Starfleet Operations Command Flash Alert
To: All Commands, All Stations
WAR WARNING in effect. On receipt take all necessary steps to ensure protection of command. Further within 24hr.
END MESSAGE
-
Deep within the Gabriel Border Zone, in the neutral zone between the two occasional-adversaries of the Federation and the Pact, is a humble Cardassian-built outpost known as Terminus Station. There are three main zones to this shared outpost: the Cardassian zone; the Federation Zone, and; the Intermix. The latter, a long promenade ring around the station with a crossbar known as "Main Street", holds a mix of commerce, amenities, and offices. As the only place in the galaxy where the two sides can more or less freely intermingle, it draws many of the bold and eccentric. There is even a steady population of those from much further afield. It is not unusual to see a knot of ittick'ka stride past a romulan. Even the odd dobetian or alupii has been seen before.
Of course, this also means that the station is a sizable fraction intelligence agency by volume. Neither the Obsidian Order nor the Starfleet Intelligence Command mind this overmuch. Gathering them all together makes them easier to spot and watch over, something that often only becomes apparent to the would-be superspies after arrival.
Into this idyllic pit of vipers strides one unassuming looking Horizonian peddler, their civilian craft loaded up with cultural trade goods and some computer samples. The Captain has a harried, nervy look, which comes as little surprise as upon learning of the samples the outpost's joint system security team have threatened to volley photorps at the civilian craft as fast as they can be launched if there is any sign of the computers becoming active.
As interested as the Cardassians are in these distant people, it is fair to say that their reputation precedes them.
Still, the peddler is putting on as brave a face as they can. This makes for quite the artistically brave face indeed as the Singer riding in their mind is a dab hand with expressions and a bent for acting. A useful ability for a peddler who also happens to be a senior member of the Public Security Directorate. So one Neeana lex Haanas clutches her security pass and heads in. She smiles amicably if ever so nervously to those she passes, while she makes her way through the crowded Intermix to a little stand advertising several types of tea. A number of patrons were leaning against small round tables chatting away, enjoying their "morning" rituals.
Running an intricate dance of the teakettles behind the stand is a wild-looking goshawnar. Vivid cardinal colouring marks her hair-feathering, and the feathering that runs along her lanky upper arms. Her eyes are dark pupils in a deep golden sea. Their sharp gleam surprises the peddler and suggests a background somewhere more dangerous than the tea trade. A bracelet wrapped in golden chain fits snuggly to her upper arm.
"Well then, newcomer, haven't seen one of your kind in the 'mix before," she says. "Maianak's Teahouse, for all your homeland teas. If you knew it, then I brew it." Her eyes glance over the peddler again. "Well, that was before a Horizonite walked in." Her brows waggle, a Goshawnar smile, as she leans against her stand. "But that's just something new for me to branch into."
"Not necessary today, I was looking to try red-leaf tea," replies Neeana as she leans against the stand to mirror her host. "Sweet and spicy sounds like an interesting way to start the day."
The tea merchant ducks and bobs her head, saying, "Ah, Cardassian teas then." They open a drawer and measure out a level scoop of tea, placing it into one of the waiting kettles. "So what brings you to town? Pretty risky thermals for casual flying out this way, you know. Particular for a Horizonite."
"Always wanted to visit and thought if I didn't try now, who knows when things will cool back down enough to make the trip," replies the peddler. "You know how it is, right?"
"Tangling with Starfleet, risky business, that," says Maianak. She taps at the arm opposite the bracelet, where beautiful scrollery runs up her forearm. "
Nushurat, we were part of the mess at Hybor's Folly. Fought harder than the cruisers."
"Hybor's Folly... I know that one, the Federation calls it 45 Gabriel?" asks Neeana.
Maianak makes a noise like hitting an amphibian with a hammer. "Anodyne name. Starfleet likes to strip the glory out of a battle with stupid dull names." A subtle movement sets her feathers to rippling. "They killed a damned
Emperor once, you know, and what do they call it? The battle of Ixaria Approach. Tch!"
The peddler grins wryly as she watches Maianak pour her tea into a ceramic cup. "Not a fan then?"
The other woman shrugs. "No, but... They fight well, they win, in spite of us Goshawnar. When you win, you get to level insults, even if that's not how they see it."
