The Weak in News

Dark silhouettes blotted the rusty half-sphere on the viewscreen.  April picked out configurations at a glance, hovering over the Martian surface, glinting in the light of Sol.  He tried to relinquish his personal tension, walking onto the bridge.  Tried, and failed.  Call letters named them, in bold black: Khyber, Umbriel, Sulu, and more.  Not salvation exactly.  But relief, at least and at last, from the immediate weight on Arcadia's shoulders.

The evacuees had become refugees.  A few days prior, he had approved the counselors' plan to reduce stress arising from their presence – a temporary stopgap, until now.  Today, the seventh day of exile, they began their trek to new homes.

"Lieutenant M'Rrai."

Over the tactical console, the black-furred Caitian's green eyes lifted, pupils dilating slightly.  His ears perked, awaiting what April had to say.

"Assemble the department heads in the briefing room, port side."

"Earth is gone," the Vulcan admiral, Strek, insisted, a little too obvious.  Perhaps he thought he had to repeat himself to the poor, less advanced, emotionally unrepressed humans.

Stephen April pushed aside the negative thought and reigned in his annoyance.  "But not lost," he countered.  "Not yet."

In the space outside the curved rectangular windows of the Galaxy conference room, Mars hung against the blackness.  The swarthy red disc reminded April of Strek's homeworld.  Or hell, in some archaic related perception, framing Strek's head.  The man across the table from him sported steel gray hair matching April's eyes, neatly cut, a face young and old at once.

But it was the Vulcan's eyes that made the connection.  Dark, apple-red irises circled twin black pinholes.  Completely natural.  No genetic modifications, and no 'foreign' blood flowed through his veins – as he had proclaimed on occasion, a bit proudly for a Vulcan.  He happened to be born with red eyes.  Pointed ears accented a demonic implication.  April railed the ridiculous superstition.  Strek was no more a devil than April was God.

April felt irritated – at himself for being here, for having little choice in the matter.  Superior officers gave orders and one obeyed.  That was life, in Starfleet.  When the president of the United Federation of Planets issued orders, outside normal channels at that, there was an implied option, the choice to refuse, at least until such orders came via superiors – but one knew making that choice was a bad choice in itself.  Especially on a day like this.  He was annoyed because he knew what to expect when it came from the president.  April's seat was a saddle.  He had ridden this particular animal before.

Brass, brass, brass.  Stephen April felt he would surely drown in it.  One more reason he resisted promotion all these years: He would never be able to stand the daily, saturating officiousness.  The room was full of brass... and not one familiar face.  He was reminded of how long he had been out of the Starfleet loop, in his retirement.  Had all the figures he'd known, like Minh, been whisked away to another realm... or worse, discorporated at the quantum level?

April thought the Galaxy a bad choice for the president's base.  It was luxurious... spacious... the largest ship available, the original prototype for the famed explorer line of vessels.  She had relieved the private ships of their evacuated 'cargo' and sent them out of the system.  The president probably chose it for symbolic value.  That didn't make the conference room any bigger.  The smell of packed-in sentients was nearly overpowering; air recyclers had a hard time keeping up.  Galaxy channeled power elsewhere, probably replicators for the evacuees.  April would have chosen Cydonia Civic Hall on Mars, or a holodeck, where they could program a larger area.  He would also have chosen a smaller ship.  The Galaxy made a big target.  He imagined a giant bull's-eye painted on the hull, right above their heads.

Despite the number of bodies, four figures ultimately figured as spokespersons for the potential paths before them.  Admiral Richmond Fitz, the Hekaran president, Mizarian commodore Rull... and himself.  The four winds.  War... peace... neutrality... or simply 'let's get Earth back, any way we can' – any or all of the above, and not necessarily in that order.

Strek didn't fit into that paradigm.  He was predictable, but only to an extent.  Fitting with the Dante-ish perception, he liked to play 'devil's advocate'.  That element unsettled April personally.  April considered himself politically neutral, and listened to his own sense of morality.  But in times of sharp division, one had to pick a side.  Strek's proposal was a personal diversion, that was all, and he dropped it at the lack of enthusiasm.

