being able to pummel her former weapons
officer at will, but he'd become a very competent captain, one who
took after Aya's views of combat.  Aya wanted more than anything to
give the order to turn and mop up the Starfleet force... but the
Freespacers had managed to avoid triggering all-out war between
Earth's allies and the Freespacers' allies, and Aya's orders were to
continue avoiding that war.
	But if it cost her a ship, even a single crewman, the pettiest
petty officer in her command, then orders or not...
	"Nebula in two minutes, Admiral," T'Pall called through the
intercom.  On the Charlemagne's main bridge, the Vulcan was already
preparing for a "crash" deceleration to sublight, hoping that the
timing was proper; otherwise, the term might be very literal.  The
officers on the flag bridge were already sealing pressure suits and
donning helmets; Aya reluctantly dropped her helmet onto her
shoulders, sealed it to her suit, and strapped herself into the
command chair.
	Running, running, running.  It galled Aya.  She'd seen this
coming for years, and now that it was finally here she was drawing it
out in some faint, futile hope that peace could be yanked from the
jaws of war, or something.  The CFMF had taken it on the chin
for the past year - hell, for the past two years, ever since the
Danzig had gone down.
	On board the USS Danzig, bound from Earth to Babel for the
opening of the Federation Assembly, had been the President of the
Federation High Council - Esan Boruch, Duke Taago of Salusia - plus
the senators for the Earth Alliance, the Salusian Empire, and the
Andorian Union.  President Taago had died just over one year into his
seven-year term, his pledges to restore peace and equality to the
Federation incomplete.  Senator Clark, as Speaker of the Federation
Senate, became President through line of succession, vowing to
discover the cause of the destruction of the Danzig.
	That was in 2410.  In the two years which followed, the
Federation had come apart at the seams under the domination of
President Clark, the Earth Alliance, and its political allies.  In
response to the Danzig's loss, Clark instituted a Federation
Department of Peace, better known by the name used by its agents,
"Nightwatch".  The formal board of inquiry, presuming the Danzig's
flight recorder destroyed in the explosion, found its loss an
accident, but the Nightwatch went on, eliminating "the enemies of
peace within the Federation."
	2411 had brought the Species Intervention Act, forbidding
interspecies marriages and births and stripping several species -
including machine lifeforms - of the rights of Federation citizenship.
The bill had led to several secessions, including the Salusian Empire
(although many independent Salusian worlds remained within the
Federation), Cybertron, and Turing.  The very first secession,
however, and the most spectacular, had been the secession of the
Confederate Freespacers Alliance.
	Almost as soon as the gavel had dropped on passage of the
Species Intervention Act, Ambassador Aral Vorkosigan had stood before
the Federation Senate and High Council and declared the Act
unconstitutional and incompatible with the Charter of the Freespacer
Alliance.  The short, heartfelt speech which followed fell on deaf
ears, and he made it to his diplomatic transport just ahead of
Federation troops sent to detain him; minutes after the Freespacer
government voted to secede, the Federation High Council, led by Clark,
had declared the Freespacers pirates.  Dozens of Freespacer ships were
impounded across the Federation, thousands of Freespacers imprisoned,
and the CFMF forced to flee to neutral space.
	Ever since, any Freespacer ship crossing Federation territory
was subject to Starfleet or Earthforce attack.  Hyperspace routes were
watched by GENOM-built Interdictors or Corellian Engineering CC-6900
Warden-class cruisers, their gravity-well projectors dropping ships
back into realspace without warning.  Metaspace was under close guard,
with dozens of ships and patrol craft prowling its murky depths.  Only
by warp did any Freespacer ship have a hope of evading detection...
and that hope, as witness the current situation, wasn't much.
	"Sublight transition in thirty seconds.  All hands brace for
heavy maneuvers.  Repeat all hands brace."
	"Orders," Aya barked, and Claire began relaying as she spoke.
"Ships Johnston, O'Keefe, Xanadu to fall back as rear guard.  Double
power shields.  Hold fire until orders.  Send."
	Claire's fingers completed the assignment with three seconds
to spare before, with a howl of warp engines and a nauseating lurch of
pseudomotion, the Charlemagne and the entirety of CFMF TacFleet 6th
Carrier Task Force dropped with perfect precision to sublight.  A few
seconds later, as the task force's heavy cruiser, one of its light
cruisers, and its escort carrier dropped back to shield the other
units, the Starfleet force dropped from warp in good, but nowhere near
perfect, precision itself.  Spreads of photon torpedoes erupted from
the Federation ships, most going wide but a few slamming into the
Freespacer ships.
	"Warp power to shields!" T'Pall's voice echoed from the
command bridge.  "All forward at three-quarters impulse!"
	In a few seconds, those shields, even boosted, would degrade to
one-tenth their efficiency.  Communications between ships would be
disrupted, targeting computers offline, sensors unreliable.  If the
Starfleet ships chose to pursue at the same foolhardy speed T'Pall had
just ordered, they could bring her fleet to action in a situation which
strongly favored the Federation ships - the Freespacers' superior speed
would be negated, their starfighters operable only under conditions
that would spell certain death.
	That tactical position was unacceptable.
	"Belay!" Aya shouted, cutting in the all-ships comm.  "Flag to
all ships, power up weapons arrays!  Launch all starfighters and fire
at - "
	"Admiral, hail from the nebula!" Claire shouted.  "Jyurai
treeship Ho-oh hailing us."
	"Avast all!" Aya shouted, gasping relief.  "On screen,
Claire."  The main viewscreen switched from tactical view to an image
of the lush control center of the Ho-oh.  Standing in front of what
appeared to be a slender, young oak tree was an older gentleman in
elaborate flowing robes, gray streaking his dark hair, brown eyes
regarding the viewer with solemn regard.  "Attention Federation
starships," the officer said.  "This is Captain Masao of the Royal
Jyurai ship Ho-oh, commanding Patrol Force Four.  You are in violation
of the sovereign territory of the Kingdom of Jyurai.  You are ordered
to cease hostilities at once."
	The viewscreen split in half, and Captain Styles' mustachioed
face filled most of the new section.  "Fleet Captain James C. Styles,
commanding Starfleet Enigma Sector patrol group," he growled.  "We are
in hot pursuit of pirates and..."  He ground his teeth as he
contemplated the rest of his sentence.  Finally, with a grunt, he
finished, "We request transit through your space in order to continue
our pursuit."
	"Request denied," Masao replied blandly.  "Jyurai is a neutral
port.  Under international law regarding belligerent vessels in
neutral ports, your force shall have to wait one Standard day before
entering the Jyurai system.  While within the system, your weapons
systems shall be held offline, and you shall have to wait another
Standard day before pursuing any vessel departing the system.
Violations shall be met with force."
	"You wouldn't dare."
	Masao stared back through the viewscreen, giving Styles (and,
unintentionally, Aya) a very grim look.  "At present the Kingdom of
Jyurai is not at war with the Federation," he said.  "If you wish this
to change, let it begin here."  As he spoke, a half-dozen treeships,
each cruiser-sized or larger, appeared from the nebula, the Ho-oh in
the lead.  With silent grace they flowed through the Freespacer
formation, forming a line of battle between the two forces.
	Styles ground his teeth again.  "Captain, you and your world
will regret standing in the way of Federation justice."
	"Federation justice," Masao replied coolly, "is a unique point
of view of late.  My Queen requires your decision."
	Styles hesitated for a moment, then cut the connection.  A few
moments later, the Starfleet task force turned away from the nebula's
edge and, with a rippling of Cherenkov rainbows, leapt into warp.
	Masao nodded quiet satisfaction as the Federation ships
departed.  Turning a more friendly face to the viewscreen, she
continued, "Admiral Nakajima, we have been sent by Queen Mother Misaki
and Grand Admiral Curtiss to escort you through the nebula.  On behalf
of Queen Sasami, welcome back to Jyurai."
	"Thanks, Captain," Aya smiled.  "Couldn't have handled him
better myself."  She turned her attention to Claire and said, "Fleet,
stand down from general quarters, match speed with our escorts, and
steady as she goes."  With orders dispatched, Aya leaned back in her
seat and thought furiously.  By the narrowest of margins, open war had
been avoided yet again, for good or ill.  (Aya felt it was for ill,
and would tell Crash Curtiss in person in a few hours, but she was
aware of other viewpoints.)
	How much longer could it go on?  How much longer before
something broke?  And when it did, would it find the CFMF trapped in a
galactic cul-de-sac, with no maneuvering room, no avenue of retreat,
and no allies but one?
	Aya kept thinking as her task force crawled through the nebula
to Jyurai, and the more she thought the more worried she became.

			PARIS, EARTH ALLIANCE
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			    MAY 4, 2412

	"They know, Clark."
	The voice emerged from the shadows of the Presidential Office,
as usual.  The being who had once been William Clark knew that its
owner came without summons and went without dismissal, and that he was
dedicated to Clark's dual goals of destroying the Federation and
ruling the galaxy.  He did wish, however, that he'd be a little less
cryptic and mysterious sometimes.  That was Clark's job, he and
his... people.
	"Of course they know," Clark grumbled.  "Much good it does
them.  The majority of the Federation still supports me, for now."
	"They have proof, Clark," the voice replied.  The deeper
shadow of a tall, slender human stepped forward, remaining just out of
the light, his features hidden.  "They have recovered a flight
recorder from the Danzig.  They have analyzed the records and have
proof not just of your sabotage... but of your true nature."
	When Clark spoke his voice was calm, if a little colder and
less emotional than before.  "I sabotaged the flight recorder myself,"
he said.  "I smashed its central data crystal and melted down the
remains, first thing."
	"I don't suppose you ever asked anyone," the voice replied
with false cheer, "but Starfleet ships have redundant flight
recorders.  The other recorder was salvaged and discovered by
criminals operating from the Outer Rim who were plotting quite a
blackmail operation.  It was tracked down by IPO operatives, who
eliminated the criminals and retrieved the recorder.  Which they now
have.  Which, very soon, they will reveal to the galaxy."
	"Why are you telling me this?" Clark asked.
	"Because you still have time to act," the voice replied.
"They are not yet ready to reveal your identity.  They are currently
passing the information around those they trust, in highest secrecy.
If not for our agents on the Babylon station, we would not even know
they had their proof.  As it is, it will be at least a week before
they finish making their preparations."
	"And will you and your associates do something about this?"
	The voice paused for several seconds, then replied, "My
associates are not prepared to risk revealing their presence at this
time.  At present all we can do is coordinate your allies and provide
information.  You shall have to act upon this information yourself."
The voice stepped back into the darkness, and Clark, from many prior
experiences, knew better than to ask him to remain.
	CLARK.  Twin rings of green, for those who could see them,
appeared in front of Clark's desk.
	"Did you hear?" Clark's voice was at its coldest and most
mechanical.
	THE LENSMEN CANNOT BE PERMITTED TO INTERFERE.  The voice was
deep, slow, incredibly distorted.  The same voice had predicted
disasters and instigated terror across the galaxy, and had been
thwarted all too often by the defenders of the Federation, especially
those who now wore the Lens.
	"I know," Clark nodded.  "But I still wanted more time to
prepare.  I see little hope of accomplishing anything save mindless
destruction.  We shall hold nothing afterwards."
	FAILURE IS NOT ACCEPTABLE, CLARK.  REMEMBER THAT OUR PRIMARY
GOAL IS THE DESTRUCTION OF THE FEDERATION AND ITS GUARDIANS.  REMEMBER
THAT NO INDIVIDUAL IS INDISPENSABLE... NOT EVEN ONE OF US.
	Emotion crept into Clark's voice.  "We could -rule- these
creatures," he gasped.  "They are so petty, so foolish, so weak.  They
cry out to be conquered."
	CONQUEST IS A LUXURY.  THE EXPERTS OF JUSTICE MUST BE
DESTROYED, ABOVE ALL.  DO NOT FORGET THIS, the unearthly voice echoed
as the green rings faded away.
	Clark sat in his darkened office, truly alone once more.  For
a few minutes he contemplated his mission, the cause for which a petty
human with dreams of domination had been slain and replaced by a
Mysteron agent.  Conquest and dominion had much to recommend them,
true... but never, never at the cost of permitting a threat to the
Mysterons to persist.
	Clark flicked a switch, and power returned to his office,
lights coming up, recording devices returning to life, his comm
terminal flashing online.  A few keystrokes later, Clark was speaking
with his secretary, who knew better than to disturb the President when
the office lights were off.  "I wish to speak with Admiral Cartwright
at once," he said, in a voice very similar to that of the Mysterons.
"Time is of the essence."

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 4, 2412

	Derek Bacon's near-infinite supply of goodwill was running
seriously thin.  What I wouldn't give, he thought, for a couple cans
of silly string and some duck feathers.
	This observation came to him as he sat at the head of a
negotiation table, serving as moderator between two parties ostensibly
striving for peace.  Unfortunately, the two parties were the United
Federation of Planets (represented by Susan Ivanova) and the
Confederate Freespacers Alliance (represented by Ambassador Irving
Fenwick), and both were stubborn, angry personalities unwilling to
give an inch unless there was an insult attached.
	"Look, I'm telling you that the Federation will not accept any
peace with the Freespacers while that overgrown pirate fleet you call
the CFMF exists!" Ivanova shouted, her hair beginning to escape from
her so-carefully-maintained hairdo.
	"And -I- am telling you that the Alliance will not agree to
reunion with the Federation until the Federation Psi Act is repealed
and you disband that pack of slavering hyenas you call the Psi Corps
once and for all!" Fenwick shouted back, his bushy white mustache
twitching, his bald pate as red as his face.
	"The Psi Act isn't even on the goddamn TABLE!" Ivanova
shouted, slamming her fist down to indicate where the Psi Act wasn't.
"If you want peace with the Federation, you will have to abide by the
Federation's laws, whether or not you agree with them!  Or do you take
pride in the name 'pirate'?"
	"Madam," Fenwick growled, "our fleet was destroying pirates
while your homeworld was still buying imported starships from the
Zardons!  In fact, we fought the war which insured that the Zardons
would be -selling- you surplus warships instead of sending them to
conquer your pathetic, squabbling little planet!"
	"If you'd like to step outside this conference room, Shorty,"
Ivanova said, "I'll -show- you who's pathetic and squabbling!"
	"SHORTY?"
	"All right, folks," Derek sighed, holding up his hands,
"neutral corners, please."  After a moment he added, "That means sit
down, Commander.  You too, Ambassador."  Still angry, both took their
seats, glaring at each other in silence.
	"Now look, we've been through this same argument week in and
week out for the past six months."
	"Eight months," muttered station security chief Michael
Garibaldi.  He wasn't part of the negotiation, but he'd come to watch;
he enjoyed the arguments, especially seeing Ivanova's face turn that
special shade of purple.
	"Whatever," Derek shrugged.  "I asked you two back here to
make one more effort at some serious communication, but it just isn't
going to happen.  Well, that's it," he said, placing his hands on the
table.  "From now on, you two will have no further part in the
Federation-Freespacer negotiations."
	"What?" Fenwick asked, shocked.
	"Suits me just fine," Ivanova added.  "I never wanted to be a
diplomat anyway."
	"Susan, effective tomorrow you are no longer the ranking
Federation officer on this station for diplomatic purposes," Derek
continued.  "I received confirmation just prior to this meeting that
President Clark has approved a special Federation envoy to Babylon 6 - "
	"About damn time too."
	"Sarek of Vulcan," Derek continued, pretending Ivanova hadn't
spoken.  "You'll still be my second in command on the station.
Ambassador Fenwick, on the other hand," Derek noted, frowning, "has
been formally recalled by his government.  Tomorrow he will exchange
missions with the Ambassador Plenipotentiary to the Republic of Zeta
Cygni, who will be commuting from his residence there."
	Fenwick sat, shocked into silence by the news of his
recall.  Ivanova wasn't far behind.  A glance at Garibaldi
(who had stood up from his propping-up-the-wall pose at the news) told
her he shared her worries.  "The Ambassador Plenipotentiary from the
Confederate Freespacers Alliance to the Republic of Zeta Cygni is
coming here?" she asked at last.
	"Yep," Derek shrugged.  "At least for a while.  Should be fun
to watch him and Sarek try to out-snide each other."
	"Will the Ambassador's daughter be joining him?" Garibaldi
asked, unable to conceal his anxiety.
	"Not immediately," Derek said.  "She has school until the end
of the month."  When both Garibaldi and Ivanova let out a breath of
relief, Derek added, "What's wrong with Wapiko?  She's a sweet,
lovable, harmless little girl!"
	"Sweet," Ivanova nodded.
	"Lovable," Garibaldi agreed, looking at Ivanova.
	"But not harmless."
	"Definitely not harmless."
	"Oh, come on," Derek smiled.  "Lighten up, guys.  I mean,
O'Brien likes her!"
	"O'Brien likes fixing things," Ivanova said.  "Every time
Wapiko Overstreet visits this station, he gets to upgrade something."
	"All right, all right," Derek said.  "She's not coming now,
anyway, and if we're very lucky Sarek and Redneck will work this out
before the school year ends."
	"Overstreet worries me almost as much," Ivanova sighed.
	"Well, it's not your problem," Derek smiled.
	"It's my station," Ivanova said.  "That makes it my problem."
	"Your station?" Derek pouted.  "I thought it was mine!"
	Garibaldi bent over Derek's shoulder and mock-whispered, "I'm
afraid it is hers, sir.  She just lets you borrow it from time to
time."
	"Oh, right," Derek nodded.  "Well, I'll try not to break it
then."
	"You two are impossible," Ivanova laughed, smiling for the
first time in hours.
	"Us?  Impossible?  Naaah," Garibaldi shook his head.
	"Now Vaughn, Vaughn is truly impossible," Derek said.
	"I thought he was only improbable?" Garibaldi asked.
	"No," Derek said, standing up, "I have it on good
authority.  G'Kar told me himself that Vaughn is totally impossible,
and who am I to argue with him?"
	"A braver man than I, Gunga Din," Garibaldi smiled as the two
left the room, followed closely by Ivanova.  
	Left alone at the conference table, Fenwick finally came to
his senses, and in a pitiful little voice, to an audience of zero, he
whined, "But I can't be recalled.  The Centauri reception is next
week.  I bought a brand-new tux and everything... "

				PARIS
			     MAY 4, 2412

	"I still don't understand why I had to come and see you in
person," Admiral Roger Cartwright rumbled as he sat down in front of
President Clark's desk.  His tightly curled black hair mingled with
grey flecks, and the dark skin sagged slightly on his otherwise
handsome face, signs of the stress of being Starfleet Commander in
such turbulent times.  "I'm still robbing Peter and paying Paul to
cover the uprisings you want me to put down.  There's nothing left for
any new deployments."
	"This is urgent," Clark replied.  "What I am about to tell you
must remain totally secret for the time being.  This takes priority
over every other operation of Starfleet or Earthforce."  He paused for
a moment, licked his lips in apparent nervousness, and said, "War."
	"War?" Cartwright asked.  "What, another one?"
	"I don't mean subduing restless worlds or running after
pirates," Clark said.  "I have received intelligence that the Babylon
Project and its allies are plotting a coup attempt within the next two
weeks.  Given that time they will assemble an armada of IPO, WDF,
CFMF, and GENOM ships powerful enough that no other force in the
galaxy can even slow it down."
	Cartwright threw up his hands.  "That's impossible," he said.
"I'll admit that the Wedge Rats and their friends are a threat.  Those
lunatics are willing to let the Federation crumble rather than abandon
their ideals."  He leaned forward in his chair and added, "But they
are -wedded- to those ideals, Mr. President.  They will not make the
first strike against a legitimate government."
	"They see the writing on the wall, Admiral," Clark replied.
"They see how we hound the Freespacer pirates.  They know that a
secure Federation cannot tolerate mercenaries and rogue agents within
itself.  Had they wished peace, they would have departed the
Federation when their friends the Salusians and Freespacers did."
Clark frowned deeply, his words slow and heavy as he concluded, "They
remained in the Federation so they could control it, Admiral.  They
know this to be true: In order to survive, they must conquer or die."
	Cartwright accepted the point with a meager nod. "As must we,
if what you say is true," he said.  "Combining Starfleet, Earthforce,
the Corellian Navy, the Corporate Sector Security Forces, and other
loyal system fleets, we can field a maximum of twelve hundred
starships.  That number is equaled by a combination of the WDF,
Salusia and GENOM alone, and the WDF and IPO have superior technology
to our own."  Cartwright shook his head angrily at the thought.  "I
hate to admit it, but it's nothing less than the truth, Mr. President.
In a prolonged civil war, barring incompetence on their part, they
will force Starfleet to surrender - within a year, two at the
outside."
	"As you say," Clark nodded.  "I wish to organize a decisive
first strike, before they can concentrate and organize their forces.
If we can gain an opening advantage - and especially if we can
eliminate their leadership - then we can prevent further defections
from the Federation and eliminate the remainder of their forces
piecemeal."
	Cartwright leaned back and thought for a few moments.  "The
idea has merit," he said at last.  "What is the target?"
	"Targets," Clark said.  "Four of them, minimum."
	Cartwright shook his head.  "Out of the question.  Have you
read my reports about Nightwatch's purges of my command structure?"
	"Remind me."
	"If you combine Starfleet and Earthforce, we only -have- three
admirals left," Cartwright said.  "We've been bleeding brass ever
since you took office.  My predecessor, Admiral Morrow, is currently
sitting in a prison cell based on Nightwatch accusations of
disloyalty.  Admiral Nogura, who damn near founded the fleet, resigned
over the Psi Act.  I got a letter from him two weeks ago - would you
believe he has actually joined the Freespacers?"  Cartwright shifted
in his chair in agitation, imitating the ancient Nogura's thin,
accented voice: "'I would rather have Ayami Nakajima as a superior
officer than put up for a moment with a Psi Corps observer.'  He's
their new chief of staff, for crying out loud."
	"Then promote some people," Clark sighed.  "I'll write out
blank promotions to brevet admiral.  You must have some people with
the skills."
	Cartwright shook his head yet again.  "Very few," he said,
"and to be frank, most of them can't be trusted for this mission.
There's one man I've wanted to promote for quite some time - Jean-Luc
Picard of the Enterprise - but he's too idealistic.  I can't rely on
him to do what has to be done."
	"Are there others?"
	"There are a few, maybe," Cartwright admitted.  "Styles is
one.  He's an unmitigated horse's ass - "
	It takes one to know one, Clark thought to himself.
	" - but he has several years' experience in commanding
multiple-ship task forces, which is experience Starfleet is
desperately short on.  John Sheridan of Earthforce, as well; he
performed well in the last Kilrathi War.  But not many others."
	"But the men exist," Clark said.  "Find them, promote them,
assign them and deploy them.  I don't care who."  Clark keyed up a map
of the galaxy, pointing out four points sprawled at various distances.
"The four primary targets are the main Salusian fleet base orbiting
Salusia itself - "
	"Inconceivable," Cartwright said.  "The Salusa system's
defended better than a miser's piggy bank.  We'd need every ship we
have just to break in."
	" - the Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere, main fleet base for the Wedge
Defense Force - "
	"Suicide."
	" - the planet Jyurai, which contains both the outlaw AEGIS
psionics training center and the Freespacer fleet - "
	"That one is possible," Cartwright said.  "The Kagato Incident
of 2396 demonstrated the weakness of Jyurai's system fleet.  And the
Freespacers will be trapped, with their Strategic Fleet bottled up in
Barrayar and the rest of their forces enclosed by the nebula.  But
it'll still take a large number of ships."
	"And, finally, the primary target, Babylon 6," Clark said,
pointing at the target closest to Earth . "The brains of the entire
coup attempt will be concentrated here.  Destroy Babylon 6 and half
the war is won."
	Cartwright didn't come back at once to the last target.  He
leaned back in his chair, stretching his eyelids wide, blinking as if
to clear his vision, and remained in that position for almost a
minute.  Finally, he asked, "I agree with you that the IPO and WDF, at
the least, must be brought firmly under Federation control.  But I
must be certain.  You are absolutely sure that they plan a coup?"
	"In two weeks' time there will be a fleet of starships
orbiting this planet demanding the surrender of this government,"
Clark said.  "I am absolutely certain of this - unless we act to stop
it now."
	"Very well," Cartwright nodded.  "Then my first proposal to
you is that we wait on Salusia until after the opening moves.  They
have seceded from the Federation - "
	"The Federation has never recognized that secession," Clark
interjected, "nor any other.  Nor will it ever."
	Cartwright waved admission of the point.  "Anyway, they're not
attacking us now.  If the first strikes are successful, we may cow
them from attacking at all.  But we will need absolutely out total
strength to attack them, and we cannot do that and attack any of the
other targets as well."
	Clark nodded.  "Very well.  Salusia is put off.  Continue."
	"As it is, I don't know where we'll get the ships to attack
the three remaining targets at once.  First off, remember how I
mentioned that Picard couldn't be trusted in this situation?"
	"The mention is indelibly recorded in my mind," Clark said
dryly.
	"Well, by my count, about twenty percent of Starfleet and
maybe as many as ten percent of Earthforce are about the same,"
Cartwright said.  "There's still a significant amount of inter-service
loyalty here, and a number of people who put idealism over
pragmatism."
	"And over loyalty?"
	Cartwright opened his mouth, closed it, and finally said,
"Most of these people would walk naked into a Cardassian torture pit
for the Federation, Mr. President, but not if they see the Federation
as betraying its principles.  I could guarantee their loyalty if we
were attacking the Romulans, sir... but attacking Jyurai, or Zeta
Cygni, no," he added.  "I can't guarantee their loyalty then."
	"I shall make note of this," Clark said.  "What other problems
do we face?"
	"Secrecy," Cartwright said.  "We've kept Starfleet and
Earthforce hopping like mad these past few months, so moving forces
won't cause any concern.  But we've also been -visible-.  If we draw
too many forces off for the attacks, people will wonder where they
went.  That's the main reason why I think we should stick to one
target at a time."
	"What is the smallest percentage of our force required to
maintain the illusion of operations as normal?" Clark asked.  "Ten
percent?"
	"Closer to twenty," Cartwright said.  "The metaspace patrols,
occupation duties, and exploratory missions - "
	"Twenty it is," Clark said.  "You have three days to stage the
remaining eighty percent for the three assault forces."
	"Mr. President, be reasonable," Cartwright said.  "The only
target you've presented that won't require overwhelming force to take
is Jyurai.  I don't know if a direct attack on Zeta Cygni is even
-possible-."
	"If we do not keep the Wedge Defense Force's main battle line
occupied, they shall reinforce Babylon 6 before it can be destroyed,"
Clark said.  "Likewise the Freespacers.  They must not be permitted to
join forces."
	"But sending a force to attack Zeta Cygni is murder!"
	"Then send forces that are -expendable-," Clark growled.  "Put
your twenty-percent unreliables in one task force.  Make this Picard
person an admiral and tell him to keep the Wedge Defense Force in
port.  I will assign some Psi Corps officers to keep them loyal long
enough to engage... and so long as they survive long enough to delay
the WDF, their fate is irrelevant."
	"You're asking me to send my officers into certain death,"
Cartwright said, standing up slowly and angrily.
	"You must choose your officers or your nation, Admiral
Cartwright," Clark said.  "The WDF must not be permitted to deploy."
	Cartwright stared at Clark for long few moments, then shook
his head.  "My nation, as always," he said at last.  "But these will
be good men we're losing.  Some of our best."
	"If we cannot rely on them to make the same decision you just
made," Clark said, "then they are not our best."
	Cartwright sighed.  "I suppose so," he said at last.  "That
leaves us with about six hundred ships.  Two hundred should be more
than adequate to at least pin down the Freespacers at Jyurai.  That
leaves a full four hundred for the attack on Babylon 6, against a
couple dozen IPO and WDF ships and the station defenses."  Cartwright
nodded.  "It's risky, but it works on paper."
	"Then I shall leave the details in your hands, Admiral," Clark
said.  "We must strike no later than the tenth. Is this possible?"
	"Six days?  Just barely, sir," Cartwright said.  "But we can
do it."
	"You had better," Clark said, "or all is lost."

			    CFA WASHINGTON
			FREESPACER HOME FLEET
		    ORBITING JYURAI, ENIGMA SECTOR
			     MAY 5, 2412

	It was a little-known fact that Aya Nakajima's father's mother
was Kryptonian.  Only a fraction of that tough race's genetic heritage
had been passed on to her - she couldn't juggle cars or anything like
that - but in addition to possessing a phenomenal tolerance for liquor
and other toxins, she had strength significantly beyond that of most
other short Oriental women.
	Theresa Curtiss was familiar with Aya's heritage, so she
didn't bat an eyelash when, after her secretary tried to stop Aya from
entering, the decorative wooden doors to her office, presented by the
Jyurai Navy, were smashed to splinters by a tiny, and very angry,
fist.
	"Aya, I have your report already," Terri Curtiss said.  "I've
read it.  You did what you had to do.  There's no need to discuss it."
	"I'm not here about that, Terri," Aya replied.  "Has it
occurred to you that we are in the middle of a trap?"
	"Believe it or not, yes," Terri sighed.  "Some captain or
other takes it upon themselves to remind me every day.  But I don't
know of anywhere else to go, even if Fleet Commander Rollins would let
the Home Fleet go undefended."
	"That idiot??  And you listen to him?" Aya shrieked.  "Terri,
you are the CFMF CINC.  You're sitting in the Redneck's chair, for
Skuld's sake!!  You don't take orders from Rollins, you -give- orders
-to- him!"
	"Aya, you're lucky Rollins didn't restore his cousin
Groo-the-Quartermaster to duty," Terri sighed.  "As it is, every time
I talk to him he drops hints about how it might be time for new blood
in the Freespacer high command."
	Aya imagined Rear Admiral Grosvenor Rollins, the man whose
six years as quartermaster for the CFMF had made him legend, as Grand
Admiral commanding all Freespacer forces.  She shuddered, her anger
momentarily forgotten.  "Point taken," she admitted.  "But there has
to be something you can do.  Want me to get us kicked out of Jyurai?
I'm surprised Taylor hasn't already done that!"
	"No," Terri said, "and don't make jokes about Justy Taylor.
We may end up drafting him to run as the Fleet's candidate in 2415.
Justy pulled eight percent of the vote back in '09 as the candidate
for the Screaming Loony Party, remember?"
	"Did anyone tell him?"
	"Not until afterwards."
	"Wonderful," Aya grumbled.  "We're stuck here in a bolthole
surrounded by Federation worlds with no line of retreat and our only
hope being that we can elect a lucky moron for President three years
from now.  I wonder if the Gamilons are hiring?"
	"If they were, do you think I'd be here?" Terri's secretary, a
Gamilon expatriate himself, shouted from the outer office.
	"It's not that bad," Terri said.  "If worse comes to worse,
the Strategic Fleet is safe at Barrayar, augmenting the Star Empire's
forces.  Admiral Naismith has things well in hand there."
	"Why don't -we- go there too?" Aya demanded.
	"First, because Rollins doesn't want to be penned up in a
dead-end star system like Barrayar."
	"Where the hell does he think we are NOW, Corellia Prime?"
	"Second, we are not currently under contract with Barrayar,"
Terri said.  "StratFleet is there by the goodwill of Emperor Gregor
alone.  We -are-, however, under contract for the defense of Jyurai
and the Psi Academy, and right now we need that income desperately.
We've blown through half our cash reserves since the secession."
	"Those aren't good reasons, Terri," Aya said.
	"I know, I know," Terri sighed.  "But I can't do anything
about it."
	"Redneck could," Aya retorted.
	Terri's freckled face reddened as, for the first time in the
conversation, she became angry.  "Admiral Nakajima, Redneck is no
longer an active officer of this fleet.  Until and unless he walks
through those doors you just smashed down which are as of now coming
out of your pay I am in command of this fleet and you will damn well
obey my orders now GET THE HELL OUT!"
	"Sir," Aya said, saluting and turning to leave.
	"AND DON'T CALL ME SIR!"
	Aya left, pausing on the way out to complete the demolition of
the doors.  (She'd paid for them, so what the hell.)  Terri was left
alone with her thoughts, which were mostly in agreement with Aya.
Redneck would know what to do in this situation, she thought.  I sure
don't.  Goddammit, where are you??
	The comm unit on Terri's desk chimed, and Terri shouted to her
secretary, "Tell them to go away!"
	"Can't," Terri's secretary replied.  "It's Queen Mother Misaki
on direct line for you."
	"Wonderful," Terri sighed.  Keying on the comm, she said,
"Curtiss here, Your Majesty."
	"Oh, HELLO, you cute little dear!"  Queen Mother Misaki,
second wife of the late Emperor Azusa and mother of Queen Sasami, was
well known as a strategic and tactical genius and a formidable
warrior.  The problem was, the slender cyan-haired woman acted so
ditzy that it was sometimes hard to tell just what kind of brain
lurked behind those ageless eyes.  "Oh, you look so miserable!  Have
those nasty Federation people been bothering you again, dear?"
	"In a manner of speaking," Terri said.  "But - "
	"Oh, you poor poor thing!" Misaki cried.  "I'll have some nice
mera soup sent up to your ship first thing, that'll make it all
better!  Oh, that such a cute young lady like yourself should have to
put up with such unfair treatment!"
	"Thank you, Misaki."  Terri smiled, suppressing a shudder;
while quite a lot of people in the CFMF liked the taste of Jyuraian
food, she wasn't one of them.  Even if the Queen Mother, or perhaps
the Queen herself, was the one doing the cooking.  "But enough about
my problems - why are you calling?"
	"Oh, the last of our Ryu-oh class cruisers left the nursery
today," Misaki smiled.  "The commanders were bound in such a touching
ceremony, it was so SWEEEEEET!"  Misaki's voice ended on such a
squeaky tone that Terri flinched.  "The new Royal Jyurai-class
battleships won't be ready for another five years at least, but we've
already laid down the next run of Ryu-ohs, and we've already got some
darling little seedlings coming up!"
	"Wonderful.  Can't wait to see them."
	"But we need some training for our crews," Misaki asked.  "And
since you have all those ships in the system doing nothing, I was
wondering if you'd like to earn a little pocket money?  Buy yourself a
nice dress, maybe?"
	"How so?"
	"Could we hire the rest of your fleet for a full round of live
training exercises?  Please please pretty please?  I promise they
won't get hurt!"
	"Um... sure?"
	"WONDERFUL!"  Misaki danced around the viewscreen, and Terri
leaned back in her seat, afraid the Queen Mother would leap out of the
screen and administer one of her crushing hugs.  "I'll tell the
admirals at once Funaho will do the paperwork oh it'll be so nice I
can't wait I can't wait I can't wait!  Thank you thank you thank you
sweetie, you're such a nice girl!  Take care of yourself!  Bye-bye!"
	"Bye-bye..."  Terri waved as the comm went black.  It took a
few seconds for her to relax.  Misaki was a high-impact type of
person.  Finally, she leaned forward and shouted through the shattered
doors, "Did you hear all of that?"
	"Yes, ma'am!" her secretary answered.
	"What did I just agree to?"
	"You just hired out Task Forces Three through Eleven plus all
unassigned MASS units as training forces for the Jyurai navy."
	"Oh.  That's what I thought."
	"Anything else, ma'am?"
	"Yeah.  When the contract arrives from the palace, have them
add a new set of office doors to the bill?"
	"Yes, ma'am!"