The peddler takes her tea and passes a small chit of station scrip back. There's a single table left free, so she sets her cup upon it and waits, sipping from time to time. As the cultural brief laid out in prosaic terms, the drink is sweet and a little spicy. What it doesn't go into, though, is the way the gentle steam clears the sinuses, the edge of the spice shakes free the rust of long nights or hard work, and the sweetness gives you just that little bit of pep to face the sacrifices the day demands. The Singer with the peddler spends a multitude of clock cycles imagining the ordinary cardassian, getting up, facing a long day working for the State, relying on their morning tea.
In real time, however, little time passes before a short and altogether nondescript cardassian man arrives and greets Maianak in familiar terms. His wry smile is charming, his features loose a little of their blandness when his eyes sparkle with the first whiff of the aromatic tea. When he has his own cup in hand he makes a beeline for the Neeana's table.
"I have to be honest," he says as he places his own cup upon the little round surface. He stops and reconsiders his words. "Well, I don't, not in my line of work. But I'm honestly surprised that Starfleet security didn't blacklist your arrival. They must be watching you like a hawk."
The peddler looks skeptically at her new tea buddy. "Are you endangering your cover for me?"
The cardassian's expression betrays surprise before he starts to laugh. "This is Terminus Outpost, friend, there are no covers here. I know every member of a Federation intelligence service aboard, and they know every one of my colleagues and I. We just all observe a polite fiction in this civilised space." He leans in closer and his smile becomes quite conspiratorial. "If you like, I can put you in touch with the local member of the Tal Shiar. Or perhaps you'd wish to speak to Imperial Intelligence over a nice meal of
gagh. How about Ghidar's Man in the Gabriel? Or
men, these days."
Neeana grimaces and shakes her head. "I'll prefer to stay away from the Tal Shiar, things are getting downright barbaric between us."
"In any event," says the Obsidian Order agent. "I'd keep my chips to myself if I were you, unless you think your secrets can escape outpost grade sensors."
"Appreciated," says Neeana dryly.
The cardassian man straightens up and takes a deep sip of his tea. "Well," he begins, "You've come a long way to have this talk, you must have many questions. Where shall we begin?"
-
Starfleet Intelligence Command Flash Alert
To: All Coreward Commands, All Stations
Infiltration efforts from HARMONY task forces underway. Commands within the COREWARD Theatre should be prepared for engagement with no or limited warning.
END MESSAGE
-
The numbers have already been run and the declaration will pass with at least ninety percent of Councillors voting in favour. That leaves the opportunity for preparation and housekeeping before the fateful moment. Federation High Commissioners and standing committees work with member worlds and Starfleet to ensure the fleet is ready for the inevitable vote.
Some of this traffic will likely tip the Harmony off that something is in the works. But the Federation has never presumed or depended upon complete secrecy in its affairs. But a little obfuscation and hiding in plain sight can go very far in keeping those with untoward intentions guessing.
Most of the work being done has none of the sizzle of sweeping battle plans. Far from it, they focus on the laborious underpinnings of the prospective war. A merchant marine commission working with the SDB establishes a series of new civilian designs, set to a common pattern. All built around a new black-box warp core and navigation deflector, both of which could be three-quarters replicated, they aren't much to look at, but the C1 cargo, T1 M/AM tanker, P1 passenger or peacekeeper transport, and S1 stores designs can be built just about anywhere at a startling pace.
Across the Federation, older frigates and escorts are brought back to shipping hubs, the Mirandas, Birds of Paradise, Peketas, Star Corvettes, and many other light designs ready to start escorting convoys through the major lanes. Constellations and Caldonian cruisers prepare to establish hunter task forces to sweep likely infiltration and ambush points. New quick design studies are undertaken, looking to add more escort ships quickly. These come up with corvettes that are little more than auxiliaries with shields, phasers, and sensor packages. Some designs are literally Class C1s modified with a frigate's lateral sensor array and a phaser bank hooked to an impulse reactor.
In secret new build plans that encompass an expansion greater than anything seen in this quadrant since the HurQ are drawn up to replace the existing ones. The planned economy that is modern shipbuilding works closely with the High Commissioners, even acquiring a prime contractor in Orion Union space.
