Magical Mystery Ship

Sensors didn't lie.  They said things... but they did not lie.  They said that the ship Arcadia had been pursuing... the ship Arcadia intercepted, and disabled... was Saber-class.  They had located and tracked it on long-range sensors.  Bartok's watch-posts were abuzz around checkpoint Gamma 12, where the ship identified as UFS Cutlass sliced through two, seemingly more powerful Bartokian cruisers.  Bartok knew about it, if they couldn't see it, and shared their info as well.

The shorter the distance between them, the more Arcadia learned.  Computers analyzed and re-analyzed and fine-tuned sensor scans, again and again, long range to short, the closer they got.  It had all the telltale signs of a Saber.  En route, Arc's computers automatically checked the manifest and delivered it for inspection: Registered under command of one Shuzo Nakencha, Axanarian.  It had a crew on board.

It looked, smelled, and tasted like a Saber-class starship.  Arcadia moved in, and stopped the smaller vessel's death-run to Bartok.

Then... suddenly... it was a totally different ship?

His attention riveted on the magical mystery ship.  Mystery with a capital M.  Starfleet had the best technology around.  That included sensors.  Heidler's turncoats took this ship from the Federation – Ergo, Arcadia had the best sensors.  Sensors didn't lie.  If sensors weren't the source of the deception... then something else was, besides the ship off their bow.  Something... or someone.

Paul had a suspicion, but no time to ponder.  The mystery ship opened batteries.  Fighters launched, strafing Arc's hull.  The Universe-class ship was a mobile city.  A fortress... impenetrable, impregnable.  And, currently, cloaked.  Yet the enemy still had its position, as if that made no difference.

The idea that big ships maneuvered poorly in space was a fantasy.  Space offered no resistance.  Equipped with arrays of maneuvering thrusters, Arcadia could bank and roll with fish-like grace, evading the main ship's firing patterns.  But she didn't have to.  Subtle thuds vibrated the deck with each blow.  Paul wasn't worried.  The Universe class absorbed energy.  Every shot made it stronger.  Systems recycled that energy instantly, spitting some back.  He didn't have to order available power to shields: They kicked in automatically.  The ship knew how to take care of itself.

That left one option: Finding weak spots.  The late Walter Heidler used one to get control of this ship.  Paul had a feeling that tactic had been replayed.  So much for that, Paul thought, grim.  The tractor beams might as well have not existed.

"Someone wants that ship to reach Bartok pretty bad," Lou said.

Paul agreed.  "Or doesn't want us to interact."  It seemed a mite too convenient – as if this was some kind of game, and someone abruptly changed the rules.  Or... was not playing by them.  That meant one of two things: 'Someone' was simply trying to make this interesting... or 'someone' and someone else had decided Bartok needed to get decimated... in which case, nothing Arcadia did would matter.  He grunted as the Saber-slash-Typhon poured it on.  "Someone isn't playing fair."

"Fair?" repeated the tactical/acting first officer, 'Lucky Lou' Reynolds, gripping his console.

"Not playing by the rules," Paul clarified.

"What rules?"

"The rules that say, whatever was established in the previous post is what we go by.  Just because you don't like what happens next, doesn't mean you suddenly get to change the rules."

"Um... okay."  Reynolds rubbed his cheek, not exactly sure what he was talking about.  "And who would that be?"

"The guy who wrote that post.  Who else?"  It had a certain boldness.  'When you don't like the conditions, change the rules.'  It also seemed childish – something a kid would do.  "Well, that's okay."  Paul retook his seat.  "If that's how they want to play it... we can play that game."

While familiarizing himself with Arc's background, design and capabilities, he had seen logs of the battle near his homeworld... the planet after which this ship was (re)named.  He saw what it could do.  One concentrated phaser burst from the Future (now Arcadia) blew an entire ship apart.  The (late) crew of the America (as well as a few others) could have told the quote-"Romulans"-endquote about the folly of their action.  For all of their armaments, they didn't stand a chance.  One shot down the middle, and they were history.

Paul was anxious to turn that power against them.  Contrary to some beliefs, Humanists did not support or sympathize with the Romulans, who were Vulcan shills, part of the anti-human agenda... the anti-Humanist threat.

Only one thing kept him from tearing the shit out of that ship and blasting it across the Bartok system.  Some of his people were on board.  The away team got in ahead of the transformation, before shields sprang into place.  Didn't it just figure?  It reminded him of that Enterprise episode... the two-parter where Tucker & Reed got trapped on the Romulan mystery ship.  What was it called...?  Oh yes.  "Babel".

"Hack.  Won't find my writer ripping off TV plots," Paul said, tongue in cheek.

He knew this song and dance.  Someone indeed changed the rules... an invisible puppeteer, plucking the enemy's strings, changing their tune.  He still didn't know half of what this ship could do, but he realized, no matter what he did, it would somehow not be enough.  It would just be a waste of time.

If one couldn't win a game, then the only alternative was not to play.

He didn't want to see his people taken prisoner... but he valued their lives.  'Leave no man behind.'  That was one of the unwritten rules.  It was sacred.  He would not defy that rule, if he could help it.  The Cause needed every soul it could get.

On the other hand...

In such moments, compassion became a liability.  Rom shots pounding Arc's shields reminded him.  If he could just relinquish his morals, one shot – one well-placed shot – was all it would take: All that kept him from obliterating them, sending them to oblivion.  Sacrifice his team, eliminate the Romulans.  It would be easy.

