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 ship