Every industrial muscle in the United Federation of Planets tenses in preparation. No feel-good promises of a swift, victorious war are shared. Perhaps a short-circuit to the war may be found, but no one will bank on it. To hidden places throughout the UFP messages are dispatched to open vaults housing the dividends of peacetime frugality.
-
Starfleet Operations Command, Flash Alert
To: All Coreward, Central Commands, All Stations
Convoy protocols are in effect. All commands are to adopt Yellow Alert as baseline for operations.
END MESSAGE
-
The non-descript Cardassian walks leisurely along the "Main Street" crossbar through the middle of the promenade ring, pointing out sights like a veteran tour guide. "Of course from the Federation side, there are two real social hubs for crews and those with our
peculiar occupations. Shayla's Rest, and Lance's Last Mistake. The latter tends to be a magnet for overly optimistic colleagues, because the proprietor is..."
Neeana cuts in, not hiding her interest as she says, "A disgraced former Commander, Starfleet, right?"
"Lance Cartwright, yes," says the Cardassian with the sort of bemused smile that his species makes an artform of. "Apparently caught up in the sort of skulduggery that would make my old mentor shed a tear if he were still around. But to be honest, it's more of a baited trap than anything else, anything Cartwright knew is thirty years out of date now and predates the Federation's epoch of inflation."
The peddler slowly deflates back into her seat. "I see, maybe I'll reschedule my plan to visit," she says slowly.
"Oh no, do go along," he encourages with a widening smile. "Starfleet Intelligence likes to make a point of the quality of
kanar they help Cartwright stock, I'm sure they've got a Horizonian delicacy for you somewhere." He shakes his head for a moment, then continues on. "On the Pact side, we have the Thoughtless Vagrant, run by an odd sort of Konen ascetic. Good for quiet contemplation and tastes of home. If you tip well, you can even get a table that isn't bugged or, at least, bugged by someone you know."
That gets a flat look. "What a service," says Neeana dryly.
"Well, it isn't one you'll find many other places aboard this outpost," says the Obsidian Order agent with a laugh. "In fact, I took the liberty of reserving us a table. O-O bugs only, I promise, unless you're a particular fan of Goshawnar Sha Cruuik cuisine."
The Thoughtless Vagrant is an almost claustrophobic experience, lined with booths of varying sides, with walls cutting into the central area in places to fit more booths. Sparse, cold lights cast shadows and give an eerie feel. The air is cool, pushing visitors to focus inward. The booths themselves have a round, pod-like design, as if an Imelak had helped with the interior decoration. Spindly Konen Trial-Charms hang from the low ceiling and from the edges of the staff counter, twisting on their strands as they invite those familiar with them to challenge their own minds.
Neeana can't help but feel some reservations about people for whom this felt like home.
A Konen waiter escorts them to a small booth out of sight of the door with shadows that seem almost skull-like. It all starts to make Neeana intensely aware of the mortality of her host. She has been with this particular Horizonite and always brought them home again safely, and the new appreciation for how difficult this task may be starts to drag on her like a physical weight. Yet although it feels eerie or even unsettling, it never feels menacing. There is a contemplative air to the place instead. Even so, the nerves have to be overridden as she takes her seat across from the Cardassian.
"Allow me," says the man, all charm and hospitality. He rattles off a series of dishes and drinks to the waiter, who nods and silently walks away. He returns his attention to Neeana afterwards to explain, "A good brunch spread from across the Pact, carefully selected to agree with the discerning Horizonite palate."
Neeana settles back into her seat, a little surprise in her expression. Of course, sometimes you just have to roll with the surprises. "I appreciate the thoughtfulness," she says. "I'm looking forward to this."
The agent returns the smile at first, before it fades away and he leans across the table. "Now, before they return, let's talk some business. You are the enemy of our enemy, or about to become so, so the Cardassian Union is willing to extend consideration and assistance. You've taken a considerable risk in coming here, even for a person of your ... peculiar circumstances. So what can we do for you?"
"We thought that if there's anyone with insight about what we are about to face," begins Neeana, carefully echoing the posture of her host, "It would be the Cardassian Union, so someone ought to make the voyage and consult."
There's a distinctly nasty quality to her host's smile now. "Well, we have pulled a few nuggets of wisdom out of the carcasses of various plots and campaigns."