			STARFLEET HEADQUARTERS
			     THE PRESIDIO
		    SAN FRANCISCO, EARTH ALLIANCE
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			     MAY 5, 2412

	"Gentlemen," Admiral Cartwright said, "I have called you back
to Earth at maximum speed for a very urgent mission.  The continued
existence of the Federation depends upon your efforts."
	Two men stood before Cartwright's desk, one looking confident
and suave, the other looking mildly apprehensive.  Cartwright wished,
oh how he wished, that James Cook Styles had left his damn swagger
stick on his ship and that Jean-Luc Picard didn't look like he had
been called on the principal's carpet for pulling a girl's pigtails.
Unfortunately, Picard had been named for one command, and Styles was
the best man available for the other, so Cartwright would have to put
up with it all.
	"Intelligence has discovered evidence that the Babylon
Foundation and the International Police are plotting the overthrow of
the Federation government," Cartwright said.  "In order to prevent
this coup from taking place, Starfleet and Earthforce are going to
launch a first strike to capture the conspirators at Babylon 6 and
prevent them from assembling a force of conquest."
	Both captains looked dumbstruck, but Picard recovered faster.
"I refuse to believe it," he said flatly.  "Such actions are wholly
out of character for the Babylon Foundation's founders."
	"I don't believe it either," Styles said.  "They can't
possibly be that stupid."
	"Take it seriously, Styles," Cartwright growled.  "If allowed
to proceed, the coup is predicted to win the support of the WDF, the
Freespacers, the Salusians, GENOM Corporation, and numerous other
forces in addition to those of the Babylon Foundation and
International Police.  As for belief, Jean-Luc," Cartwright sighed, "I
didn't want to believe it at first, when the President briefed
me... but Starfleet intelligence has confirmed the movement of secret
couriers between Babylon 6 and a dozen points, including the Salusian
Imperial Palace, New Avalon, Jyurai, and Cybertron."  Cartwright
pushed a datapad across his desk towards Picard, who picked it up and
stared in growing disbelief at the lists of times and locations.
	"We don't know the contents of these couriers' messages,"
Cartwright said, "but our informers on Babylon Six report that their
intent is to unite support for the overthrow of the Federation
government in favor of a hegemony led by the Babylon Foundation."
	After a few moments, Picard put down the pad.  "I don't know
what to say," he said at last, then repeated, "This is wholly out of
character for them.  I know Admiral Hutchins personally, and I cannot
believe he would authorize an attack on the Federation."
	"I'm aware of your relationship with Admiral Hutchins,"
Cartwright said.  "That's why I'm not asking you to fight against him.
I will personally command the force sent to capture Babylon 6.  You
two have other missions."
	"Really?" Styles asked.  "Do tell."
	"Effective immediately," Cartwright continued, "both of you
have been breveted to the rank of Admiral in Starfleet.  Your ships
will have new captains assigned, but will remain at your disposal as
flagships.  You will proceed to rendezvous with your respective task
forces - Styles will command Task Force Two, assembling at McLeod
Station, Enigma Sector, while Picard will command Task Force Three
assembling at Beta Cygni, Cygni Sector.
	"All forces will proceed on May 10, 2412 at 1000 hours Fleet
time to their designated targets.  Task Force One will capture Babylon
6 and take the main conspirators into custody.  Styles, your task
force will proceed to Jyurai and secure the outlaw AEGIS psi school.
If you find any Freespacer forces resisting you, you are to engage and
eliminate them."
	Styles smiled broadly at this.  "Gladly, sir.  I owe Jyurai a
bad turn or two."
	"Jean-Luc," Cartwright said, "I'm assigning you the most
delicate task of all.  It is vital to the success of this mission that
the main body of the Wedge Defense Force fleet does not deploy.  For
this purpose you are to take your task force to Zeta Cygni and inform
the WDF of our intentions.  You are also to inform them," Cartwright
added grimly, "that any movement of docked WDF ships from their
moorings shall be regarded as rebellion against the Federation and
piracy."
	"And what are my orders if they resist?" Picard asked.
	"If the Wedge Defense Force moves to assist Babylon 6,"
Cartwright said, "then you are to hold the WDF in Zeta Cygni space at
all costs.  The highest priority is given to disabling the WDF
Wandering Child, WDF Luxion, and WDF Concordia, in that order.  Their
destruction is not necessary - just stop them from leaving the system.
Preferably get them on our side, if that is possible."
	"Considering you intend to attack their friends," Picard said
with a wry, mirthless smile, "that may be more difficult than you
think."
	"Nonetheless, those are your orders, gentlemen."
	"A question, Admiral," Styles said.  "What are the strengths of
our task forces?"
	"Full technical details will be provided in your formal orders
upon return to your ships," Cartwright said.  "Each of you will have
one-fifth of the combined forces of Starfleet and Earthforce under
your command.  Picard, I can't spare another Galaxy-class battleship
for you - Enterprise will have to do - so I'm assigning two hundred
and thirty vessels total to your command, as opposed to Styles' two
hundred ten."
	"What about my force?" Styles asked.
	"You'll get Yamato in addition to your Galaxy," Cartwright
said.  "I'll be commanding Task Force one from the Odyssey, with
Venture and Magellan as well.  Trinculo will remain in reserve for
now."
	"Sir," Picard said after a long pause, "I wish to place my
formal protest on the record regarding this entire affair.  The
evidence presented here is very tenuous, and I do not believe we are
justified in making an unprovoked attack on what is technically
friendly Federation territory."
	"Are you turning down the command, Jean-Luc?" Cartwright asked
calmly.
	"No, sir," Picard said.  "For good or ill, my duty lies with
Enterprise."
	"Very well," Cartwright said.  "Gentlemen, you have less than
five days.  Your new flag captains and Psi Corps reinforcements shall
be sent along within the hour."
	"Psi Corps?" Styles grumbled, making a face.  "I don't need
those panty-waist posers.  One per ship is already one too many."
Picard, for once in close agreement, kept his silence.
	"Styles," Cartwright sighed, "you're about to attack a planet
full of psionically active people to secure a school with dozens,
perhaps hundreds, of psionics in training.  I should -think- you'd
want as many telepaths as you could get."
	"Ah," said Styles, who hadn't considered this.  "Put that way,
it makes sense... if it -is- absolutely necessary."
	"It is," Cartwright said.  "Dismissed."
	Without formality the two brevet admirals left Cartwright's
office, Styles swaggering more than usual and twitching his riding
crop here and there at random.  "Well, Johnny," he grinned at Picard,
"looks like we've hit the big time!"
	"Tell me, Styles," Picard asked, avoiding Styles' attempt to
put a comradely hand on his shoulder, "you don't have any friends in
other services, do you?"
	"There is only one service, Jean-Luc," Styles said, "and
that's Starfleet.  Everything else is coast guard or pirate fleets.  I
don't -need- friends outside of the Fleet."
	"I see," Picard said, mentally adding, And apparently you
don't need very many -inside- the Fleet either.
	Eventually Picard got away from the insufferable Styles and
headed for the transporter pad.  As he walked, he tapped his commbadge
and said, "Picard to Enterprise."
	"Enterprise here, Captain," Will Riker's voice called back.
"How did the meeting go?"
	"I'll need to speak with you in my ready room as soon as I
beam up, Number One," Picard replied.  "Formal orders will arrive from
Starfleet within the hour.  Picard out."
	Picard walked the rest of the way to the transporters in
silence, thinking about the situation.  On the one hand, he knew Ben
Hutchins fairly well.  It was almost inconceivable that Ben would
attempt a coup of the legitimate Federation government...
	... almost, but not quite, though.  In the Golden Age of the
WDF, Gryphon had engineered -several- coups, overthrowing governments
he felt were tyrannical or morally wrong or which had arisen through
coups themselves.  If Gryphon felt the cause was truly just, then yes,
he might very well move to topple the Federation itself.
	And although Gryphon might feel he had a good reason, Picard
didn't see it from here.  From where he stood, the Federation was
going through a difficult time, but it needed support from within, not
from without, if it was to turn the corner and put aside the current
abuses of emergency power.  If Ben was going to attack the Federation,
then as things stood it was Picard's solemn duty to oppose him.
	And yet... something felt very wrong about this entire affair.
There was some part of the puzzle he couldn't see.  If Ben was
organizing a coup, why?  If he wasn't, who was?  What was so urgent
that Starfleet was rushing together an operation to prevent it from
happening?
	What the hell, he thought as the transporter beam took him,
is really going on?

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 6, 2412

	Derek Bacon walked into the conference room, having been
detained unexpectedly, and unpleasantly, by Gryphon.  The revelation
that President Clark had usurped the Presidency made the whole day a
downer, but Derek was thankful that Gryphon had broken the news to him
one-on-one before the big announcement.  Not only was it heavy news to
drop on someone, but when Gryphon revealed it to the Federation at
large it would be literally galaxy-shaking.
	Unfortunately, it made him very badly late to a meeting he was
supposed to be moderating, or refereeing, involving one of the other
people on Gryphon's short need-to-know list... and whereas Derek was
seriously bummed about the news, the Redneck would quite likely go
ballistic.
	At the moment, however, the Right Honorable Ambassador,
Retired Admiral Overstreet didn't look ballistic so much as mildly
pissy.  The person opposite from him at the table, Sarek of Vulcan,
matched his expression perfectly.  Whereas the Redneck had arrived
casual, in his preferred shirt, sneakers and windbreaker combo, Sarek
had come in his most formal attire, dark Vulcan robes with the runes
of the House of Surak embroidered on them, a lone IDIC charm dangling
from a fine chain around his neck.  The two stared at each other,
redhead at raven, more-or-less human at full-blooded Vulcan, saying
nothing.
	"They were entertaining for the first few minutes," Garibaldi
said, yawning, "but then they got down to cases and stopped."
	"I cannot be blamed for human illogic," Sarek said, breaking
his silence.  "For the Freespacers to keep asking for peace talks, and
then keep turning away the fundamental requirements for peace, is
wasteful of time and effort."
	"Common ground, dammit, common ground," Kris replied.  "Your
starting position is unacceptable to my people, and mine is apparently
unacceptable to yours.  This is supposed to be peace talks, not peace
demands!"
	"I am merely a representative of the government of the
Federation," Sarek replied.  "As such my authority is limited to the
instructions given to me by my government, which in this case are very
strict indeed."
	"Don't give me that bullshit," the Redneck drawled.
"Diplomats exceed their instructions all the time.  It's what
diplomats do.  So sit down here with me and let's find ways of
disobeying that bring our positions closer together."
	"I am sitting down," Sarek replied.  "You are the one who is
standing up, and might I add exhibiting a typically human display of
wasted motion."
	"Oh, fer Chrissake," the Redneck sighed.  "Why couldn't they
have sent a Tellarite?"
	"Yo, Kris?" Derek asked.
	"I could at least -insult- a Tellarite," Kris added.
	"Kris, hello?"
	"Would it make this process easier if you insulted me?" Sarek
asked.  "Be assured I would pay no mind."
	"EXCUSE me," Derek finally said, stepping around the table and
resting one heavy arm on the Redneck's shoulder, "but I need to borrow
the Ambassador for something.  D'ya mind?"
	"Borrow me?" Kris asked.  "But we're just getting started!"
	"I do not mind," Sarek replied.  "It appears that continuing
today's session is a waste of our time in any event."
	"Wait a minute," Kris said.  "I just heard a follower of the
Way of Surak - hell, a -descendant- of Surak - say that talking peace
was a waste of time."
	"Talking peace with someone unwilling to accept the
consequences of peace usually is," Sarek replied.
	"No, it isn't," Kris retorted.  "Talking peace is never a
waste of time.  You want to know what a waste of time is?  PTA
meetings, that's a waste of time.  I have a daughter and an exchange
student in my house, both in the sixth grade in New Avalon, and once a
month my wife and I go to the PTA meetings and sit through talks
delivered by ignorant housewives and phony experts in childrearing,
pass meaningless resolutions about how the schools ought to be run,
plan picnics nobody ever attends, and go home with our life totally
unchanged.  THAT is a waste of time."
	"Is there a point to this diatribe?"
	"Yes," Kris nodded.  "There's a PTA meeting tonight and I
would be very much obliged if this meeting made it totally impossible
for me to attend.  Would you, in the sake of peace, oblige me in
this?"
	Sarek gave a subtle Vulcan shrug. "I have no pressing plans
for this evening.  I shall meditate until your return."
	"Excellent.  I won't be long."
	"I should think, considering the situation, you would take as
much time as you possibly could," Sarek said.
	Kris gaped at Sarek, who stared back without the least
indication of irony or humor.  Finally, with a low groan of
frustration, Kris left the room, followed closely by Derek, who had to
tug his arm to get the Redneck moving in the correct direction.
	Sarek shook his head, not watching the Redneck depart.  "Most
illogical," he said as he steepled his fingers for a period of light
meditation.

	The Redneck watched the video in silence, as had several
others before him.  At the end, much to Bacon's surprise, he didn't
curse, didn't throw or hit things, or much of anything else.  Instead
he nodded his head and said, very quietly, "I figured as much."
	"So did we," Gryphon replied, "but we didn't have proof until
day before yesterday."
	"When are you going public?" Kris asked.
	"We're giving a few people advance notice first," Gryphon
said.  "You and Terri Curtiss, for example.  Asrial, Daver, a few
others.  Once they tell us they're ready, then we'll call a news
conference and show off the proof for everyone to see."
	The Redneck nodded.  "Are you going to make the announcement
and then storm Earthdome?"
	"No," Gryphon said, "not yet.  We'll give the Federation one
last chance to fix its own problems.  I figure, with Truss breaking
the news live on Network 23, to say nothing of the other channels,
there ought to be enough outrage that Clark will be ousted by the
people who put him in power in the first place."
	Kris nodded.  "And if Clark tries to rule by force?"
	"Then I don't see any problem with the IPO moving in to arrest
him," Gryphon said.
	"Right," Kris replied.  "Want the Freespacers to help?"
	"Sure, but can they get here undetected?"
	Kris gave a moment's thought to the main CFMF force at Jyurai,
the Strategic Fleet at Barrayar.  "Not a chance in Hell," he said at
last.
	"Then leave 'em where they're at," Gryphon shrugged.  "If the
shit hits the fan, then we can use 'em as a reserve."
	"Right."  The Redneck sat a few moments longer in silence,
then added, "Does Sarek know?"
	"Almost certainly not," Gryphon said.  "We've dispatched a
courier to brief the Vulcan High Council in secret, but we decided not
to tell him.  So long as he's acting as a Federation official, we
can't risk tipping our hand early."
	"Right," the Redneck sighed.  "You know what that means?"
	"Um... noooooo," Gryphon asked warily.
	"It means," Kris replied, showing a bit of temper for the
first time, "that I've fuckin' gotta go back in there and damn well
make nice to that tightassed sanctimonious fucking Vulcan, that's what
it fuckin' means."
	"Careful, Kris," Gryphon smiled.  "That's Spock's father
you're talking about."
	"So I'll give him my condolences next time I see him," Kris
retorted.  "Now I understand why he ran away and joined the circus."
	"Feel better now?" Derek asked.
	"A little," Kris shrugged.  "I suppose I can ask Washuu to dig
a dress uniform out of mothballs and go the full formal route
tomorrow.  For now, though," he said, standing up from the couch and
stretching, "I gotta go talk to a man about a peace."

			      METASPACE
		  MORE OR LESS, MAYBE, CYGNI SECTOR
			     MAY 9, 2412

	Alfred Bester watched Deanna Troi walk out of the ready room,
not paying a bit of attention to her figure.  It wasn't that the
opposite sex had no appeal for him - far from it - but he had much
weightier things on his mind than Troi's attractiveness.
	In fact, Bester was certain that Troi had been attempting to
distract Bester, using a combination of body language, innuendo, and
her natural good looks to disrupt his focus.  It hadn't worked; Bester
had dealt with natives of Beta Colony before and knew how to avoid
their distractions.  Still, the fact remained that Troi was
deliberately hiding something.  Bester hadn't probed for it, though
such a probe from a P12 into even a fully trained P3 would be child's
play.  He already knew what she was hiding.
	Bester wished, not for the first time, that the Psi Corps had
not wasted one of their elite agents, i.e. him, on a ship which was so
riddled with disloyalty that nothing short of taking over the minds of
every officer aboard would insure loyalty.  A brief sampling of
interviews with "his new command" had revealed that (a) nobody liked
the idea of a Psi Cop as captain (no surprise), (b) everybody still
regarded Picard as the -real- captain, and (c) virtually everybody,
given a choice between obeying Starfleet Command and obeying Picard,
would follow Picard first, last and always.
	Note to my superiors, he thought.  It undermines the loyalty
of the service to leave a captain in one command for very long.
Rotation of officers must be accelerated.
	Picard himself remained loyal to the Federation, but only for
the moment.  He had all sorts of doubts lurking through his mind - a
well-disciplined mind, that, with its own natural defenses, but still
nothing to a trained P12.  Bester didn't know if he realized it, but
Picard's subconscious mind was sending his conscious major signals
about the state of Denmark, something rotten therein.  When the crisis
finally came, Picard could not be relied upon.
	William Riker... now Riker was the one bright spot in the
entire ship.  Riker's loyalty was to the Federation first, as befit
the son of a lifetime Federation diplomat.  Riker was the
professional's professional, guileless and guiltless, and he had
helped Bester dust off his basic military training and slip into the
groove of ship command.  If Picard had to be eliminated, Riker could
be trusted to command Enterprise... and Riker, in turn, was trusted by
virtually all the crew.
	The other senior officers - ha.  A Klingon as security and
weapons chief - what folly!  An automaton as second officer - what
stupidity!  La Forge, a man infamous for drifting through Starfleet
aimlessly until Picard made him chief engineer - worthless.  Beverly
Crusher, one of the Federation's top medical minds, former chief of
Starfleet Medical Division, who had accepted a demotion to return to
the ship - highly suspicious.
	Bester didn't have the precog talent, but he didn't need it to
see the future of this operation, and it looked pretty damn bleak.  If
he'd only had assistants, even one, and two weeks instead of two days,
he could have reprogrammed a few junior officers for loyalty when it
came time to unseat Picard.  As it stood, it would have taken a full
day's work just to brainwash the number-two Engineering man,
Lieutenant Barclay, and -that- man had all the mental strength of
Play-Doh.
	Not for the first time, Bester wondered who in the Psi Corps
command he'd angered enough to deserve this impossible assignment.  If
not for Riker, the situation would be totally hopeless.  As it was, he
devoutly hoped that the Psi Corps agent watching the newly promoted
Commodore Sheridan was having better luck.  If Enterprise couldn't
carry through the mission, then Agamemnon would have to take the
lead...

		   ZOCALO, SPACE STATION BABYLON 6
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       0958 HOURS STANDARD TIME

	"Where's the guy from ISN?" Gryphon asked, scanning the crowd
of fifty reporters and cameramen and hundreds of curious civilians
surrounding them.  The large video display usually used for
advertising or public announcements glowed behind where he and Derek
stood on the catwalk's speaking dais.  It was frozen on a fifty-foot
view of the International Police Organization's insignia, the
four-pointed golden Star of Avalon.
	Derek did his own scan of the crowd.  "Well, I see Truss there
in the front row - he brought his guard robots, good, although those
Network 23 caps look really stupid on them, you know?  And there's
Salusian News, and Tagge Network... hm-hm, hm-hm... "  Derek shook his
head.  "Looks like ISN didn't show, Gryph."
	"Hm," Gryphon grunted.  "I'm not terribly surprised, but I am
disappointed."
	"ISN's crew was ordered home last night," Garibaldi said,
walking up to the dais.  "Apparently there's a big news event about to
go down on Earth later today, and they need all their stringers to
cover it."
	Gryphon frowned deeply at this.  "I don't like the sound of
that," he said.  "Who's on the bridge?"
	"Susan's minding the store," Derek said.  "I, uh, hope you
don't mind," he muttered, "but I brought her in last night.  She was
really torqued."
	"I can imagine," Gryphon said.  Looking around the railing at
the seated dignitaries, he added, "Are we missing any ambassadors?"
	"Kosh, of course," Derek said.  "He's off smelling the flowers
or whatever he does, as usual.  And the Redneck's keeping Sarek busy.
I think they've actually got so far as a working cease-fire."
	"Between each other or their governments?" Garibaldi quipped.
	"Well," Gryphon said, looking at his watch, "I think it's just
about time we started, then."  He stepped up to the microphone fixed
at the front of the dais, tapping it once or twice to gain the
attention of the crowd below.  "Your attention, please," he said, the
conversations below dying down but not quite ending.  As three dozen
tri-D cameras focused on him, he straightened his uniform
self-consciously and looked at his notes one last time.
	Well, here we go, he thought, and he began to speak.

	Susan Ivanova had numerous ways of releasing her anger, some
productive and some not.  At the moment, she was on the station's
command deck, watching the view from the Zocalo on the main screen
while engaged in one of her favorite tension-breakers, making the
operations officer's life miserable.  "I thought I told you to keep an
eye on those Andorian destroyers," she barked.  "They're within the
inner defense perimeter AGAIN!"
	"Sensors show them ten kilometers outside the perimeter,
Commander," Lieutenant David "Bruce" Corwin sighed.  "You're just
seeing things."  Corwin was a good officer, if still a little green
for his position, but that greenness plus the fact that he shared a
name with one of Chief Hutchins's sons made him the target of quite a
few jokes.  Upon first meeting him, Captain Bacon had faked a strange
accent and asked if he could call Corwin "Bruce" to "keep it clear,"
and he'd been Bruce ever since.
	"Warn them off anyway, Lieutenant," Ivanova said, as on the
screen Admiral Hutchins stepped to the microphone and began tapping
it.
	"Can't it wait, Commander?" Bruce asked.  "The Chief's about
to begin his speech."
	"Keep your mind on your job, Lieutenant," Ivanova grumbled.
	"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," Hutchins began, slowly
and awkwardly at first, "I really did not want to be here today,
saying what I'm about to say.  But what I have to say is very, very
important.  What you're about to hear will affect every being in the
known galaxy, because it involves crimes committed at the highest
levels of Federation government."
	A beeping sound came from Bruce's panels.  Looking down, he
muttered, "Commander, I'm picking up a metaspace jump point forming at
one thousand kilometers from our bow."
	"I would not make these accusations," Hutchins continued, "if
we did not have absolute proof of their accuracy.  These allegations,
made wildly and without careful consideration, have the potential to
destroy the Federation.  I feel that, with the evidence in hand, and
considering the nature of the crime itself, we have no choice but to
make them known, and to present the evidence to the people of the
galaxy."
	"I don't see a jump point," Ivanova said, splitting the main
viewer to show the view outside the station.
	"It's still building!" Bruce said.  "I've never seen metapoint
potential this high before!  There's something HUGE coming through!"
	"Let me see," said Ivanova said, striding over to the ops
console and taking one quick look.
	"Therefore," Hutchins said, forcing himself to get to the
point, "I have called you here to day to tell you that William Morgan
Clark, the President of the United Federation of Planets - "
	Ivanova's hand slammed down on the large red button which
either Bacon or Garibaldi had, at some point in the past, labeled
"PANIC!"
	Sirens rang through the Zocalo, flashing emergency lights
flickering across hundreds of surprised faces, Gryphon's more angered
than surprised.  Before he could continue his speech or ask what was
going on, Ivanova keyed on the intercom to shipwide broadcast and
said, "General quarters, general quarters.  This station is now on
alert condition yellow.  Massive unidentified fleet inbound from
metaspace.  All hands to general quarters."
	"It's opening!" Bruce shouted, pointing to the main screen.
There, at considerable distance from the station, an immense golden
maw large enough to swallow one of Bajor's smaller moons opened, and
through it flew a vast armada of ships.  Earthforce destroyers and
cruisers and battleships, scores upon scores.  Corellian dreadnoughts
and Corporate Sector monitors, more than Ivanova had known existed.
Most shocking to Ivanova, the black and burgundy of Starfleet she wore
suddenly burning her skin, were the dozens upon dozens of Mirandas,
Constitutions, Constellations, Excelsiors, Iowas, Nebulas... and in
the vanguard, three Galaxy-class Federation battleships.
	The communications panel, near the back of the station's
control deck, cheeped with a hail, and the automatic systems opened a
channel and popped the grim face of Admiral Cartwright on the screen.
A second later the communications officer relayed Cartwright's image
manually to every viewscreen on the ship, including the huge one
behind Admiral Hutchins above the Zocalo.
	"This is Admiral Roger Cartwright," he said, his voice echoing
throughout the station.  "By the authority of William Clark, President
of the Federation High Council, I hereby order the surrender of
International Police Station Babylon 6 and all its officers and
inhabitants.  You will stand down all defense systems and prepare to
be boarded."
	Ivanova nodded to the communications officer, who keyed
Ivanova's response into the same all-ship broadcast.  "This is
Commander Susan Ivanova, first officer of Babylon 6," she said.  "You
are not welcome here.  You will maintain your distance from the
station and depart this system at once.  Any ship of your fleet which
approaches closer than five hundred kilometers will be fired upon."
	Cartwright leaped to his feet at this, glaring back from the
screen at Ivanova.  "Commander Ivanova, I am your superior officer!  I
am giving you a direct order to surrender that station!"
	"Admiral," Ivanova replied, in a quieter but no less angry
voice, "I think you know where you can stick that order."
	Cartwright had walked almost to the front of his ship's
bridge, the video pickup only able to see his head and torso.
"Commander, I don't think you are aware of the situation," he snarled.
	"No, Admiral," Ivanova fired back, "I'm perfectly aware of the
situation.  This is MY STATION.  YOU are ATTACKING -MY STATION-.  And
Starfleet or not, Admiral," she said, leaning right back into the
pickup, "if you come within five hundred klicks of my station, I will
blow your ass all the way back to the Presidio."
	"This is your last chance, Babylon 6," Cartwright
growled.  "Surrender or be destroyed."
	"In a word, Admiral," Ivanova replied: "Nuts!" 
	She jerked a thumb across her neck in the traditional
end-signal gesture, and as Cartwright's face vanished, she turned to
Corwin and said, "Red alert.  Begin civilian evacuation protocols to
Bajor.  I want all fighters scrambled immediately and the full defense
grid armed and hot."
	"Aye, Commander," Bruce said, beginning the relay of those
orders.  A few seconds later, he looked up at Ivanova, who had her
head bowed and fists clenched in front of her.  For an instant, just
an instant, Bruce thought he saw the control-room lights reflect from
something on her cheek.  "Commander?  Are you all right?"
	"I'm fine," she answered.  Then she turned abruptly, strode
back and up the steps to the commander's dais at the back of the room,
and whirled, one hand lashing out in a convulsive gesture.  Bruce
winced as something bounced off the top of his head, then clattered
noisily into the far corner of the room.  He glanced instinctively at
it and saw that it was a Starfleet comm badge.
	"Sorry," said Ivanova tightly, then added, in a voice too soft
for her inadvertent victim to hear, "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

	"Damn, damn, DAMN, damn, damn," Gryphon said at about the same
time, having just stepped back from the microphone.  "Derek, finish
the press conference and then get these people out of here.  They have
to know!"  Before Bacon could argue, Gryphon tapped his commbadge and
said, "Gryphon to Challenger, one to beam up, now!"  A few seconds
later, in a reverse shower of blue light, Gryphon vanished from the
catwalk.
	Derek looked down.  Half the crowd was still milling about,
waiting for further news.  The rest crowded their way out in all
directions, one step short of a panicked stampede.  Garibaldi had
already vanished, gone to help his security forces organize the
evacuation.  "Um," he said, stepping up to the mike.  "Um, excuse me,
everybody?  I'm Derek Bacon.  You may not know me - I'm only the
commander of this station."
	No laughs.  Derek shrugged it off and continued, "In a few
minutes we're going to have a nice, orderly evacuation beginning with
all civilian station residents.  But while we're waiting, Gryphon
wanted you to watch this video.  I think you'll find it very
educational."  Derek keyed up the replay from the Danzig's flight
recorder and, having run out of ideas, let people figure it out for
themselves.
	They did.  It wasn't pretty.

	As these events were taking place, elsewhere on the station
two men sat across from each other, writing furiously on pads of
paper.  That is, Ambassador Overstreet wrote furiously; the proper
adverb for how Ambassador Sarek wrote would be -efficiently,- without
emotion but very quickly all the same.  Both men wore their best
formals, which for the Redneck meant an elaborate CFMF dress uniform
that jangled slightly from the various honors worn on the tunic and
around the neck.
	"So, we have an agreement," the Redneck said.  "Not a lasting
peace, but a cease-fire.  The Freespacer Home Fleet remains at Jyurai
for the time being, while the CFMF goes into dock under the temporary
authority of the Vulcan Defense Forces."
	"Pending the submission of both the Species Intervention Act
and the Federation Psi Act to referendum of the Federation," Sarek
nodded.  "Considering the widespread opposition to these laws, I can
see no logical reason not to consult the people of the Federation on
their continuance.  I feel confident that my government will approve
these terms as preliminaries to a lasting peace."
	"And I can guarantee my government will approve," the Redneck
nodded.  "Once we have this out of the way, we should have common
ground for - "
	About that time the sirens and lights went off, and although
only Kris actually said, "What the hell?" both men thought it or
its equivalent.  They watched on the conference room's comm screen as
Admiral Cartwright delivered his ultimatum and Ivanova rebuffed it.
Finally, as the view on the screen shifted to that of the Zocalo, both
men stared at each other, Sarek in barely suppressed shock and the
Redneck with an air of resignation.
	"I assure you, Ambassador," Sarek said,  "I had no concept of
this action."
	"I know, Sarek," Kris sighed.  "I -should- have, though."  He
stood up and straightened his uniform, saying, "Watch the screen,
Ambassador, it will explain everything.  Assuming we survive this," he
added, "I think we'll be negotiating on vastly different premises, all
things considered."
	"Where will you be?" Sarek asked, as Derek Bacon started up
the Danzig footage.
	"Following the sound of the guns," the Redneck said.  "Time
for me to come out of retirement, I think."  With those words, Admiral
Kristan O. Overstreet, CFMF, left the room, headed straight for the
command deck.

	Gryphon arrived on his flagship's bridge to find it ready for
action.  He'd noted the red-alert lights pulsing along the corridors
as he rushed up from the transporter room; now he found the bridge
flooded in battle red as well, all hands at their stations, looking
grim and expectant.  On the main viewer, a tactical plot crowded with
symbols and names flickered as the battle computer labored to make
sense of it all.  As he entered, Lore stood up and relinquished the
center seat without making any of his usual smart remarks.
	The IPO commander knew that his command was large enough now
to warrant his stepping down from actual command of the flagship.  It
was customary in most forces for flag officers to concentrate solely
on the fleet and leave the responsibilities of commanding the flagship
to another officer, and heaven knew Lore was ready for such a
responsibility as serving as Challenger's flag captain.  Overstreet
had badgered him about the matter every time their paths had crossed
since he'd finally accepted that the IPO Space Force was large enough
for its overall commander to wear admiral's stars, and on some level
Gryphon knew he was right.
	But to give up sitting in that seat, to be reduced to a
passenger on his own ship, his own greatest achievement... it was a
thought that Admiral Benjamin Hutchins simply couldn't stomach.
Somewhere deep inside he still held the belief that an admiral who
didn't conn his own flagship into battle might as well be down in a
headquarters bunker somewhere, issuing orders by subspace radio.  He
even knew, intellectually, that it wasn't true - Aya Nakajima,
probably his closest ally among the Freespacers after their founder,
had a flag captain, and no one could ever accuse her of detachment
from the battlefield.
	So it wasn't rational, but it was still there, and he went to
the center seat anyway, then paused with his hand on the back of it
and looked around at his bridge crew.  They surrounded him, as a
bridge crew should: Lafiel and Jinto at the helm and navigation panel
in the bullseye with him, Lu at his right hand, Selar at his left, the
rest at their stations in the ring.
	"Tactical report!" Gryphon said as he took his seat.  He could
tell by glancing at the display or the helm status panel that
Challenger was already moving from station, followed by the HoSghaj,
the Pennsylvania, and a trio of Minbari heavy cruisers.  The dozen
Defiant-class destroyers and the seven Steamrunners were still
retrieving crew and officers from the station, while a scattering of
other warships - two Gamilon Duoreme-class battleships, a lone
Salusian heavy carrier and the three Andorian destroyers - remained at
station near Babylon Six.
	"We're in deep kimchee, Big Kahuna," Lore replied as he sat
down at his exec's station and reactivated his panels.  "Heap many
white man on warpath, kemosabe."
	"I am reading no fewer than four hundred sixty-two IFF
transponders from the enemy fleet," Klaang said from the science
console.  His brow seemed more wrinkled than usual as he continued,
"Eighty percent of the force is divided evenly between Federation
Starfleet and Earth Alliance warships.  The remainder are ships from
the Corellian Navy, the Corporate Sector Security Forces, and the
Co-Prosperity Sphere Self Defense Forces."
	Gryphon nodded.  "It figures.  Where's the Bajoran Aerospace
Force?"
	"Scrambling now," reported Lieutenant Luornu Durgo, Gryphon's
trusted yeoman since Ruri Hoshino had moved on to helm Steamrunner
almost six years before.  "The Opaka and the Prophets' Shield are
coming in from patrol stations now, estimated arrival in the conflict
zone ten minutes.  Aerospace defense forces are scrambling from Bajor,
Joshaddo and Jeraddo now.  They're linking into the IPO C-and-C
network as they launch."
	"Good.  Viewer to standard ahead."
	The viewer beeped and changed to a long shot of the Federation
fleet, arrayed for battle.  "Damn," he muttered.  "Look at that.
They're not joking."  Then he straightened a bit in his chair.
"Fortunately, neither are we.  Hoshi, get me the fleet, please."
	The comm officer worked the controls, her face set in a slight
frown of concentration, and Gryphon couldn't help but smile slightly.
Hoshi Sato had started her IPO career as a bit of a wallflower, timid
and secretly hoping that the purpose for which Challenger had been
built would never come to pass - but now that the crisis was here, she
was all business, just like the rest of them.
	"You're on, sir," she said after a moment.
	"Attention all ships of the Babylon Defense Formation: this is
Admiral Hutchins speaking to you from Challenger.  You all saw the
transmission Captain Bacon just made from Babylon 6.  You all know
what that Federation fleet is here to do.  And you all know that it's
up to us to stop them.  Or if you didn't, you do now.  Normally we'd
be in a bit of a panic right now," he added with a wry chuckle, "but
it seems as if Admiral Cartwright is waiting for something, so I'll
take advantage of his thoughtfulness to say a few words.
	"All of you know that the times are getting more and more
dangerous, and that it looks like it's going to get worse before it
gets better.  You know it and you want to do something about it -
that's why you're Experts of Justice.  You volunteered for the IPO
Space Force from all over: some of you are former WDF officers, others
came to us from the GENOM MILARM Navy, Starfleet, Earthforce, the
CFMF, the Royal Salusian Armed Forces, the Zardon Navy, the Klingon
Empire.  I understand we even have a couple of Imperial Romulan Navy
personnel with us.  For six years, we've all trained to face this day,
all the while hoping it would never come.
	"Well, now it's here, and with it comes the one contingency
we've all acknowledged from the start: that someday we might have to
face in battle forces you once served in.  Now that that time has
come, I know I can trust all of you to do the right thing.
	"That's why you're Experts of Justice."
	He paused for a moment to let that sink in, then went on in a
less oratorical tone, "That's all.  Stand by for battle - they aren't
going to coast out there looking at us all day.  To the other ships
holding station on Babylon 6: You don't have to join us in this fight,
but we'd appreciate the help.  Challenger out."
	He thumbed the channel closed and then slowly turned his
chair, looking around the bridge at his crew.  He didn't have to say
anything specifically to them; it simply wasn't necessary.  There was
a brief silence, broken only when Hoshi said softly,
	"All ships acknowledge, sir.  Text message from Captain
Krontep.  Two words: 'Kai kassai.'"
	Gryphon smiled.  "Sentimental weenie," he said.
	"Shall I send that in reply, sir?" asked Hoshi with a
perfectly straight face.
	"No, lieutenant, I don't think that will be necessary,"
Gryphon said.  He turned his attention back to the display where, off
in the distance, the Starfleet armada had begun to move... part of it,
anyway.  "Tactical," he ordered, and the display switched back to
lines and icons.  The majority of those icons were still holding
station, but a large force, centered around two of the armada's three
Galaxy-class ships, was splitting away and forming a broad line of
battle, moving forward at relatively slow speed.
	"I'll be damned," he thought aloud, "I never thought I'd see
the day that 'Commando' Cartwright fought a battle -conservatively-."
	"I'm not complaining," Lore replied.
	"Indeed," Lafiel Abriel said from the helm station, smiling a
very vicious smile.  "Let us show them the folly of conservatism."
	"Signal from Babylon Six," Hoshi said. "Audio only."
	"Challenger, this is Babylon control," a voice came over the
command channel, crackling slightly in the bridge speakers.  "Locking
in to your command network now and awaiting your orders."
	Gryphon paused and looked over to Lu, who shrugged
noncomprehension.  "That voice is familiar, Babylon control," he said
at last.  "Which officer is this?"
	"Grand Admiral Overstreet, CFMF," the voice drawled
back.  "Gimme a strategy, Gryphon, I have you covered back here."
	"Kris," Gryphon said, unable to resist a smile, "I appreciate
the thought, but we can handle it fine here.  Vision can handle comm
traffic, and I have an ops manager who can be in three places at
once."
	"Great," the Redneck replied.  "How much fleet command combat
experience she got?"
	"You aren't going to go away, are you?"
	"Nope."
	"Well, try to stay out of Ivanova's hair, then," Gryphon
said.  "And get us some reinforcements.  Fast."
	"Already working," the Redneck replied.  "I've got the
Defiants organized into four three-ship wings.  All other ships
forming up on your flagship.  Babylon wishes you good hunting,
Admiral."
	"We'll try, Admiral," Gryphon replied.  As he spoke, Challenger
shuddered with the first long-range rounds of phaser fire from the
oncoming fleet.  "There we go," he muttered, "the first shots of the
civil war."
	Selar rose smoothly from her seat.  "You'll excuse me,
Admiral; I'll be more use to you in sickbay."
	"Go," replied Gryphon with a nod.  "Flag to all ships," he
said in a louder voice: "Let's get to work."
	And with a surge of impulse and ion engines, battle was
joined.

