The Usual Unusual

Dr. Othaniel Ariz said it with a shiver in his voice.  The geneticist stood before the biochamber, hands folded in front of his chin, and watched, eyes beaming like a kid's on Christmas morning.  In the biochamber, the bloodworms metamorphosed, wriggling and thrashing... changing shape, sprouting limbs, growing in mass.

"Your tongue's hanging out again."

Ariz ignored the assistant.  Yes, so he had strange habits – some said.  He didn't care.  This was an exciting moment – too exciting to let her snuff his mood.  The only reason he kept Honey Bunson around: Looks.  Natural biology had gifted Honey Bunson with a figure that – and he had been quoted saying (out of earshot of the voracious lab assistant) – wouldn't quit.  She was one piece of natural selection that he didn't think he could improve.

The Regulan bloodworms were a different matter.  Not even Honey Bunson made his tongue hang out.

Beside him, Bunson sighed.  "Doctor?"  She used the word with a trace of condescension: Ariz was no doctor, by any licensed definition.  But he called himself one, and made everyone who worked for him follow example.  "I have a question."

Ariz put his tongue back in his mouth.  Damn it, she was interrupting his reverie.  "Not now, Honey."

"I know they're non-sentient animals," she went on, "but... do you ever think what we're doing is... inhumane?"

Ariz felt muscles twitch in his jaw.  "Honey, this is the Nyres colony.  This entire place is inhumane."

Bunson could not argue with that.  No one could.  What were the colony's founders thinking, trying to duplicate medieval Earth?  Automobiles.  Drive-through restaurants.  Doors on hinges.

Bills.  Taxes.  Insurance.  Nyres had dealings with the Ferengi.  No wonder.  The Ferengi loved it here.

And... commercial advertising.  Infomercials.  Bunson shuddered.  She despised infomercials.  (Rollerblading was kind of fun, however.)

It was medieval – the word for human history before the warp age.  Outdated.  And in that, it was barbaric – the kind of place where men like 'Doctor' Ariz could set up shop.  If they kept quiet, paid their bills and taxes, they could thrive.  They didn't even have to grease the politicians.  ('Greasing' was far less common than it used to be, once upon a time, but not entirely unfamiliar in places like this.)  Nyres colony administrators weren't too concerned, otherwise... which was a shame.  It should have been far into the opposite.  If they were from anywhere other than Nyres, perhaps they would have been more vigilant, and regulatory.  The UFP maintained strict policies on its practices and operations, and even stricter controls on gene-tech.  The colony administrators were required to enforce that.

But, here was 'Doctor' Ariz, transforming Regulan bloodworms.  Bunson doubted that Administrator Stokes himself would have 'given a rip', as the term went, here.  Age did strange things to people – made them stubborn... fat... lazy.  (Drive-thru restaurants didn't help.)  Along with the 'retro' lifestyle existed 'retro' attitudes.  Stokes was getting along in years, after more than twenty spent in charge of the colony – despite the fact that humans elsewhere existed on a plateau of immortality.

Nyres colony should not have existed.  It should never have been allowed to exist.  The Federation should have shut this place down a long time ago.  It was supposed to be like Old Earth... similar to those retroplexes dotting the Federation, where one could go back in time without literally going back in time, meant to capture what its founders saw as a quaint, simpler lifestyle.

A retroplex was one thing.  Building an entire colony on the idea... down to buildings made of wood, steel, stone and glass... The idea was not only bad, but terrible, at least in execution.  The pitfalls, perils and primitive attitudes which plagued medieval Earth had crept in – and now they had men like Ariz, places like this lab... and immoral, illegal, genetic experimentation, in the Federation's dark, quiet corners.  Ironically, on the planet Nyres, these were the more 'advanced' corners.

It bothered Bunson.  This was not a new road.  Humanity had been down this path.  Genetic engineering itself was not immoral, and thus, not illegal.  But, again, 'somehow'... just like history tended to repeat itself when people got lazy, and didn't watch where they were going... people like Ariz seemed to ignore the lesson and the warnings.