A one-time opponent of April's Starfleet mentor of sorts, another Vulcan, Admiral T'Urla, they clashed over diverse political views back in 'the day'.  Since then, Strek had represented Vulcan on the Federation Council, retired from Starfleet as April did, then recently rejoined – again, like April.  The third parallel gave April cause for concern.  Strek's presence spoke of his convictions.  He was a patriot, to be sure – of the Federation, but of Vulcan first.  'Vulcan first': That was always his agenda.  Mere hours since Earth's displacement, and already the status of April's homeworld beckoned him, like some Vulcan vulture – an opportunity to make a case for Vulcan as the ideal, next-best location for a new Starfleet Headquarters, a new base for the Federation Council.

Not his raison d'être.  He had been recalled to represent Vulcan again.  The official rep was somehow missed in the emergency beam-ups from Earth, of thirty-nine (other) Council delegates representing their respective member planets.  Yet Strek put it on the table, as April knew he would, and made a compelling, logical case, April admitted privately – yet failed.  Logic wasn't enough.  Perhaps the famed Vulcan-human hybrid, Spock, summed it up best: The beginning of wisdom, not the end.  The displacement was still recent.  Emotions were too strong, the shock too fresh, the humans' foothold in their native solar system deep-rooted.  April thought it wise not to listen to Strek on that issue.  Emotion, the beginning of wisdom.  Earth served as Federation capital for two-and-a-quarter centuries, for a reason.  Many reasons.  And besides, Strek was jumping the gun.  Earth had not been written off yet.

Yet.

Clustered about the long oak table behind him, inlaid with black glass and computer terminals, stood various Starfleet officials, half of them human.  In hushed, low-tone conversations, all busily engaged in the obvious topic of the day's interest.

April stood close to the window showcasing the view, sensor-vised from the hull, of the planet which replaced his Earth.  He wondered at the dichotomy of the split view, whose idea it was.  Others seemed less interested, despite it.  A young woman stopped, introduced herself as Captain Brenda Shoemaker, chatted with him for a moment; otherwise, except for occasional directed glances from others connected to their discussion, he observed alone.  He didn't perceive, yet, the true, awful symbolism of the arrangement.  Hadn't seen the portent.  A kind of shock had subdued him.

Arcadia wasn't the sole ship to evacuate, although she was the first.  April's order for other ships to 'stay put' had been heard and obeyed.  Shoemaker's ship, the Liberty, had nabbed the occupants of the Federation Council building in San Francisco, including the thirty-nine Federation representatives.  The others were elsewhere.  That was the important thing, he thought, at the time – they had saved the virtual government of the Federation.  Among the first batch of edicts in the flurry of post-disappearance events was the president's, to pull all ships back.  They retreated, keeping wary eyes and sensors on the new world occupying Earth's orbit around the Sun, and regrouped at Mars, where the president called for an emergency session, which had yet to convene.

April thought of his family, and... Neria.  Thought he was starting to get over her.  A month had passed since she died.  He lost himself in diversions of work, and imagined, if nothing more, that he was moving on with his life.

Earth's vanishing somehow restored it to focus.  Thoughts started of his family, lost with Earth to whatever fate these 'Cireans' assigned them...  the 'speaker', Yort, mentioned a black hole...  ending intensely on Neria.  Perhaps it was inevitable – that any thoughts of family would lead in particular to his daughter.  It was something he could never truly, completely 'get over'.  The only way... was to die.  In his heart and soul, he had died a thousand times.  And still he thought about her.

He lost himself for a moment, eyes closed, hand over his chest, palm open.  He still felt her.  Holding her, her arms about his waist, stroking her dark brown hair... the solidity of her cranium, the gentle plush of her hair comforting under his fingertips, as if she was there, and real.  Her hair curled in little wavy frills.  He could still see her, smell her.  The curves of her teeth, enamel shining in the light as she turned her head sideways, smiling at some joke.  Her soft, womanly fragrance.  His daughter.  He felt the dream of her.  So beautiful.  His beautiful, beautiful child.  Tears welled under his eyelids.

He became aware of two men approaching.

"Captain April? Are you all right?"

The aide leaned over and whispered in the president's ear.  The president of the Federation Council was Hekaran – bushy black hair, light grayish skin, a thick ridged brow pointing outwards from the temples.  April quickly wiped his eyes, the swath of his hand on his face re-lending him some composure.  For all a stranger knew, he might have been getting emotional over the loss of his homeworld.  And perhaps he was.  But the president's chin hoisted in understanding.

"I am very sorry for your loss, sir," he told April.