But it was not that easy... as he tried to tell the Bartokians, and Milla – what kept him from accepting alien medicine, or Milla's offer of intervention, even if it would mean his death, or the death of his fellow Arcadians.  Alien association was the cause of the trouble.

He reigned in his nerves wanting to get the better of him, and kept his cool.  No sense losing it now – he had gotten this far.

First things first.

Instinct took over.  Arcadia had bridge transporters – no more of that silly going several decks or to another room, to beam in or out.  Paul whirled toward the operator.  The man worked, already ahead of him.

"I've got a lock, but they're generating interference."

"Keep it.  Don't lose them."  Voice-sensitive communicators and ID filters routed his command to the appropriate people.  Teeth gritted, he ordered return fire, and watched hell break loose.

If transporters couldn't pierce the Romulans' shields, Arcadia's weapons packed more punch.  Multiple salvoes erupted from the three-miler's sides, heading for their target – beams stabbing straight, smart-torps swerving.  The fighters didn't seem to know what to do with torpedoes chasing them, pushing them into the crossfire from both sides.

That wasn't all: A ship this big also had fighters.  Lots of them.  Flying phasers; automated little buggers, without remorse or pity.  They unlocked from their moorings on the massive ship's hull, sent into alert condition the instant the enemy became offensive, and before Romulan shots touched, were already out: No flight deck; no lengthy launch time for human pilots with human vulnerabilities, capable of human error.  On-board computers analyzed everything in nanoseconds, responding faster than any organic being could, or could comprehend... adapting, shifting, adjusting tactics.  Only so many ways existed of fighting with this kind of technology.  Starfleet R and D took that into account, designing ships nowadays, and built accordingly.  With the data of ten-thousand battles in the past three centuries in their banks – as well as those gleaned from centuries of Romulan history – they were, literally, ready for anything Romulans (or any known species) could dish out.  They kept the enemy from hitting critical areas.

On the holographic stage, recreating the vessels and their positions beyond Arc's hull, the Rom rolled into evasive, with Arcadia the aggressor.  The Typhon-class (aptly named) thing danced, pulsing plasma.  (Why Romulans named a class after a Greek mythical persona... another mystery.)  He was more concerned about the fighters: Fast, with equally responsive AIs.  By the time Arc's weaps found their marks, the targets moved.  A few exploded in silent bursts on the hologrid.  Most kept retaliating and evading.

Paul turned to Lou.  "Lifesigns, Lou.  Give it to me straight.  Is there an Axanarian on board or not?"

"I... can't quite tell," Lou said, at tactical.  "Too much interference."

"Our sensors are supposed to compensate."

Lou shrugged, helpless to explain it.  "I'm reading biosignals... might be Bartokians too... but I can't tell what's what, who's who."

Bartokians.  Another Rom trick?  Paul wasn't going to believe anything.  "As soon as there's an opening, get our team back."

He expected Cerina and Dinaqa to show up any minute.  Wouldn't they be surprised.  The Bartokians didn't think Arcadians would lift a finger to help them.  The last time they saw Paul, he was sick, nothing more than a Starfleet dropout, with little or no future ahead.  Now the "future" was his... and it was called Arcadia... and he was in command – battling a Romulan ship on their doorstep.  The future came full of surprises.

Tasha commed from her station: "There's a weak spot in their shielding."

"Lou," Paul said, urgent.  They could beam out the entire crew and complement, given a sufficient opening.  He would settle for the away team... and maybe any Federation citizens on board, like that Axanarian, if actually present.

Unfortunately, they got neither.

Eyes started turning, in heads of people awaiting the proclamation of successful transport.  Paul looked.  "Lou...?"

Something happened... Paul wasn't sure what.  A flash of light... a burst of red.  It struck every member of the bridge crew, knocking a few off their feet.  Paul found himself on the deck, thrown from his chair.  He looked up to behold Lou... 'Lucky Lou' Reynolds, who somehow survived every scrape with death... hovering in mid-air, at bridge-center.  The light was flowing from him, a blood-red aura connecting every console.  Displays flashed and readouts went crazy.  The same angry red glow manifested in his eyes.

"You're no match for Kosst Amojan," Lou declared, in a voice not entirely his own, before everything went black.

Seconds later, emergency lighting kicked in.  It took Paul a moment for his eyes to adjust.  "Shit."  Systems were offline.  Shields, weapons, engines.  The next barrage from the Romulan ship would wipe them out.

It never came.

"What's going on?"  "What happened?" "What the hell was that?" he heard from various crew-members, as he pulled himself to his feet, moving towards the tactical bank.  Sensor reserves operated on their own power cells.  They offered a clear view of the situation... to tell if death was at hand.

On the scope, the Romulan ship was gone, along with its fighters.  The particle-trail in their wake indicated they had resumed course for Bartok.  They must have realized Arcadia wasn't about to be their 'prize ra'tar'.  Why not finish off the Universe-class ship?  Milla, again... or something else?

Whichever the case, Arcadia slowed them down.  Maybe that was enough.  It was up to the Bartokians now.

He didn't have to order repairs.  The crew knew what to do; they were on it.  This ship had automated systems, already in progress, fixing itself.  In moments, they would be under way again.

He found Lou laying nearby... unconscious, but breathing.