	      NEAR SPACE AROUND ZETA CYGNI DYSON SPHERE
			     CYGNI SECTOR
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       0957 HOURS STANDARD TIME

	Admiral Jean-Luc Picard stepped out of his ready room onto
Enterprise's bridge.  He hadn't had a very good night's sleep.
Something still bothered him, and despite everything he kept
telling himself his instincts screamed that what he was about to
do was wrong, wrong, wrong.  His conference with Commodore Sheridan
had not been any help.  "When it comes down to it, Admiral," Sheridan
had said, "all we can do is what duty asks of us.  Nothing less."
	Duty, Picard thought, was asking him to take a fleet of two
hundred and thirty warships out of metaspace into the Zeta Cygni
system, including a dozen Interdictor and Warden cruisers, in an
attempt to prevent the heavy units of the Wedge Defense Force from
deploying in response to a preemptive strike on Babylon 6.
	Considering that there were between a hundred and two hundred
WDF ships berthed in the Utopia Planitia Naval Shipyards or in orbit
around the Dyson Sphere, including several that could wipe out a task
force in one blast, the effort seemed not only immoral but foolhardy...  
but if the Federation's suspicions were true, it was all too necessary.
	"Report, Captain," he asked Bester, who sat in the center
seat.  It still stung Picard that the Enterprise, although at his
disposal, was no longer truly his ship; he took his position to the
left of Bester, as Troi vacated the chair and moved behind the weapons
horseshoe.
	"All ships report readiness and formation," Bester
smiled.  "Metadrives are tuned and ready for re-entry into normal
space.  Interdictor and Warden gravity projectors ready to go hot in
thirty seconds' time.  All fighters are launched and holding station
around their carriers."
	"Very good," Picard nodded.  "Status of flagship?"
	Riker leaned forward from his chair on Bester's right
side.  "Enterprise fully ready for combat, sir," Riker replied.  "All
systems nominal.  Green across the board."
	"Very well," Picard nodded.  "Let's get this over with.  Flag
to all ships: open jump point."
	Around the fleet, dozens of metadrive-equipped starships
carefully merged the efforts of their drives, building an immense
gateway linking the swirling mists of metaspace with clear, black
realspace.  With a lurch of apparent motion the entire fleet slid
through the point, or the gate around the fleet, until with a flash of
light the point collapsed, the last of the ships through and safe.
	"All ships secure from metaspace, Admiral," Data reported from
the operations console.  "Currently reading three warships in orbit or
transit around the Dyson sphere, including SDF-23."  A warble emerged
from Data's panel, and he added, "They are hailing."
	"On screen," Bester said, just a second ahead of Picard, who
was definitely getting tired of that bland smile.
	The main viewscreen flickered to the bridge of the
super-dimensional fortress WDF Wandering Child.  The viewer pickup
focused on a figure in the back, the cap of a general officer
virtually the only concession its wearer made to uniform.  Otherwise
he looked and dressed like a college student, tall and slender, blond
hair worn long and loose with a reddish beard to match.
	"This is Field Marshal Dave Ritchie, Wedge Defense Force
supreme commander and manager of system defenses for the Republic of
Zeta Cygni," he announced.  "To what do we owe the honor of such a
large visit from Starfleet?"
	Picard stood up and straightened his tunic.  "I am Admiral
Jean-Luc Picard of the star... of the United Federation of Planets,"
he corrected himself, cursing years of habit.  "I am here to inform
the Wedge Defense Force that the Federation is moving to prevent a
conspiracy against the Federation government.  We advise you," he
licked his lips uncomfortably, "that the WDF is to remain in harbor
until the conspirators have been secured.  Any deployment of WDF
forces from Zeta Cygni, or any attempt by the WDF to leave this
system, will be regarded as an act of rebellion against the
Federation."
	"I see," Daver nodded, his face touched by what Picard could
only call amusement.  "This wouldn't have anything to do with the
message I received from International Police Chief Hutchins a couple
of days ago, would it?"
	"I am not privy to the contents of that message," Picard
replied, "but Admiral Hutchins is among those suspected of organizing
the conspiracy."
	"Obviously," Daver nodded, smiling a bit more broadly.  "And
if we attempt to go to his aid, you have orders to stop us, correct?"
	"By any means necessary," Picard said.
	"Ah, yeah, I forgot that part," Daver said.  "Please excuse me
a moment."  Daver looked away from the video pickup and consulted his
terminal for a few moments.  "I confirm your information, Admiral," he
said at last.  "Babylon 6 reports that it is under attack from an
armada of Starfleet and Earthforce ships."  He made another sound, too
soft for Picard to be quite certain, but...
	"Marshal Ritchie," Picard asked, "what was that last?"  It
had sounded like a chuckle, but surely... 
	"Oh, nothing, nothing," Daver said.  "But I am afraid I'll
have to call your bluff.  I've just ordered the scramble of all WDF
assets in the system.  Do what you must, Admiral, but if you leave us
alone, we'll leave you alone.  Fair?"
	"I must point out, Marshal," Picard began.
	"Oh, of course you must," Daver nodded.
	"May I continue?" Picard asked stiffly.  He felt a little bit
rattled. The situation seemed deadly perilous to him, but the WDF
supreme commander gave every appearance of finding it mildly,
privately humorous.
	"Certainly," Daver replied with a nonchalant shrug.  "It will
take several minutes for our ships to clear moorings.  We've got 'til
then to shoot the breeze."
	"This is pointless," Bester muttered to himself.  "We should
strike now while their forces are unprepared."
	"Belay that, Captain," Picard grumbled.  "Marshal Ritchie, if
so much as a single warship deploys from the Dyson Sphere, the WDF
will be at war with the Federation.  I for one would like to avoid
that."
	"Yeah, well," Daver shrugged, "sucks to be us, doesn't it?  Do
what you have to, Admiral.  We'll try not to rough you up -too- much
on our way out.  Later."  The SDF-23's bridge vanished, replaced by
the view of space, with the vast curve of the Dyson Sphere below.
	"Well," Bester said with mocking cheer, "that's it."  He stood
up from the command chair, tugged idly at the sleeves of his Psi Corps
uniform, and turned to face Picard.  "You tried to warn them, Admiral,
but they just wouldn't listen."
	"I find nothing cheerful about this situation," Picard said,
shaking his head at Bester's smile.  "The Wedge Defense Force has a
long and honorable record of defending the people of the Federation,
and the United Galactica before that.  That we should be forced by
circumstances to raise our fist against them..."  His frown deepened
and he said, "This is a tragic day for the galaxy."
	"Yes," Bester nodded, "exactly.  And it will be even -more-
tragic if those ships make it to Babylon 6 and prevent the capture
of Hutchins and his conspirators.  Admiral, the fate of the entire
Federation rests in your hands."
	"Nevertheless," Picard said, "the WDF has not yet violated the
orders of the Federation.  Until they do, and unless they do, this
task force will not open fire."  Picard turned away from Bester,
walking over to the viewscreen, tracing the lights of the shipyards
below, watching the distant blip of the SDF-23 with care.
	"Order the Interdictors and Wardens to activate their
gravity-well projectors," he said at last.  "All other ships are to
await my instructions for further deployment."
	"As you wish... Admiral," Bester said, his cheer completely
gone now.  Riker and Data were already passing along the orders to the
other ships in the fleet as he returned to the center seat, leaving
Picard alone with his thoughts physically if not psychically.  The
latter was, given the strength of Picard's emotions now, practically
impossible.
	Bester stared at Picard intently, feeling the doubt and
concern grow in the breveted admiral.  He won't do it, Bester thought
to himself.  He'll never give the order to fire on the Wedgies.  He
thinks he will, but he's already made up his mind.
	The plasma pistol hidden under the coat of Bester's uniform
pressed into his side as he thought, And when he figures it out for
himself, I'll have to eliminate him...

			NEKOMIKOKA, TOMODACHI
			     VEGA SECTOR
			     MAY 10, 2412
			      1003 HOURS

    /*  Shinkichi Mitsumune  "Gakuen no Scarlet (Utena no Theme)"
       _Shoujo Kakumei Utena: Zettai Shinka Kakumei Zenya_  */

	Number 1140, the biggish Victorian-style house at the very end
of Wildwood Road on the very outskirts of Nekomikoka, had an air of
good humor about it, its white paint cheerfully complementing the
bright flowers in the window boxes on the enclosed front porch.  The
shrubbery in the small front yard was well-tended, the concrete walk
up to the front steps from the sidewalk was even, and the bright red
car in the driveway was shiny and clean.  It was a pastoral suburban
scene... only slightly marred by the large group of rather
grim-looking men, some of them uniformed, who were standing around on
the walk and the lawn.
	Anthy Tenjou opened the front door and smiled politely at the
tall, middle-aged man in the black suit leading this group.  "Good
morning!" she said.  "How may I help you, sir?"
	"Good morning, ma'am.  My name is Tatsuya Fujitake.  I'm from
the office of the Prime Minister," the man said, bowing to Anthy in
formal greeting.  "Is Captain Utena Tenjou present at this time?"
	"Just a moment," Anthy said.  She pushed the door to before
walking back into the living room, where her husband Utena and Corwin
Ravenhair were seated on the couch watching Edison Carter.  "What
happened to the Truss Report special?" Anthy asked.
	"Signal's jammed at Babylon 6," Corwin said.  "We don't know
what's going on yet.  I'm gonna give it five more minutes and then try
to get Dad on the Lens."
	"And Edison's too busy asking questions to give us answers,"
Utena said.  "I hate sweeps week."
	"There's a polite gentleman from the Prime Minister's office
at the door," Anthy said.  "He asked for Captain Tenjou."
	"Did he indeed," Utena said.  "I don't like the sound of that.
OK, let's go see him."
	A few moments later, Utena stood in the doorway listening to
Mr. Fujitake explain, with several apologies, that the Federation was
acting to end the threat of military overthrow represented by the
Babylon Foundation and the International Police, and that Tomodachi,
as part of the Greater Galactic Co-Prosperity Sphere, was fulfilling
its duties to support the defense of the Federation.
	"Now, as an officer of the International Police Space Reserve,
that would normally mean that you are subject to arrest," Mr. Fujitake
continued.  "However, the Prime Minister feels that this is all a
grave misunderstanding, and he wishes to convey to you a request that
you give your parole as an officer to remain under house arrest until
all of this is straightened out."
	"What happens if I say no?" Utena asked.
	"Well," Mr. Fujitake said, fidgeting a bit, "to be brutally
honest... the Prime Minister has reviewed your military records and
intelligence files and, well, has determined that the government of
Tomodachi has no forces sufficient to hold you prisoner.  We merely
ask that you remain in your home as a courtesy, to avoid further
embarrassing the Prime Minister in this incident."
	"I see," Utena nodded.  "Well, under the circumstances you can
tell the Prime Minister - "
	Mr. Fujitake stiffened, expecting the worst.
	" - that I promise on my oath as an officer in the International
Police that I will not set foot through this door until the Prime 
Minister relieves me of my parole."
	Mr. Fujitake blinked.  "You - you accept?"
	"I wouldn't dream of embarrassing the Prime Minister," Utena
smiled.  "Especially not with elections coming up."
	"Ah, thank you so much," Mr. Fujitake bowed.  "I'm going to
leave a couple of guards outside your front door.  They won't enter,
and they won't interfere with you - they're strictly for show.  I
apologize once more for the trouble."
	"No trouble at all."  Utena bowed back.  "Thank you for
coming!"
	"Thank you again," Mr. Fujitake said.  He paused for a second,
then added, "Er... might I ask one other favor, Captain?"
	Utena smiled.  "You may ask."
	"May I... may I have your autograph?"

	Once Mr. Fujitake had departed, Utena closed the front door,
her pleasant smile turning into a wicked smirk.  "Why should I use the
door when windows are faster?" she asked rhetorically.
	"W-what was all th-that about n-not emb-b-barrassing the
P-Prime Minister?" asked Kaitlyn Hutchins from the top of the stairs,
mischief dancing in her eyes.
	"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Utena smiled.  "Corwin,
how fast can we get a skeleton crew together for the Valiant?"
	Corwin pushed back his sleeve; his Lens glinted on his wrist,
under the face of his watch.
	"Start timing me," he replied with a grin.
	
		    OPEN SPACE, JYURAI STAR SYSTEM
			    ENIGMA SECTOR
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       1004 HOURS STANDARD TIME

	"The fleet has cleared the Jormundgand Nebula, Admiral,"
Lieutenant Jacobi called from the navigation station of USS Galaxy.
	"All ahead full impulse," Styles said.  "Rather a dinky system,
isn't it?" he added, and by his standards it was.  The undersized K2
star at the heart of the Jormundgand Nebula only held three planets
and an asteroid belt barely worthy of the name.  Jyurai itself orbited
outermost, some eighty-five million miles from its primary and only
thirty million miles from the border where solar wind pushed against
the weight of nebular dust.  That green world lay only minutes away, a
large dot on the viewscreen that grew into a sphere before Styles'
watching eyes.
	"It may be dinky," his new flag-captain, Mary Kostolowicz,
said, "but it's full of peril."  The diminutive Psi Cop paced the
bridge deck restlessly, auburn hair rustling around her shoulders.
"Curb your overconfidence, Admiral, and concentrate on the mission."
	"Oh, don't worry about the mission," Styles grinned, slapping
his riding crop into his palm.  "Look at the scans."  He keyed up the
tactical display from his command chair and pointed to the chart of
Jyurai's orbits.  "The Freespacer Home Fleet, with no sign of the
Cowardly Freespacer Mercenary Fleet.  Thirty or so wooden system
patrol ships.  Wooden, hah!  Wood against the highest-grade alloys
Federation shipyards can produce.  A mob of smugglers against two
hundred highly trained warships."  Styles leaned back in his chair and
grinned.  "This system will be in our hands by lunchtime."
	Jyurai grew closer and closer, the Federation fleet moving
into an orbital trajectory as it passed the orbit of Jyurai's
outermost moon.  As the fleet slowed, it spread, deploying outward and
upward into a massive wall of battle.  In response the relatively tiny
Jyurai fleet spread out into a triple line, eight ships broad and
three high, as the Freespacer Home Fleet broke orbit behind them and
headed for the nebula's edge.
	"Flag to all ships," Styles said, lounging in his command
chair.  "Come to station five kilometers from the native fleet and arm
all weapons.  Captain," he nodded to Kostolowicz, "prepare your agents
for transport.  And don't be afraid to ask for help."
	"You haven't won the battle yet, Styles," Kostolowicz said.
"I feel a great power in this planet..."  She frowned as she stared at
the view of the enemy fleet, "And I feel a mind, a very powerful mind,
out there.  There is danger present."
	"Bosh and superstition," Styles smiled indulgently.  "Comm,
hail the opposing fleet."
	"Hailing frequencies open, Admiral," the comm officer replied.
	"Jyurai defense forces, this is Admiral Styles of the United
Federation of Planets," Styles said, standing up and pacing the deck
with his riding crop in hand.  "By the authority vested in me by
President Clark, I hereby declare the annexation of the Jyurai star
system and all space formerly associated with the Kingdom of Jyurai.
You will stand down your military vessels and installations and
surrender all agents of the Babylon Foundation, the International
Police Organization, and their outlaw telepath organization known as
AEGIS.  Any resistance will result in your total destruction.  I
require an answer at once."
	The viewscreen flickered to show the spacious bridge of one of
the Jyurai treeships, this time with a middle-aged-looking,
stoutly-built man in the most elaborate Jyurai robes Styles had seen
yet standing at the control dais.
	"Well, well, well," the man said, "James Cook Styles.  Fancy
seeing you here.  Haven't seen you since you skipped out on the check
during the last Weapons Dev conference."  The figure nodded at the
crop in Styles' hands.  "Still carrying the swagger stick, I see.
I've always wanted to ask about that.  Are you compensating, or does
it represent some unattainable ideal?"
	"Captain Shannon," Styles hissed, every syllable an unspoken
insult.  "Words fail me.  Still playing with raw antimatter?  Are you
in charge of these native canoes?"
	"As far as you're concerned, yeah," Robert Shannon replied.
"And it's Chief Shannon now, thank you.  Chief of that 'outlaw
organization' you mentioned.  We have quite a school down here, you
know.  Maybe you could join - by the time we're done with you you'll
be able to read without your lips moving."
	Styles didn't think it was possible for him to get any
angrier, but he was trying very hard.  "Are you going to surrender
your forces or not?" he shouted.
	Shannon shrugged his shoulders.  "Might as well quit farting
around," he said.  "I know what I'm here for, you know what you're
here for.  We both know why this is happening.  There really isn't any
point in delaying, is there?"  He straightened up and looked back at
Styles, very calm and serious.  "We've heard your ultimatum; now hear
ours.  You've come to Jyurai; now keep going.  Do not backtrack, do
not linger, just depart as you are currently headed.  Do not return.
Jyurai has had more than a full belly of invaders.  We will _not_
allow it to happen again."
	"Is that your final decision?" Styles asked.
	"Hardly," Shannon said, "but if you open fire that -will- be
-yours-.  Remember what happened to your namesake.  He crossed a
native population he thought of as helpless primitives... "  Shannon
smiled nastily.  "... And they -ate- him."
	"End transmission," Styles snarled.  "Flag to all ships:
target the enemy fleet and keep firing until there's not enough left
for matchsticks!"
	A moment later, two hundred and one Federation warships
unleashed a massive barrage on twenty-four Jyurai warships; nine,
commanded and crewed by men of greater conscience or sense than
Styles, held their fire.  As the shooting began, however, the Jyurai
ships erupted into a display of ghostly light, each ship sprouting a
triad of what appeared to be flower petals, spreading rapidly into a
dome of translucent gray.  Phaser fire bounced harmlessly off of the
fields; torpedoes detonated to no effect.  The barrage ceased as the
Federation fleet's ships paused to recharge and reload, and not so
much as a mark had been laid on the treeships.
	"That... that's impossible," Styles gasped.  "No shield could
withstand that level of punishment!  Sensors!"
	"I don't know, Admiral!" the science officer replied.  "All
the sensors pick up is some vague glow in the visual spectrum!  Active
sensors don't see them!"
	"Are you blind??" Styles shouted, striding to the science
station.  "They must see them.  *I* can see them!"
	"Psi energy," Kostolowicz gasped.  "Solid psi energy, and
something more.  The power is incredible..."  She ran up to Styles and
pulled his arm.  "Admiral, we must leave here.  Now.  At once."
	Before Styles could reply or even shake her off, Shannon's
voice echoed over the bridge's speakers.  "We've had a taste of your
guns, James Jerk Styles," he said.  "Now have a sample of ours."
	From what appeared to be empty space above the Jyurai fleet
emerged a double row of guns, with no ship apparently attached.  With
a flicker of light the guns began a salvo, one gun firing moments
after the other, repeating again and again, slamming into the
Federation ships' shields.  Two guns struck the Galaxy straight on,
knocking Styles and Kostolowicz off their feet.
	"Admiral!" Lieutenant Fu shouted from the engineering
panel.  "Shield efficiency is down to seventy percent!"
	"From two shots?" Styles gasped, picking himself up from the
deck.  "Impossible!"
	"Sir, I'm receiving damage reports from twenty ships," the
communications officer added.
	"Impossible," Styles repeated.  How could wooden spaceships
withstand the concentrated firepower of one-fifth of Starfleet without
any damage?  How could they weaken a Galaxy-class battleship's shields
to three-quarters with only two hits?  As he gaped, he saw an enormous
wooden vessel decloak above the Jyurai wall of battle, its lines sleek
and proud, its hull venerable with age yet vibrant with life all the
same.  Had Styles any poetry in his soul, he might have felt awe; as
it was, he was managing unholy terror just fine.
	"Incoming signal from Jyurai fleet," the comm officer said,
and Shannon reappeared on the screen.
	"It's my turn to ask for your surrender, Styles," Shannon
said, folding his arms.  "To all Federation ships: we have noted those
who held their fire; you will not be harmed.  All other ships, drop
your shields and shut down your engines if you wish to surrender.  All
vessels who do not comply will be destroyed in thirty seconds.  This
is your last warning.  Tsunami out."
	Styles' response was quick and decisive.  "All ships," he
said, "concentrate firepower on the flagship.  Target the central
hull.  Set torpedoes for timed explosion to detonate behind their
shield.  Execute!"
	Once more the Starfleet vessels opened fire.  As before, nine
held out, shutting down engines; they were joined by a handful of
other ships who, so to speak, had seen the light.  Over a hundred
eighty ships still poured phaser fire onto one point, surrounded the
immense flagship with torpedoes, sending up a display of light and
explosions of titanic proportions.
	When the firing was over, the luminescent shield wrapped
around the Tsunami opened into not three, not six, but -ten- wings,
some forward, some aft, some surrounding the center of the ship.  The
forward three wings shifted, merging into a single brilliantly
glowing shaft, and lunged forward, sending Kostolowicz screaming to
her knees, holding her head in agony.  The beam slashed through the
upper tier of Styles' wall of battle, and thirty Starfleet and
Earthforce ships ceased to exist.
	"Tsunami to all ships," an unearthly female voice echoed
through the bridge speakers.  "Open fire."
	"RETREAT!" Styles screamed as all twenty-five ships opened
fire, battering the remaining Federation ships.  "All ships reverse
course!  Maximum speed to the nebula!  Helm, get us OUT OF HERE!"
	The surviving, still-loyal elements of Styles' fleet turned
tail and ran, their shields taking a pounding from the pursuing Jyurai
ships.  One by one more Federation ships fell, crippled or destroyed
by Jyurai fire.  Behind them, the surrendered ships drifted in orbit,
untouched, watched only by a handful of orbiting satellites, their
crews counting themselves well out of it.
	Gradually the Federation fleet pulled away, their formation
unraveling, as they drew closer to the nebula.  Fire from the Jyurai
ships slackened and finally ceased, and Styles managed to smile and
chuckle nervously as the last of the pursuing ships fell away.
	"We'll be back," he muttered.  "Our people will analyze our
ship's logs, and we'll find a counter to that strange weapon of
theirs, and then we'll show them once and for all!"  He strode back to
his command chair and said, "Full power to the shields, Lieutenant;
slow us down for transit through the nebula."
	A moment later, an alarm sounded on the science officer's
panel.  Looking at his readouts, the officer gasped, stuttered, and
finally shouted, "Enemy fleet detected!  Dead ahead!"
	"WHAT?  On screen!" Styles shouted.  The screen flickered,
still showing the stormy clouds of the encircling Jormundgand Nebula,
no sign of any vessels.
	"So many ships... I'm getting IFF transponder codes... "  The
science officer stood, backing slowly away from the panel.  "Oh, 
shit," he gasped, "it's the Freespacers."
	"How many?" Styles asked.
	The science officer pointed a trembling finger at the main
viewer.  "ALL OF THEM!!"
	As he spoke, the clouds of the nebula parted briefly, and in
the gap could be seen dozens, hundreds of Confederate Freespacers
Mercenary Fleet ships.  Thousands of starfighters swarmed around the
gleaming white vessels, looking more malevolent than usual as they
bore down, eleven task forces strong, on Styles' crippled fleet.
	Leading the massive wall of Freespacer ships out of the nebula
was a ship painted in dull orange instead of white, the angular wings
and prow totally different from most of the other CFMF vessels.  By a
circumstance of bureaucracy, the CFMF Jyurai had been decommissioned
long before Wilderness Station, only to be recommissioned and refitted
in the subsequent rush to rebuild the fleet.  Not only was it one of
the most venerable ships in the fleet, it had the distinct historical
touch of having been captured as a prize of war in the first Battle of
Jyurai, 2038, from a Kilrathi Sivar conquest fleet.
	It was for this reason that Terri Curtiss had chosen it as her
flagship for the training exercises, and the appropriateness of the
choice turned to pleasant irony as she rose from her command chair and
said, "CFMF Commander to all ships: warp power to weapons systems,
FIRE AT WILL!"
	The Freespacers' shields were still weakened from their time
in the nebula, but as it turned out they weren't needed.  Styles
watched in horror as turbolasers, phasers, torpedoes of all kinds, and
rail gun shots showered his already depleted force.  His flagship
rocked with blow after blow, lights flickering wildly, conduits
shorting out as the shields buckled around the Galaxy.
	 Styles watched the viewscreen, mind frozen with horror, as it
focused on the other Galaxy-class ship in his fleet.  The USS Yamato,
hulled several times in the engineering section, managed to jettison
her warp core, but a few seconds later a wave of orange light showed
through her viewports as a plasma fire flooded her corridors.  Slowly
her running lights dimmed, and the immense Galaxy-class vessel listed
and drifted behind the fleet, a lifeless hulk.
	"SHIELDS!  SHIELDS!" he shouted.  "More power to the shields!"
	"There's no power left!" shrieked someone - Styles never saw
who - and then the turbolift doors exploded in a blast of hot gases.
Styles had a few seconds of agonizing pain before USS Galaxy's
antimatter containment fields finally gave way, and Styles joined his
crew in a blinding flash of matter annihilation.

	None of the Federation ships escaped.  Thirty-two of the ships
surrendered under power, six more were boarded and taken by Freespacer
marines, and another twenty were whole enough, including USS Yamato,
to be claimed as prizes of war rather than salvage.  The remaining
hundred and fifty-two Starfleet, Earthforce, and other ships had been
utterly destroyed, with fewer than three hundred survivors combined
from those lost ships retrieved from their emergency pods by CFMF
search and rescue patrols.
	In contrast, the Royal Navy of Jyurai and the CFMF lost no
ships at all; the CFMF lost only three starfighters, all of whose
pilots were recovered safely; and neither force reported more than the
most minor of casualties.
	That was for the mopping up, however; as soon as the last
Federation ship surrendered, Aya Nakajima and all the ships of Second
Division, CFMF TacFleet - five carrier task forces - reentered the
nebula, making maximum speed, safety be damned, for Babylon 6.
	They couldn't be there in time for -that- fight, but Aya would
definitely be there for the one after it...

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       1025 HOURS STANDARD TIME

	As a Sovereign-class dreadnaught, IPS Challenger was, without
a doubt, the most advanced starship of her size and class in known
space.  She could take punishment that would turn most other ships
into gas clouds and keep on coming.
	Even she hadn't been designed to take the concentrated
firepower of over a hundred ships.
	"Emergency lights!" Gryphon shouted, and the red lamps sent
dim rays through the smoky haze of the bridge.  Lu picked herself off
of the deck, right arm hanging limply at her side; she'd fallen over
the bridge railing during the salvo that had, for the moment, knocked
out main power.
	"Shields back online, Admiral," Lore said, sounding almost as
serious as his brother, "but only at fifteen percent.  Armor is
severely compromised between decks twelve and fourteen aft."
	The static of the bridge speakers cleared, revealing the
Redneck's voice barking orders to the fleet.  " - pull it together!
Defiant wing one, come across three-oh-two mark twenty, come on
Colonel, help out Wing Two!  Challenger needs some breathing room!"
	"Challenger to Babylon," Gryphon said, coughing for a moment
from the smoke.  "Kris, where are our reinforcements?"
	"On their way, Gryph," the Redneck responded.  "Now pull back
before you're surrounded.  Minbari cruiser Epiphany and Salusian
carrier Direwolf will cover."
	"Right," Gryphon grumbled, watching the static clear on the
viewscreen.  Six Defiants, including the class ship, were criscrossing
the leading line of Starfleet ships, pouring salvoes of torpedoes and
phasers into them and forcing them back.  Around them, Babylon 6's
TIE Advanced A2 squadrons held off the swarms of Starfuries and other
fighters from the Federation fleet.
	The battle had already been a brutal one.  Challenger had
opened up by bringing the fight to the Federation fleet well away from
Babylon 6, cutting through the front line of the Federation's first
wave, disabling several cruisers and temporarily knocking the
battleship Venture out of the fight.  She had taken her share of lumps
in the process, however, and apparently Cartwright had made the IPO
flagship's destruction the top priority of his force.  Greater and
greater salvoes of concentrated fire had pummeled Challenger's
shields, until the last round shattered them and broke through to the
ship's hull.
	Despite all that, Gryphon knew Challenger could still fight -
Nadia would have the mains back online in a minute or two.  The same
couldn't be said for some of the other ships.  Worst hit were those
three little Andorian destroyers, hopelessly outgunned but game for
the fight.  One had been blown to pieces, the second drifted without
power through the Federation forces, boarded and taken, and the third
had limped back to Babylon 6 to lick its wounds.  One of the three
Minbari cruisers had likewise been destroyed, and two of the Defiants
and one Steamrunner were also out of the fight; the other ships had
been given rough handling and required time to make repairs.
	The Federation fleet had it worse, however.  Although Venture
had managed to get her mains back online, no fewer than a dozen
Starfleet cruisers and battleships hadn't, and two Nebulas and an Iowa
would never do so again.  A half-dozen Earthforce destroyers were also
hors de combat, along with an enormous but antiquated star fortress
from the Corporate Sector which, irony of ironies, had been dispatched
by missiles from Babylon 6's TIE squadrons.
	"Lafiel, get us out of here," Gryphon said.  "Lu, report to
sickbay and get that arm set, then hustle back.  Any other casualties
on deck?"
	"Only my pride," T'Vek grumbled, rubbing her head as she
pulled herself back from under the weapons console.
	Slowly, sluggishly, Challenger responded to her helm and
limped backwards on auxiliary power.  The large fish-shaped Minbari
cruiser and the boxier slab of the Salusian carrier slid around her
and escorted her back, followed shortly thereafter by the Defiants and
starfighters.  The Federation ships didn't follow.
	"Well," Gryphon muttered, noticing the reprieve. "Looks like
we hit them hard enough to make them stop and think.  Flag to all
ships: Fall back to three hundred kilometers from B6 and regroup."  He
watched the Federation formation shift, as lamed vessels crawled away
or were towed, replaced by reinforcements from the reserve.  "Why's he
playing this one so conservatively?  He could have rolled right over
us if he'd committed everything."
	"Babylon Control to Challenger," the Redneck's voice
buzzed.  "Gryph, you still with us?"
	"We've been better, Control," Gryphon replied, "but we're
still kicking.  It's a damn good thing these guys don't know what the
hell they're trying to do."
	"You noticed."
	"What's up?"
	"Remember those reinforcements you wanted?"
	"Have you got some?"
	"A few, yeah," the Redneck replied, as a short distance behind
Babylon 6 eight large starships flickered out of hyperspace.  Most
of them looked like refugees of a forgotten era, brightly colored
vessels with odd, retro angles and antennas extending here and there.
In the center of the formation flew a large, rust-colored arrowhead
shape.  Gryphon laughed out loud at the sight.
	Challenger's main view flicked on to a view of the interior of
the Autobot Ark.  Optimus Prime stood at the center of a group of
Autobot infantry, all armed to the intake manifolds and ready to do
their impressions of Space Destroids.
	"Babylon 6, this is Optimus Prime," he said.  "The Autobot
Expeditionary Force is at your disposal."
	"Ark, this is Admiral Hutchins," Gryphon said.  "Your offer is
accepted - with pleasure!  Form up with our ships and prepare to
receive attack."
	"Actually, Gryph," Kris' voice interjected, "you might wanna
hold off on those orders just a minute."
	"How come?"
	"You'll see."