2385 had been an election year.  Federation Council presidents served four-year terms ever since the Federation began in 2161.  In 2370 Hekarans nearly wrought their own world's destruction, desperately trying to save it from a weakening of the subspace barrier, a long-term adverse effect of warp drive.  A unique qualification for this Council President.  Did it make him more sympathetic to Earth's fate? It was difficult to tell, and only time would.  He seemed more genteel, and compassionate, than other presidents April met; not one of the plastic charlatans politics inevitably spewed.  But the day was still early.  Certainly one of the youngest; he seemed younger than April, who didn't know if Hekarans aged differently than humans.

"Thank you, Mr. President," April mustered, uncertain if he meant Earth, or knew about Neria.  April glanced at the aide, still wondering why he had been summoned.

The president's aide was a 'Bolandorian', as they had come to be called, a Bolian-Andorian hybrid.  Twin antennae sprouted to either side of a centered bifurcated line vertically circling a bald blue head.  He had boarded Arcadia, visiting April's ready room, after the fallback to Mars, bearing a gift – the significance of which April surmised upon seeing it in his outstretched blue hand: a PADD.

"The president requests your presence aboard the Galaxy," the aide had reported, waiting for April to take the offering.

April took the PADD, surprised.  Why would the president send for him, of all people? He had done nothing special, except his duty, as any captain should.  Many on the scene in fact did.  So what was this – an invitation to some awards ceremony, maybe? They had no time for that – only more urgent duties.

"What's this about?" April had said, scrolling the PADD for information, finding none, other than statement of the invitation in formal wording.

"The president will explain.  Please be punctual."  The aide had turned and left in a hurry.

April studied the aide in a glance then retrained his focus on the president.  "I am doubly sorry to come to you, and place additional pressure on you at a time like this," the Hekaran said.  "I can only imagine what you must be going through.  But I'm told of your particular experience, Captain – in matters political and otherwise? – born from an excellent record of service."

Within, April tensed.  He vowed, years ago, when he got out of the political arena... if he never re-entered that vocation, it would be too soon.  Outside he accepted the compliment simply.  He didn't know how 'excellent' he himself would call his own record, but understood the experience remark: He had worked with and advised former Council Presidents, those years back.

Otherwise, what experience did he have to elicit presidential interest, which made any difference here? He had unique experience with quantum inversions; it was on his record.  That was the only place.  Unfortunately, the memories of the data he had used to go 'universe hopping' had faded over the months after returning to his native realm.  When he forced, concentrated his will, to recall the equations, he glimpsed only bits and pieces.  Incomplete data.  Dream-like fragments of memories.  If this was why the president sent for him, he was going to be in for a disappointment.

"Thank you again, sir.  I'm...  glad to be of service, but..." April shrugged.  "I don't know why I'm here."

"Just be yourself." The president turned, moved off, his aide trailing him.

Well, that helped.  April frowned, mumbled "Yes, sir."  Damn, he was young.

The aide called everyone to seats, those who could sit.  There weren't enough chairs; many remained standing.  The Hekaran took the head of the table.  "Thank you for coming.  You can imagine the fallout generated from this event.  History has been made today.  We're all in a state of semi-collective shock, and trying rapidly to adjust.  Most of the officials in Starfleet Command were lost with Earth, forcing others to step in and fill the gaps, which is why you're all here.  In order to formulate my impending report before the Council and urge a response to this crisis, I would hear everyone's thoughts.  Speak freely as individuals, regardless of rank or protocol.  For those not previously aware of the details, a current briefing.  Lieutenant Plunkett."

A twentysomething caucasian woman sat up – short blond hair, burgundy collar, Tactical Division insignia.  A holoprojected grid of the Sol system activated over the table; the new third planet rotated slowly.  The urban structures, if that was what they were, stood out, markedly different; long intersplicing scars of technology on the natural environment.  Formations of golden shapes lined the edge, by the scores – the ships which had launched, blockading the planet against unwanted intruders.

"This is the planet which replaced Earth," Plunkett said.  "We don't know what to call it.  They haven't told us yet."  She spoke with a wry note; the 'Cireans' had said nothing since their first introductory transmission.  "Tactical review suggests a siege mentality.  These ships surround the planet evenly at equidistant locations.  Despite the level of technological ability they've displayed, reading between the lines, or between the ships in this case—" She grinned.  "Sorry, a little Tactical humor."  Either she wasn't from Earth, or was just insensitive.  "—suggests a potential exploitable weakness," she finally got out.