The only point Ariz had to his credit was that his work treaded the line.  It hadn't completely plunged over to the other side.  His research could be defended as legitimate in Nyres' courts, though his methods were questionable.  That was the problem.

Until today.

Honey Bunson had been waiting for this moment.  She could shut this whole colony down.

She would settle for Ariz.

As soon as she saw the bloodworms... no longer bloodworms... merge, into a single, vaguely humanoid shape, she turned to the geneticist and transmitted a silent, very specific command.  "Mr. Ariz, by authority of the Genetic Standards Enforcement Agency... you're under arrest."

Ariz didn't so much as flinch.  Didn't even look at her.  He went on staring at the creature forming in the chamber, as if rapt, oblivious.

Bunson blinked, and with a furtive glance, noticed: The biochamber was empty.  It was gone.

In the next split second, so was Ariz.

Activating comtacts, she scanned the space where he stood.  The polarization of displaced air molecules indicated a transporter.  She balked.  She hadn't given him enough credit – he was prepared to escape.  He had slipped out, right as the security shield triggered by her cue clamped down around the facility.

~All agents, be advised,~ she sent through her complant, with an alert to track his transporter signal.  He couldn't get far – probably.  But if she had underestimated him, then it was possible to underestimate him again.  The only way that could happen was if he got into the subspace transporter network.

And what do you know.  That was exactly what he had done.  The agency's central computer came back with a quick response: Ariz was no longer within the colony... not even on the planet.  His signal had routed into one of the wormholes, still functional despite cutbacks in recent years.

That presented one advantage.  The artificial wormholes weren't nearly as plentiful as they were fifteen years ago.  Nowadays, transwarp conduits were the preferred mode of transit for interstellar distances.  People weren't allowed to use them as much as ships.  The Federation had some of the most advanced technology in the known galaxy.  It would make him, and his creation, easier to trace.

Notified that her fellow agents were moving in, securing the lab, she commanded the agency's central computer to lock on and beam her out, along Ariz's detected route.  She would follow him... Ariz and his Regulan Frankenstein's monster.

Bron Marlang looked like he was in a hot seat.  He fidgeted every so often at the helm, turning the flight controller's chair this way and that.  He got up once, sat down, and in the meantime found corners of the bridge interesting, instead of his console.

Simone Berkowitz, making rounds – checking readings and filling out reports on a holopadd – noticed his movements out of the corner of her eye.  Bron Marlang always seemed a bit agitated about something, ever since he joined Arcadia.  It was just his way.  She wondered what was in his craw this time, but didn't press it.  He was Acamarian, a former Gatherer.  Some would say, 'pirate', or ex-pirate, in his case.  The Gatherers had disappeared since their absorption into Acamarian society, over forty years ago.  He came from a wilder side of life.  That was really all anyone had to understand about him.  Or, so she thought.  She didn't care for his combative nature, so she generally avoided him.

But, as he put one elbow on the flight console, leaned his head on his hand and heaved a loud sigh, she decided to stop over.  Inquiring, she got the response: "This is too easy."

Berkowitz looked over the flight console.  "Too easy?"

"Starfleet R and D."  He sighed again, shaking his head at the controls.  "Always trying to make things easier.  More efficient.  They made it too easy to fly this ship."

Berkowitz frowned.  She'd had conversations with Kells, Genova, other flight control officers.  None ever described it as 'too easy'.  She doubted even Mala Hendriksson would agree with that assessment.  "I'm glad you think so."

"I'm not.  What is this?"  He gestured at the console.  "Used to be a time I actually had to do some work.  I liked being a pilot; took my mind off things.  But now, after all the upgrades, the ship pretty much flies itself.  The computer does everything, and we get to sit and watch.  What's the point of a conn officer?  You can use your complants to tell the ship where to take you, and it'll take you.  Don't need a helmsman anymore."  He said it with finality.  "I knew I should have stayed in the twenty-fourth century."