	Back on Babylon 6, the civilian evacuation was going, if not
smoothly, at least rapidly.  Almost alone in one of the bars in the
Zocalo, a handful of the ambassadors watched the battle on a vidscreen
usually reserved for sporting events.
	"Look!  Look there!" Londo Mollari shouted, pointing
enthusiastically as a large Centauri task force dropped through a jump
point into realspace.  "I told you!  Did I not tell you my people
would come, G'Kar?  Let's see your ten credits!"
	G'Kar, ambassador for the Narns, pulled a bill from his pocket
and, with very poor grace, slapped it into Mollari's hand.  "Your
homeworld is closer than mine, that's all," he grumbled.  "Mine will
be along any moment now."
	A few seconds later - on the opposite side of the viewscreen
from the Centauri - an equally large Narn fleet came out of metaspace
to G'Kar's deep cry of satisfaction.  "Ah, there they are!  If only
they had been a minute earlier!"
	"Of course, your fleet is inferior to that of the great
Centauri Republic," Londo said.
	"Our fleet was good enough to kick yours out of our home
system sixty years ago," G'Kar replied.
	"Oh?  I have fifty credits that says more Federation ships are
dispatched by Centauri ships than Narn!"
	"Killed or merely disabled?"
	"Either!"
	"Ha!" G'Kar pulled more credit notes from his pocket.  "Well,
-I- have a HUNDRED credits that say the Narns will destroy, not
-merely- disable, more ships than the decayed Centauri Navy!"
	"Your money talks very big, G'Kar," Londo grinned.
	"Does your money have an answer, Mollari?"
	"Yes," Londo said, "it does.  In Earther terms, 'a fool and
his money are soon parted,' that is what my money has to say to your
money.  I accept your wager."
	"Done!" G'Kar nodded.  With a triumphant smirk on his face,
the Narn ambassador turned to scan the room.  Like the whole station,
it was nearly empty, and the only other diplomatic personnel present
didn't strike G'Kar as likely candidates.  The Vulcan that the
Federation had sent was sitting in the corner watching the screen, his
face set in a granite mask of gravity.  D'ann J'onzz, the Martian
ambassador, stood in the back, his blue cloak furled around him, his
long, pointy visage with its eerie orange eyes betraying nothing
either.  Delenn of Minbar was near one of the potted plants, watching
the battle unfold with a troubled but not fearful look; but she'd been
on G'Kar's "no fun" list since the very first time they'd met, and
though the intervening six years had softened his view of her, he
still didn't think she'd be interested in playing.
	That only left the Right Honorable Bombad Ambassador from
Bodacious Vee II, who looked as though he didn't particularly want to
be watching the fight but just couldn't help it.  Sitting at the end
of the bar with a tall glass of Veridian ale in front of him, he kept
wincing and looking away, then turning to peer again at the screen as
if drawn to it against his will.
	"What about you, Binks?" G'Kar called down the bar to him.
"Do you want, as the Earthmen say, a piece of this action?"
	Jar Jar Binks turned his long, comically mobile face toward
the Narn ambassador and gave him a sheepish, slightly unfocused smile.
	"Me'sa sorry, Mr. Ambassador," he replied, "but me'sa not a
bettin' Gungan, and anyway, me'sa gots lotsa important drinkin' to do.
Normally me'sa only -gettin'- drunk twice a year, but this'a -special-
occasion."
	Londo Mollari roared with laughter.  "I like the way you
think, Binks!" he cried.  "Barkeep!  More drink for everyone!"
	Of course, there was no barkeep - everyone was serving himself -
but G'Kar couldn't help but appreciate the sentiment.
	Delenn stepped quietly over to the two disputants and said, "I
cannot believe that you two are getting drunk and making... SIDE
BETS... on the outcome of this battle."
	"Relax, Delenn," Londo smiled, taking a sip of his drink,
"we're wagering Federation money."
	G'Kar nodded agreement. "If the Federation loses, the money
will be worthless tomorrow.  If the Federation wins," he shrugged,
picking up his own glass, "we will not be around to spend it."
	"So what else can we do with it?" Londo asked.  "It doesn't
make very good toilet paper, and I haven't enough to decorate my walls
with it... "
	"I see," Delenn nodded, noting a flicker of motion on the
display.  She looked up to see a task force of Minbari cruisers enter
the battlefield, joining the Autobot, Salusian, Centauri and Narn
forces in line beside the battered IPO defense fleet.  "Well then,"
she said, reaching into her belt-purse, "is this a boy's game, or may
a girl play?"
	Londo and G'Kar looked at her, looked at each other, and
tossed their money to Delenn.
	"Spoilsport," Londo muttered.
	"Indeed," said G'Kar, and took a deep pull at his glass.
Hadn't he always -known- Delenn was no fun?

	"Main power restored," Nadia called from Engineering, "but
don't give me too many more bumps or you might not get it back next
time.  And protect our starboard flank, our armor's almost blown off
there."
	"Thanks, Nadia," Gryphon said.  The emergency lights winked
off, replaced by normal illumination on the bridge.  In front of the
Challenger, a new line of defenders, sixty ships long, faced a
reinforced strike force of over two hundred ships.  Beyond them, still
holding back, a reserve force of over a hundred and fifty waited to
strike.  "We still need more backup, Kris," he said.
	"Working, working," the Redneck's voice replied testily.
"Ships only move so fast."
	"Any word from the WDF?"
	"Yeah," the Redneck said.  "Daver's got a Federation fleet of
his own to worry about.  He's launching everything he can get out of
dock now, but he's got to take care of the Feds first."
	"Makes sense," Gryphon said.  "What about your people?"
	"CFMF Strategic Fleet's en route," Redneck replied, "along
with the entire Barrayaran Service, but they can't make it in less
than three hours, more likely five.  I can't reach Jyurai - jamming on
both ends - but even if they hear us, it'll take 'em hours just to get
out of that system."
	"Do we have anybody else that'll be here within the hour?"
Gryphon asked.  His mind was doing the math of attrition and coming up
with some very bad numbers.
	"I think what we've got is it, unless the WDF can break free,"
Kris replied.  "Asrial's coming with nearly the entire Salusian and
Zardon fleets, but she's - oh hell," the Redneck grumbled, "looks like
Cartwright's done shuffling his ships, 'cause here they come again."
	"Keep after those reinforcements," Gryphon said.  "We'll need
as many as we can get."
	"Will do, Gryph," Redneck said.  "Force be with ya."
	"Force be with all of us," Gryphon muttered, and then the two
fleets clashed again.

	      NEAR SPACE AROUND ZETA CYGNI DYSON SPHERE
			     CYGNI SECTOR
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       1027 HOURS STANDARD TIME
	
	"Admiral," Data said, tapping keys on his console as he spoke,
"I am detecting multiple bays opening on the Dyson Sphere."
	Picard, who had spent the last twenty minutes trying not to
pace the deck, stepped over to the ops console and looked over Data's
readings.  "Give me a visual of the Utopia Planitia Yards section of
the Dyson sphere," he murmured, and Data focused the main viewscreen
on a section of the massive surface below.  Brightly lit holes had
opened in the dark surface of the sphere, each releasing one or more
warships of the Wedge Defense Force.  Off the screen, but still
tracked by Data's console, more vessels were deploying from the actual
interior of the Sphere through one of the main entry-exit gateways.
In the lead of the latter group flew a tiny vessel, swerving back and
forth like a podracer checking his verniers.
	Bester, checking the readouts from the command chair, tsked
loudly.  "Well, that's it," he said.  "Not only have they launched
their fleet, but there's one of the IPO's toy boats in the lead.  The
Valiant, no less!"  He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to
Picard.  "Now, Admiral... pretty please... may we open fire on the WDF
fleet?"
	"Not yet," Picard said.  "Not until all alternatives have been
exhausted.  Open a channel to Marshal Ritchie."
	A few seconds later, Dave Ritchie, who had added a uniform
jacket to go with his hat, stared at Picard through the viewscreen,
looking rather bored.  "You again?" he asked.  "Haven't we had this
conversation?"
	"Marshal," Picard said, "you have launched your fleet against
the express wishes of the Federation.  I ask you, in the name of
peace," his arm jerked down in emphasis, "to return your ships to dock
at once, or I cannot be answerable for the consequences."
	"Look, Jean-Luc," Daver replied, that half-smile reappearing
on his face, "we really don't want to have to blow you to bits.  The
cleanup patrol would be -really- pissed at having to keep your
wreckage from hitting the Sphere."
	"Will you -please- take this seriously?" Picard blurted.
"We're talking about Federation-wide civil war! Don't you want to
prevent that?"
	Suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch, Field Marshal
Ritchie was utterly, totally serious, his pale blue eyes turning to
chips of ice.  "Wake up, Jean-Luc," he snapped.  "The war began when
your forces attacked Babylon 6.  When they did that, not only did the
Federation fire upon their own citizens, and not only did they violate
the Pact Galactica that the WDF is sworn to uphold; they also
nullified the terms of the GENOM surrender treaty of 2388, the Klingon
and Gamilon Empire mutual defense pacts, the Pact Babylonica, the
International Police Accords... "
	His old air returning just as abruptly, Daver sighed and
pulled, of all things, a New Avalon Knights baseball pennant from
under his console.  "And you also canceled the 2412 major league
baseball season.  And I bought season tickets for a luxury box, so I'm
just a little bit pissed at you right now."
	"Knights season tickets?" the helmswoman, Ensign Ro Laren,
smirked.  "At least you're not out -too- much money, Marshal."
	"Belay that, Ensign," Picard said angrily.
	"But since you're so dedicated to peace," Daver continued,
"I'll do you a deal.  We're going to fly past your fleet and out of
range of your Interdictors, we're going to fold out to Babylon 6, and
we're going to relieve the station.  You don't fire at us, we don't
fire at you.  If you do fire at us, though, Zeta Cygni will become the
galaxy's leading producer of duralloy and tritanium fishing line
sinkers."  Daver leaned back in his chair and waved.  "Abyssinia," he
smiled, and cut the connection.
	The viewscreen flicked back to the view of space, showing the
WDF fleet assembling itself into formation.
	Bester stared at Picard, who ignored him.  "Admiral, you have
tried everything.  They have not listened.  They have insulted the
honor of the service.  Now follow your orders," he said, adding a
mental nudge, "and -order the attack.-"
	Picard wavered.  He stared at the viewscreen, opening his
mouth twice, closing it again.  The third time, sound actually came
out.
	"No," he said at last.  "No, I will not."
	"Admiral?"  Bester wasn't surprised at all, but for the sake
of the charade he played it out.
	"It just now occurred to me what's wrong with this situation,"
Picard said.  "Over the past week, Wedge Defense Force patrol ships
and exploration vessels have come and gone from Federation worlds,
without incident.  International Police agents have gone about their
business without interfering with Federation authorities.  Our
intelligence sources - the sources which started this whole affair -
can only show us the shadows of purported secret agents delivering
letters which, for all anyone knows, are invitations to a surprise
birthday party.
	"And now," he gestured at the viewscreen at the WDF fleet,
which had begun to move towards the Starfleet forces, "despite every
provocation short of directly opening fire, despite the full
disclosure of their schemes, the people accused of supporting a coup
are not attempting to destroy us.  They know we must stand in the way
of a military takeover of the Federation.  They know they have the
firepower to destroy this entire force.  Yet they let us go, Captain.
They let us go because they do not want this fight."
	"Of course they don't want a fight," Bester said.  "They want
to walk over us and take the Federation."
	"No," Picard said.  "If they wanted the Federation, they could
have taken it at any point since the Second Battle of Zeta Cygni.
Instead they have stood by and practiced their own form of the Prime
Directive by not interfering as the Federation betrayed every
principle it ever believed in."  Picard pulled his commbadge off of
his tunic.  "I am ashamed to have played a part in that decay," he
said, "but I will do so no longer."  With that he threw the commbadge
to the deck and ground it under the heel of his uniform boot.
	"Admiral," Data said, "the force required to disable a
communications badge is roughly four times that provided by the weight
of an average human body in - "
	"Not now, Mr. Data," Picard sighed.
	"Very well, then," Bester nodded.  "Mr. Worf, lock phasers on
the SDF-23 and prepare to fire on my order.  Commander," he nodded to
Riker.
	"Captain?" Riker smiled, stepping over to Bester's side.
	"I am arresting Federation citizen Jean-Luc Picard on the
charges of desertion in the face of the enemy and treason against the
United Federation of Planets.  Please take him into custody."
	"Aye aye, sir," Riker nodded, turning away - 
	- and then spinning around with a smashing roundhouse punch to
Bester's jaw.  Bester spun around three quarters of a turn before
falling to the deck.  Eyes wide, he rubbed his cheek, probing a couple
of molars with his tongue to check for looseness.
	"You..."  Bester's mind plunged into Riker's for a moment,
plowing past shields that Bester hadn't known were there - had been
too arrogant to believe existed.  "You DECIEVED me," he gasped, the
anger within him mixing with a tint of respect.
	"You really should read people's personnel files more closely
when you're assigned to control them," Riker smirked.  "I've had
mental defense training."
	"Troi," Bester gasped.  "So that's what she was hiding."
	"Actually," said Counselor Troi from the back of the bridge
(where she'd returned silently during Picard's moment of decision), "I
was hiding the fact that I've been talking with my colleagues on the
other ships in the task force.  They all share my views that the Psi
Corps, and the current Federation leadership," she added with a
smirk, "are no longer supportable."
	"I used to have a relationship with Counselor Troi," Riker
added, "years before I was assigned to Enterprise.  When you're dating
a P3 with a nosy P10 mother, you have great incentive to learn how to
shield your thoughts."
	"But your record," Bester sputtered, picking himself up from
the deck.  "Only one blemish, from the Polaris incident.  Politically
clean.  Commendations beyond count."  Bester actually managed to look
honestly hurt as he said, "I thought you were Starfleet to the core."
	"I only joined Starfleet because it was the best way to piss
my dad off," Riker grinned.  "When you get right down to it, I'm WDF
all the way!"
	As he spoke, Riker lunged forward for a second punch, but this
time Bester was prepared, and the mental counterattack drove Riker
screaming to his knees.
	An instant later, Bester ducked to avoid the flying tackle of
Ensign Ro, then pulled his plasma pistol from hiding as a phaser beam
narrowly missed him.  He fired back at Worf, the packet of superheated
gas smashing through the unmanned engineering console behind the
Klingon.  A few brief steps took Bester to Picard, and he held the
pistol to Picard's face and smiled triumphantly.
	"Look into my eyes, Picard," Bester said, plunging into
Picard's mind with nothing but raw mental force.  "Order the attack."
	"Get - out - of - my - mind," Picard grunted, struggling to
raise his arms, fighting against the psychic assault with nothing but
raw willpower.
	"I SAID," Bester said, focusing his powers, "ORDER the..."
	A pale synthskin-covered hand placed itself at the juncture of
Bester's neck and shoulder and applied pressure in a very specific
manner.  With a soft moan of surprise, Bester collapsed unconscious to
the deck where, a few moments later, he began to snore.
	"An unexpected benefit of inter-service exchanges, I see,
Mr. Data," Picard nodded, wiping a slight nosebleed away.
	"Captain Spock tells me it has proven most useful on numerous
occasions," Data said.
	"Well," Picard said, rubbing his temples for a moment, "let's
put paid to this once and for all.  Open a fleetwide channel and link
the WDF ships in, Mr. Data."  As Data opened the channels, Picard
straightened himself up a little and muttered, "After all, a man can
only be hanged once."
	"That is not quite accurate, sir," Data replied. "There are 
numerous - "
	"DATA," three different people replied at once.
	"Oh," Data said, and shut up.

	On the bridge of EAS Agamemnon, Brevet Commodore John Sheridan
listened with a growing sense of relief as Picard's words echoed over
the command channel.
	"All ships, this is Admiral Picard.  As you have been
informed, this force has been ordered to prevent the Wedge Defense
Force from interfering with Starfleet's capture of the Babylon 6 space
station.  After consideration of the circumstances, I have determined
that this is a criminal order, and I will not obey it.
	"Therefore I am ordering all ships to stand down weapons and
interdiction systems.  This task force is, effective immediately,
surrendering to the Wedge Defense Force.  This is my last official
order as an officer of the United Federation of Planets Starfleet, and
I expect it to be obeyed.  Picard out."
	Sheridan exchanged smiles with his Psi Corps 'keeper', Lyta
Alexander.  The two had served together for several years, and
although Sheridan still didn't trust her, he had learned that
underneath her Psi Corps badge lurked a solid conscience.  Neither one
had liked the mission, and both had determined to mutiny rather than
fight the WDF.
	"Capt - um, Commodore," the Agamemnon's comm officer said,
"I'm receiving multiple transmissions from Earthforce ships.  They
want confirmation of Admiral Picard's orders."
	"Oh, I'll confirm them, all right," Sheridan nodded.
"Agamemnon to all ships: Commodore Sheridan wishes to inform Admiral
Picard that if he's resigning, he's going to have company.  All ships
surrender - that's MY final order as well."
	"So, Captain," Lyta smiled, "what do you plan to do now that
your military career is over?"
	"Oh, I dunno," Sheridan said.  "I could run away and join the
Freespacers like I tried to do as a kid... or I understand the
International Police Space Force is short of officers with command
experience," he smirked.  "Who knows, maybe I could get the Babylon
Foundation to build me a space station to command."
	"Captain John Sheridan, commander of Babylon Seven," Lyta said
aloud.  Then she shook her head and grinned.  "Naaaaaah," she said,
"never happen."
	"Well," Sheridan threw up his hands, "a man can dream."

	"Thirty-four ships have pulled away from the task force," Data
said.  "Captain Jellico has assumed command and has ordered a mass
salvo on the SDF-23."
	"Did you hear that, Marshal?" Picard asked the figure on the
viewscreen.
	"We heard, Admiral," Daver nodded.  "Hold your position; we
should be able to take care of them without the Reflex cannon.  While
we're cleaning up," he added, holding up a data crystal, "I'm sending
over a copy of the recording from a certain ship's black-box.  I think
you'll see things in a whole new light after you view it."
	"I look forward to it," Picard nodded.  "In the meantime, when
may we expect a boarding party?"
	"We really don't have time for that," Daver shrugged.  "We'll
just accept your parole for now and ask you to hang around here until
we get back."
	"Just like that?"
	"Hey," Daver shrugged, "you're trustworthy, aren't you?"
	"All the same," Riker put in, "we have a few personnel on our
ships that we'd really like off our hands.  Could you send someone
over to take charge of them, at least?"
	"I'll pass the word down," Daver said.  "Now if you'll excuse
me, I'm going to be kind of busy for the next few minutes."  The
connection closed, as the remnant 'loyal' Federation ships opened fire
on the heart of the WDF fleet.
	About a minute into the battle, a spray of blue sparkles
appeared on the Enterprise's bridge.  They resolved into a dapper
figure in full WDF uniform, pale of skin and dark of hair, slender
build topped by boyish good looks and irrepressible energy.
	"Good morning," he said with a heavy Russian accent.  "I am
Keptin Pavel Chekov, veapons and security officer for WDF Enterprise
and security chief for WDF Strategic Fleet.  Edmiral Kirk sends his
compliments."
	"We are honored," Picard nodded.
	"So," Chekov clapped his hands in eagerness, "who's the
problem?"  When Riker pointed down at the deck, he blinked and said,
"Oh, there he is."  He knelt down and rolled the still-senseless
Bester over, checking him for weapons.  "Rather a handsome devil,
isn't he?"
	"We hadn't noticed," Worf growled.
	"Ah, vell," Chekov shrugged.  "Ve'll take him off your hands
now."  He reached into a belt pouch and slapped a transporter tag on
Bester, who vanished a few moments later in another wash of blue.
"Ve've got officers on the rest of your ships coordinating vith your
keptins.  Ve'll have things taken care of in no time."
	"I leave it in your hands, Captain," Picard nodded.  "Number
One, you have the bridge.  I'll be in my ready room reviewing the data
from Marshal Ritchie."
	"Understood, Captain," Riker nodded.
	
	A few minutes later, Picard emerged from his ready room,
looking angrier than Riker could recall ever seeing him before.  On
the viewscreen, the last of the attacking Federation ships lost power
and began to drift, spewing escape pods to add to the cloud of pods,
debris and smoke between the Enterprise and the WDF fleet.  "Get me
Marshal Ritchie," Picard said, without further amplification.
	A few moments later, Daver reappeared on the viewscreen.
"Jean-Luc, your phone bill's going to be enormous come the first of
the month," he smiled.  "What can I do for you?"
	"I've reviewed the video you sent me," Picard said.  "I
presume it is genuine."
	"If Babylon Six is still in one piece when we get there,"
Daver said, "I can show you the black-box Gryph's people pulled it off
of.  It's the real deal.  I wish it weren't."
	"Agreed," Picard said.  "I'm about to place it on all-ships
broadcast.  I thought you might appreciate the warning."
	"What warning?" Daver asked.  "Don't tell me you've changed
your mind about surrendering."
	"In a manner of speaking," Picard said.  "I was wondering if
you were interested in accepting volunteers?"

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       1109 HOURS STANDARD TIME

   /*  Jerry Goldsmith  "Red Alert"  _Star Trek: First Contact_  */

	Light returned, fitfully, to the bridge of International
Police Starship Challenger, and with it the ragged sound of the
hull-breach sirens.  Gryphon picked himself off the deck, groaning as
he felt a couple of ribs shift under his shirt.  Yeah, he thought
rhetorically, that'll hurt on cold snowy days.  He stepped up his
cybernetic integration one level, felt things go back where they
belonged, wished he'd thought to do that before the battle started,
and dropped himself back into his chair.
	Damn, he thought, surveying the devastation.  Things weren't
going too bad until we had to dump the warp core...
	Wires popped overhead as static hissed from the bridge
speakers.  On the viewscreen, snow threatened to wash out the view of
the five battle-worthy remaining Defiants and two remaining
Steamrunners again pushing back the leading edge of the Federation
force.  This time it wasn't working - additional Federation ships were
moving around the leading edge and outflanking the lighter IPO units.
	In the dim red light, Gryphon took stock of the situation.  So
far as he could tell, Lore was the only uninjured person on the
bridge; he had taken over Lafiel's helm station after a serious jolt
to her cybernetic piloting interface had knocked the Abh unconscious.
Jinto Lin Kirk was still at his station, despite a serious cut to the
face and loss of half his controls.  Lu had triplicated, all three of
her wearing pressure casts on broken right arms; one was working
frantically to restore communications while the others cared for
Hoshi, T'Vek and Klaang, who had all been thrown hard against their
consoles in the last barrage.
	The Lu working on the panel grunted with satisfaction as the
bridge fans kicked in, sucking away the haze from the bridge.  A moment
later, a babble of voices echoed over the speakers, and the viewscreen
lost its static, showing the still-coming Federation fleet between
power surges.
	"Good work, Lu," Gryphon said.  "Lore, what've we got left?"
	"We're running shields at five percent off of battery power,"
Lore said.  "If we don't get auxiliary power back in ten minutes, we
lose those.  Ship doesn't respond to helm, and all weapons systems are
offline; ditto weapons officer."  He gestured to Jinto and added, "And
Junior has a hangnail."
	"I do not," Jinto grumbled, still trying to piece together the
remains of his nav console.
	The babble of voices from the speakers resolved into a single
voice, and not a friendly one.  " - is your last chance, Challenger.
This is Federation starship Magellan - drop your shields and prepare
to be boarded.  If you do not comply within thirty seconds you will be
destroyed.  Magellan out."
	The voice on the speakers changed as Lu switched frequencies.
" - respond, Challenger, dammit Gryph respond!  Jesus shit, someone
get a tractor on Challenger or something!  IPO units regroup at point
five-seven-five and come around!  Challenger, respond!!"
	"Kris?" Gryphon asked.  "Lu, have we got a channel?"
	"Thank God!!" the Redneck's voice gasped.  "Gryph, we're going
to try to tow you back to B6.  Stand by for a full transporter
evacuation."
	"He hasn't got the ships," Lore muttered.  "We're down to
under twenty effectives."
	Gryphon frowned, nodding to himself.  They'd bought time with
blood and given up space between the Federation fleet and B6 only at
great cost to Starfleet and Earthforce.  They'd racked up better than
a two to one casualty ratio, knocking out over a hundred Federation
ships either temporarily or permanently... but it hadn't been enough.
	"Belay that, Babylon Control," Gryphon said at last.  "Pull
back your remaining units to twenty kilometers and tell Derek and
Ivanova it's time to crank up the secret weapon."
	"I'm not abandoning you, dammit - what the hell?  Incoming
warp signatures at long range, coming in fast, a couple dozen of
them!"  The Redneck's voice almost squeaked as the command line went
silent.
	"Babylon Control?" Gryphon asked.  "Babylon Control, we don't
have sensors here, talk to us."
	The voice that responded wasn't Overstreet.
	"Greetings from the RIGHTFUL government of the Klingon
Empire!" a rough voice laughed, as high a baritone as Gryphon had ever
heard from a male Klingon throat.  "This is Commodore Kruge eptKesek
of the Imperial Klingon Navy.  I see my little brother has got himself
into trouble again!"
	"Save it!" the Redneck's voice broke in.  "Kruge, bring your
ships around forty-five mark three-four-five.  Roll up the Federation
right flank!"
	"With pleasure!" Kruge replied, then bellowed in his native
tongue, >All ships, OPEN FIRE!<
	"All other ships, full barrage!" the Redneck shouted.  "Pour
it on!  Break 'em up!  Admiral Languedo, concentrate your fire on the
Magellan!  Amhar, focus on the cruisers Lutz and Stillwell!"
	Gryphon watched the screen as the ragged remnants of the
Babylon defense force rallied, encouraged by the sight of a great
Sword of Kahless-class dreadnaught, a double triad of k't'Inga-class
cruisers, and a small swarm of Birds of Prey plowing through the
loosely grouped ships on the Federation's right flank.  Half a dozen
Earthforce ships fell away or blew apart in the first volley of the
Klingon attack, and the formation fell apart as Kruge's veteran task
force sliced though it like a knife through butter.
	The Autobot Expeditionary Force's infantry took this
opportunity to execute a lightning slash, their impulse backpacks
speeding them into action against the ships threatening Challenger.
Gryphon couldn't help but wince slightly as their element leader,
Dinobot commander Grimlock, landed on the Magellan's saucer section
and drove his blazersword through the ship's shields and hull -
fortunately for the starship's command crew, just a bit forward of the
bridge dome, as the ship was in the process of pulling back.  A second
later he was swatted off by one of the ring phasers, which destroyed
his flight pack but did no particular harm to the Dinobot's own
armored hide.  Drifting, he opened fire with his photon cannon,
clearly annoyed.
	A few moments later, the Magellan stepped up her rate of
retreat, shields flaring under this bombardment and the fire of the
four remaining Centauri ships, and the Federation tide slowly
retreated, pulling back to merge with the reserve fleet.  The wreckage
of both sides drifted between Cartwright's still-formidable command
and Gryphon's shattered forces as the Redneck ordered the latter to
break off.  One of Grimlock's comrades, Swoop - the only Dinobot who
didn't need a thruster pack - rescued his leader and took him back
toward the AEF's flagship for re-equipping.
	"Okay, folks," Redneck said, "let's pick up the pieces.
Kruge, let 'em go for now, they'll be back in a minute."
	"Exhilarating," Kruge's voice replied. Gryphon remembered the
one time he'd met Krontep's brother before, a sleepy-eyed, somewhat
crazed Klingon with an unquenchable thirst for battle of any sort.  "I
only regret that I have already missed so much of the glory.  From the
appearance of his ship, I gather that my brother has taken more than
his share."  HoSghaj looked to be almost as bad off as Challenger, but
Krontep had refused all orders to fall back to Babylon 6, and even as
Gryphon watched the lamed Klingon ship turned slowly back to challenge
the retreating Federation ships.
	"This is Admiral Hutchins," Gryphon said, glancing at Lu to
make sure he was being heard.  >Our gratitude to the Klingon Empire,
and well fought!<
	"Sorry for usurping command, Gryph," Redneck continued, "but
we lost contact with you and Derek says he doesn't want it.  Might I
suggest you transfer your flag at this point - while we have the
chance?"
	Gryphon looked around his ship's bridge.  Challenger's sensors
were down, the science officer was being lowered through the bridge's
emergency access hatch because the turbolifts were stuck, and the
heart of the main engines had detonated about five hundred kilometers
below the ship's keel several minutes ago.  His mind told him, in no
uncertain terms, that Challenger was out of the fight.
	His heart, and thus his mouth, said something different.  "I
don't see anything wrong with my current flag," he told Kris.  "We'll
be back in the fight in just a few minutes."
	"Buuuuuullshit," the Redneck replied.  "Sir."
	"Well, let's see," Gryphon said.  "Lu, do we have intraship?"
	"Maybe," Lu asked, flicking a couple of switches.
	"Nadia," Gryph said, "tell Babylon Control when we'll have
auxiliary power again."
	"After a week in drydock maybe," Nadia's muffled voice came
back.  "I had to evacuate engineering when we had the hull
breach.  Everyone below deck fifteen's working in pressure suits
now.  We don't have enough power for an environmental field.  I'm
putting a patch on the fusion reactor bottle now, but it won't hold up
in combat conditions."
	"What about cutting power from unnecessary systems?" Gryphon
asked.
	"How do you think you still have shields?" Nadia replied.
"Transfer your flag, Gryph.  This ship can't take another attack, and
even if she could she has nothing left to contribute."
	"Get me that fusion reactor, Nadia," Gryphon said, "that's all
I ask."
	"Ben," Kris's voice buzzed, "I've got a Salusian dreadnought
here still mostly intact.  Her captain would be honored to have the
Queen's Consort, Knight-Commander Hutchins assume command on her flag
bridge.  Will you please take her up on it?"
	"I'm not switching ships," Gryphon said, "and that's final."
	"Fine, fine," the Redneck replied resignedly.  "Then we'll tow
you back out of danger for - wait, stand by," he added, and in a
murmur caught by the voice pickup, he muttered, "(What do they -mean-,
'stand by'?)"
	One of the other Luornus crawled out of the guts of the
sciences console and switched it back on.  The half of the controls
that hadn't been destroyed by Klaang's head returned to life, and a
flashing red light appeared at once on the upper part of the display.
"Multiple fold signatures, Admiral," she gasped.  "-Big- ones!"
	Gryphon breathed a sigh of relief at the news, not needing
confirmation.  He knew, just knew, whose ships were folding in behind
Babylon 6.  He closed his eyes and let himself relax, there on the
half-wrecked bridge of the Challenger, and savored the feeling, for
the first time, that so many others had felt when the Wedge Defense
Force showed up to save the day.
	"Babylon Control," a high-pitched female voice spoke over the
command channel, "this is Grand Admiral Noriko Rose Takaya, WDF
Luxion, commanding the Wedge Defense Force.  I have with me Concordia,
sixty ships of the Wedge Defense Force Tactical Fleet, and forty-two
volunteer ships formerly of the United Federation of Planets Starfleet
under command of Admiral Jean-Luc Picard."
	"Luxion," Gryphon said, "this is Admiral Hutchins, IPO,
commanding defense forces.  Boy, are we glad to see you."
	"Looks like you should be," Noriko said.  "We're tying into
your command network now and await your orders for deployment."
	"Where's Daver?" Gryphon asked.  "I thought he'd be here in
person."
	"We had a little fight on the way out of dock," Noriko
replied.  "SDF-23's making a few minor repairs.  She'll arrive with
fifty more ships within the half-hour.  She could've come now, but you
know how Daver is about his paint job."
	"And what about Jim Kirk?"
	"He drew the short straw," Noriko giggled.  "He has to stay
home and clean up the mess."
	"He must be steaming," Gryphon chuckled.
	"Admiral Hutchins," another female voice joined the discussion, 
"this is Valiant calling, Captain Utena Tenjou commanding.  Sorry we're 
late, Dad, but it took a few minutes for Corwin's aunt to find Kozue."
	"I was studying for finals," a slightly muffled voice said in
the background.
	"In a bar?" another replied, similar to Kozue's except for a
more masculine quality.
	"You study your way, Mr. Wizard," Kozue said, "and I'll study
mine."
	"That's -Doctor- Wizard to you, sis."
	"Welcome to the fight, Captain," Gryphon smiled, ignoring the
byplay.  A moment's inspiration later, he added, "Red, about my flag... "
	"You changed your mind?" Overstreet's voice asked.
	"I changed my mind."

	Admiral Cartwright was overwhelmed, and he knew it.
	From the very beginning, Cartwright had known that
coordinating ship formations would be difficult.  Half of the huge
combined task force had never operated in conjunction with the other
half, and the two main components of the task force - Earthforce and
Starfleet - seldom operated at all in units larger than single
deployment or orbital patrol groups.  He'd known that going in, and
he'd chosen to accept it.
	What he hadn't counted on was the fact that Starfleet in
particular, and Earthforce to a lesser extent, had neglected the
concept of fleet maneuvers for so long that virtually everyone in the
fleet had -no- idea of how to do it, and only a vague idea that they
were -supposed- to be doing it - Cartwright included.  The
problem was exacerbated by the need to reserve forces for possible
reinforcements, surprise attacks, and above all future offensives.
Zeta Cygni and Salusia were still in the future, both efforts
requiring every ship that could be spared.  If Styles fouled up the
attack on Jyurai, add it to the list as well.  Add defense forces for
counterattacking Babylon-allied forces and opportunists like the
Romulans or Cardassians, and it meant that Cartwright couldn't charge
forward blindly and shoot everything, no matter how much success the
tactic had brought him in the past.
	These factors, plus the desperate lack of experienced flag
officers to delegate to, left Cartwright attempting to wield a
confused, mindless aggregate of single ships as if they were a single
unit, with very poor results.  A simple 'move ahead' order took
minutes, as ships started and stopped, as Cartwright had to pull one
back and order another to move onwards.  Adding fresh ships from the
reserves was even more difficult, thanks to the inability of the
combined ships to dress ranks in the battle, and so Cartwright had held
off on sending fresh ships in until the formation disintegrated, as it
had just done for the second time.
	Now Cartwright wrestled the fleet back into shape.  A fifth of
its numbers were out of action, either destroyed or unable to fight.
Even with the sudden arrival of the Klingon squadron, however, the
fleet defending Babylon 6 was breaking.  Its flagship had been
crippled beyond any quick repairs or bypasses, a large hole two decks
tall and a hundred feet long torn in the starboard armor of her
engineering hull.  Why Challenger hadn't blown to e=mc^2, Cartwright
couldn't guess, but one more salvo would finish her off.  A few more
minutes would break the other defenders, and then Babylon 6 would have
only its own guns and the pitiful remnant of its fighter forces for
defense.
	As he ordered a group of Earthforce cruisers into their spot
in the new pattern, an alarm went off in front of USS Odyssey's
science officer.  "Admiral!"
	"What -is- it, Commander Moriarty?" Cartwright snapped,
irritated by the interruption.
	"I'm reading very large fold traces from beyond the space
station, sir!" Moriarty said.  "Multiple ships incoming in ten
seconds!"
	"On screen," Cartwright said, a sinking feeling coming over
his gut as he watched the space behind Babylon 6 erupt into several
huge spheres of light.  When the light vanished, an entire fleet of
warships cruised at station there, including one very large starship
and one truly immense one: the WDF's sole Confederation-class
supercarrier, Concordia, and a blue-and-white-thermocoated modified
Executioner-class Super Star Destroyer, larger than Babylon 6 itself.
	"The Wedge Defense Force," Cartwright gasped.  "Dammit, Picard
-blew- it!  They're here too SOON!"
	"Sir," Moriarty continued, his bald pate and stringy black
hair glistening with nervous sweat, "about a third of that force's
transponders register as Starfleet or Earthforce ships.  And I'm
reading one Galaxy-class vessel... USS Enterprise, sir."
	Shock turned to fury as Cartwright gripped the armrests of his
chair.  President Clark's oh-so-clever plan had backfired, and badly.
Put all the bad eggs in one basket and drop it?  Hah!  The Wedge Rats
had caught the basket, waved a magic wand and turned them into Faberge
eggs.  He hadn't just lost twenty percent of his fleet, he'd -given-
them to the other side, along with one of his most experienced and
talented force commanders.  On a silver platter!  GIFT-WRAPPED!
	There was only one chance.  The Federation wouldn't get
another opportunity to strike.  If the war was to be won, success had
to come now, before the WDF forces had time to bring their heavy
weapons into battle - and before the SDF-23 could make its own
appearance.
	"Flag to all ships, repeat to all ships," Cartwright said.
"Disregard all previous orders.  All reserves ENGAGE.  All ships
maneuver independently and DESTROY BABYLON 6!"