Heads nodded, watching.  These Cireans appeared less than secure in their apparent technological superiority, on high guard.  Or that was what those in the room wanted to believe.

The holo expanded briefly, highlighting the Alpha Quadrant in multicolored swaths for various nations; dotted lines forked from Sol, vectoring towards blinking points in each.  Plunkett said, "In the few hours since the displacement, we've tracked some of the so-called 'envoy' ships.  In some cases they evaded detection, whether or not by design.  But clearly their destinations are the capital worlds of other major powers in this quadrant – Romulus, Kronos, Breen, Ferenginar, and so on, whose territory, by now, they should have reached."

"Have any issued statements?" April asked.

"They are in 'conference'," the president informed, dryly.  "Subject to a scheduled meeting with their ambassadors, later today."

April didn't care for the sound of that.  Following Plunkett's example, reading between the lines, they might ride the fence.  But then, so could the Federation Council.  He had yet to hear their own official position.

"There are two probabilities," Plunkett went on.  "The 'Cireans' may try to form relations with them, and/or may issue an ultimatum, to compel acknowledging them in place of Earth... or else."

"The claim was they are insurance," a Mizarian interjected.  His face was thick, bluish-white, deep-grooved.  A purplish headdress extended in overlapping folds down his back, color matching the shoulders of his uniform.

Dubious expressions flickered around in response.  Mizarian: another word for 'servile'.  Dedicated to passive non-resistance, Mizar had been conquered six times in three centuries.  He wore commodore's pips.  April wondered how he got that rank.

The display collapsed, resuming its prior view.  Plunkett said, "The main point: They have slipstream drive.  This poses a great tactical risk.  Their ships can overrun the quadrant in hours...  the galaxy in a matter of months.  Again, it's been hard to follow their moves, so they could strike virtually anywhere without warning.  We're also unable to scan the ships' interiors; they generate quantum scattering fields, interfering with sensors.  The planet boasts a similar interference.  Surface scans yield incomplete data.  The most we've been able to obtain is visual data, yet even telescopic examination yields inconclusive results.  They're obviously hiding who and what they've got down there.  We've detected no life-forms on or below the immediate surface."

"No lifeforms, at all?" someone asked.

"None that we've found.  The pan-global structures are peculiar; they're the only evidence of urban architecture, and can hold a sizable population.  They may live inside, or underground, or simply be low in numbers.  It's worth noting, though, that this culture appears roughly comparable to the Federation.  While we're still analyzing, visual evidence alone implies they're not too far ahead of us.  Our technology has the same capacity.  Theirs is simply more refined."

"So we could duplicate whatever they've done," April said.

Plunkett nodded.  "I believe so, given time, and resources."  She touched a button; the image vanished.  "From a logistical standpoint, the loss of Earth is incalculable but not irreparable.  Thanks to the admission of so many worlds as Federation members in the last ten Earth years," she said with emphasis, "we should be able to redistribute industrial obligations among other member planets, along with starship deployment and personnel assignments.  Within two to three years we should be back to our former standing.  Of course, we may wish to revise our stardate standard to a model other than Earth's, for record-keeping."

One of the human officers at the table – April assumed he was human; he didn't know him, but he looked it – sat up, momentarily eyeing her.

"Whose?"

Plunkett shifted under his gaze.  "That... is not up to me, sir."  She resumed her exposé.  "Our only biological data is that which can be inferred.  Voiceprint analysis of the single transmission received so far indicates a humanoid male, possibly a few standard, that is, Earth-standard, decades in age, though this may be inaccurate, due to many evident permutations of humanoid life.  The planet itself offers many tantalizing data.  Continental plates and tectonic activity reveal—"

"Enough!" a voice growled at the end of the table, opposite the president.  The incision into the orderly discourse drew startled looks.  Head turned toward a man with blond hair, chopped short, marine style, sat with one hand clenched in a fist on the table's top.  "What are we going to do about this?"

"Calm down, Cole," Admiral Fitz warned.