Neeana makes eye contact, watching the OO agent intently. "What we really want to know," she says, "Is what it is about the Federation that frightens you."
The Cardassian's brows slide all the way up.
-
Starfleet Operations Command, Flash Alert
To: All Spinward Commands, All Stations
Take steps necessary to confront and deter potential PACT encroachment on all Spinward borders. Defend UFP populations, settlements, own commands.
END MESSAGE
-
Speculation is becoming rife in the media and on public forums. Just as it did when when the potentially apocalyptic neutron degeneracy experiments led to war with the Arcadian Empire, debate is sparked in the streets. But there is little of the ferocity of those arguments, or the uncertainty, where people went to the mats to argue one view or the other. This time the political factions have aligned behind the one purpose and the population begins to follow.
A mood more melancholy than maddened sweeps the Federation, yet with determination underneath. Former personnel from Starfleet and other services begin updating their details with Personnel Command, former shipyard and industrial workers start answering queries for experienced workers distributed among those communities. Sedentary spacers start shaking their roots free.
What is coming is not hidden from anyone, though the moment of decision is as yet unknown. So the fires on the borders intensify. More lifeblood enters the sinews of the Federation's industries. The convoys bearing the stockpiles of the strategic reserves start arriving even through early attacks with new stealthy corvettes, staging from bases or tenders unknown. Efforts to identify at least signs of infections continue at a frantic rate, making meagre improvements but approaching a long-promised breakthrough.
Defensive installations, built using more conventional material than duranium alloys but with considerable bulk and tapping into rapidly escalating field emitter output, begin to appear in the orbits around every major world and most of the minors. Utopia Planitia almost swims amidst a constellation of phaser emplacements as do the truly crucial component facilities. It is anticipated that even if a major world is overrun, the Harmony will have little interest in planetary invasions, and will await a mix of steady infiltration and post-war concessions to do their work. Trying to make securing orbitals, or defeating planetary shielding and defences, as unpleasant as possible, starts to become critical. Thankfully, those most vulnerable to potentially being overrun are also some of the most inclined to embrace this approach, with the Ked Paddah and Okatha churning out new orbitals almost daily. The Ked Paddah take a leaf from their old enemies, the Arcadians, and before long their systems are comprehensive traps.
Of course, such traps lose much of their effectiveness when known in advance.
Behind the scenes, SFI, plus the intelligence and security arms of the Diplomatic Service and many different member worlds, are for all intents and purposes already at open war. On all fronts they are pressed, and pressed hard, working to identify and contain outbreaks of chips and clean up infiltration teams. One sabotage team gets dangerously close to the auxiliary yards at Ferasa only to be discovered by a Frontier Police patrol shuttle. Convoys making the perilous Sol-to-Okatha route get tracked despite extensive attempts to vary the route, only for it to be discovered that the sensor take from the starbase at Rigel is being diverted straight to the corvette-packs.
It isn't entirely one-way traffic, though. A daring operation targets the Public Security Directorate facility that launched
the murderous attack against the Rixx Scrutineers. A drone ore freighter delivering minerals from the outer system experiences a blow-out in its port engine during a burn at the worst possible moment and plows directly into the Public Security Directorate arm of the local starbase with extensive damage. The light show of ore burning up in the atmosphere is the only thing spectacular enough to equal the ferocious back and forth among Singers as to how it could happen.
But the overall trend is of a grinding defence as Public Security attempts to impede and undermine the buildup to war, with SFI playing catchup and trying to hold the line in anticipation of at least a detector, if not a cure or vaccine for the chip. Disaster is only narrowly avoided in one case, with the SS
Appleseed hiding dangerously deep in a gas giant in an uninhabited system deep in Harmony space, standing by to touch off their own warp core if discovered by the patrolling Public Safety cruiser overhead. Eventually the patrol moves on and the
Appleseed withdraws safely, but operations are suspended while SFI evaluates what went wrong.
Finally the moment comes, with little pomp and little fanfare. The Council of the United Federation of Planet prepares to vote to recognise that, insofar as the Harmony of Horizon presents a clear, deliberate, and viable threat to the health and liberty of all members of the Federation, a state of war exists, and has existed, and will exist to such time as the Singers may be defeated. The doors of the chamber are shut, though cameras record for posterity as the Councillors vote.