	The defenders weren't ready.
	Gryphon had abandoned his crippled flagship by transporter.
He arrived on the Valiant's small bridge with an entire flag staff
consisting of one-third of his operations manager; the other
two-thirds had split up, one remaining behind to help Nadia try to
coax the shattered Challenger back to B6 while the third went straight
to the station to coordinate with Redneck.  As he entered the bridge,
Captain Utena Tenjou came to her feet and straightened her dress
tunic; all around her, her bridge crew stood to attention as well.
	For all that they had been mocked at the start as a gang of
undisciplined children, for all that they hadn't seen action in more
than a year, the command staff of the Valiant knew how to give a flag
officer a salute, and Gryphon's heart, chilled by the loss of his
beloved flagship, was warmed again by the gesture.
	"Attention on deck!" Utena snapped crisply.  "Commander,
International Police Space Force, arriving!"
	Next to the door he'd come through, Gryphon's eldest daughter
Kaitlyn raised a bosun's pipe to her lips and piped her father
aboard.  Gryphon blinked, surprised to see her there - she'd never
been an official part of the Valiant's crew, just their passenger on
their historic shakedown voyage.  Surprised out of protocol, he asked
her,
	"What are you doing here?"
	Kate let the bosun's whistle fall to hang from its decorative
cord around her neck, saluted, and replied simply, "Helping."
	Gryphon smiled and embraced her briefly; then he went to face
Utena, who was still at attention, saluted, and asked, "Permission to
come aboard?"
	"Granted, sir," Utena replied.
	Gryphon hesitated for a beat, puzzlement crossing his face;
then he grinned and and told her, "I have no idea what an admiral says
when he barges into a captain's ship with his flag, but - "  Then he
embraced her as well, continuing, "Christ Almighty, love, I'm glad to
see you."
	Utena grinned, hugged him back, and then said, "Love you too,
Dad.  Make yourself comfortable - we don't have much in the way of a
flag bridge, but the situation table's yours."
	Nodding, Gryphon (with Lu right on his heels) went to the
holotable in the squared-off 'keyhole' notch at the back of the
bridge, seated himself, and reviewed the tactical plot.  The WDF force
were still deploying around the station, not yet caught up with the
thin, battered defense line now floating only a hundred kilometers
from the extended cargo beams of the station.  As he reacquainted
himself the situation, he saw the Federation icons start to move.
	"Enemy's just broken formation and rushed us, sir," Utena
called back over her shoulder.  "Kozue, keep those sons of bitches off
Challenger's tugs!"
	Kozue Kaoru licked her lips and plied her controls, sending
the agile destroyer swooping to the aid of the little impulse tugs
which were dragging Challenger toward Babylon 6.  Moments later the
rhythmic throb of the ship's heavy pulse phasers rumbled through the
spaceframe.
	"Give me communications control at this panel, please," said
Lu to Kyouichi Saionji, currently manning Valiant's comm board.  The
intense green-haired Duelist nodded, tabbed a few switches, and nodded
again.
	"You're on," he said, then got up and went to an auxiliary
weapons console instead.
	Lu punched a few keys and told Gryphon, "We're patched in,
Admiral."
	A moment later, the Redneck's voice rang across the bridge.
" - odore Sulu, take your cruiser group and slow down those destroyers
at two o'clock!  Shit!  Steamrunner, Defiant, Audacity, fall back,
you're surrounded out there!  All ships fall back to fifty kilometers
and regroup -NOW!-"
	"Keep us from getting clobbered, Captain," Gryphon said, "Lu
and I have work to do."  After another look at the tactical view,
Gryphon added his voice to the mix, as he, the Redneck, Ivanova,
Noriko and Saavik on the Concordia attempted to stop a flood of
starships with a patchwork dam.  For the first time in the fight,
Babylon 6's defense grid roared to life, slowing but not stopping the
steadily advancing Federation fleet.
	The range closed, fifty kilometers, forty, thirty.  The last
of the Centauri warships fell silent, her engines dead; the last of
the Narn heavy cruisers erupted into a blossom of red flame, gone in
an instant.  The fresh WDF ships surged into the line and were
ignored; battered Earthforce ships were disabled, and fresh ships
passed them by without slowing.
	The Federation ships took an unholy pounding, but this
time they would not be stopped.

	Jean-Luc Picard paced furiously, uncaring now of how he
appeared, up and down the bridge deck.  "Put us -in-," he grumbled to
himself, "they can't possibly have forgotten about us."
	The forty-two Federation ships from the Zeta Cygni force had
each voted by majority, crew and commanders, to go to the aid of
Babylon 6 after watching the recording from USS Danzig.  They had
arrived in the shadow of the immense star destroyer Luxion, riding her
spacefold from the Dyson Sphere to the Bajor system in a heartbeat,
and there they remained while the various admirals attempted to stave
off the inevitable.
	Picard watched with horror as phaser blasts struck Babylon 6
just above the control deck's viewports.  It was the first time in the
battle that anything larger than a starfighter had landed a direct hit
on the station.  A second ship launched its own barrage a moment
later, and the station rocked visibly as shields flared under the
pressure.
	"They can't stop them like this," Picard murmured.  "Tactical
view!"  Picard studied the rapidly-shifting sea of icons that
appeared, clustered too close together to be individually defined, and
nodded to himself.  "Cartwright's put them in a two-dimensional mode,"
he noted thoughtfully, gesturing at the broad horizontal battle line
formed by the Federation ships.  "They're not guarding their Z-axis
flanks."
	At the same moment the thought fell from Picard's lips,
Gryphon's voice crackled on the tac band, "Flag to Enterprise -
Jean-Luc, if you're not busy with anything, would you see if you can
do something about Cartwright's leaky roof?  I'm worried he might get
rained on."
	A thin smile, the smile of a man who feels things coming
together, touched Picard's partician face.  "I'll do better than
that," he said.  With a jerk he turned away from the viewscreen,
shouting, "Picard to all Volunteer Force ships!  Plot a microwarp jump
to a point fifty kilometers in rear of the Federation force.  Confirm
coordinates with Enterprise computer.  Engage Warp 2 on my signal."
He sat down in the center seat and muttered, "God, this feels good.
Data, confirm that no ships come out of warp on top of each other,
will you?"
	"Sir," Data said, "calculating a microwarp jump of such a
short distance is highly difficult for -one- ship, let alone a fleet.
This may take time."  As he spoke, Data keyed, fingers moving faster
than the eye could follow.
	"Expedite, Mr. Data."
	"Expediting... I believe we have valid coordinates set," Data
replied.  "However, four minutes would be preferable to eliminate - "
	"Picard to all ships - engage!"
	"... Or not," Data added agreeably as he moved to comply.
	A moment later, forty-two warships appeared to be, for the
briefest span of time, in two places at once: in the shadow of WDF
Luxion; and fifty kilometers behind Cartwright's fleet.
	"Maneuver complete," Data replied.  "Forty ships in position.
EAS Gilgamesh and USS Bunker Hill report that they have overshot by
three hundred - "
	"All ships," Picard shouted, "go to flank speed, come about
one hundred eighty degrees, and attack!"
	The Starfleet-designed ships of Picard's group rounded on
their prey faster than the more sluggish Earthforce vessels, but in
seconds all forty ships were advancing into the rear of Cartwright's
forces, comprised of the most cautious commanders and most battered
ships.  Phaser fire slashed and torpedoes soared, without any return
fire from the completely surprised Federation ships.  In seconds
Cartwright's rear had disintegrated, dozens of ships fleeing the
field, and Picard's force pressed onward to the center.

	"NO!" Cartwright shouted at his comm officer.  "Get them back.
GET THEM BACK!"  So close to victory!  They had to press on!  "All
ships continue the attack!"
	"I'm trying, Admiral," the comm officer said, throwing up her
hands.  "The channels are jammed with traffic, I can't get through to
them!"
	Slowly, ponderously, what would become known as Cartwright's
Charge came to a halt, just short of its ultimate goal.  For a brief,
tantalizing moment, equilibrium reigned on the battlefield.
	Then the Odyssey took several direct hits, her shields
overloaded, and for a vital three seconds her main power went down.
Odyssey's shields came back up again before Picard's force could make
good on the weakness, but the fewer than three hundred remaining ships
in Cartwright's force saw the flagship waver... and panicked.
	"NO, DAMN YOU!" Cartwright shouted as ship after ship broke
away from the group, as Picard's force drove in from behind, as the
WDF's forces began to press in front.  "Hold together!  Stand your
ground, damn you!!"
	"Reflex fold signature detected, Admiral, the biggest one
yet!"  Commander Moriarty said.  "It has to be SDF-23!  Space fold
operation in twenty seconds!"
	Cartwright sagged in his command chair.  "It's over,"
Cartwright sighed.  "Issue the recall order.  All ships come about and
go to warp.  Tell those ships which cannot withdraw by warp to
surrender their commands."  As Odyssey trembled with further hits,
Cartwright stood.  "I will be in the ready room.  Captain Carver, you
have the conn."
	With those words, the last admiral in the United Federation of
Planets Starfleet left the bridge to begin his after-action report to
the President... who would, Cartwright thought with wry
understatement, be most displeased.

	"YES!" Kruge's voice echoed over the command channel.  "RUN,
you jackals!  Flee that we might chase you down and slaughter you all
like the cowards you are!"  Switching back to Klingonese for his own
fleet's benefit, he roared, >Sword of Kahless Squadron, prepare for
pursuit!<
	"Negative!" the Redneck said.  "Belay that pursuit order,
Kruge."  As slow and careful as they had been in coming, the
Federation fleet had lost no time in departing once the order had been
given.  Flashes of warp-motion flickered like lightning among the
debris clouds left by the battle.  "We don't have enough ships to
chase them all down, and we have our own men to think of now."
	"Right," Gryphon nodded.  "Next time we fight them, it'll be
on our own terms."
	"Very well, Admiral - for you," Kruge replied, his tone
grudging but respectful.  "Well fought!  Kai the Space Force, kai
kassai!"
	"Kai the qeylIS bat'leth Squadron," Gryphon replied wearily,
and he thumbed the channel closed.
	Then he leaned on the Valiant's situation table, taking deep
breaths and finding the center of calm of the Katsujinkenryuu.  They'd
done it... they'd held Babylon Six and forced the Federation fleet to
withdraw... but oh, the cost.  By all the gods, what a price to pay.
	And today was only the first day...

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 10, 2412
		       1750 HOURS STANDARD TIME

	The statisticians had a three-letter abbreviation for it: DDU.
	Destroyed, Disabled, or Unfit for Combat.  A ship DDU might be
back in service next week, next year, or in the next life, but the
important fact was that you didn't have those ships -now-.
	Gryphon sat in his little-used IPO Chief's office on Babylon 6
and toyed with ship icons on a holographic projection of fleet
strengths.  IPS Valiant was, at the moment, the only ship in Gryphon's
direct command not currently listed as DDU.  If the Space Force
followed the rank conventions of the Freespacers, he'd be back down to
Fleet Captain again, at least until Defiant, Vigilant and Gallowglass
came out of drydock in about a week.
	Of the IPO ships, only three had actually been destroyed.  IPS
Rampant had caught a 'lucky BB' from an Earthforce destroyer and
sustained a direct hit to her warp core early on in the fight.  IPS
Audacity, in the final charge of Federation forces, had simply been
shot to pieces.  Finally, IPS Casey Jones had found herself too close
to a Miranda-class cruiser attempting heavy maneuvers; the resulting
collision had taken both ships out in a ball of fire.
	The other ad-hoc defenders of the station hadn't been so
lucky, or (Gryphon thought without hubris or false modesty) hadn't had
the same quality of ships.  Slightly more than half the Centauri
ships, and slightly fewer than half of the Narn ships, had gone down
with all hands.  Both the Gamilon battleships had gone out firing,
accounting for thirteen kills before they self-destructed to avoid
capture.  All in all, not a single warship that had been at Babylon 6
when Cartwright attacked was currently able to move under its own
power.
	Seventy-one ships DDU.  Thousands of people dead, including
many that Gryphon had hand-picked for the Experts of Justice, the
Space Force, or what-have-you.  Half of Challenger's Delta attack-boat
squadron and two-thirds of Babylon 6's TIEs shot down, although the
newly arrived CFMF forces under Nakajima were hopeful that their
search and rescue effort would turn up a large number of surviving
pilots from the downed fighters.  It was, if you looked at it from
only one side, a bloodbath.
	Looking at it from Cartwright's side, however, it was an
unmitigated disaster.  The preliminary intelligence reports listed the
number of Federation DDU at one hundred and seventy-six at Babylon 6
alone.  This didn't count the nine ships that had held back through
the whole battle without firing a shot and surrendered afterwards, or
the twenty-eight ships which were captured during the final
withdrawal.  Cartwright had barely got away with half his command,
-if- all the ships that went into warp made it back to base, and
considering the condition of some of those ships that wasn't likely.
	Put the two numbers together, and you came up with two hundred
and forty-seven ships on both sides lost, with casualties in the tens
of thousands; numbers that, for a single battle, had only one equal in
modern times: the Second Battle of Zeta Cygni, and that one had been
fought with about five hundred ships on -either- side.  If you added
in Jyurai and the Zeta Cygni engagement, you had numbers comparable to
Second Zeta Cygni, Wolf 359 and Wilderness Station -combined-.
	Gryphon switched the holoprojector over to a map of Core
Sector worlds still loyal to the Federation, as of yesterday.  They
numbered in the hundreds.  Even if one removed the Vulcan (blip),
Andorian (bleep), Centauri (bloop-bleep) and Narn (b) worlds from that
list, they -still- numbered in the hundreds.  Every last planet of the
lot would have to be taken, and there was no telling how many
Federation ships there would be to back up the local defenses.  More
battles, more ships lost... oh gods, the deaths that were yet to come.
	It was times like this that Gryphon felt every day of his
prolonged years.
	The doors to the office opened, admitting a very tired-looking
Redneck.  The tunic of his dress uniform hung open, the ribbons from
the around-the-neck honors hung from an inside pocket, and with a
groan he unbuckled his saber belt and dropped it to the floor beside
an empty chair, which he promptly filled.  "What a day," he sighed.
	"I thought I told the guards outside not to let anybody, but
anybody, in," Gryphon said without rancor.
	"Your guards are talking to my guards," the Redneck replied,
"who have similar orders.  I'm here to pass along some news."
	"Shoot."
	"First and foremost," the Redneck said, "Skuld has arrived
from Tomodachi and expects you at the Movenpick at six PM sharp."
	"I don't really feel like a night out," Gryphon said.
	"You may change your mind," Kris replied.  "Second, I thought
you would like to know that, as of 1230 hours Galactic Standard Time,
Freespacer Fleet Commander Mycroft Rollins was given a Vote of No
Confidence by two-thirds of the combined legislature of the Freespacer
Alliance."
	Kris stood up, walked over to a drinks dispenser built into
the wall, and drew a glass of water, continuing, "By 1445 hours an
amendment to the Charter was drafted and ratified by electronic vote
to allow for the election of a pro tem Fleet Commander to complete
Rollins' term.  The House of Commanders elected Theresa Curtiss on the
first vote, with the result that as of ten minutes ago Fleet Commander
Curtiss formally reactivated my commission and named me as CINC CFMF.
Again."  He gulped a swallow of water and added, "You can wake up
now."
	"Huh?  What?" Gryphon asked, pretending he hadn't listened.
	"Third," the Redneck added, "not counting the Freespacer Home
Fleet, which is currently en route to B6, by 0900 tomorrow there will
be in excess of a thousand starships around this station.  For that
reason Derek has decided to postpone allowing the evacuees to return
for another forty-eight hours."
	"Over a thousand?" Gryphon asked, running some numbers in his
mind.  "What services?"
	"The entire WDF and CFMF," Kris said, "virtually all the
Salusian and Zardon navies, better than half of GENOM's ships - and
they're pulling more out of mothballs as I speak - Kruge's contingent
plus reinforcements from Kronos, major contributions from Gamilon, the
Colonial Daleks, Barrayar, Manticore, Jyurai, Irk, Mondas, Funkotron,
Funkorama... and last but not least, a fully ordained and blessed
Sivar Fleet of Conquest, with the compliments of Emperor Thrakhath,"
Kris chuckled, "who commands in person and wishes you to attend him on
his flagship so he can tell you just how dim a view he takes of people
attacking a space station with his son on board."
	Thrakhath's son was the unofficial observer from Kilrah to the
Babylon Project - Kilrah had been one of the most surprising, and most
secretive, backers for the current station's construction.
	Gryphon chuckled a little, but only a little.  "I guess I'll
have to straighten him out a bit.  Could you fix me one of those?" he
asked, pointing at the glass of water.
	"Sure," Kris said, drawing a second glass and bringing it to
the table for Gryphon.  "Fourth and last, Queen Asrial, Sarek, Jeremy
Feeple, G'Kar and a couple of our other leading lights have closeted
themselves in the main assembly chamber and are discussing reforms to
the Articles of Federation to prevent things like this from happening
again.  But between you and me," he added, picking up his own glass,
"that's wasted effort.  Mollari has it right.
	"'A toast,'" he said, grating his voice in a poor imitation of
Mollari's, "'to the United Federation of Planets. Born 2336, died
2412.'  And he drank."  He reached his glass over to Gryphon, who
tilted his forward just enough to touch, and both took a long drink.
	"It's kind of funny," the Redneck added.  "Mollari asked me
why I was drinking water.  I told him," he took another sip, "that if
he survived a century of commanding the Freespacers, he'd find that
either he'd never need another drink again, or that all the booze on
Centauri Prime wouldn't be enough."
	"That's a lot of booze," Gryphon noted quietly.
	Kris nodded, sitting down across from him.  "But enough about
me," he said.  "You're thinking about your losses, aren't you?"
	"Yeah," Gryphon said.  "That's kind of why I, y'know, gave
orders not to be disturbed?"
	The Redneck stifled the glib comeback and said, "You lost some
good people today, Gryph.  Some of them were mine, too.  For a little
while, during the battle, all of them were yours, and mine, and
Noriko's, and what have you.  And the fact that they died well, and
that the two of us know where they're going, doesn't make it any
easier to lose them."  He took another drink of water, noted how
little was left, and muttered, "Maybe I ought to put some booze in
this after all."
	"The point?"
	"The point being," the Redneck continued, "is that we lost
some men and women today, but we have a hell of a lot of others out
there who are angry and confused and hurt, who are looking for
leaders, and looking for one person in particular by name."  He
finished off his water and said, "And ego aside, that name ain't
Kristan Oren Overstreet."
	"So you came in here," Gryphon said quietly, "to tell me to
quit feeling sorry for myself, get off my ass and get back to work?"
	The Redneck considered the statement and responded with his
usual diplomacy: "Yeah, kinda."  He set down his glass and added,
"Look, talk with Skuld tonight, willya?  Your triplicate girl, what's-
her-name, Derek, Noriko and I can watch the store for tonight.  Get
straight, okay?"
	"I'll think about it," Gryphon said.  As the Redneck turned to
leave, Gryphon added, "Oh, one other thing."
	"Yeah?"
	"You were right about the flag-captain thing."
	"Of course I was," the Redneck replied.  "Now when are you
going to invest in a proper staff?"
	"I'd never be able to work with a proper staff," Gryphon
smirked.  "I might consider rounding up an improper staff, though.  Lu
knows some people."
	"All right," the Redneck chuckled.  "See you tomorrow."
	"Yeah," said Gryphon, waving goodbye to the Redneck with his
glass.
	He sat awhile in uffish thought, then got up with a faint
grumble and made his way down to the corner of the Zocalo where the
Marche Movenpick was located.  With most of the station's civilian
populace evacuated, the only customers the place had were in various
uniforms.  It was a subdued occasion, officers from various surviving
ships clustered in small groups making hushed conversation over their
food.  A few hands were raised to Gryphon as he passed; invitations to
join different groups were quietly tendered and quietly declined.
Nobody's feelings were hurt; everyone understood it had been that kind
of day.
	He found Skuld sitting at a table far in the back corner of
the simulated sidewalk market's seating area.  Quietly, he eased
himself into the seat opposite her at the little round table, put his
head in his hands, and sighed, wrapping up everything he felt about
the last twenty-four hours in that single inarticulate sound.
	Skuld smiled a gentle smile, reached across the table, and
took one of his hands away from his face to hold it.  He glanced up at
her through jagged brown bangs and the splayed fingers of his other
hand.  The gesture made him look almost like a little boy, enough so
that she chuckled gently.
	"It's all well for you to laugh," he said with a faint little
smile.  "How are the new recruits settling in?"
	"Just fine," Skuld replied softly.
	"There'll be more, you know.  Many more, before this is over."
	The Valkyrie leader nodded.  "I know."
	"Kris and I were just talking," Gryphon went on tiredly.  "He
passed on your message to meet you down here, but first we talked
about the toll, today's and what's to come.  He advised me not to
dwell on it because people are looking for a leader."
	Skuld nodded again.  "Sounds like good advice."
	Gryphon sighed.  "So I'll try not to dwell on it and I'll try
to be a leader.  Speaking of leaders, where the hell is Zoner?"
	"Behind the scenes, where he's more comfortable these days,"
Skuld replied.  "While you and Redneck lash the military side of this
mess together, he's working on the diplomatic side, so that when you
and Kris win, it'll mean something.  You won't see him around much in
these next few weeks... but he'll be working as hard as you are."
	Gryphon smiled wearily and nodded.  "OK, I earned that
lecture.  Thanks, Mom," he added sardonically.  "Sorry for doubting.
I'm tired."
	"I know.  You should eat something, though."
	"Funny, isn't it," Gryphon mused.  "You'd think I'd be
starving after a day like this, and sleepy... but I'm neither.  I'm
just... tired.  Tired and cold and... old.  But for all that we lost
today, I'm actually lucky, damn lucky.  Not just to be alive, I don't
mean that, but... I didn't lose any of my key people, not one.  Lu's
got a broken arm, Klaang got a little uglier, Lafiel and Hoshi and
T'Vek have headaches and Jinto's got his first battle scar, but
they'll all be on their feet tomorrow.  And... and I don't know what
right I have to ask them to risk throwing all that good luck away... "
	"They know the risks and they accept them without question,"
Skuld said flatly.  "You said it yourself this afternoon: That's why
they're Experts of Justice."
	Gryphon looked at her for a moment, a small smile spreading
slowly onto his face; he sat up a little straighter, some of the
spring coming back into his spine.
	"You always know the right thing to say, don't you?" he asked
in a tone of mock-resigned wonder.
	He got up and got some food, responding to the market servers'
encouragements and thanks with subdued but polite words, took it back
to the table and shared it with Skuld, then asked her, "So... now
what?  Heading back to Tomodachi?"
	"Well, actually," she replied, "I thought I'd stay here and
see if there was any way I could... help you."
	He glanced up from abstractly contemplating the ice in his
drink to meet her eyes at that, reading in them what lay between the
lines; then he looked thoughtful for a moment and nodded.
	"Sure," he said, rising from his seat.  "Let's go back to
Challenger and... "  He stopped, looked disgusted with himself.  "No,
we're not going back to Challenger," he said, resting a fist in the
palm of the other hand.  "Nobody's going back to Challenger for a long
time, maybe never.  Dammit... another thing to worry about.  I can't
go on using Valiant as my flagship; she's too small, no flag bridge,
I'd be crowding Utena and her crew.  I'll have to find something else.
Maybe that Salusian offer is still open... but I don't want to have a
total stranger for my first official flag captain... "
	Skuld got up, rounded the table, and put a hand on his
shoulder.  "Let's worry about that in the morning," she said.
	The commander of what remained of the International Police
Space Force looked into her dark eyes for a long, thoughtful moment,
then nodded slightly and murmured, "OK."  They left the Zocalo
quietly, unnoticed by most.  Only Corwin Ravenhair, IPS Valiant's
chief engineer, sat and watched his parents leave with a small,
private smile on his face.
	Next to him at the cluster of tables commandeered by the
Valiant's command staff, his captain nudged him with an elbow.  "Hey.
Copper?"
	"Huh?  Oh, sorry, Utena," said Corwin in a pensive tone.  "I
was just thinking... how funny things are sometimes."

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 11, 2412
			    0913 HOURS GST

	When Gryphon emerged from his little-used Blue Sector quarters
the following morning, it was with considerably greater enthusiasm for
life than he'd shown upon retiring to those quarters the previous
night.  He still had all the same problems, but somehow, after 12
hours of sleep, they seemed considerably more surmountable.
	He wondered, as he walked down a corridor discussing the
technical challenges awaiting the repair and refitting of the
station's smashed defense fleet with Skuld, how many hours of sleep Lu
Durgo had managed.  He hadn't been able to tell from her voice when
she'd called at 9 to wake him and alert him to the 9:15 situation
briefing of the Allied commanders - a briefing he was supposed to be
chairing - but he noticed she'd left the video portion of the comm
system off.
	She looked all right when she met him at the door to B6's
master situation room, though.  He glanced at her eyes - both amber -
and asked, "Have you had any all-up sleep?"
	"A little, sir," she replied, "but mostly in shifts.  I'm all
right.  Before the briefing, there's someone on the Observation Deck
to see you."
	"Aren't I on at 9:15?"
	"I moved it back to 9:20."
	"Short appointment.  Can't you give me a hint?"
	Luornu smiled.  "I'd rather you see for yourself, sir."
	Gryphon gave her an odd look, then relented and said, "OK.
Keep 'em simmering for me."
	"We'll be here," she said, and went back into the conference
room.  Gryphon stood looking after her for a moment with an eyebrow
raised, then shrugged and went up to the observation deck, Skuld
trotting interestedly at his heels.
	The window was black and the room was empty save for a small
group of uniformed figures.  When Gryphon entered, he was surprised to
recognize the uniform of the Salusian Imperial Guards, Her Majesty the
Queen's personal protectors, and as he approached closer, the golden
hair and humanized face of Queen Asrial Arconian herself.  As Gryphon
approached the group, the young naturaform Salusian officer in the
lead turned, came to parade-ground-perfect attention, and saluted.
	"Major Feran Aldzinjal, First Imperial Guards, at your
service, Knight-Commander.  It is my deepest pleasure and honor to
present you to Her Most Puissant Majesty, Duchess of Arconia,
Protector of Kumbar, Chairwoman of the Interstellar Conglomerate and
Supreme Commander of the Royal Salusian Armed Forces: Queen Asrial the
First, Empress of Salusia."
	Gryphon returned the young man's salute - after he'd put such
effort into it, it would've been rude not to - and bowed deeply to
Asrial, forgoing the more proper custom of kneeling.  He resisted the
urge to act like an old man and ask if the Major were related to
General Perry Aldzinjal, who commanded the Imperial Guards, instead
replying simply, "Thank you, Major.  And hello, Asrial.  What can I do
for you?"
	"I was thinking of doing something for you, actually, Ben,"
Asrial smiled, "but I believe the Major would be a little disappointed
if he didn't get to explain for himself."
	The young officer responded with the first hint of a smile
he'd shown, accompanied by a slight blush under the white patches of
his facial fur.  "It has come to the Crown's attention," he said,
"that your flagship, IPS Challenger, was badly damaged and put out of
commission in yesterday's battle, and that you have no replacement in
the International Police inventory suitable as a long-term replacement
for the rest of the campaign against the Federation."
	Gryphon nodded, glancing between the two smiling Salusians
with a bit of suspicion.  "That's true.  I've been thinking about that
very problem this morning, as a matter of fact."
	Aldzinjal's smile got a little wider.  "Well, Knight-
Commander, Her Majesty hopes that this small gift will alleviate that
problem and free you to deal with the greater concerns," he said, and
pressed the button that cleared the O-deck window.
	Beyond them, out beyond Babylon 6's cargo-handling arms,
moored next to the dark and battered wreck of the Challenger with the
shifting panoply of the fleet for a backdrop, was a slightly larger
vessel.  Her bristling weapons emplacements, rakishly angled bridge
tower, sloping armor and brutal lines exemplified the Salusian
approach to the art of warshipbuilding.  Gryphon's experienced eyes
recognized her in an instant: she was a Royal Saenar Systems
Andromeda-class fast battleship, the cutting edge of Salusian warship
technology.  The ship's angular lines looked a bit odd in IPO white
and crimson, but she was thus marked anyway, proudly bearing the
traditional IPO waistline marking in microgramma capitals at her
"waterline":

     STARSHIP IPS INVINCIBLE - INTERNATIONAL POLICE ORGANIZATION

	"Wow," said Skuld, impressed.  Aldzinjal's smile widened even
a little more as he watched Gryphon's own startled, wide-eyed
reaction.
	Asrial couldn't suppress a giggle.  "The crew was up most of
the night repainting her.  If we'd had time I would have had them tie
a bow around her."
	Aldzinjal returned to attention and bowed.  "You will find her
a good ship, Knight-Commander," he said.  "She's six months out of the
graving docks at Salu II, shaken down by the best crew in the Guards
and ready for action.  Not quite as fast or as agile as the vessel
you're used to, but her armor is stout, her drive is sound and she has
two Wave Motion Guns, which you'll find provide a most persuasive
voice in any disagreements you might get into."
	"I - " said Gryphon, and his voice rasped; he coughed, smiling
sheepishly, and tried it again, turning his attention from Asrial to
Aldzinjal.  "You may inform Her Majesty, Major, that her gift is
accepted very gladly indeed."
	"Her Majesty is getting a little bit deaf," Asrial smiled.
"Major, could you tell Her Majesty what he just said?"
	"He said - "
	"That was a joke, Major," Asrial smiled.
	"Oh," said the Major, for whom even a joke was a Royal
Command.
	"Anyway, it's the least I could do," Asrial said, giving
Gryphon her full smiling attention.  "Nadia tells me that Montgomery
Scott thinks it'll take eighteen months to refit Challenger, but Nadia
says that eighteen months is Scotty-talk for four or five, if they can
get the men and materials.  I've already detailed off some engineers
from Invincible for their support," she added, "but I think your new
chief engineer will be able to fill in the gaps."
	"I'm sure I will," Skuld said.
	"And now that the pleasure's out of the way," Asrial nodded,
"if I could bend my Knight-Commander's ear for a bit of business while
I have him?"
	Gryphon bowed deeply again and said, "I am, as ever, at my
Queen's disposal."
	Asrial's eyes twinkled as she replied, "Well, like Leeanna
always says, I may hold you to that.  But for now," she said, stepping
forward and wrapping an arm around Gryphon, allowing her guards to
surround the two of them, "let's talk economics, shall we?"

	"Did you know about that?" asked Gryphon as he and Skuld
approached the conference room again, late for even the postponed
timetable.
	"If you mean the ship, nope," Skuld replied.  "It was a good
idea, though, I wish I'd thought of it.  That yeoman of yours is three
in a million."
	Gryphon chuckled and patted her hand where it was tucked
old-fashionedly in the crook of his elbow.  "Well, I - " He stopped as
a trio of figures rounded the corner up above, bound, it appeared, for
the same situation room.  They, too, paused upon seeing him, and then
the one in the lead swept toward him with a rustle of her scarlet
dress cape.
	"Admiral!" said Princess Amanda Elektra Dessler of the Gamilon
Empire.  "Well fought yesterday.  I have reviewed the tapes.  You and
your ships fought like Gamilons."
	Gryphon fought an urge to wince - the two Gamilon ships under
his command had been destroyed, after all.  Amanda knew him well
enough to know that he'd had to fight that urge; she'd been Gamilon's
ambassador to Babylon for two years, some time back, and even before
that had been a friend of his eldest daughter Kaitlyn.
	"They died fittingly," she assured him, smiling gently, "and
Dolshaia and Kru were there to greet them at their Final Muster.  Have
no fears on their account.  At any rate, to business.  I have been
commanded by His Majesty the Emperor to take charge of his Navy's
contribution to the alliance against the Clark Administration," she
said, which Gryphon knew meant that she had informed her father of
this fact when she was not less than halfway to Babylon 6.
	"Well, we're damn happy to have you," Gryphon replied.
"You're just in time, the briefing's starting.  Utena's here, by the
way, commanding Valiant - she'll be happy to see you."
	"And I her," Amanda replied.  "I have one other piece of
business with you, Admiral, before we go."
	Gryphon made himself not glance at his watch - it would have
given her the wrong impression - as he replied, "What's that?"
	"You already know Kitarina Dragonaar, my bodyguard," said
Amanda.
	"Of course," said Gryphon, taking the redheaded Gamilon's
hand.  "Sorry, Rina, my manners are going."
	"'sOK," Rina replied, grinning.  "Lot of that going around."
	"And," said Amanda, turning to indicate the figure on her
left, "may I present my cousin, Tasmia Mallor."
	The person on Amanda's left was another young Gamilon woman,
in her late teens or early twenties.  She was tall, almost as tall as
Amanda, but relatively little else could be told about her by visual
inspection just now, since she was wearing a heavy night-blue cloak
that completely draped her from neck to floor.  She had long, thick,
slightly curly hair of the same color, bits of which framed a pretty,
slim, slightly hard face with eyes to match the hair and cloak, all of
which contrasted nicely with the pale blue of her Gamilon skin.  She
also, Gryphon noticed with a touch of surprise, had pointed ears.
	"Tasmia," Amanda went on, "is strong, intelligent, highly
trained, frightfully effective, fiercely loyal, utterly trustworthy -
and very nearly as beautiful as I," the princess added with a faint
sardonic smirk.  Tasmia's full blue lips quirked into a little smile.
	"I have asked her - no one commands Tasmia," Amanda continued
with a smile, "to look after you."
	Gryphon gave her an odd look.  "Uh... well, Amanda,
that's... "
	"I know that you are capable of looking after yourself," said
Amanda, "but you are a very busy man, especially now, and you have
many, many enemies - and you are in the process of making more.  I
will not have my favorite ally assassinated."  In a warmer, more
personal tone, she went on, "If I didn't have Kit, Admiral, I would
dare to go anywhere with Tasmia at my side, and believe me - unless
you wish to, you will never notice that she is there."
	Gryphon looked from Amanda to Tasmia and back, noting the
serious look on the Gamilon princess's face and the faint smile on the
countenance of the other, and grinned.  "I don't get a vote, do I?"
	Amanda returned the grin.  "No, Admiral, you do not."
	He sighed, trying to look put-upon, and said to no one in
particular, "One of these days I'm going to have to get psychoanalyzed
and find out why women enjoy pushing me around so."
	"Yes, you're a tragic, tragic figure," said Amanda
sympathetically.  "Almost as pathetic as my worm of a husband.  Now
then, Admiral, I believe you had a situation meeting to conduct?"
	"Yes, Your Highness," said Gryphon dutifully.  "Right this
way, if you please."