Captain Cole Magriev.  April knew who he was, as soon as he heard the name.  Their paths had crossed from afar, more than once, during the war with the Dominion.  He had been hailed as a war hero.  April owed him his life.  Many did.  Cole's green eyes burned with some vital force, darkly intelligent, as primal and pure as driving rain.  A force of nature, in their midst.  "I didn't come to hear endless circles of talk.  Every moment we sit delays action." His vehemence didn't necessarily signify concern for Earth.  He might have just liked to fight.

Fitz opened his mouth, perhaps to put Cole in his place, when the president headed him off: "I understand your anxiety, Captain Cole." April noted the nomenclature – surname, before personal.  Like the Bajoran custom.  Maybe he was from Titan, like Arcadia's own Rice Newaygo; for some reason groups there had emulated the practice.  "You'll have to bear with us.  But, let us forego the planetary report for now; the summary will be made commonly available.  So, what can we do about the situation?  Admiral Fitz?"

Admiral Richmond Fitz sat forward, a lean, middle-aged man with red hair, in a burgundy collar like Plunkett.  April didn't know him, but knew the name.  Fitz had been in charge of Starfleet's Special Ops groups; perhaps his duties had been expanded.

"Mr. President, I'm concerned, to say the least.  We cannot withstand a slipstream drive invasion.  You heard it yourself: They can overrun the entire Federation in a matter of hours.  We have two options: Negotiations... or aggressive negotiations."

The young president stroked his upper lip with a forefinger, scrutinizing the admiral who must have been twenty years older.  "You mean war," he said.

Fitz hesitated.  "If it comes to that... Starfleet is stronger than it's ever been.  And we've survived worse.  We're prepared."

"Out of the question."

Fitz blinked, surprised.  He glanced around the table once and said, "Is it, sir?  By their own admission, they've sentenced Earth to destruction and sent billions of people to die.  That's an act of aggression against the Federation, on our own soil, on an unprecedented scale.  An act of war, Mr. President, regardless of how they supposedly feel about it."

"And what do you suggest, Admiral?  Declare war on them in response?  Will that return Earth?"

"Perhaps not.  But consider our lack of intelligence on these 'Cireans', and what we've seen so far.  We don't know their true intentions – only what they've said.  That fleet they dispatched could be an invasion fleet.  They're in all four corners of the Federation and in the space of our allies and other foreign powers.  They're poised to launch a major attack, on one or all of us, if they choose to do so."

"Have we any proof of their hostility?"

"They stole Earth, Mr. President.  By their own admission, they sacrificed it to be destroyed by a black hole."

"A desperate people will do anything to survive, Admiral Fitz."

The clincher April feared; both surprised, and not, to hear such a statement coming from a Hekaran.

Fitz appeared frustrated.  The Hekaran's openness apparently didn't extend to open conflict.  The torture for Fitz was, he seemed less than eager himself, yet put forward the notion, possibly out of a sense of duty.  "These Cireans have demonstrated a disregard for life.  Perhaps only life other than their own, but it amounts to the same.  We may be – might as well say, are, that other life to them."

"Mr. President," April spoke up.  "The ends do not justify the means."

"Yes, yes, of course," the president said.  "But we must consider that this society is apparently more advanced than us, and resist quick, foolhardy urges."

"We cannot sit by and do nothing, Mr. President," Fitz said.  "We must respond.  The Federation is relying on us."

"Again, Admiral, to do what?  I don't think they're relying on us to enter a conflict which can do nothing to help them... and would only hurt us."

"As Admiral Fitz said, we need intelligence," Plunkett suggested.  "More information."

"Trying to get it might be interpreted as an act of aggression," someone retorted.

"We have to try," someone else shot back.  A verbal free-for-all ensued.

"And how do we get it?  If they won't talk to us, and our sensors don't work?"

"I thought they said would answer our questions."

"They haven't said anything yet, after that first transmission."

"What are they waiting for?"

"Exactly.  What are they waiting for?  More time to exert their hold on us?"

"There's no guarantee of that."

"There's no guarantee that there isn't such a plan!"

Fitz cleared his throat, loudly.  The outburst subsided; he turned towards the president.  "That is my point, sir.  We can't afford delays.  We have to act now."

The president sank back in his chair, weary.  "What you're proposing is risking war... with a culture with technology more advanced than our own.  A war we could lose."

"Preparing for whatever eventualities may arise," Fitz corrected.  "We must defend ourselves in any case.  What if they displace more planets?  Profess peace, and attack when our guard is down?  Every time we begin to think we're safe in the Federation, someone comes along and proves otherwise.  With their level of technology, they could do worse than displace planets.  They could destroy planets.  Suns... entire systems.  Theoretically, they could rearrange our galaxy as they see fit."