"And what would Ty'amra think of that?"  Berkowitz tucked her hair behind one ear and resumed working on her padd.  "I'm sorry you're bored, Mr. Marlang.  We need a set of eyes, organic eyes, watching the course.  We can rely on computers, but we still need to rely on ourselves."

"I'm a pilot.  Not a babysitter."

Berkowitz paused and gave him that 'look' – the look of the one who's in command.  Another fact of life held true in Starfleet: They didn't like whiners... people who complained.  "Do you want to be excused from duty?"

Marlang's head began to turn, then stopped.  He was easily twice her weight, and it was all muscle.  Berkowitz wasn't intimidated.  "No, ma'am."  He added, "I'd just like a little more challenge."

"Don't wish too hard.  And don't get too comfortable thinking that.  You know what this ship's been through.  One of these days, it could be too much of a challenge... even for you."  She returned to the command chair, eyes on her padd.

Bron muttered at the blank, deactivated viewscreen, "I wish."

Berkowitz took the captain's chair.  Starship life wasn't always exciting.  She kept herself occupied with reports, when she could have had a yeoman doing it.  But, she rather enjoyed the peace and quiet.  It was the 'hairy' moments that made her appreciate moments like this... and, truthfully, unlike Bron Marlang, most shared the sentiment.  It was no fun, being over a barrel, with a clock running against you, or worse, facing life and death decisions.

Arcadia was on a series of routine missions, the kind that occupied it for most of any given year.  Those who weren't in Starfleet, who only learned of the 'juicy' 'adventures' through the media or second-hand accounts, might not have believed entire weeks went by without anything unusual happening.  Starfleet encountered the unusual, as a whole... not every day, for each particular ship in the fleet.  Since arriving in 2407, the ship had been kept to the general vicinity of the Alpha Quadrant, with the rest of the ever-growing Quantum Fleet elsewhere, roving the vast galaxy.  Eventually they would be stationed to another region, but for now, it was business as usual... and relaxed.

Currently, the ship sat on course for Atlantis IV.  Site of a former colony, Atlantis achieved Federation membership in 2387, shortly after Arcadia leapt to 2407.  Ratification of its membership was credited to Jean-Luc Picard, one-time captain of two of the famed starships Enterprise, NCC-1701-D and 1701-E – before he became Federation President.  The achievement helped to earn Picard the presidency, in fact.  President Picard.  It had a nice ring to it.  Berkowitz met Picard, once.  Nice man.  Bit stalwart.  She didn't think he was the great, legendary icon people used to make him out to be, but he was pleasant.

Finishing reports, she double-checked for errors, filed them and flicked off the holopadd.  She was in temporary command.  Not bad, she thought with a bit of pride that felt too disturbingly good... and, instantly ashamed of herself, mentally pulled back a hand, and delivered a resounding metaphoric slap for thinking it.  Still: Only a lieutenant-commander, and not only XO, but now temporary acting captain of the Arcadia, for however long Captain April was off duty.  Being off duty itself was no big deal.  No one was ever truly 'off' duty in Starfleet.  They came when called, on duty or off... except when the ship's chief medical officer, backed by the ship's counselor, took them off duty, until further notice.

Berkowitz was sure it would not be long.  Nothing short of a bizarre miracle could confound medical computer analysis in the 25th century.  With the attentions of Dr. Ross, Counselor B'Eryn and the medical department focused on him, April would be back to normal in no time... she hoped.  Though she felt proud for her accomplishment, she knew there was only one true captain on this ship.  His name was Stephen April.  No matter what rank he held, no matter where he went, the years had proved that this was April's home, and he would always return to it, even when he tried to get away.  He and the Quantum-class starship went together like bread and wine... white and rice.  In fact, it was comforting to have him there... to think of him always being there: One constant, in an ever-changing universe.