			  1140 WILDWOOD ROAD
			NEKOMIKOKA, TOMODACHI
			     VEGA SECTOR
			     MAY 11, 2412
			    LOCAL MORNING

	Anthy Tenjou, looking a bit rumpled in her nightgown and robe,
opened the front door and straightened her glasses.  "Good morning,"
she said politely, "how may I help you?"
	The tall, broad-shouldered man in the black suit - not the
same one from yesterday, Anthy noted - bowed fractionally and said,
"We would like to speak with Captain Tenjou, if we may."
	"Ah... "  Anthy thought very quickly.  "She's just stepped
into the shower, I'm afraid.  It'll be a few minutes before she's
out."  Without sounding too pointed about it, she added, "It -is-
quite early, you know."
	"We'll wait," the man replied.  Anthy looked beyond him to see
rather a crowd of people at the bottom of the walk: several military
officers, a large number of older men in suits, one short, pudgy
gentleman in a top hat, what appeared to be an honor guard of
soldiers, and a small, brightly polished brass band.
	"I'll try to get her to hurry up," Anthy said, ducking into
the house.  She practically ran to the comm set, paused, then went
upstairs to the master bathroom and turned on the shower.  That task
accomplished, she went not back to the comm set in the living room,
but rather to the master bedroom.  There, a small grey and red robot
stood on top of the dresser.  Anthy touched him on the shoulder; with
a soft whirring sound, he came to 'life', tiny eyes focusing on Anthy.
	"Robo," she said softly, "I need to talk to Utena, urgently."
	"(grr,)" replied Robo.  For a moment, there was silence; then
Utena's voice came tinnily from somewhere within Robo's chassis: "Hey,
Anthy - what's up?"
	"Utena, love," Anthy said, "there are a large number of people
outside asking to see Captain Tenjou, who is in the shower at present."
	"Ask them what they want, willya?" Utena replied.  "I'm in a
briefing at the moment."
	"I'll be right back," Anthy said, leaving Robo waiting while
she returned to the front door.  A couple of questions and surprised
explanations later, she came back upstairs and reported, very
carefully, "I believe the Prime Minister wishes to surrender the
planet to you."
	"What?"  Anthy suppressed a giggle - Utena's puzzled
exclamation was all the funnier coming, as it seemed to, from Tiny
Robo.
	"I asked them to give me time to make you presentable.  They
said they would wait."  A noise outside caused Anthy to check the
window, drawing the curtain back for just an instant.  "A couple of
news vans just pulled up, I'm afraid.  Could you hurry back?"
	Utena giggled and replied, "These things -always- happen while
I'm in the shower.  Okay, I'll be right there."

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 11, 2412
			 ABOUT THAT SAME TIME

	Everyone was polite enough not to chuckle as Utena closed her
watch, made her apologies, and left the briefing room - but in a
couple of cases it took an effort.  Once the door had closed behind
her, the remaining commanding officers of the informal alliance
against President Clark returned their attention to Gryphon and the
map of the galaxy on the display.
	The list of worlds still loyal to the United Federation of
Planets had shrunk radically, and as Utena's sudden departure
indicated, it was still shrinking.  More than half of the non-human
worlds and governments in the Federation had already declared their
secession; indeed, the Hutts had wasted no time, and the last
Federation ship had fled Hutt Space almost before the fighting ended
at Babylon 6.  Vulcan had gone out in a more peaceful fashion, using
polite hints rather than mercenary forces, but the Federation pullout
there was likewise prompt.
	In fact, reports from across the galaxy were that Starfleet
and Earthforce had, for the moment, vanished.  Oh, intelligence said
that Earth and Corellia still had large fleet garrisons, but the
patrols through metaspace had evaporated, the patrol ships on the
Outer Rim and Coreward Frontier had ceased making status reports, and
even a number of Starfleet ships in drydock had disappeared overnight
(usually wrecking the drydocks involved in the process).  Earth
colonies were revolting against the Earth Alliance, and by all reports
the Earthforcer ground troops had been left entirely without fleet
support.
	Earth's remaining allies were, likewise, falling away.  The
Corellian corporate interests, old Baron Tagge himself at the
forefront, disavowed the actions of the Corellian Navy; perhaps there
were twenty people in the galaxy who believed them, but the twenty in
the briefing room didn't.  Likewise, the Corporate Sector Authority
had withdrawn all its forces from Starfleet command to re-deploy for
sector defense, although it still professed loyalty to the Federation
government.  The second largest collection of Earth-colonized worlds,
the Co-Prosperity Sphere, was in the process of collapsing, and
Tomodachi was probably going to be the only one of those worlds whose
local government fell on their swords only -figuratively-.
	Even if current trends continued, that would still
leave between a hundred and two hundred planets which -might- put up a
resistance, and as many more again who had to have some occupying
force to accept their surrender and conduct investigations.  With so
many worlds united in rage at the attack on Babylon 6, to say nothing
of the news of Clark's self-promotion now spreading through the news
services, the forces required were readily available.  The only
problem was assigning them out, and that wasn't so much difficult as
merely tedious.
	The heart of Clark's power - Centauri Sector in general and
particularly Earth - would be left for last.  In the meantime, the
navy of the Centauri Republic would keep an eye on the Solar system
and the central Earth Alliance systems and keep them more or less
contained while the rest of the Federation was mopped up.
	Such Corellian worlds as the Hutts hadn't already secured
would be the first priority of CFMF TacFleet, under the immediate
command of Aya Nakajima.  Since that job promised to be short, Aya was
also to detach forces to accept or insure the surrenders of the
remaining Co-Prosperity Sphere worlds, leaving a couple of picket
ships behind at each until a proper garrison could be selected.
	CFMF Strategic Fleet, the Barrayaran Imperial Service, and the
Manticore Star Navy would clear out Enigma Sector; after much
discussion, overall operational command of this force went to Kris
Overstreet, who accepted with less than perfect grace.  There were a
great many places for Federation forces to hide in Enigma, but on the
other hand half of that sector consisted of independent worlds and
multi-system polities like Barrayar, Manticore and Jyurai, so the task
wasn't as daunting as it could have been.
	The Salusian and Zardon navies would clear out the core
sectors of Vega and Rigel, under overall command of General Leeanna
Zard'al.  This task would involve not only Earth and Corellian
colonies, but a significant number of Salusian-settled worlds
dominated by the radical Sword of Salusia movement, and Queen Asrial
had insisted on the right to clean up her own people's mess.
	The WDF under Noriko Takaya took up the task of sweeping up
the Coreward Frontier, where half the Earth colonies bore more
allegiance to Zeta Cygni than Earth.  GENOM MILARM would duplicate the
sweep on the Outer Rim, a more difficult task but well within the
capabilities of Grand Admiral Thrawn, who had been patrolling the
region when hostilities broke out.
	The Corporate Sector, because of its proximity to the Gamilon
Empire, was assigned to that nation's fleet to secure; most of those
worlds would put up a fight, but that was just the way Princess
Dessler wanted it.  Other sectors were assigned to coalition fleets
created on the fly, with WDF, CFMF, GENOM and Salusian flag officers
chosen to hold each together, until every corner of what had been the
Federation was finally accounted for.
	The deployment still left quite a few heavy ships, including
the SDF-23 and Concordia, in reserve at Babylon 6.  This force would
deploy at the first word of a new Federation attack, or in case some
hostile force decided to meddle in the Federation's internal turmoil.
This force also included the ships that had surrendered, been
captured, or actively defected from Starfleet and Earthforce the
previous day, under the administrative command of Picard, while IPO
and AEGIS operatives processed prisoners and volunteers alike.
	(Having the reserve also allowed Gryphon to keep certain
forces, like Thrakhath's vengeful Kilrathi, Kruge's bloodthirsty
Klingons, and the well-meaning but just plain spooky Colonial Dalek
battle fleet, under his personal supervision.  That way they'd be
available to help end battles without accidentally - or purposefully -
starting new ones.)
	"Well then," Gryphon said as the last sector was assigned for
sweep, "I think we've got everything covered, but I just want to go
over a couple of points with you before we adjourn for lunch.
	"First, a reminder to all forces that this alliance is
strictly for the purpose of ending the tyrannical regime of William
Clark.  It is not an excuse to annex former Federation worlds into
your respective governments.  We don't need a second war on top of the
one we've already got, so keep your grubby paws to yourselves, kids -
uh, no offense, Emperor Thrakhath."
	"None taken," the Kilrathi emperor replied, trying to conceal
the fact that he had glanced at his hands.
	"Second, for those of you worried about your fleet payrolls -
Kris," (here Gryphon smiled, and several of those present chuckled,)
"Queen Asrial has informed me that the Salusian government has frozen
the exchange rate between the Federation and Salusian credits at the
close-of- market rate of May 9th, 2412.  By agreement with the major
nations of the Babylon Foundation, all holdings of the Federation,
Earth Alliance, Corellian and other governments involved with
yesterday's attack will be earmarked for the redemption of Federation
currency.  That should protect the galaxy from the worst of the crunch
that's coming.
	"Finally," Gryphon noted, "the timetable.  Except for ships
deploying to accept surrender offers from Federation worlds, all
patrols will deploy at 1800 hours tomorrow evening.  That should give
enough time to organize your commands and make final preparations.
I'll be available from 1300 hours until six this evening to consult
with you on priorities, intel reports, and other factors.
	"And," Gryphon said quietly, "those commands who wish to
participate... the memorial service for those who died in defense of
this station will be held at 1100 hours tomorrow morning."  He looked
around the room in the respectful silence, then nodded and said,
"Well, if there aren't any questions, let's go eat."

			    IPS INVINCIBLE
		    HOLDING STATION OFF BABYLON 6
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			     MAY 12, 2412
			      1752 HOURS

	The engine room of a Salusian battlewagon was certainly a
different place from the engine room of the ship Gryphon had spent the
last few years commanding.  Instead of being immediately striking in
height, the Invincible's Main Engineering deck was more readily
impressive by its length.  It was high, fully three decks high, but
its length was such that the height only occurred to the observer as
an afterthought.
	That length was further exaggerated by the twin Wave Motion
Engines, one on each side, which stretched into the distance when
viewed from the forward bulkhead, their access panels and status
displays glowing in the clean white light of the engine room.  The
constant peristaltic throb of an antimatter intermix chamber was
absent as the chamber itself, replaced by a continuous low-frequency
rumble with a hint of a harmonic in it when the two engines were not
quite in phase.
	Radsuited technicians moved here and there, most but not all
of them Salusian, checking various things.  Everything was calm and
orderly, the picture of a well-run engine room.  As Gryphon stood on
the second-level catwalk looking down at the central bay, he smiled.
A moment later, Skuld came up alongside him, dressed like all the
others in a standard engineering radsuit.  Grinning, she hugged his
arm, then backed up, adopted a more formal attitude, and saluted.
	"Ready to go whenever you are, Ben," she reported.
"Everything's shipshape and Bristol fashion down here."
	"I'm impressed," Gryphon admitted with raised eyebrows.
"How'd you get a full staff together so fast with half of Asrial's own
people helping Nadia with Challenger?"
	A young engineer, passing by with a massive Toynbee coil
calibrator propped on his shoulder, paused and remarked offhandedly,
"I was drafted."
	Ignoring him, Skuld replied to Gryphon's question, "Oh, I just
headhunted a few talented young engineers here and there."
	"One minute I'm drinking a cup of coffee," the young engineer
went on, lingering, "and the next I'm falling through it."
	"They're smart, fearless... " Skuld went on doggedly.
	"I'll never be afraid of hyperspace again," added the
persistent young man blandly.
	"... And they're getting triple pay for the inconvenience,
McKenzie," Skuld finished, finally acknowledging the young man's
presence with a mock-irritated little sidelong glance.
	Harcourt McKenzie's eyebrows went up.  "Triple pay?" he
inquired.  Skuld nodded, and Mac turned smartly on his heel and
marched on his way with the coil calibrator, singing as he went, "Hi
diddle-de-dee, a sailor's life for me... "
	"Anyhow," said Skuld when she'd finished giggling, "I assume
you're down here because you're about ready to shove off."
	Gryphon nodded.  "Yep.  Still feels a little weird, getting
used to the new ship and the new job description all at once, but at
least I don't have to worry about my staff.  Lu's worked another one
of her miracles; I already know two of the officers she's dragooned
into working for me, and Amanda's contribution is fitting right in
with the rest of them."
	Skuld smiled.  "Good.  I'm glad.  You need all the support you
can get.  You know I'm here if you need me."
	Gryphon grinned, leaned slightly and gave her a quick, gentle
kiss.
	"I know it," he replied.  "Keeps me going sometimes."  Their
eyes met in silence for a few moments; then both returned to their
duties, Skuld going down to the main deck to see to the engines in
person for their departure while Gryphon went to the turboshaft and up
to the bridge.
	This was a larger compartment than he was accustomed to, being
built in the Salusian fashion; the captain's seat was centrally
located, the helm and navigation stations side by side forward, and
other stations arrayed off to the sides, but all stations faced
forward, not outward in a ring arrangement as on most of the ships
Gryphon had designed.  They were also larger, with both specialized
controls and some universal ones that could be slaved to different
functions in emergencies.  It had been a bit of an adjustment, but
Gryphon's crew were game, and they had made the transition without
difficulty once Skuld had rebuilt the helm station to suit Lafiel
Abriel's unique methods.
	Well, Gryphon reminded himself with a pang as he left the
turbolift, not -his- crew any more; Lore was in the center seat now,
having graduated to flag captain.  He came to his feet as his boss
emerged from the lift, and instead of one of his usual smartass
comments, he announced in perfect fashion,
	"Admiral on the bridge!"
	"As you were," said Gryphon with a grin before anybody else
could get up.  "Everybody OK?  I know I'm a horrible slave driver to
throw you back into the line before you're fully healed, but time is
precious... "
	"You need not apologize, joH'wI'," rumbled Klaang, whose
never-decorative face was made positively jaunty by some festive
applications of bandage synthflesh that was entirely the wrong shade
of Caucasian to go with his dusky Klingon skintone.  "We are
warriors.  We do our duty regardless of minor hindrances such as
pain."
	"Uh, yeah," said T'Vek, greenish-bruised but grinning, at her
new weapons station.  "What the Klingon said.  Too much work to do for
us to lie down and hurt, O-sensei.  But when all this is over I want
about a year off."
	"That sounds about right," Jinto Kirk mused as he made final
calibrations to the ship's cosmocompass.
	"Perhaps two," Lafiel rejoined.
	"I'd take six months if it was on the right planet," offered
Hoshi Sato with a grin.
	"And with the right company," said Lore, waggling his eyebrows
significantly.
	"In your dreams, Astro Boy," said Hoshi, still grinning.
	"It beats electric sheep," Lore replied offhandedly.
"Everything is in readiness, Mighty One," he added, turning to
Gryphon.  "Your flagship is at your disposal."
	"Thanks," said Gryphon; he paused at the command station for a
moment, looking around the bridge, and then went to the back of the
room and mounted the two steps to the flag bridge.
	This was not a separate compartment, as in some flagships;
rather, it was a sort of raised stage, behind and two steps up from
the main bridge, with several stations, a center seat for the admiral,
one at his right side for his operations manager, and a rail to help
keep people from falling to the main bridge in an emergency.  An
acoustic shield could isolate it from the main bridge, but Gryphon
expected he wouldn't use that feature much; it would cut him off from
the main holoprojection viewer in front of the bridge's huge forward
windows, and he didn't like the smaller system at the back of the flag
bridge as much.
	Luornu Durgo - only one of her today, the cast on her right
arm downrated to a splint after two days on regen inducers - smiled at
her boss as he settled into his new seat, surveyed the bridge from
this new vantage point, then turned his seat to face his staff.
	"Guess it's time to take the first official poll of my new
admiralty staff," he remarked.  "Communications?"
	With a ping, the familiar, lovely face of Vision appeared on
the main communications-board monitor.  "Flag Communications OK," she
reported with a wink.  "We're tied into the tac and strat nets and
standing by on Babylon ATC for coordination of the fleets."
	"Security?"
	"All stations secure," said blonde and lovely Imra Ardeen,
newly seconded into the Space Force from AEGIS, briskly.  "Anti-Psi
Corps defense personnel are in place on all ships to screen prisoners
and defectors for moles and provide battlefield psi defenses."
	"Intelligence?"
	Slim, black-haired Salu Digby, the infamous "Shrinking Violet"
of the CID - the Imskian Lensman who had made her name cracking the
Big Fire nanotech tampering operation two years before - smiled a
little shyly at her new boss and replied, "Fleet intelligence tracking
systems tied into the MIMIR system.  Cross-referencing last good data
on all possible enemy assets now."
	"Operations?"
	Lu tucked her short brown hair behind her ears, winked at the
admiral with her violet eye, and said, "Operating.  All subfleets
assigned and grouped; task force commanders briefed.  Everyone's just
waiting for the final 'go' order from you to form up and head out,
sir."
	Gryphon nodded.  "Well, then, I guess we'd better not keep
them waiting.  Tasmia, you can sit down if you want, you know.  There
are plenty of chairs."
	Tasmia Mallor smiled slightly and replied, "I once stood in
the same position for seventy-one hours, Admiral.  Remaining upright
until we're in metaspace will not inconvenience me."
	Gryphon considered this, then shrugged.  "Suit yourself.
Where's Wolfgang?"
	"I believe," said Tasmia dryly, glancing down at the slight
pool of the tail of her long, heavy cloak on the deck, "that he's
hiding under my cloak."
	"Ah," said Gryphon.  "Well, I'd say that proves what a smart
dog he is, but I don't know you well enough to flirt with you that
blatantly yet."  Then, as she chuckled softly, he whirled his chair to
face forward again and said, "OK, Vision, get me the fleet - let's get
this over with."
	Forward, the main holofield rezzed up, then divided itself
into a grid, each panel showing the face of one of the task force
subcommanders.  Gryphon couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight;
that grid was a veritable who's who of space officers, and they were
all waiting for his word before going forth to do their jobs.  It was
enough to make a guy feel slightly important.
	"Everybody got your orders?" asked Gryphon.  Nods made the
rounds of the viewer field like a ripple in water.  "Any questions?"
Headshakes all around.
	"OK then.  I made my speech before we got clobbered Thursday
morning.  It's all just as true now.  Let's go to work."
	One more round of nods, then all the faces vanished.
	"Sublime, sir," said Lore, wiping a tear from his eye.  "All
right, boys and girls, let's go save the galaxy.  Invincible to Task
Force White: Form up and slave your helms for fleet spacefold.  First
stop: Winath!"

			   MACLEOD STATION
			    ENIGMA SECTOR
			     MAY 14, 2412

       /*  "Gyopi-chan Supaa Kingyo (Mercifully Short Version)"
			_Goldfish Warning_  */

	The galaxy in general didn't think of the CFMF's Strategic
Fleet when it bothered to think of the CFMF at all.  The sleek,
vicious-looking corvettes and the huge white wedge-shaped carriers of
its Tactical Fleet were the fleet's public face, insofar as it had any
at all.  When the galaxy thought of, say, Star Destroyers or, again,
the spindly Nebulon-B escort frigate, the acronym GENOM popped to
mind, not the initials CFMF.
	Still, the Redneck noted, appearing out of hyperspace with an
Imperial-class Star Destroyer, three Victory-class SDs, and a full
dozen escort frigates gave a person a very nice chunk of moral high
ground in a conversation.  He hoped, anyway.  He hoped it gave him
-something-, because it hadn't given him the element of surprise over
the local Federation picket force.
	You couldn't surprise a force that wasn't there.
	"Hail the station," Kris said, tapping his fingers on the
flag console.  "Ask them if they have any Grey Poupon."
	The comm officer of CFMF Arquebus paused at her console,
turned to face the Redneck, and asked, "Admiral, what's 'Grey
Poupon'?"
	The Redneck shook his head and sighed.  "What kind of military
history are they -teaching- today?" he asked.  "Just send a standard
call for surrender, Lieutenant."
	"Aye, sir," the lieutenant replied, and the Redneck wondered
to himself if it was too late to call up Terri and say that he'd
changed his mind...

			 MEGATOKYO, NEW JAPAN
			 CO-PROSPERITY SPHERE
			     VEGA SECTOR
			     MAY 16, 2412

	"Come on, Sis," Mackie said, "your adoring public awaits."
	Sylia Stingray, founder and president of the Stingray
Institute, stood just inside the doorway and said, "I should never,
ever have let you talk me into that book deal."
	"Too late for that now," Mackie shrugged.  "There's four
billion revolution-crazed people out there waiting for the new leader
of New Japan to speak."
	"I didn't ask for the job," Sylia replied.  She didn't know
who had suggested on the cybernets that the woman who'd led the fight
against GENOM eighty years ago and who had been the quiet conscience
of the Co-Prosperity Sphere's media for decades would make a good
replacement prime minister when the revolution came.  Whoever it was,
Sylia owed them a bad turn, because the idea had caught on, the
revolution -had- come, and now a Salusian Marines general and a CFMF
commodore waited outside the former CPS Palace to administer the oath
of office.
	"I don't think they'll take no for an answer," Mackie said,
meaning the people, not the "occupation commanders."  The popular
uprising had been so swift, surprising and thorough that the Babylon
Alliance forces had deployed not to subdue Federation authorities, but
to protect them from impromptu firing squads.  To make things more
embarrassing, a large number of the revolutionaries had copies of
Sylia's book, wielding it like a modern version of 'The Thoughts of
Chairman Mao.'  At various seized government buildings across the
planet, the national flags of New Japan and the Co-Prosperity Sphere
had been replaced by handmade banners with the legend 'KNIGHT SABERS'
scrawled in rough English script.
	"Now relax, Sis," Mackie said.  "This is only until New Japan
gets a new constitution and government in place, right?  Six months at
the worst and you'll be back at the Institute grading papers."
	"Easy for you to say," Sylia said.  "I thought I was done with
this years ago."
	"You never give up the fight," Mackie smiled.  "You taught us
that, remember?"
	"Don't remind me," Sylia grumbled.  "Are my seams straight?"
	"I wouldn't know," Mackie said.  "Happily married men don't
look at such things."
	"But dirty old men do," Sylia chuckled, "even if it is their
sister."
	"Your seams are fine," Mackie said.  "Now get out there and
give 'em the White Saber treatment."
	"Right," Sylia sighed, giving her skirt one final adjustment,
checking her silver hair in a pocket mirror, and then stepping out
onto the palace's front walk, advancing to the podium to meet the two
uniformed figures standing beside it.  Crowded around the lawn, and
sitting on the palace fences, and hanging off of hoverships, skimmers,
groundcars, buses, and trees for blocks around were hundreds,
thousands, an uncountable number of faces, young, eager, triumphant at
the start of a new era for the city of Megatokyo and the planet of New
Japan.
	As she stepped out into the light, Sylia felt the roar of the
crowd, cheers and shouts surrounding her and drowning out all other
sound. In the background, a chant rose up, and it spread through the
assembled crowds, and as she stood at the podium nothing could be
heard for several minutes except one word.
	"Stingray!  Stingray!!  STINGRAY!!!"

			   TANCREDI SYSTEM
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			     MAY 21, 2412

	The battle had been brief, but glorious.  On the bridge of his
flagship, the supreme commander of the mighty Irken Armada stood at
the forward rail quivering with delight as the sight of the burning
Federation warships and the helpless world beyond them stirred the
ancient blood of conquerors in his veins.  To be sure, things were
different now.  The helpless world beyond was not his to plunder, to
claim for the glory of the Tallest, as it would have been back in the
old days.  It was even now sending up messages thanking him for
freeing it from under the boot of the oppressor.  Despite the somewhat
ominous way his traditional Irken title translated into Standard,
Grand Invader Zim was a liberator now, not an aggressor.
	He surveyed the battle scene again, his antennae nearly
vibrating with glee, and decided it would do, it would certainly do.
The Tallest of the Tallest, the Great Bacon, had been right.  Two
centuries ago, when the Irken Empire had attempted to annex the United
Galactica and had its g'squortz bloodied by the Wedge Defense Force
for its trouble, the Great Bacon had come to a confused and despairing
Irk with the Truth, and the Truth (in the form of Bacon's third book,
"So You're Not the Master Race: How to Cope with a Rude Awakening to
the Realities of Galactic Power") had been Good.
	The Wedge Defense Force and its cause of freedom had had no
stauncher allies than Irk from that day forward - especially after the
little green height-revering Irkens got their first look at the Wedge
Defenders' colossal Zentraedi comrades.
	"My Lord Invader," said Zim's flag communications officer.
"The president of Tancredi III wishes to congratulate you on your
glorious victory and invite you to dine with him this evening."
	"I would love to accept his generous invitation," Zim replied,
"but I'm afraid we haven't time for social dilly-dallying just now!
There are more worlds to liberate!  More of the vile oppressors to
CRUSH beneath the mighty Irken heeeeeel!" he added, raising a clenched
fist and savoring the vowel.
	"Er... His Lordship's apologies, Mr. President, but we must
press on to New Los Angeles," the commtech translated.  "Yes.  Yes.
You're welcome, sir.  The cause of Freedom is the highest cause; so
commands the Tallest of the Tallest."  The commtech signed off and
turned to the admiral.  "President Vasquez understands perfectly, my
Lord Invader.  He wishes us all success in our campaign."
	"He needn't worry about that," replied Zim with a jagged grin.
"These Federation wimps can't stand up to the Irken Armada.  CAPTAIN
GREM!  Make your course for the New Los Angeles system, and STEP ON
IT!  I want the Federation garrison there burning by Ix'nyard!"
	"Aye aye, my Lord Invader!" replied the fleet's flag captain,
saluting smartly.  "Magnificent to all ships - prepare for hyperspace!
Set course for New Los Angeles!"
	As the flagship came about and Tancredi III slid out of Zim's
field of view, he folded his hands behind his back and smiled.
	"It's a good and glorious life, Gir.  Don't you agree?"
	The fleet leapt into hyperspace, filling the forward windows
with the blue-white swirl of that otherworld.  The little grey and
green robot sitting on the floor at Zim's feet sighed happily.
	"I love this show," mused Gir wistfully.
	"Er... yes," said Zim.  "Quite."  Then he turned away to pace
impatiently up and back along the bridge.
	When he passed even with his flag captain, Grem leaned over
and murmured, "My Lord Invader?"
	"Yes?" Zim replied, pausing.
	"I was just wondering, sir... why don't you requisition a new
droid?  As a Grand Invader, you could have a top-of-the-line model...
or at least, er, one that -works-."
	"Ah, yes," Zim replied conversationally, "the eternal
question.  Well, you see, Captain, I'm afraid I've grown a bit
attached to the one that I have."  Putting an arm over Grem's
shoulders, the Grand Invader gestured expansively with his free arm
and went on, "Yes, he's obsolete, and he never worked right to begin
with - but without him I would have NOTHIIING!" Zim bellowed, flying
into a sudden rage.  "I would BE! - NOTHING!  NOTHING, DO YOU HEAR?!"
	"Uh - ah - I'm s-s-sorry, m-my Lord - " Grem stammered.
	Still seething, Zim pushed Grem away, rounded on him, and went
on, "And if you EVER criticizehimagainIwill TEAR YOUR HEAD OFF and
FEED IT TO THE SLAUGHTEROUS RATLINGS of BLORRRRRTCH!"  Then, with a
rather cold smile, he went on in a much softer, silkier, deadlier
voice, "Do you understand?"
	"Er... y-yes, my Lord Invader," Grem stammered, his antennae
flexing with alarm at having offended his superior.
	As suddenly as it had come over him, the fit of temper left
the Grand Invader.  He smiled broadly and genuinely.  "Good!" said
Zim, nodding with satisfaction.  "Now get back to work!" he added
imperiously, gesturing toward the flag captain's console.  "The
Tallest paid for all this equipment, you know," he said, his tone
light and cheery.
	Then he turned to the front of the bridge and called, "Come,
Gir.  It's time for your evening constitutional."
	"Ooo!" said Gir, jumping up and bounding to his master's
side.  "Walkies!"

				RAGOL
			  CORELLIAN REPUBLIC
		 CORMAN SECTOR, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES
			     MAY 23, 2412

	The Colonial Governor of Ragol, Adam Tyrell, maintained a
spartan office aboard the orbital habitat Pioneer 2; he saw no need
for trappings of rank, and his secretaries and aides worked at small
desks arrayed near his own.  It had been a Tyrell who had led the
first generation of Ragolians in their desperate adaptation to their
Getter-contaminated surroundings, and the family had a good name and
reputation unmatched among the colonists.
	Janice Barlow thought it was kind of sad that her homeworld
had come to this after so many years.  Following the Federation's
decision to deny citizenship to androids, the people of Ragol had
rallied behind their large droid population and voted to secede from
Corellian and Federation control alike.  As part of the proceedings,
she and Neal Krummell had been sent as the IPO's official observation
team... but now, with civil war having broken out and the Federation
collapsing under the weight of its own corruption, the question of
Ragol's independence had been set aside for some days as everyone
awaited word of the galactic situation.  At last, things had settled,
and now the Ragolians awaited word of their own fate.
	Janice exchanged a nervous glance with Neal as Adam Tyrell
ushered in the Alliance representative, a greying dark-skinned,
thick-set man who had stuffed a wrestler's physique into a gray
knee-length wraparound tunic with the wreaths and single star of a
rear admiral on his lapel.  Apparently, thought Janice, the CFMF was
handling the mop-up of Corellian territories on the Outer Rim.
	"Admiral," Governor Tyrell announced.  "These are the IPO
observers you wanted to see.  Detective Inspector Neal Krummell,
Lensman, and Sergeant Janice Barlow - one of our own, I might add, and
we're mighty proud of her.  Lensman, Sergeant, Rear Admiral Ky Tung,
Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet."
	"Sir," Janice said, coloring a bit at the grins both Neal and
Admiral Tung shot her at Tyrell's praise.  "An honor to meet you."
	Tung smiled.  "Likewise, Sergeant," he replied.  "And you,
Lensman Krummell.  Now, let me get this straight.  You two were posted
here to observe the referendum on Ragol's independence, correct?"
	Both IPO officers nodded.
	"Well, that's kind of a moot point now, isn't it," the CFMF
admiral chuckled.  "Corellia's in no shape to come after an Outer Rim
colony bent on secession, even one with a lot of Getter collectors and
a thriving arms business.  And, well, if they do - a lot of people out
there aren't kindly disposed to Corellia of late, and the remains of
the Federation aren't likely to come here and try to take over.  I
think you can consider yourselves emancipated, referendum or no
referendum."
	Tyrell closed his eyes in a silent gesture of triumph.  Janice
threw her arms around Neal and gave him an impulsive kiss.  Neal
detached her gently and set her back at his side, smiling.  Tung
watched them with an equal grin of his own.
	"Of course," he said once the moment had passed, "we'll need
some independent observers here to run elections, help hammer out the
details of the new government, keep an eye out for anything that's not
kosher.  I've got some Freespacer and Salusian observers on my ship
for just that purpose, which is good... "
	Neal and Janice nodded and murmured their assent.
	"... since we'll need an IPO presence to keep the colony
running on an even keel until those elections are complete," Tung
finished briskly.  "Mr. Tyrell's authority was vested in him by a
governing body Ragol no longer recognizes, under the stewardship of an
organization that's falling apart even as we speak.  Lensman Krummell,
are you up to the task of overseeing Ragolian government until such
time as it can stand on its own?"
	Neal blinked.  "Me, sir?"
	"You, son," Tung replied firmly.  "You're the ranking IPO
agent on this planet, and we need your service right here until the
galactic situation has stabilized and the rightfully-elected
government of Ragol has been set in power."
	Janice watched Neal, her concern warring with private
amusement.  The Test of Light didn't always pick 'em for leadership,
that was for sure.  Steadfast and compassionate, that was Neal... an
interim leader for an Outer Rim world?  Probably not.  She wished for a
moment that she had the Lens herself, so that they could plan out of
earshot of Tyrell and Tung.
	Neal suddenly smiled broadly and reached out a hand to Tung.
"I can certainly do that, sir," he replied.  "On one condition."
	"Oh?" Tung replied, quirking an eyebrow.
	"That Adam Tyrell and Janice Barlow don't leave my sight
before they tell me EVERYTHING I need to know, and that they follow me
around and make sure I don't fuck this up completely.  Ragolians
*scare* me, you know, toting around man-portable Getter Beams and
whatnot," Neal said, deadpan as ever.
	Tung looked at the new interim supervisor of Ragol for a long
moment before he began to laugh, long and loud.  He was still
chuckling as he left Pioneer 2 to secure the next world and deliver
the news of liberation.
	Ragol would be all right in the end.  Hell, he said to
himself, if every world freed from the Federation does as well we'll
be just about all right.