"Greater advancement does not imply hostile intent," Rull said.  "We have the power to destroy entire star systems.  Do we use it?"

"A peaceful, enlightened society, is that it?" Cole interjected.  "And they've brushed aside an entire populated planet to make room for their own?  Someone in Earth history thought the same way.  His name was Hitler."

"Not all beings think as yours do, human."

"Now listen here..."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing!  Have you forgotten Earth's role in the Federation?"

"Earth's domineering role, you mean?"

"Oh that's crazy.  Look at the makeup of Starfleet and the Federation—"

"Why does every Starfleet ship have a human name?"

"Not every one does.  But we contract and build the ships."  It was Shoemaker speaking, in slow, deliberate tones to the Mizarian, as if addressing a stubborn child – angrily.  A plain young woman with straight brown hair – April estimated her at about ten years his junior – she had a fire she could not contain.  "If you want to give them different names, give them different names; I don't care.  But that's our role.  We created Starfleet."

"Indeed," Strek put in.  "Starfleet was a human organization, predating the Federation."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" someone shot back.

It was frightening to see.

"Order," the president warned.

"Sir," Plunkett started again, "We should consider long-term plans if this fails, or doesn't work.  They have a slipstream drive fleet.  If we can't surpass them, then we must do our best to achieve and maintain a balance.  We need to step up production of our own slipstream ships.  We can't restrict the slipstream program to merely ten or twelve exploratory vessels anymore."

"That's risky," Fitz said.  "We'll have to increase security measures as well.  Or before you know it every race with a grudge against the Federation will have slipstream drive.  That's the main reason we've kept it contained so far."

"In due time," the president said.  "For now, let us concentrate on the immediate issue.  Captain April?  Your thoughts?"

April sighed, glum.  Politics.  He should have stayed on the Arc.  "Compassion is easier to feel than act on... but not as satisfying in the long run.  I can't say what Earth means to everyone.  All I can tell you is what it means to me."

"Please."  The president gestured, sat back.

April regarded him; was he serious?  He looked around then let it out, straight.  "At the risk of sounding poetic, all my life I've sought the stars.  Spent my life trying to touch them.  It's been a quest – not for the stars, but for myself.  For my soul."  His attention turned inwards; he stared at the table, then out the viewport, hands moving as he talked.  "My first memory of stars is looking up on a dark evening, after sunset – when that rich deep blue fills the sky...  and they leapt out at me: A sea of silver, twinkling points of light.  I was standing in an open field in Michigan, on a tract of farmland, facing east.  I wouldn't be here if not for that memory.  It took me years to realize, it wasn't the stars I sought, but that night.  That night, in an open field, surrounded by quiet... that night on Earth, under an Earth sky—"  He snapped out of his private reverie, meeting the sets of eyes.  "Earth made me.  The stars called, but Earth made me.  I can't turn my back on it.  How can any of us?  It made us... all of us who call ourselves human.  It's the symbol of what it means to be human, the repository of our lives and dreams.  Earth is the heart of humanity – where we were born, where we grew, created art, culture, cities, technology... the cradle of our civilization.  Our birthplace.  Our hope for the future, for our children and our descendants.  The one place in the universe where we can always go, and know we have a place...  which we can always call home.  One day we may have to let it go, but it cannot be and will not be this day.  I refuse to give up on Earth."

"An eloquent speech, Captain April," Strek cut in.  "I might describe my planet, Vulcan, in a similar fashion.  But we must be rational, and logical... and not be unduly influenced by emotions.  Earth is one world, and there is—"

"You said it," Cole interrupted.  His face hardened beneath a dark brow, aimed at Strek.  "Earth is one world.  The only one of its kind.  That's what makes it precious.  There is no other Earth, anywhere, exactly like it.  That's why we can't abandon it."  He sat up and leaned forward.  Green eyes traveled around the table, to each face as he spoke, lingering icily on Strek.  "And like Captain April said: We won't."

The president lowered his hand from his lip, at the other end of the table, sensing the rise in tension.

Strek looked at the table.  Silence stretched into a moment following Cole's riposte.  "As I was saying... There is little evidence that Earth can be reclaimed.  Earth is gone."