But in many ways this is just a formality. The real vote has taken place in the public sphere with debates fed steadily as information could be declassified and the magnitude of the Harmony threat unmasked. It is a matter of trust that few of the quadrant's powers would dare, trust in a well-educated, free society to seek and find truth. Though the Council vote is the final one, they walk a path paved by citizens ready to take up the battle.
-
Starfleet Logistics Command, Flash Alert
To: Central Theatre, All Convoy Stations
Very-low-emission HARMONY corvettes attack CONVOY CU01, driven off. All escorts must observe STRAAK-EATON sensor protocols.
-
The Obsidian Order agent reclines back in his chair. "Frightens us?" he repeats with a chuckle. "I see you weren't well briefed on us. We don't allow ourselves to be frightened. But I
do understand what you're getting at. What ... shall we say, leads us to pay such close attention to the Federation. And I presume you're not looking for numbers here, I have no doubt you've got your fill of them by now."
"Go on," replies Neeana.
"Obviously, you're aware of the fleet strength of Starfleet and her subordinate fleets, so I need not remind you of the scale of your opposition. Similarly, unlike us and, I hope for your sake, unlike you, the Federation makes little attempt to conceal the vast scale of its ship production and repair infrastructure. Again, I won't repeat what you already know."
Neeana nods, though she isn't sure where he is going with this. "We have the numbers down pretty well."
The agent laughs, a scoffing little sound, then says, "So let's talk about what you won't get from just poking through their computer systems and accounts. You've pushed the Federation into a position where they'll have to declare the war. It's a thought we've had ourselves from time to time. If the Federation has to make the first move their society will recoil, their affiliates will decline to join, and it costs them much support." He taps on the table. "So, you must wonder, why haven't we gone down that route?"
"Crosses my mind, yes," says Neeana.
"There is a problem, we found," continues the agent. "You see, what we accomplish with instruction on the State, and you through...," he trails off and smiles thinly. "Through a more direct control, the Federation accomplishes with true believers. When you push not on possessions, wealth, or even safety, but on matters of their ideology, the resistance intensifies the closer you get to the core, like a star hardening down into a neutron star. There are reasons the Obsidian Order does not employ the same sort of practices against the Federation that we did with the Bajorans or Chrystovians."
"Our experience tells us that actually varies quite a bit between worlds and species," replies Neeana.
The agent holds up a hand and says, "Don't be so sure of that. Even among the new species. After all, you don't give up all your independence and join a group like the Federation inside of a single generation if deep down that species psyche didn't take the ideology to heart. If we were you, we would dedicate ourselves to the question of if you have already let the Federation morph this into a conflict of your view of societal control versus their view."
He falls silent for a while, and Neeana waits as he considers what to say. Finally, he continues, "There is one species that draws the most outsized attention compared to how far away they are. The linch-pin of their whole ideological enterprise, the glue around which it all revolves. The source of many of the most storied officers, and a species that nearly blew itself to barbary only to rise from the ashes."
"The humans?" ventures Neeana with a frown.
"... well, the humans certainly occupy a substantial part of our attention given they have close to a lock on the second most important post in the Federation. But I mean the Vulcans. If you cannot deal with the Vulcans, you cannot deal with the Federation."
"Yet the Vulcans were notoriously resistant to the Federation-Arcadian War, and they barely slowed the Federation down," points out Neeana.
"Yes, against the Arcadians," retorts the agent. "If they had taken that disunity into a confrontation with any major foe, they would likely have suffered truly embarrassing reversals. But just beware any species willing to nearly wipe itself out with atomic fury and then bounce back."
Neeana is silent for a while before a broad smile splits her face. "I wouldn't disagree. Do you know the true history of Horizon?"
-
Starfleet Command, Flash Alert
To: All Commands, All Stations
FED COUNCIL declares State of WAR with HARMONY of Horizon.
Go now to your duty with integrity and dedication.
END MESSAGE
-
Ready Room, USS
Comet, NCC-5101
The message sitting innocuously on her pad has been verified twice over by the staff at Communications Division, and if the potent long-range comm systems on the Comet-class cannot be trusted here, then most likely no communication at all could be trusted anymore. Even so, the nature of the message...
After some thirty seconds of staring, Victoria finally mutters, "Well, shit!"