			      BABYLON 6
			     MAY 27, 2412

	Derek Bacon asked himself, for the seventy-third time, how he
had ever got involved in diplomacy.  As commander, Babylon Station, he
had to sit through interminable negotiating sessions, even if most of
the Babylon Foundation's ambassadors didn't bother to... but the more
he sat, and the more he listened, the more useless he felt.
	"You want me to fetch that Silly String?" Garibaldi whispered
to him, and Derek shook his head no.  He, Garibaldi, and Ivanova (who
had taken a surprising personal interest in the proceedings) had been
relegated to the role of audience.  If Garibaldi hadn't brought
popcorn and Dew, Derek thought, the watching of the reruns of
'MegaZone and Jeremy Feeple Versus the Universe' would be intolerable.
	"For the last time, Feeple," Londo Mollari said tiredly,
shaking his head slowly so as not to disturb his crest of hair, "the
Centauri Republic will not ratify new Articles of Federation, whether
they are presented as Articles of Federation or," he dropped a stack
of papers onto the table in front of him, "as a treaty of alliance."
	"I'm not asking you to rejoin the -old- Federation," Jeremy
replied.  "But there needs to be unity among our worlds, otherwise
we'll - "
	"Unity?" Zargh Thalekh, ambassador from the Klingon Empire,
grunted his derision.  "Clark spake of unity.  All worlds united,
under him.  The Klingon Empire will not accept such 'unity,'" he
growled scornfully, "as second-class pets of some future cowardly
tyrant like Clark.  We will remain sovereign and independent."
	"And long may your warriors keep you that way," MegaZone
replied, nodding.  "Of course," he added with a sardonic edge in his
voice, "a fat lot of good it'll do you with no trade agreements or
technology exchange programs.  The Empire hasn't been self-sufficient
in forty years, Zargh, and you know it.  Your civil war only made
things worse.  You need this alliance more than any other nation
represented here."
	"And the Babylon Foundation needs strong Klingon warriors,"
Zargh retorted, "far more than the Klingon Empire needs your energy
exports."
	"I fail to see, Ambassador," Sarek of Vulcan said from his
chair, "why the two needs should be a point of contention rather than
a motivator for unity.  Each side has something the other needs;
surely an exchange is desirable."
	"The price is too high!" Zargh thundered, scattering his copy
of the proposed treaty across the table.
	"I must agree with my colleague," G'Kar replied.  "The Narn
people fought one war for our independence.  We are fighting a second
war now for the independence of all in this galaxy.  We shall not turn
out backs on our honored dead and enter into a compact which yields
that independence up to a, a COMMITTEE!"
	"Narn is in almost as much trouble as Kronos," Lawrence Mann,
Master of GENOM, replied.  "At least the treaties signed by the
Klingons are still in effect.  Most of the international-law treaties
the Federation operated under were ratified not from member to member,
but by the United Galactica or Federation governments.  Also the
international trade treaties, which are my primary concern.  If the
Federation dies, all those treaties die with it."
	"To say nothing of quite a few good laws," Asrial, Queen of
Salusia, said from her chair.  "The ban on slavery.  The
Proto-Sapients Act.  The Prime Directive - "
	"An example of Federation tyranny if there ever was one!"
Zargh shouted.
	The meeting dissolved into chaos, as half a dozen people tried
to speak or shout at once, while a few others, Derek included, tried
in vain to restore order.  Finally, after about a minute of noise, a
deep voice silenced the babble with a single word: "ENOUGH!"
	Slowly, gingerly, so as not to wreck the conference table,
Emperor Thrakhath of Kilrah pushed himself to his feet, the fur of his
mane brushing the ceiling of the conference room.  His teeth bared,
his yellow eyes bored through the other members of the conference as
he said,
	"My empire has the least to gain by being here.  We are
self-sufficient.  Our war fleet outnumbers even the Royal Salusian
Navy.  We have had regular trade with your worlds for less than twenty
years and can do without it if need be.  In fact, the vast majority of
my people want to take your civil war as an opportunity to conquer you
entirely.  We alone of all your neighbors have the strength to do it.
	"But I remember.  I remember that it was Federation forces who
fought the decisive battle that put me on the throne.  Freespacers,
Barrayarrans, and some others.  I remember the promise I made to the
man whose forces paid a high price for another man's glory.  Peace
with the Federation during my rule; this I promised to Overstreet, and
to my son, and to MegaZone here," he added, nodding to that worthy.
	"And although the Federation is now dead, murdered by Clark,
and our joined forces clearing away its corpse," Thrakhath continued,
"I stand by my word of honor and uphold the spirit of that promise.
Instead of five hundred ships of conquest, I bring only eighteen ships
of vengeance.  Instead of millions of troops invading the border
colonies, there are a few thousand awaiting the orders of a -human- to
enter battle.  I keep -my- side of the bargain," he snarled, "and I
will remain here until I see to it that you keep -yours- as well.
	"Feeple," he rumbled, picking up the treaty, "there is too
much in this treaty which is objectionable to me, as a monarch."  He
strode over and slapped the paper into Jeremy's chest, driving the
wind from the Special Envoy's lungs.  "Start over.
	"Thalekh," he said, turning his attention to the Klingon,
"your warrior's pride does you honor.  Your thickheadedness does not.
We shall give up a little of our sovereignty here, for certain
purposes.  This human thing, these 'war crimes trials,'" he rumbled,
"they are a good thing, otherwise we would fight each other for the
pleasure of disemboweling Clark, Cartwright, and their lackeys.  For
this we need a united court system.  With LIMITED," he roared, looking
back at Feeple, "powers.
	"MegaZone," he said, turning to an unruffled Chaoswalker, "you
talked us all into supporting this Babylon Project.  It is here to
promote peace.  Let us begin there.  A military alliance of mutual
defense.  Ratification of the international treaties which would
otherwise lapse.  A closer binding of nations to resist war's
temptations.  You claimed that Babylon was to bring peace to the
galaxy; now you must prove it."
	"Well, since you asked so politely," Zoner smiled. 
	"I am not a diplomat," Thrakhath said.  "I am emperor of a
race of warriors.  I have not patience or time for polite words and
points of order.  Let us stop talking about how we can -not- have
peace, and start talking about how we -can- have it."  He sat back
down in his chair at the table, noted the stares from the others, and
muttered, "That is all I have to say."
	For about ten seconds, nobody spoke.  Finally, R-Type broke
the silence.  "All right, then. Let's begin with the trade
agreements... "
	The babble resumed, this time at a more sedate volume, and the
three Babylon 6 officers decided to take their leave.  "I think the
Emperor has it well in hand," Garibaldi said.
	"He'd better," Derek nodded.  "I left a case of Silly String
under the table at his feet for him."
	"Do you really think they'll get anything together?" Ivanova
asked as the three walked out of the conference room.
	"I don't know," Derek sighed.  "There's so many different
viewpoints in that room that getting them all to see straight... well,
it might be impossible."
	They turned a corner and passed Kosh Neranek, the Vorlon
ambassador, trundling along on whatever errands kept him busy.  Derek
paused, turned and said, "Ambassador?"
	Kosh stopped, and the head of his encounter suit turned to
face Derek, the single iris in the front contracting a little as the
vocorder in the chest translated the strange whistling and jangling
tones of Vorlon speech.  <<yes?>>
	"I think they could really use your help in the conference,"
Derek said, gesturing back the way they had come.  "At the rate
they're going, we'll have the Pak'leds at war with the Fuzzies before
we finish off Clark."
	Kosh's 'head' tilted a little to one side, and the iris opened
wide.  <<you think -you- have problems?>>
	Without explaining that sentence, Kosh turned away and glided
around the corridor corner.
	"Well, I -thought- I did," Derek shrugged, following Ivanova
and Garibaldi up the hall.

		       TAGGE'S WORLD (ETTI IV)
			   CORPORATE SECTOR
			    JUNE 13, 2412

	Devlin E.D. Carter flinched as the carefully-planted explosive
charges blew the armored door apart, the slabs of steel folding inward
and downward in a shriek of rubbing metal.  With mechanical precision,
the marines from the Lorica strode fearlessly through the door, waving
their disruptor rifles warningly at the handful of executives and
bodyguards standing within the last sanctum of the vast TaggeCo
empire's corporate headquarters.
	Slowly, cautiously, the three bodyguards removed their jackets
and tossed out a small arsenal into the center of the room, raising
their hands above their heads in the universal Bodyguard-Seeking-New-
Employment signal.  The expressions on those grim Romulan faces had
convinced them that they weren't paid enough to attempt a breakout...
especially since their stock options had probably just become worthless.
	Satisfied, the eight troopers formed two rows around the
doorway and stood to attention. 
	<I think this is your cue, love,> Devlin thought to his
companion, and with a flourish of the regal cape Amanda Elektra
Dessler, Crown Princess and Heir-Designate to the throne of the
Gamilon Empire, strode across the ruined doors and into the room,
glaring at the fat, mustached and goateed man sitting at the desk on
the far end.
	"Horst, Baron Tagge," she murmured.  "No, don't bother to get
up, you might make one of my guards twitchy.  We had quite a bit of
fun taking care of your warm reception."  That warm reception had put
three other guards on the sick list and a fourth in a stasis pod for
emergency transport to a CFMF NSSH unit accompanying Amanda's fleet.
They were the last on the short list of casualties that had begun when
the Corporate Sector Security Police, or Espos, had ordered the
obsolete system defense ships to open fire on the Lorica and her
escorts.
	"Tell me, Baron," Amanda continued, brushing her dark hair
back off her shoulders, "why didn't you give us this kind of welcome
when Nakajima took Corellia?  We know you were there just before the
surrender."  Corellia's navy had vanished by the time Nakajima's ships
had reached it, and the surrender of the system had been a matter of
minutes.
	"I had nothing to do with the whole situation," Tagge replied,
his bulk trembling a bit with rage - false, Devlin knew, but Tagge
came from a long line of deceptive corporate scum.  "From the
beginning TaggeCo and its subsidiaries have been stonewalled and
deceived by the Corellian government and Clark's administration!  We
are as shocked as anyone that Federation ships would attack their own
citizens!"
	"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Devlin said, stepping forward and
feeling a bit of smug satisfaction as the AEGIS badge on his drover
coat caught Tagge's full attention.  His mind sorted through a sudden
wave of uncontrolled panic on Tagge's part and pulled out some very
interesting data.  "The desk covers a secret access hatch," he
continued.  "The floorplans we downloaded from the Authority database
were forged; there's a large secret chamber one floor down,
inaccessible except through this room, with a secured computer and
backup - hardcopy files?"
	Devlin smirked at the images that flickered across the surface
of Tagge's brain.  "Anything worth doing is worth doing well, eh,
what, Baron old chum?" he asked.  "Full records of government bribes,
illegal contributions to certain campaigns, notification of select
government activities, all in detail. And you've already lost access
to the destruct switch..."  He pushed just a little, and Tagge's sweat
dripped down his corpulent face as Devlin added, "But access by any
means other than the hatch triggers the destruct code, and there's a
tricky little password you need to open the hatch safely."
	"You'll never get the password out of me, teep," Tagge
growled. 
	"Who, me?"  Devlin asked, smiling amiably.  "I am a peaceful
man, Baron.  The amount of mental probin' I'd have to do to extract the
password from you would be very painful - and distasteful, what?  Not
the sort of thing a gentleman does.  No, I wouldn't dream of trying to
get the password from you."
	Tagge's brief moment of confusion gave Devlin another bit of
amusement, which was wiped away as Rina Dragonaar stepped forward.  For
all the softness and shapeliness of her body, there seemed nothing
soft about her now, especially not those aqua eyes, glaring out from that
flawless face of blue framed with red.
	"I, on the other hand," she said, "would be -thrilled- to
extract that password.  Along with any other information you might
give up as your nerves scream... "  She pulled a vibroknife from its
sheath, switching the blade into motion and running it just underneath
Tagge's nose.  "... as your life's blood drips from a thousand tiny,
agonizing cuts, drop by beautiful drop."
	Devlin had to concentrate hard to keep from giggling at the
wave of comic revulsion that came from Rina as she vamped the Baron,
and he had to hand it to her - not a hint showed on her face of how
utterly repellent she found the thought of touching him enough to
torture him.
	A word flashed across Tagge's mind as the baron began to
hyperventilate with fear, and Devlin set a hand on Rina's shoulder.
"I have it," he said.  "Leave him for the courts.  Subcenturion,
please move the Baron aside and enter the word 'Knickerbocker' on the
panel underneath the desk."
	"Yes, sir," one of the guards nodded, stepping forward and
pushing Tagge's expensive chair aside.  After a moment of keytapping,
he asked, "Sir, is 'knickerbocker' spelled with one or two Q's?"
	"Never mind, I'll do it," Devlin said.  A few seconds later
the desk flipped forward, financial reports from Biscuit Baron,
Mobquet Swoops and Speeders, and Tagge Network Entertainment sliding
off onto the floor, revealing a second office down a narrow stairwell
below.
	"My, my," Devlin muttered, "however do you get down there,
Baron?  Butter the banister?"
	"I'm not saying or thinking anything else without a lawyer,"
Tagge muttered.
	"Oh, don't worry," Devlin smiled. "You won't be forced to
testify against yourself in court.  In fact," he noted, looking at the
piles and piles of records stacked neatly below, the rows of file
cabinets and the computer that occupied one entire wall of the room,
"I don't imagine we'll need your testimony at all, what?  But thank
you for offering.  Damn sportin' of you, old man.  Damn sportin'."
	As four of the guards climbed down the stairs to secure the
room, Devlin stepped over to Amanda, who scowled at Tagge and his
group of fellow corporate leaders.
	<You seem dissatisfied,> Devlin thought to her.  <We have
everything we hoped for from this mission, and more if I'm not
mistaken.>
	<I think we should kill him anyway,> Amanda thought back.  <He
and his fathers have bled this galaxy grey, subverted its governments,
all for the sake of a profit margin.>
	<We've had this discussion before,> Devlin replied.  <Justice
lasts longer than vengeance.  The courts will handle Tagge.>
	<Whose courts?> Amanda thought, and Devlin paused to consider
that.  <Do you think the Federation will survive to try its own?  Can
you think of any court that all the wronged parties will accept?
Whose law will prevail?>
	Devlin thought as hard as he could, but he couldn't come up
with an answer to that.  He only hoped someone else could.

			       HOFFMAN
			     RIGEL SECTOR
			    JULY 19, 2412

	The Federation blockade of Hoffman hadn't led to an invasion
for the simple reason that there were few Federation ground forces
capable of invading a three-Standard-gravity world.  There were other
heavy-G worlds in the Federation, of course, most notable among them
Valeria, but the Valerians and the Hoffmanites had a bond of kinship
which made them loyal to each other more than to any overarching
polity.  When the Starfleet Marine Corps' Valerian Shock Regiment was
ordered to invade recalcitrant Hoffman, their response had been to
gather their gear and defect en masse to the International Police,
where they were currently sacking the Earthforce garrison at Proxima
Centauri.
	So the Federation had opted for the simpler expedient of
blockading the Hoffman system and starving the Hoffmanites into
submission - which would have worked fine, except that Hoffman was not
only self-sufficient but a major food exporter to the galaxy at large.
The result of this ill-conceived effort was that -other- worlds, some
of them still loyal, were starving, while the Hoffmanites were merely
gathering more of a grudge against the Federation over the mercantile
pummeling they were taking without the ability to export.
	Until, that is, the day the International Police flagship and
her flag battle group came to the system.
	"Well, that should about take care of that," said Admiral
Hutchins to the holographic image of the planet's governor, the
Honourable J. Maurice MacEchearn the Third.  "We'll leave one of our
destroyers here to keep your trade routes open and watch for pirates;
if the Federation comes back, which isn't likely, they'll signal and
we'll fold in reinforcements.  Fair enough?"
	MacEchearn nodded his massive grey-fuzzed head and smiled.
"Fair enough, thank you, Admiral."  Then he smiled and added, "I'd
invite you to a reception at the Governor's Mansion to demonstrate our
gratitude, but I doubt you'd enjoy it."
	Gryphon grinned.  "Thanks for the thought, anyway.  At any
rate, we must press on."
	"By the way," added the governor with a twinkle in his eye, "I
don't suppose the destroyer you're leaving me is Valiant?"
	"No, I'm afraid not, Your Honor," Gryphon replied, chuckling.
"Captain Tenjou and her ship stay with me, it's the only way I'm
confident of getting out of this mess alive."
	"Well, a man can hope," rumbled MacEchearn jovially.  "I'd ask
for permission to come up and wish my boy a happy birthday properly,
but Captain Tenjou probably wouldn't appreciate the noise.  Do you
think I might get a channel to Valiant before you dash on to your next
objective, though?"
	"I believe that can be arranged.  Vision, you'll take care of
that for Governor MacEchearn?"
	"I'm on it," replied the machine intelligence from the
viewscreen to the admiral's left.
	"Well, then, I leave you in Vision's capable hands, and the
Ardent will stay right here until the crisis is past."
	"Very good, Admiral.  Thank you again for your help."
	"No trouble, Your Honor, it's our job.  Invincible out."
	The image disappeared, and Gryphon leaned back in his chair
and sighed.  Lowering his eyes to his lap, he inquired of his most
trusted advisor, "That went pretty well, don't you think?  I wish they
were all that easy."
	"Wurf," replied Wolfgang agreeably.
	"OK, Ops, what's next on the list?"
	One of Luornu Durgo turned to the admiral from her operations
panel and said, "Looks like Denobula's closest."
	"All righty, then."  Handing the Lensbeagle to a faintly
bemused Tasmia Mallor, the admiral stood up and went to the forward
rail dividing the elevated flag bridge from the main bridge.  Leaning
over it, he said, "Lore?"
	"Yo," replied his flag captain from the center seat.
	"Prize crews on all the captured ships?"
	"All set," Lore grinned.  "Ardeen's screening the defectors
for moles now.  Man, I could retire on the prize money we're pulling
down."
	"If the courts ever award it," Gryphon said.  Prize money for
captured ships was becoming a major headache, and the system was
almost breaking down under the conditions of civil war.  The captures
of the first day of the war had been dealt with swiftly.  Those at
Jyurai, captured after declaration of an aggressive war, had been
Droits of War, plain and simple, although dividing up fifty ships'
worth of prize awards between two separate jurisdictions and nearly
two hundred ships' companies hadn't left much for anybody.
	The captures and surrenders made at Zeta Cygni and Bajor had
been Droits of Admiralty - in plainer language, not legitimate prizes
of war because no war had officially been declared.  As a result,
those ships were being held 'in trust' by the IPO pending the end of
the war, and nobody got any prize money for them.
	The captures -afterward-, however, were filled with complaints
regarding the legitimacy of secession from the Federation, the
recognition of the right of a nation to enforce its own laws, the
difference between declared and de facto war, and so many other
questions that a ship dropped into the prize courts might just as well
be dropped into a black hole.
	None of which bothered Gryphon very much; he didn't need the
prize money, and he was making good use of the captured ships.  "Soon
as Governor MacEchearn's off the phone and I get my Flag Security
officer back aboard, make all speed for Denobula," he said.
	"Roger wilco, Big Kahuna," replied Lore.
	Gryphon went back to his seat, accepted his beagle, and turned
to his Flag Intel officer.  "Vi, what've we got on Denobula?"
	Another day, another liberation.

			PARIS, EARTH ALLIANCE
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			    AUGUST 6, 2412

	Admiral Roger Cartwright stared into the eyes of a madman, who
just happened to be the President of the Federation.  Of course, as of
0300 hours the previous day, the United Federation of Planets consisted 
of Earth and only Earth, but Cartwright was still responsible for the
defense of the Federation... even if President Clark thought he'd made
a dog's dinner of it.
	"I do not care to hear your excuses any longer, Admiral
Cartwright," that cold, emotionless voice said.  "What I want to hear
is when you intend to have sufficient forces in this system to destroy
the Babylon conquest fleet."  The President's eyes seemed to glow with
intensity they stared at Cartwright, and the admiral wondered briefly
if Clark were an unregistered telepath.
	"Dammit, Mr. President, I am -trying,-" Cartwright said.  "I
have been trying for the past three months, ever since your hare-
brained scheme to prevent a civil war triggered one we couldn't win!"
Calm, he told himself, this is still your President, no matter how he
got that way; you're committed now.  "Every time I've tried to
assemble enough forces to hold a system, the Alliance fleet sweeps in
before we're ready and snaps them up!  I've lost over a hundred ships
to surrenders since May 10, with nothing to show for it!"
	"You have more than a hundred ships," Clark said quietly.  It
disturbed Cartwright how Clark could remain so calm and cold under the
circumstances, with the Federation all but destroyed.  "You had more
than five hundred at the end of May 10.  There are only one hundred
forty in orbit above this planet.  Where have you put the other ships,
Admiral?"
	"It depends, President," Cartwright shot back in the same
tone.  "My flagship has been in drydock ever since we were towed back
from where our warp core had to be jettisoned."  USS Odyssey had been
stranded for nearly a full day some thirty light-years away from
Earth - in Cartwright's estimation, a day which had proved decisive in
the swiftness of the Federation's collapse.  "In fact, a lot of our
ships are -missing- from drydock, stolen by God knows who.  Probably
the same place all the AWOL ships I can't track are, too."
	"Why did you let them go AWOL?"
	"Nobody 'lets' a ship go AWOL," Cartwright said, "it just
happens.  There are at least two hundred ships, including ships that
were under construction, that I can't track anymore.  Not to mention
entire -brigades- of Earthforce Marines and their transports.  And I
can't look for them because the Centauri will let our ships into the
Solar system, but they won't let them back out again.  I'll have to
fight a major battle just to retreat, if there's any ships left to
fight with after Hutchins and his mob get here."
	"You will fight to the last ship," Clark said, colder than
ever before.
	"That would be a waste of ships and men," Cartwright said.  "I
still say you and what's left of the Federation government should
evacuate and retreat to the Outer Rim.  There are planets out there
that could let us continue the fight on more equal terms."
	"You will fight to the last ship -here-," Clark said, and then
jumped up, leaned over his desk, and grabbed Cartwright by the
shoulders and pulled him forward.  "Listen to me very carefully,
Cartwright.  If you do not stand your ground until every ship of
either their fleet or yours is destroyed, your life after retreat will
be short and full of torment.  It has already been arranged."
	Cartwright reached up and pushed Clark off of him, dropping
the President onto his desktop.  "You, Mr. President, are mentally
unbalanced," he said at last.  "I should never have listened to you in
the first place.  You have cost me my fleet, my career, and maybe even
my life."  He straightened his uniform and added, "But you are still
my President, and so I'm going to fight your futile battle.  Not for
your damn pride or your mad dreams of ruling like some Santovasku
Emperor," he said, standing to attention, "but so that the United
Federation of Planets Starfleet can, just maybe, save a little
something of its honor."
	With that parting shot, Cartwright saluted Clark, turned a
snappy about-face, and marched proudly out of the Presidential
office.  Clark watched the admiral go, impassive, uncaring.
	"It really matters little what you do now, Cartwright," he
said to nobody in particular.  "And as for myself, there are a last
few details to be put in order before the Experts of Justice and their
allies arrive."

		     TRANSLUNAR SPACE ABOVE EARTH
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			    AUGUST 8, 2412

	The Federation starship Odyssey soared free once more, at
least in the higher orbits of the last world remaining in the
Federation.  Although a new warp core had been installed, other
repairs had been left unfinished.  Cartwright had returned his flag to
a ship incapable of achieving lightspeed or metaspace because, quite
frankly, he didn't intend to retreat; he would fight, and die if need
be, here at the last ditch with what remained of Starfleet and
Earthforce.
	The Odyssey's viewscreen showed the spread of Federation ships
which she was rushing to join; Cartwright frowned at its reduced size.
Just over three months before, he'd claimed as many as twelve hundred
warships under Federation command, from several different services.
Hell, two -days- ago he'd claimed about a hundred and forty, and yet
for every ship he'd kicked out of drydock or the construction yards
one, or sometimes two, fully operational ships had somehow avoided the
Centauri deep-space patrols and vanished to parts unknown.  At the
end, the Federation was down to one planet (less, considering the
rapid success of the revolt in Texas) and one-tenth its military
strength (less, considering how many half-finished and patchwork-
monster ships had been pushed into the line of battle).
	The armada on its way to counter him was no less than five
times his own.  The Babylon Alliance had spread itself a little thin,
garrisoning all the worlds it had had to take by force and patrolling
against the sudden increase in pirate, Big Fire, and Ktulhu activity,
but apparently Gryphon's problem in assembling the final fleet hadn't
been getting enough ships but rather beating back the flood of
volunteers.  The resulting fleet had representatives of every member
of the now-formalized Galactic Alliance, including the now secularized
but still very bloodthirsty Sivar battle fleet. Kilrathi, Klingon,
Jyurai, Barrayaran, and virtually every former Federation world from
the Andorians to the Zentraedi were represented in that force, with
the bulk of tonnage being WDF, Salusian and Freespacer ships.
	And that armada was definitely on its way, inbound at high
sublight speed.  The Alliance had liberated Titan late the previous
day without opposition and used it as their final staging site; now
they were inside Martian orbit and would arrive at Lunar orbit, at the
fringe of Earth's massive defense network, within minutes.  Those
defenses were extensive - gravity interdiction satellites, automated
phaser and torpedo platforms, orbital minefields of every type and
description - and they were under Cartwright's control and part of his
overall battle plan.
	One benefit of the ninety days since the battle at Babylon 6
was that Cartwright had taken the time to retrain and drill the
remaining forces in squadron maneuvers - and, more to the point, he'd
learned when to quit worrying about those formations and to get on
with the fighting.  His battle plan was simple: engage the Alliance
forces at close quarters so that their Omega-class weapons couldn't
engage without hitting their own ships, draw the enemy fleet down into
the defense grid, and pray that the combination of the two would
somehow yield victory.
	Cartwright knew it couldn't work, but he was in the same
position as Lee at Appomattox, Colonel Green at Calgary, and Galvatron
at Ghorah Khar: unable to retreat, committed to his faction, with the
only choices to fight or surrender.  Given the two choices, and given
the shame that President Clark's choices - and his own, he admitted -
had brought on Starfleet, he chose one last fight for Federation over
the meek indignity of surrender.
	"Open a channel to the Babylon flagship," Cartwright said to
the Odyssey's communications officer.  A few seconds later, the bridge
of IPS Invincible appeared on the screen, and up on the flag bridge a
stocky brown-haired man stood from his chair and walked to the
railing.  Cartwright was slightly startled to notice a dog curled up
on the floor to the right of the chair, napping at the feet of a
grim-faced Gamilon girl in a long cloak - but only slightly.  He tsk'd
to himself, remarking (not for the first time) what complete weirdos
these old-time Wedge Defenders had all become.  Maybe immortality
wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
	"This is the International Police Starship Invincible," he
said, "Admiral Benjamin Hutchins commanding the Galactic Alliance
Treaty Organization fleet.  State your business."
	Cartwright stood up himself, placing himself at parade rest
and reciting the words he'd worked out for this moment.  "This is
Admiral Roger Cartwright commanding the United Federation of Planets
Starfleet," he said.  "You are in violation of Federation law and
interplanetary piracy treaties.  I hereby order you to stand down your
vessels and surrender to proper Federation authorities at once.  If
you persist in your attack, we will be forced to open fire."
	Reviewing the recordings after the fact, Gryphon felt very
proud of himself for not laughing - humorlessly, but laughing, all the
same - in Cartwright's face at that little speech.
	Instead he replied, "Are you still singing that song,
Cartwright?  It's -over-, Admiral.  I don't know where you're hiding
the rest of your fleet, but it doesn't matter - the force I have
behind me now could have stopped you cold with what you had at Babylon
6.  The Federation government has betrayed its trust, and we're here
to put an end to it.  Don't try to stop us."
	Cartwright paused, checking the scans of the oncoming
fleet.  "I notice that you have Federation ships among your forces,
Admiral Hutchins," he said.
	"Former Federation ships," Gryphon replied.  "They're being
held in trust by the International Police, pending final settlement by
the Babylon Project's representatives.  Those with me are under the
command of Commodore Jean-Luc Picard, IPSF."
	"Indeed," Cartwright responded.  "Well, tell Picard for me that
I swore an oath to uphold, protect and defend the Federation, and
whatever course any of you take," he said, "I will stand by my oath,
good or bad, until the very end."
	"Wake -up-, Cartwright!" Gryphon snarled, his composure
fractured slightly by Cartwright's mulish dogmatism.  "The Federation
you swore to serve died on March 10, 2410!  William Clark stabbed it
in the back and you've spent the last three months helping him hide
the body!  And if you don't give a damn about -that-," he went on,
seeing the intransigent look on Cartwright's face deepen, "what about
your men?" Gryphon asked.  "Will you lead the rest of them to the
slaughter as well?  I don't want any more killing, Cartwright.
There's been too much blood as it is."
	"I don't entertain the same prospects of this battle as you
do," Cartwright lied.  "And I suppose there's only one way to settle
this.  Goodbye, Admiral Hutchins."
	Gryphon sighed a tired sigh.  "Goodbye, Admiral Cartwright,"
he said resignedly, and Vision broke the connection.
	Cartwright sat down, noted the position and speed of the
incoming fleet, and said, "Cartwright to all ships.  Accelerate to
half impulse and intercept the Babylon fleet.  Attack formation
Gamma."  As his fleet lunged forward, in much better trim than the
larger armada had managed at Babylon 6, Cartwright opened up a panel
on his command chair and, with a few keystrokes, brought Earth's
defense grid to full combat readiness.  The gambit was set; now to
play it out to its bitter conclusion.

	Gryphon chuckled despite the situation as the heart of the
Federation fleet accelerated for battle.  "Flag to all ships, stand
by," he said, and keyed a switch on the flag console to open a
ship-to-ship communications.  "Flag to Overstreet," he said: "Are you
ready for a little liberation music?"
	"Do it to it," the Redneck replied.  "GATO Task Force Gray
secure for Goldfish Warning... but it better be a good song."
	"It's a winner," Gryphon replied, smiling just a little at the
thought.  "All right, then."  He turned to a display panel and nodded
to Vision, whose icon wore DJ headphones.
	"Patched in, all set!" she said, giving Gryphon a thumbs-up.
	"Thirty seconds to firing range," a voice called up from the
command bridge.
	Gryphon turned to Imra Ardeen, who had been around for the
first Goldfish Warning use of the music in question, and nodded to
her.  She smiled, touched a control on the flagcomm console, and said
a mere three words over the tightbeam channel thus opened:
	"OK - hit it."
	"Flag to all ships," Gryphon announced on the general band.
"Sound Goldfish Warning."

	Back on Titan, one of the finest, and presently angriest, rock
bands in the galaxy - delivered there by IPS Valiant the day before -
wound up and slammed down a driving, thrusting lead-in groove.  They
threw all the outrage they felt into their opening number, an old, old
song that had struck their leader as perhaps more appropriate now than
when it was written.  Over the pounding of her band's angry beat, the
voice of Kaitlyn Hutchins blistered the Earthforce and GATO tactical
bands, inspiring the latter as it confused and angered the former:

	/*  The Alarm  "Rockin' in the Free World"  _Raw_  */

"There's colors on the street
Red white and blue
People shufflin' their feet
People sleepin' in their shoes
There's a warning sign on the road ahead
There's a lot of people sayin' they'd be better off dead
Don't feel like Satan but I am to them
So I try to forget it any way I can

Keep on rockin' in the Free World
Keep on rockin' in the Free World
Keep on rockin' in the Free World
Keep on rockin' in the Free World"
	
	As music flooded the command channels of both sides, the two
fleets met and interpenetrated each other, barely avoiding any
ship-to-ship collisions as Alliance and Federation exchanged
broadsides at point-blank range.  Both fleets slowed to come about for
combat, a handful of casualties from either side drifting onward on
momentum, atmosphere bleeding from their wounds.
	The Federation fleet, having drilled again and again for this
precise battle plan, came about first and accelerated, driving back
through the Alliance fleet, this time remaining entangled with the
enemy ships, delivering phasers, blasters, torpedoes and missiles into
the heart of the larger force.
	If the GATO fleet was severely discommoded by not being able
to bring their superweapons to bear, they didn't show it.  The Star
Destroyers, which had been designed specifically for this kind of
combat and lacked Class Omega weapons as a result, were in their
element, and the other ships fared not poorly either.  The fast
destroyers darted in and out, employed almost like giant fighters, and
the IPO flagship's deck guns filled in for her Wave Motion Guns with
the full flexibility of their turret mounts.
	At the center of it all, two men directed their respective
forces, Gryphon through a list of admirals that read like a Who's Who
of recent military history, Cartwright with no one but himself to
coordinate with.  Both fleets continued to move towards Earth, with the
Federation ships beginning to drop out or go down in greater numbers
as the greater firepower of the Alliance force began to tell.
	And as his flagship rocked under his seat, Cartwright watched
both forces drawing closer to the engagement perimeter of Earth's
defenses.  Just a few more minutes, he whispered to himself, faint hope
flickering in his heart despite all the knowledge of fifty years in
Starfleet.  Just a few more minutes...

	In one corner of the vast battlefield, which stretched in a
great arc from translunar space out almost to the orbit of Mars, an
Earthforce flotilla spearheaded by a Nova-class vessel squared off
against the rounded magenta insectoids of GATO Task Force Red, the
Irken Armada.  For a few minutes, as the subfleets jockeyed for
position, there wasn't much shooting between them; it was more of a
maneuvering game.
	On the bridge of the Irken flagship Magnificent, Grand Invader
Zim stood at the forward rail with his hands folded behind his back,
regarding his opponents with a thoughtful look.
	"What are you waiting for, my nemesis?" he murmured softly to
himself.
	At that moment, the turbolift at the back of the room opened
and two people emerged - neither of them Irken.  One -looked- vaguely
Irken, since Gir was of a type of helper droid that was designed to
look about as Irken as most human-built robots are supposed to look
human.
	The other newcomer, though, -was- human.  At a little more
than five feet tall, she towered over the Irken crewmen in the work
pits and Flag Captain Grem on his command podium, and Gir came up
barely to her waist.  Her pink skin stood out dramatically compared to
the dull green of the Irkens, but her unruly shoulder-length hair fit
in nicely - it was the same shade of purple as the parts of the crew's
Irken Armada uniforms that weren't black.  She was dressed in a
many-pocketed black flightsuit under which a light-and-dark-grey
striped body glove could be seen, and an Invader's cyber-utility pack
was affixed to her back.
	As she and Gir emerged from the lift, the woman was speaking,
saying in a quiet, husky voice, "... feel a little guilty, that's
all."
	Gir shrugged and replied cheerfully, "Of course you feel
guilty!  Earthwomen always - "
	"NO, Gir," she snapped, her light brown eyes flashing almost
golden.  "That's not what I'm talking about.  It's just... they're a
bunch of creeps, but still, we're attacking my homeworld here."
	"Ohhhhhh," said Gir.  "Well, we might not have to bomb the
planet itself!"
	"Thanks," replied the girl darkly.  "That's reassuring."
	"I exist only to please you," replied Gir brightly.  "And make
brownies!" he added, producing a plate of brownies from somewhere and
offering one to his human companion.
	"My Lord Invader!" said Communications Technician Jorg.
"Signal from the enemy flagship!"
	Zim nodded.  "I wondered how long it would take him to get
around to this.  Put him through."
	The front window shivered as a projector field overlaid it,
and then the view of the maneuvering Earthforce task force was
replaced by a frontal shot of a Nova-class starship's bridge.  A lean,
pale man with slick black hair above an imposingly high forehead and
the ebony uniform of a Psi Cop leaned forward in the center seat, his
eyes widening with aggressive eagerness behind dataglasses.  At the
sight of him, Zim scowled, the human girl sidled out of the viewer
pickup's field of view and glared...
	... and Gir waved frantically, jumping up and down to get
-into- the field of view, while shouting, "HI DIB!!"
	"So!" said the Psi Cop in a gloating tone, ignoring the little
droid completely (as, it must be admitted, did everyone else).  "They
sent -you-.  I should have figured they would.  Hell, I was -hoping-
they would!  Opportunities like this don't come along every day."
	"Is that so," replied Zim, unimpressed.  Nonchalantly, he took
a brownie from the plate Gir held, bit it, and went on, "Then why
don't you attack, Dib?" - dropping as much scornful emphasis on the
name as possible.  "You can't destroy me if you don't open fire, you
know," said the Invader as though lecturing a particularly stupid
child.
	"Patience, Zim," replied Psi Corps Captain D.B. "Dib" McBain,
his voice dripping with loathing.  "First I want to talk to my
sister."
	The Earthwoman in black stepped up behind Zim, arms folded
over her chest, and said angrily, "Your sister has nothing to say to
you, Dib.  Except that you're still a useless tool."
	"I'm giving you one last chance, Gaz," said Dib imperiously.
"Throw off whatever these alien monsters have done to you and come
home to the Corps!  It's not too late for you to come back to your own
people."
	Gaz snorted derisively.  "Go to hell, Dib, and take the Psi
Corps and your bullshit xenophobia with you.  Zim and his people did
something my 'own people' -never- did for me: They accepted me for who
and what I -am-, instead of what they wanted me to be."  She put her
hands on the Grand Invader's head, smoothing back his antennae, and
narrowed her eyes at her brother.  "And what I am," she added flatly,
"is an Invader."
	The Psi Cop's composure momentarily broke as he watched his
sister... well, there was really no other word for it, -caressing- the
alien.  His eye twitched, he swallowed hard - and then, with an
obvious effort, he adopted an air of cool, unconcerned disdain.  He
shook his head, a touch of affected sadness crossing his face.
	"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said.  "I'll see to it that
you get a nice tombstone."
	Gaz drew breath to respond, but before she could, Zim stepped
from under her hands and strode two steps closer to the screen, so
that even his diminuitive frame would be filling the Earthforce ship's
main viewer.  His jagged teeth set in a snarl and his scarlet eyes
glittering with rage, he spat,
	"And -I- will see to it that your PLASMA-BLEACHED BONES
decoratethehalloftheVANQUISHED, you WORRRRRM!  There they shall serve
as a perpetual reminder to FUTURE GENERATIONS of the FOLLY of contending 
against the IRKEN ELITE - especially your HIDEOUSLY MALPROPORTIONED
SKULL!" 
	With that, the Grand Invader threw back his head and laughed
until his antennae were wobbling in opposite directions.  Then he
stopped laughing as if a switch had been thrown, stuffed the rest of
his brownie into his mouth, chewed rapidly, swallowed, flung his cloak
back dramatically with one outstretched hand and bellowed, "ZIM to ALL
SHIPS!  OPEN - FIIIIIIIIRE!!"
	Dib's anger-darkened face vanished as the display switched off
and restored the window to its usual function, just in time to show
the bridge crew the opening salvos as both fleets flung themselves
into full engagement.
	Gir sidled up to his master, leaned confidentially over, and
remarked, "That was really sweet!"
	"Not NOW, Gir!" snapped Zim, though both Gir and Gaz could
tell from the positioning of his antennae that he was pleased.  "Zim
is WORKING!  ELEMENT FOUR!  Tighten up your formation and cut off that
Hyperion-class, Captain Bem, or you'll be demoted to SEWAGE WORKER
THIRD CLASS!"