"But not lost," April countered.  "Not yet."  Human heads nodded and murmured agreement, around them.  April reached into his uniform jacket, slapped a PADD on the surface of the table with a clatter.  "I have all the evidence I need right here."  Strek looked at it.  Others watched, interested in who would win this contest of wills.  Strek looked at April, calmly awaiting an explanation.  "My ship's science department has been working on this since the displacement," April said.  "All of the gathered quantum data points to a switch.  Our Earth for theirs.  Earth should still exist, in their universe."

"But you do not know how to reach it.  Even if you do find it, you cannot be sure you will find it in time."

"We're working on that," April said.  "And we will keep working on it.  Why are you opposed to trying?"

Strek said, "We have the Cireans' assertion that they will consider any attempt to reverse the transference a hostile act."

"Like they did to us?" Shoemaker blurted out.  "Excuse me, but is anyone even interested in trying to find and save Earth?"

Strek interlaced his fingers, palms resting flat on the table.  "The more valid question is, can Earth be saved?"  He looked among faces, waiting for someone to give, or attempt, an answer.

"We'd have to find it first," someone said.

"And where would we begin to look?"

"If we scan the quantum differential—"

"Impossible," Rull declared.  "These Cireans are advanced in quantum physical manipulation.  Neither their planet nor ships generate a quantum differential.  This is how we detect quantum signatures foreign to our universe.  It is as if they have been part of our universe all along.  They can fold quantum patterns into differential states.  By inversion, Earth has undergone quantum realignment to wherever it is located, making it doubly difficult."

"Maybe the Cireans know how to find it."

"Consider what they must have endured to accomplish this," Plunkett inserted.  "How likely is it that they'll tell us?"

A graying, heavyset captain sat forward; April didn't know him either.  "Do they have the power to back their proclamations?"

"They can move planets!" a Tellarite sputtered.  "They have slipstream drive.  They've proved that their science and technology is ahead of ours.  Clearly they can back any threats they choose to make."

"But must it come to that?" Rull said.  "The need to make threats?"

"Think of what we could do with such technology," someone struck in.  "We could—"

"Pose the same threat to them that they pose to us," Cole responded.

Rull continued, unabated, "I submit that it's best to accept the Cirean displacement, on the basis of their apparent advanced state compared to the Federation.  This is an opportunity to negotiate, establish peaceful relations...."

Spoken like a traditional Mizarian.  Any other time April would have been all for it.  Others reacted, the free-for-all resuming:

"Towards what end?  Technological gain?  Greater scientific understanding?"

"Worthy goals."

"Not at the cost of billions of lives."

"There's no evidence that Earth can be saved!"

"Are you just willing to write Earth off?"

"We can't sit by and do nothing!"

"How do we know they truly want peace?"

"Why don't we just ask them?"

"We've been hailing them since they showed up!"

"Order!" the president barked.  Again, the lapse to silence.  The look in his eyes made April think he wanted to cry.  He sighed, seemed to sink lower into the chair, contemplating... considering.

"Mr. President, I agree: We should negotiate."  April didn't like some of the looks he got but continued.  "We need to access their technology, learn how they've switched planets, and if possible reverse the process.  Soon.  If Yort spoke the truth, that their planet faced destruction by a black hole, then we have to act quickly, before it's too late for Earth."

"Are you suggesting we send them back, to be annihilated in Earth's place?" Rull said.  He was sitting on Strek's side of the table.

"I don't want to see them destroyed," April said.  "But it isn't fair to let the same fate befall Earth.  The Cireans chose to sacrifice a planet full of living, thriving billions, for their own survival.  In many interpretations that's an act of war.  I don't see what other choice we're left with in response.  But – and I've given this some thought – if they could be moved... destroy the planet, save the people, and return Earth to where it belongs – or the same idea in reverse...  As much as I hate to say it, we can live without Earth, the planet.  But we can't write off the billions of lives waiting on us, counting on Starfleet to save them.  Maybe we can move the people of Earth to safety."

"How?" Shoemaker asked.  "You'd need a massive fleet or a transporter system more powerful than any we've ever built, neither of which we have, or have time to assemble, if what the Cireans said is true."