Now there was a different kind of man.  Different from Jean-Luc Picard, different from Bron Marlang.  She didn't understand him sometimes, and she was not alone, despite knowing him for several years now.  Over time, the crew who served under him had seen a transformation.  The loss of his family... the ordeals he'd been through...  Stephen April had a sense of humor once.  A great sense of humor.  Just the smile, those gray eyes twinkling, knowing there was a joke behind them... He used to take joy in life.  Used to.  There was less of that, now.  The constant barrage fate threw at him... It whittled him down.  Destroyed that spirit.  He sense of humor disappeared.  He could still muster the discipline for command, but it seemed that he'd rather be somewhere else, too – except didn't know where else to be.

Berkowitz wouldn't feel sorry for him.  Just like she wouldn't feel sorry for Marlang.  But the man had suffered... so much in his life.  Maybe too much.  Life in the Federation was supposed to be idyllic.  She didn't know how he kept going.

The latest blow to what should be, by now, a fragile ego, was the news delivered by Ross, as the CMO announced that she was taking Captain April off duty.  B'Eryn confirmed it.  It was not implicit, but Berkowitz could read between the lines.  She had reviewed their reports.  That Vulcan, Strat, had mind-melded with the captain... without his permission.  By force.  Invaded his mind.  It was a personal violation.  In some circles, that could be called rape.  In some circles, it was called rape.

Ross could heal the physical scars.  But how much of the psychological scars would remain, if any... and how they might affect him... remained to be seen.

Berkowitz was more concerned for the Vulcans.  Strat needed rehabilitation.  And then, Vallien... another man she knew for years, and liked (more than the captain, to be honest)... suddenly resigned.  Not knowing the story, she couldn't speculate, but something was up, to make him quit.  Maybe it involved Strat.  But that was the end of her speculation, without the facts.

"Commander Berkowitz."  Jude Baker, the tactical lieutenant, drew her attention.

Spinning to face him, she saw the visual field activate in her comtacts, displaying a priority alert from Starfleet.  Reading through the data, she swung forward, ordering new coordinates to helm.  The man at conn wanted more to do: He got it.

On board, GSEA agent Sylvia Black stepped off the transporter pad, flanked by three of her fellow agents.

Berkowitz, upon seeing the name 'Black' in the Starfleet datastream, had done the obvious: Checked it against the file on Nina Black... seeing if they were related.  They weren't.  It was pure coincidence that they shared the same last name.

Introductions were unnecessary, with complants.  Starfleet required full disclosure of necessary facts when involving itself, or one of its ships, in a security affair.  Berkowitz knew the situation... the agents' identities... why they were here.  Agent Black was on Nyres, in an undercover op for the UFP's Genetic Standards Enforcement Agency, going by the alias 'Honey Bunson'.  (Honey Bunson, she thought.  Sounded like a character in one of those James Bond stories her uncle liked.)  A rogue geneticist, Othaniel Ariz, had been up to shady business, and escaped arrest.

As Honey, née Sylvia, expected, he did not do so for long.

"Welcome aboard," Berkowitz said, then, straight to business, "He's in our brig."  She felt a pang of sympathy-yet-not-sympathy for this Ariz.  If he did not know, he would, after this – that no one escaped the law... and when it came to enforcing genetic laws, no one escaped the GSEA.

"And the... other subject?" Black asked.

Berkowitz hesitated.  "There was... a mixup, in the matter stream.  We were only able to retrieve one subject.  Our doctor's examining him."  She waited, not wanting to describe the rest... hoping Black could fill in the blanks.

She did.  The agent traded looks with her fellow agents.  "If you'll show us the way," Black said, "we'll secure the prisoner and depart."

Berkowitz indicated a young blond woman alongside.  "Van Essen?"

Lieutenant Adelle Van Essen gave a motion with her hand, turning on a heel towards the door.