			PARIS, EARTH ALLIANCE
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			    AUGUST 8, 2412

		 /*  Jerry Goldsmith  "Who Are You?"
	 The Shadow: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack_  */

	William Morgan Clark, President of the United Federation of
Planets, sat alone in his office, looking rather blankly at the
computer terminal on his desk.  Above him, Cartwright and his ships
were fighting and losing the last battle, as Clark had known they
would.  The game was almost at its end.
	"This is the voice of the Mysterons," he murmured, a thin,
sardonic smile creeping onto his face.  "We know that you can hear us,
Earthmen... "
	"It threw us for a while at first," said an unexpected voice
in the quiet of the presidential office.  The thing that had been
William Clark actually started slightly, turning in his chair to see a
tall, broad, dark form emerge from the shadows at the back of the
office.
	"The fact that you didn't get on all the comms and reel off
your signature line, I mean," said MegaZone conversationally from
behind the muzzle of his enormous black pistol.  "You got smarter, or
trickier, or both.  Almost like you were taking lessons from someone
on how to be a better shadowy conspiracy.  When did you replace Clark,
while he was EA president?  Before then?"
	"You're too late, Chaoswalker," Clark replied calmly, ignoring
the question.  "Where were you three months ago, when your agent
brought you the evidence you used to discredit me throughout your
alliance?  The security of my office obviously poses no problem for
you.  You could have finished me then and saved millions of lives.
Why didn't you?"
	MegaZone's shadowed face darkened into a scowl.  "I've been
busy trying to save -trillions-," he replied.
	"Ah, yes.  Your Galactic Alliance Treaty Organization.  I
suppose you have some utopian vision of it rising phoenix-like from
the ashes of the Federation once you've dealt with me.  Well, you can
hold onto that hope if it makes you feel better, but I'm afraid it
won't work.  Not after I play my final card.  This planet will be an
open wound in your galaxy once I'm done with it - a permanent reminder
of the cost of your righteous alliance's 'victory'."
	Zoner tightened his fist slightly on Foe-Hammer's grip and
said, "I don't think so.  I may be a little late, but now it's over,
Clark.  Make a move toward that console and you'll be ash before you
know it, and even you bastards can't regenerate from that."
	Clark folded his hands in his lap and regarded Zoner
complacently.  The ease of the president's capitulation made him
uneasy.  He moved slightly closer, making no sound on the hardwood
floor of the office despite his size and the bulk of his boots, and
kept Clark covered as he asked,
	"Tell me something, 'Mr. President'.  I've been trying and
trying to figure this out ever since your people first appeared.  What
do you hope to accomplish with all your plans and mind games, your
'war of nerves'?  What do you -want-?"
	Clark's dead slate eyes bored into Zoner's deep dark ones with
a look of such unsettling intensity that the former Wedge Defender
nearly flinched.
	"The same thing you want, Chaoswalker," he replied calmly.
"The same thing you have devoted your life to.  -Chaos-."  Then he
smiled coldly and added, "The ascension of the ordinary man."
	Zoner scowled.  "What the hell does -that- mean?"
	"It means," replied Clark with that same cold little smile,
"you lose... Wedge Rat."
	The computer on Clark's desktop beeped, and an unnervingly
calm computerized voice announced, "Scorched Earth protocol engaged."
	Zoner's eyes widened.  "You SON of a - !" he snarled.
Thrusting Foe-Hammer forward, he bellowed, "Turn it off!"
	"No," Clark replied flatly.  "Say goodbye to your homeworld,
Earthman.  This is the voice of the Mysterons... "
	Then President William Morgan Clark began, shrilly and
maddeningly, to laugh, and he kept laughing until Foe-Hammer's
disruptor setting reduced him to a cloud of foul-smelling smoke.
	Zoner rounded the desk, already shoving the weapon back into
his coat, and tapped a few commands at the keyboard of the flashing
red terminal - but it was locked, and his efforts were useless.
	"Fuck!" he snarled, then activated his handlink and cried,
"Zoner to Invincible - Gryph, I just bought a shitload of trouble
wholesale and I'm passin' the savings on to you!"

		      CISLUNAR SPACE ABOVE EARTH
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			    AUGUST 8, 2412

	      /*  Bon Jovi  "It's My Life"  _Crush_  */

	Cartwright noticed something peculiar on his command chair's
panel, tapped a couple of keys on the panel, and then tapped others
frantically as the display refused to respond.  "Scanners!" he shouted
over the thunder of battered shields.  "Get me a readout on Earth's
defense satellites, stat!"
	"Scanning..."  A thunderous barrage caused the shields to
flare around the Odyssey, and power flickered for a moment on the
bridge before things settled back down.  "Hold on... Admiral,"
Commander Moriarty said slowly, "the defense satellites are changing
their targets.  They're turning towards Earth, sir!"
	"I didn't order that!" Cartwright snapped, tapping his armrest
console again.  This did have an effect; the display showing the
defense grid's readiness status was replaced by a countdown clock,
with the legend:

		       VOICE COMMAND RECOGNIZED
		   SCORCHED EARTH PROTOCOL ENABLED
		      TIME REMAINING TO LAUNCH:

	The numbers were already flashing down- less than six hundred
seconds - ten minutes - running down to Armageddon.  "Clark," he
whispered, knowing who was behind it.  Nobody else remaining in the
Federation government had the authority.  If I hadn't been watching
the status readout, he shuddered, I wouldn't have known until it was
too late.
	"Signal cease-fire to all ships, both fleets!" he shouted.
"Divert all weapons power to shields and cease fire!  And get me an
open line to Hutchins, NOW!"
	The thunder died off around the Odyssey as the weapons of both
sides were silenced.  A few moments later, the comm officer said,
"Invincible reports that they're busy right now, can we please hold?"
	"Hold -this-," Cartwright growled, jumping from his console
and yanking the comm officer's earbug pick-up from her ear. "This is
Admiral Cartwright, Invincible," he shouted.  "Turn off that goddamn
music and put Hutchins on NOW."
	A moment later Gryphon glared from the Odyssey's viewscreen.
"-What-?" he snapped, saying volumes with the one angry word.
	"President Clark has started some doomsday protocol with
Earth's defense systems," Cartwright said.  "I've been locked out.  I
can't deactivate them."
	"We know," Gryphon said.  "We're trying to shut them down
now."
	"It won't work," Commander Moriarty said from his station.
"I've got access to Earthdome's old defense computer.  It's been
totally bypassed.  All the platforms are operating independently,
there's no way to shut them down."
	"There is one way," Cartwright said.  "Permanently.  Did you
hear that, Admiral?"
	"I heard," Gryphon nodded.  "How long do we have?"
	"Just over eight minutes," Cartwright said.  "I'm sending a
full readout of the defense grid to your command network now... and
ordering an armistice for the duration of the emergency."  He handed
the comm officer's earpiece back to her and gestured around for the
orders to proceed.
	"Right," Gryphon nodded.  "Flag to all ships: download the
schematics being transmitted from Odyssey and target Earth's defense
grid.  Leave the interdiction satellites for last - focus starfighters
on orbital mines and capital ships on the robot platforms."
	"Federation ships and fighters comply," Cartwright added.
"Fighters be warned that the mines will attack any targeting craft
within one kilometer, regardless of IFF code."
	"We copy, Odyssey," Gryphon nodded.  "Let's get busy."

	IPS Enterprise, formerly USS Enterprise, shuddered as she
passed through the atomized remains of yet another phaser platform.
Off to port, Valiant screamed through the North American Aerospace
Defense Grid, her point phasers picking off mines with surgical
precision while her pulse guns savaged the missile satellites of the
44th Parallel Line.
	"Report," Picard said calmly, watching as Enterprise turned to
bear on one of the few remaining platforms, this one an older missile
platform from the dead Olympus world-government's anti-asteroid
defenses.
	"One thousand, four hundred twenty-two defensive installations
destroyed," Data said from the ops panel.  "Twenty-five... "
	Enterprise's torpedo tubes spat out two globes of red flame,
and a moment later Data amended his count: "Twenty-four installations
remaining.  Fifty seconds remaining... mark."
	"Well done," Picard nodded.  The sweep had gone around the
planet on both sides, beginning over western Europe and the Atlantic
Ocean and wrapping around to the Pacific.  Enterprise was cleaning up
the last few stationary platforms near the North Pole, sweeping away
threats to the population centers of Alaska and Canada.
	"Captain," Worf growled from his station, "I am reading photon
torpedoes charging at nine thousand kilometers."
	"Where?" Picard asked.  "There aren't supposed to be any
platforms left at that range."
	"Source located," Data added.  "Platform not listed on
Federation readout.  Model 54 photon torpedo platform."  The
viewscreen flickered to show a tiny dot well behind the Enterprise,
and Data added, "Platform is aimed at the city of Paris; countdown
stands at thirty seconds... mark."
	"No," Picard gasped.  That had been the first area swept - the
platform must have been cloaked, otherwise how could it have been
overlooked?  There were no ships close enough to stop it or
intercept... unless...
	"Admiral Cartwright," he said, "can you shut down the
interdiction satellites?"
	"I don't know!!" Cartwright shouted; he'd spotted the new
platform as well.  "Maybe!  But what good - "
	"Make it so!" Picard snapped.  "Data, plot microwarp jump to
intercept.  Fast."
	Data didn't pause to remark that a microwarp jump plotted in a
few seconds' time would be most unlikely to be accurate at all, nor
did he point out that Enterprise, when she arrived, would not be
aligned properly for destroying the platform even if sufficient time
remained for the shot.  Instead he did a brief calculation in his
head, made a decision without consulting the captain, accessed his
emotional protocols chip for a gut reaction, slaved Ensign Ro's helm
to his own console, and made a guess.
	When Enterprise came to rest, the result was not an intercept
in the sense Picard had intended, but it would be, in its way,
effective.	
	"All power to shields BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Picard shouted as,
three seconds after her jump, the platform fired forty fully
loaded photon torpedoes into the supercharged keel shields of the
Enterprise.
	Gravity on the bridge flip-flopped.  Ensign Ro, Riker, and
Worf, who hadn't been braced, flew up from their positions and, a
moment later, slammed back down hard as the systems overcompensated.
The lights flickered on, off, on, and finally to emergency lighting,
as consoles and panels around the rear of the bridge voided their
Sirius Cybernetics Corporation warranties, overloaded, and blew out.
	A few seconds later, to Picard's honest surprise, the
Enterprise was still in more or less one piece.  On the main viewer,
unnoticed by anybody aboard Enterprise, Valiant powered in at flank
speed and ashed the platform before it could salvo again.  (No one
aboard was really sure if it -could-, but Kozue was taking no
chances.)
	"Counselor Troi, take the helm," Picard said to Deanna, who
looked at him dubiously for a moment before changing seats and trying
to recall her very sketchy piloting lessons.  "Engineering, status!"
	Geordi La Forge shouted back through a static-filled
channel. "Hull breaches on decks thirty-one, thirty-three and
thirty-four!  Plasma coolant system offline!  We're building up to a
warp core breach in less than a minute and I can't shut down or eject!
We're evacuating now, sir, La Forge out!"
	Picard spared maybe a tenth of a second for horror that he was
about to lose half of his ship.  "All hands evacuate to saucer
section!" he shouted.  "Transporters retrieve all personnel on
engineering decks!  Launch all remaining shuttles!  Saucer separation
in thirty seconds - MARK!"
	Around the engineering hull and connecting neck of the
Galaxy-class battleship, escape pods jettisoned as personnel who
couldn't reach the saucer section in time launched and boosted away
from the doomed vessel.  The remaining personnel rode turbolifts,
scrambled up access ladders, ducked through closing blast doors and
vanished in transporter beams, until, only four seconds late, the
engineering hull was fully evacuated.
	As soon as the last blast door closed, the hard couplings
which held the two parts of the Enterprise together released.  Where
prior versions of the saucer-and-engineering model of starship had had
explosive bolts for one-time emergency saucer separations, the Galaxy
class had been designed to detach and reattach on purpose, one of the
few features of the design Gryphon had liked enough to steal for the
Sovereign class.  Now, as the couplings lowered themselves away from
the saucer section, and the Enterprise's auxiliary impulse engines
pushed the saucer away from the warp section, Picard hoped that the
design would save his crew.
	"Saucer is clear," Data said quietly.  "Impulse engines at ten
percent efficiency and climbing.  Overload building in engineering
section."
	"Deanna," a soft voice croaked from the deck, as Riker
regained consciousness.
	"Not now, Will, I'm driving," Deanna replied.
	"Driving?" Riker said.  "Try not to hit a tree."  He chuckled,
then groaned, at a memory of years ago.
	"Relax, Will," Picard said.  "Everything's going to be all
right."
	Unfortunately, it wasn't, because that was the moment in which
IPS Enterprise, NCC-1701-A, lost warp containment.  The resulting
shockwave of energy and debris scattered escape pods to the four
winds... and slammed into the closest object of all, the detached
saucer, with the force of an angry god.
	The sound of the impulse engines, almost subliminal in the
background, died completely, along with the lights.  The viewscreen
flickered, then refreshed at a lower brightness, as the planet Earth
pitched upwards in the forward view.
	"Status!" Picard shouted.
	"I, I, I don't know!" Deanna answered.  "The helm just stopped
working!  We've got no attitude control and we're falling towards
Earth's atmosphere!"  She tapped a few keys in frustration and
shouted, "I can't pull her up!"
	Data punched his own near-dead controls, stared at the
readouts, did a very rapid bit of calculation, and said the only thing
a sane person in that situation could say.
	"Oooooooooh, -shit.-"

	As radiation, and then ionization, prevented transporter lock,
Admiral Hutchins watched helplessly as the Enterprise's saucer section
flipped end over end, stabilized, then hit Earth's ionosphere and
plowed into the soup, the leading edges of the huge ship's armor
glowing and melting away under the heat of an unshielded, uncontrolled
reentry.  For about a minute, Enterprise streaked across the sunlit
half of the planet like a giant meteor; then, the flames slowly died,
and the scorched remains of the ship stabilized and flew straight, if
still far too fast, through the lower stratosphere.
	The Invincible's bridge crew watched the main viewer in
silence as the saucer managed to turn, ever so slightly, on its
remaining attitude thrusters, sidling its way over the crest of the
Appalachian mountain chains, until the bottom of the saucer scraped
the top of a mountain in the Alleghenies.  What happened after that
didn't make for very pleasant viewing, but somehow, some way, the
Enterprise's saucer section stayed upright until it bounced off the
top of a ridge and settled down in a long fold valley, plowing up
about two miles of trees, rocks and startled wildlife before coming to
its final resting place in the foothills surrounding the Kanawha
River.
	Gryphon turned to his Flag Security officer, asking her to do
something out of her job description but suited to her capabilities:
	"Imra?"
	Imra Ardeen concentrated, then nodded.  "They're alive.
Hurting, but alive."
	"Launch shuttles," Gryphon called over the rail to Lore.
"Let's get them out of there before anything else happens."

	The viewscreen of the Enterprise's bridge was dead; so was
everything else electrical except the emergency lamp in Beverly
Crusher's hand.  "Is everyone all right?" she asked as she climbed up
the emergency bridge access hatch, assisted from below by Data.
	"I think we'll live," Picard replied, checking over the
still-unconscious Ensign Ro.  "The Ensign has a concussion, and Will
has some broken ribs, but Worf kept them from being further injured."
He gestured at the huge Klingon, who wore an even larger improvised
bandage around his head.
	"I see," Beverly nodded, pulling out her tricorder to check
for herself.  "If you don't mind me asking, where the hell are we?"
	"West Virginia, I think," Deanna said.  She didn't really know
how she'd managed to get the ship down, but she'd managed to find the
right buttons for emergency deflectors, attitude thrusters, and other
controls as they were needed.  I am not doing this again, she thought,
until I take a full refresher course in starship piloting.
	Slow, painful laughter rose from Commander Riker as he lay,
flat on his back, on the deck.  "Congratulations, Deanna," he
chuckled, "your second time to drive and you managed to find a tree to
hit."
	"Quite a -lot- of trees," said Worf, for whom the situation
held no humor.
	"Shut up, Will," Deanna said.
	"Well," Beverly smiled, "you will be glad to know that despite
everything, there have been no fatalities on this ship.  One hell of a
lot of broken bones, some concussions, and one coronary infarction - "
	"Make that two," Picard admitted.
	"You have a bionic heart, Jean-Luc," Beverly said.
	"I think it stopped when we hit that mountain," Jean-Luc
replied.
	"Everyone's a critic," Deanna murmured.
	"Joking aside, Counselor," said Picard, "well done.  Under the
circumstances, very well done indeed.  You kept us all alive."
	"The ship, however," Beverly noted, "is a total loss.  The
lower two decks of the saucer are caved in - thankfully Geordi got
everyone away from the exterior of the saucer before we hit
atmosphere.  There's dirt and rocks filling the Ten-Forward lounge,
and about the only electronic device still working on the whole ship
is Mr. Barclay's old G.O.R.F. machine in the recreation deck."
	"Gorf?" Picard asked.
	"No relation," said Worf, a little defensively.
	"Well," Picard said to himself, looking around the remains of
the ship he'd commanded for eight years.  Finally, he said, "She had a
good run, while it lasted."
	Beverly nodded, then patted Picard's shoulder and said, "Well,
don't worry, Jean-Luc. I'm sure Gryphon will find a new ship for you
soon enough."
	"I'm sure he will," Picard smiled.  He found his chair, went
to sit in it, then realized that it had come free from its moorings
and would just tip over and dump him ignominiously on the deck if he
did so.  Will Riker struggled to his feet and came over to look down
at it, a pensive, sad look on his face.
	"It's funny, you know," he said.  "I always thought that chair
would be mine some day."
	Picard surveyed the chair for a moment, then looked at Riker,
then back at the chair, then back at Riker.
	Then, with a perfectly straight face, Picard made an
indicating gesture and replied, "It's all yours, Number One."
	Riker stared at his captain in utter disbelief; then a smile
split his bearded face.  He chuckled, winced, chuckled some more,
winced some more, then could contain himself no longer, threw back his
head, and laughed.  Then he groaned and lay back down on the floor
until Dr. Crusher could tape his ribs.
	Picard chuckled, then turned back to the dead viewer, his face
suddenly thoughtful again.
	"Isn't it amazing," he said.  "We had no power, no shields to
speak of, and we not only survived an uncontrolled reentry but made a
controlled crash landing?"
	"(We protect fools, small children, and ships named
Enterprise,)" whispered a soft, sultry voice in Picard's ear.
	Picard whirled, but all he saw was Worf, Dr. Crusher, and a
display panel that was in the process of flickering and dying again in
a random power spike from the saucer's shattered energy systems.  He
stared hard at the panel for several seconds, but it didn't flicker
again.
	"Did you say something, Beverly?" Picard wondered.
	"No," Crusher replied distractedly; she was busy seeing to the
gash across Worf's brow ridges.
	"Mr. Worf?"
	"Nothing you would want to hear, sir," said the Klingon,
flinching as the doctor dabbed disinfectant on the cut.
	"... Very good, carry on," Picard said, wondering if, perhaps,
he had sustained a head injury as well.

	Back in orbit, two intermingled fleets held station around the
planet, their commanders recovering from the scramble to prevent the
world's destruction.  A trickle of muted communications traffic passed
from ship to ship, from fleet to fleet, verifying casualties, damage,
and condition.  Finally, about fifteen minutes after the Enterprise
slammed into the North American continent, Cartwright called Gryphon
once more.
	"Admiral," Cartwright said, "I have made contact with people
in Paris.  They confirm the death of President Clark."
	"I could've told you -that-," Gryphon replied.
	"Good riddance," Cartwright frowned.  "In any case, they also
inform me that, with Clark's death and the secession, defection, or
desertion of the rest of the Federation government, I am now the
ranking representative of that government in the Solar System.
Therefore," he sighed, "as that ranking representative, I must state
that I see no further good prospects for the continuance of this war.
I therefore propose the unconditional surrender of my fleet and of all
forces within the Solar System.  I am ordering my fleet to drop
shields and accept boarders, and I hereby place myself in your
custody."
	"I wish you'd done that before I lost twelve ships," Gryphon
replied, "and you thirty."
	Cartwright shrugged.  "I can only plead that it was my duty,"
he said at last.  "I'm glad it's over now.  Cartwright out."
	Gryphon watched the viewscreen go blank, considered the planet
below, and sighed.  "I -wish-," he sighed, and leaned against the
railing.  "Lu, I'm going to be busy for a while," he said.  "Tell
Overstreet he has command of the fleet for the time being.  And hold
my calls."
	With that, Gryphon sat down at a terminal and began to draft
orders, his mind returning to Zoner's report of Clark's final words.
	Chaos.
	Well, Gryphon mused ruefully, they certainly succeeded in -that.-

		     STARBASE ONE, ORBITING EARTH
	       GALACTIC ALLIANCE OCCUPATION TERRITORIES
			   CENTAURI SECTOR
			    AUGUST 9, 2412

	A small group of people sat around a table in one of Starbase
One's classier restaurants.  Gryphon folded his menu, sighing to
himself.  "What a mess," he said, "what a Godawful fucked-up mess."
	"Looking at the fettucine Alfredo?" the Redneck asked, sitting
across from him, his face hidden by his own menu.
	"Earth," Gryphon said, "Earth, life, the universe, everything.
You'd think that with the war over, things would resolve themselves."
	"They never do," the Redneck said.  "Picked who you're going to
leave as military governor?"
	"No," Gryphon sighed. "I don't hate anybody enough except
maybe Cartwright, and there's no way I'm putting him in charge."
	"Kind of hard to run a planet from a jail-cell," Yuri quipped,
munching on one of the complementary breadsticks.
	"I'm leaning on the prosecutors to ask for leniency," Zoner
said from beside her.  He hadn't bothered with a menu, and the bowl of
chili that had appeared from nowhere before him was drawing hungry
looks from the others present, health hazard or not.  "The Federation
doesn't need any martyrs."
	"Any -more- martyrs," Aya Nakajima grumbled, sipping a Long
Island iced tea.  "There are protesters on several of the worlds my
ships occupied claiming that Styles, of all people, is a noble hero."
	"Maybe I should tell them where Styles ended up," Skuld smiled
from her seat.  She was looking over the dessert list, having skipped
the main menu altogether.  To no one's surprise, she was feeling a
righteous craving for ice cream.
	"What?" R-Type smiled.  "And have them attempt a rescue
mission?"
	"I hope they try it," the Redneck chuckled.
	"But that still leaves me without someone to run things here,"
Gryphon said.  "What about you, Kris?  Want a job?"
	"I have two already, thank you," the Redneck sighed.  "Terri
wants me to continue as Freespacer envoy to B6, especially now that
it's all the government we have left, galactically speaking."
	That was the truth, and nothing but.  Zoner had been working
overtime to get the former member states of the Federation to
formalize the Galactic Alliance military agreement, and even with
Jeremy Feeple's help that job was far from complete.  In fact, Feeple
was back on Salusia pushing ratification of the new GATO treaty
through Queen Asrial's Parliament, after which he'd go to Cybertron to
arrange for the formal ratification of the new alliance by the
Autobots.  Not even Zoner and Feeple combined, however, could convince
most of the non-human races to consider a reborn, reformed Federation.
	"What about Larry?" the Redneck added.  "GENOM used to own
California and a couple other nations back in the bad old days."  He
chuckled at the horrified look on R-Type's face and added, "Or, we
found the old Prince of Zanzibar this morning in Earthdome's prisons;
maybe we could just promote him to King of Earth."
	"Kris, I'm serious," Gryphon sighed.  "I'm not really into
jokes right now."
	"All right," the Redneck said, "John Sheridan.  And that is not
a joke."
	"Sheridan?" Gryphon thought for a long moment.  "Captain of the
Agamemnon?"
	"'Starkiller' Sheridan, Hero of the Nth Kilrathi War," the
Redneck added.  "Son of an honored Earth statesman, and a very straight
arrow.  Not to belabor the cliche, but I think we can do business with
a Sheridan."
	"Hm, I'll think about it, " said, Gryphon; then, with an
irritated sound he tossed his menu aside as his communicator went off.
"Gryphon here," he answered after flipping the unit open.  "What is it
now?"
	"There's been a major Ktulhu raid on Eridanus Major," Lu's
voice buzzed through the little speaker.  "The locals are asking for
help as fast as we can send it."
	"Understood," Gryphon sighed, pushing himself to his feet.
"Invincible, one to... "  He paused as Skuld put a hand on his leg;
slowly, she shook her head and gestured for him to take a seat.
	"You have good people," she said quietly.  "Let them handle
it."
	Gryphon thought about it, nodded, and said, "Never mind.  Ask
Noriko if she'd be willing to look into that for us, would you?"
	"Aye aye, Admiral," Lu replied.  "Invincible out."
	"That's the eighth Ktulhu raid in the past three weeks," Zoner
groaned.  "We have got to do something about them."
	"Plus six Big Fire incidents in the past two months," the
Redneck agreed.
	"And the Cardies are getting frisky again, too," said Yuri.
	Zoner nodded.  "They smell blood in the water, figure maybe
they can grab a piece of territory and hold onto it this time."
	"3WA's got them bottled up in the Border Zone for the moment,"
Yuri added, "but they had to send the current Academy class into the
field three months early to do it."
	Gryphon sighed.  His youngest daughter and Yuri's eldest were
in that class; they seemed, from their reports, to be having the time
of their lives in their early field assignment, but to their parents
it was just one more thing to worry about.
	"I think," said Redneck tiredly, "we're all going to be busy
people from now on."
	"You'll have all the help I can provide," Larry said.  "That
is, if you're willing to remove the weapons restrictions from what's
left of the GENOM surrender treaty."
	"I think we can arrange that," Zoner nodded, "provided you
promise not to come over all evil and insane on us."
	"Don't worry," Yuri smiled, "I can vouch for him."
	R-Type took a sip of water, looking thoughtful.  "I've had a
couple of ideas about this Ktulhu problem that I think you'll like.
Give me a few days to slap them into actual proposal form and I'll get
them to both of you," he said, nodding to Gryphon and Zoner.
	"Waiter," Aya waved at a passing maitre d', "a refill please,
and this time don't water it down."
	"My pleasure, Admiral," the maitre d' nodded.  "Are you all
ready to order now?"
	"Give us a couple more minutes," Kris said, eyes still buried
in the menu.
	"Oh, for My sake, Kris," Skuld sighed, "order the T-bone and
get it over with."
	"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," Kris said as the waiter vanished
once more.
	"I was looking over the Starfleet and Earthforce registries
today," Aya said, pausing to steal the Redneck's glass of water and
take a deep swallow.  "Bleah, I don't know what anyone sees in this
stuff.  Anyway, there's a lot of ships on those rolls we didn't know
about.  Like 'Conqueror'.  Anybody here ever hear of USS Conqueror?"
	"Sounds like one of our ships," R-Type muttered.  "Was it an
old Star Destroyer from the surrender?"
	"No," Aya said.  "She was a Galaxy-class, under construction at
Corellia.  Disappeared the morning of the Triple Offensive.  She was
originally supposed to be USS Drake," she shrugged, "but apparently
whoever stole it hacked the BuShips registry to rechristen her.  And
there's a couple hundred more ships like it - maybe as many as three
hundred, I dunno - unaccounted for from the war."
	"Clerical error?" Yuri asked.
	"Please," Aya said.  "I have a Vulcan flag captain that walks
me through the paperwork for five carrier task forces, without a
single glitch in seven years, and you think she's made a clerical
error -that- big?"  Aya sighed and added, "And Thrawn's requested the
rest of my ships to continue the Outer Rim sweep.  He's not even a
quarter of the way through out there.  I don't think this war is over
yet."
	Silence descended on the table as seven people stared at each
other, thinking identical thoughts.  Finally, Gryphon cleared his
throat and said, "Then we'll just have to keep our eyes and ears open
for those ships," he said.  "And for those Federation officials we
haven't been able to track. If they want to keep up the fight, all we
can do is keep looking until we find them."
	"Offer an amnesty?" Kris asked.
	"We'd have to give Cartwright one," Zoner grunted.
	"I'll think about it," Gryphon said.  "Toss the idea around
Asrial, Daver, and - Aya, there's your drink."  He pointed at the
maitre d', who had indeed returned with a tall glass.
	"Thank you, madam," the waiter said, handing the glass to the
diminutive admiral.  "And now, do you still need some time?"
	"No," the Redneck said, "I think we're ready to order.  One
Galactic Peace, to go."
	The Bolian looked puzzled. "I'm not familiar with that," he
said. "Is that a specialty dish?"
	"Never mind," the Redneck sighed. "I had to ask."
	
	  /*  Masamichi Amano  "Closing Theme and Overture"
	    _Giant Robo: Original Soundtrack Volume 7_  */

	       -UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES: A DAY OF INFAMY-

			     Yuri Daniels
			 Benjamin D. Hutchins
			       MegaZone
			 Dr. Lawrence R. Mann
			   William M. Clark
			    Ayami Nakajima
			   Theresa Curtiss
			  James Cook Styles
			     John Jacobi
			       Fu Oniu
			    Deion Sampson
				T'Pall
			     Claire Lemno
			    Captain Masao
		      The Voice of the Mysterons
			     Derek Bacon
			    Susan Ivanova
			    Irving Fenwick
			  Michael Garibaldi
			   Roger Cartwright
			    Marken Ronnet
		      Queen Mother Misaki Jyurai
			   Jean-Luc Picard
			   William T. Riker
			Kristan O. Overstreet
			   Sarek of Vulcan
			    Alfred Bester
			     Deanna Troi
			 David "Bruce" Corwin
			      Ann Ellis
			      Lore Soong
			  Klaang tai-Kalaan
			     Luornu Durgo
			      Hoshi Sato
			  Krontep vathKesek
			    Lafiel Abriel
				Selar
			      Data Soong
			     Dave Ritchie
			     Anthy Tenjou
			   Tatsuya Fujitake
			     Utena Tenjou
			   Corwin Ravenhair
			   Mary Kostolowicz
			    Robert Shannon
			       Tsunami
			   Vincent Walpole
			    Cory fitzMorag
				T'Vek
			    Optimus Prime
			    Londo Mollari
				G'Kar
				Delenn
			     Nadia Davion
			       Ro Laren
			  Worf, son of Mogh
			    John Sheridan
			    Lyta Alexander
			    Genndy Iacono
		       Pavel Andreyevich Chekov
			    Jinto Lin Kirk
			    Kruge eptKesek
			  Noriko Rose Takaya
			     Kozue Kaoru
			      Miki Kaoru
			  Sebastian Moriarty
			   Kaitlyn Hutchins
			   Kyouichi Saionji
			   Thetis Franconia
			   Skuld Ravenhair
			   Feran Aldzinjal
			   Asrial Arconian
			Amanda Elektra Dessler
		      Kitarina Telaia Dragonaar
			    Tasmia Mallor
			   Jinjiro Fukuoka
			      Tiny Robo
			 Harcourt M. McKenzie
			     Imra Ardeen
			      Salu Digby
		     Wolfgang, Beagle of the Lens
			  Caroline Weathers
			   Mackie Stingray
			    Sylia Stingray
			  Grand Invader Zim
				 Jorg
				 Grem
				 Gir
			    Janice Barlow
			    Neal Krummell
			     Adam Tyrell
			       Ky Tung
			    Jeremy Feeple
			    Zargh Thalekh
		    Thrakhath I, Emperor of Kilrah
			     Kosh Neranek
		     Sir Devlin E.D. Carter, KOGV
			  Horst, Baron Tagge
			      Voltetius
	       The Honourable J. Maurice MacEchearn III
				Vision
			     Invader Gaz
			  D.B. "Dib" McBain
			   Geordi La Forge
			   Beverly Crusher
				Breng

			  Primary Historian
			   Kris Overstreet

			  Senior Consultant
			  Benjamin Hutchins

			Jyurai Cultural Liason
			    Robert Shannon

		     Ragolian Tourist Board chair
			    Janice Barlow

			 With assistance from
			  the Usual Suspects

			 Special Overtime Pay
			     Brent Spiner
			    Walter Koenig

				 ***

			      DANTOOINE
		 LUCAS SECTOR, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES
			   AUGUST 12, 2412

	Earthforce Marines lined the walls of the ancient palace, with
the occasional PsiCop interspersed among their armored ranks.  Standing
at attention in the broad hall were ship's officers and company of a
host of Starfleet ships, only a fraction of those currently in orbit
above the planet.  More ships yet were scattered among the Outer Rim
and Wild Space worlds, resupplying at the handful of still-loyal
Federation worlds or preparing new bases of operation in systems as
yet uncharted by Federation, Gamilon, Romulan or Rarlgon explorers.
	Near the head of the chamber gathered a small collection of
beings, not in uniform, wearing a wild variety of clothing.  Most, but
not all, of these people were human.  Here a Rodian stood in the tight
leotards that people used for formal occasions; there a Betelgeusian
overlooked most of the others, his tall frame wrapped in loose robes;
nearby a Pog stood on a box, the little dinosaur-like being wearing a
dress shirt, a tie, and a worried expression. All looked at the
dark-skinned, white-haired humanoid standing on the hastily
constructed podium before them.
	"Gentlebeings of the Federation Senate and Assembly," the man
said, "I have received confirmation of the death of President Clark.
This is a sad day for the Federation."  This was, of course, hogwash:
not even the Psi Cops, and there were many, in the room had any love
for Clark.  If they had, they would not have been here at all.  "Given
that there is no Speaker of the Senate, and that this body is
currently unable to provide for a proper election by the people, it
falls to us to elect a new person to serve as acting President during
the interim.  I therefore open the floor to nominations."
	On cue, a man rose, and the man at the podium said, "The chair
recognizes the assemblyman from New Hokkaido."
	"Mr. Chairman," the assemblyman said, "it is my honor to
nominate as acting President the renowned statesman from Naboo,
Senator for the Outer Rim Territories, Eidun Palpatine."
	At the sound of the name, clapping began at the back of the
chamber.  In moments it spread, and Senator Palpatine, clad with dark
robes around a subdued waistcoat and slacks, stood and bowed slightly
to the people.  His eyes glinted with hard satisfaction, his smile thin
and toothy, as he acknowledged the accolades of the remnant of the
United Federation of Planets.
	"Everything is going as I have foreseen," he murmured to
himself, and no one else heard him as the applause and cheers flooded
the palace in a solid wave of noise.

		       ... and life goes on...


	   The Authors dedicate this story to the memory of
			     WALTER LORD
			      1917-2002
		       Journalist and Historian
		 who chronicled another Day of Infamy

			 E P U (colour) 2002