"There might be a way," April said.  "The Cireans can apparently transport planets.  They mentioned an alignment – possibly the sole mechanism which facilitated the switch.  Assuming the process can be duplicated on the same universal plane, we find the quantum signature matching the universe they came from, cross over, and move Earth to another location, in their universe.  Get it out of the reach of this black hole they mentioned.  Buy time to decide what to do next.  We can bring the people of Earth back over, to this side, resettle them on another planet.  There's no guarantee it'll work, but we have to try."

"Wouldn't the Cireans have tried that already?"

"How do we know what they've tried," another officer countered.  "Despite their promise to supply 'answers', they're keeping rather quiet."

"Even if we can do it...  why should we?  Why should we give up our planet?  Earth was here first.  It belongs here.  Why not convince the Cireans to relocate?"

"That they have gone to such lengths suggests that they may resist such attempts," Strek said.

"Captain April," Fitz said.  "How would we find their original universe?"

"Short of a scientific means... we ask them," April said simply.

"And if they don't wish to reveal that information?" Strek asked.

April shot him a serious glare.  "Then we find out for ourselves... any way we can."

"Curious.  Captain April, would you be willing to violate the Prime Directive, to save Earth?"

April hesitated for a fraction of a second.  He was treading on dangerous ground here, in his urge to save Earth, and he knew it.  He recalled reading about a man at the Academy – a pioneer of human space exploration, one of the very first starship captains... Jonathan Archer, CO of the first starship Enterprise, NX-01.  Archer had also violated – or been accused of violating, since it was not written yet, the Prime Directive, in his zeal to defend Earth from Xindi aggressors.  Many scoffed and scorned Archer for his actions, but April understood Archer's difficult position, trying to save Earth at all costs.  How far would he go, himself, to achieve such a goal?  What would he sacrifice to save Earth?

"The Prime Directive applies to developing cultures," April said, but knew he was splitting hairs.  "If these Cireans are ahead of us, then apparently they don't have the same qualms about interfering with lesser societies.  Why should we extend them the same courtesy?"

"Exactly," Cole crowed.  "It's us or them.  They made the choice for their survival.  We choose for our own survival."

"And if it comes to war?" Strek asked.  "A war which we may lose?"

"No one wants war," April said, hesitated glancing at Cole, then continued, "But we've faced impossible odds before and survived.  Whatever it may come to... we can't abandon Earth."

"Your words betray emotional influence," Strek challenged.  "Logically—"

"Don't sit there and cite logic, Strek," Fitz said.  "We're not all Vulcans and Vulcan is not the Federation.  Don't Vulcans believe in right and wrong?  What's more logical than that?"

"'Right' and 'wrong' is relative," Strek said.  "What you deem 'right' in this case may be wrong for the Federation.  We must consider the good of the whole."

"Earth is a vital part of the Federation," an Andorian tossed in, surprisingly – for an Andorian.  So far only the human officers, from Earth, had been arguing in Earth's defense.  But not too surprising.  Earth and Andor had a long history together; each had saved the other more than once.  Andorians were renowned for loyalty to their allies.  "Its loss will surely affect the whole."

"Perhaps.  But it may be wiser to 'cut our loss', as humans would say, and deal with the ramifications, for the sake of continued stability."

"Cut our...?" Fitz shook his head in stark disbelief.  "Go back ten or fifteen years.  If we thought that way during the war, the Dominion might be running the Alpha Quadrant right now."

"Did we lay down and 'cut our losses' when the Borg were trying to assimilate us?" Shoemaker said.

April felt a tickle in his brain, as inspiration struck.  He looked up, not really intending to look at anyone, and met Brenda Shoemaker's eyes.  The same thought occurred behind hers, looking back.  They both glanced around to see if the same thought might be occurring to others.

"Nevertheless," the president finally said, rejoining the conversation.  If he saw the subtle glances passing among the human officers, he gave no indication.  "I'm forced to agree with Admiral Strek.  I am reminded of what President Jaresh-Inyo said at the close of the Dominion War: 'Never again'.  Since then there not been a war with the Federation.  Peace is too important."

"War may be unavoidable, Mr. President," Fitz said.

"Listen to me now, Admiral: As long I'm head of the Council, I will do nothing to provoke a war.  The last war we had was the last war, as far as this regime is concerned.  I will not destroy the peace we fought so hard and lost so much to regain.  We cannot sacrifice peace."

"So we're abandoning the people of Earth?"

"I did not say that.  But if the Cireans refuse to assist us, and we can find no alternative method of reaching the people of Earth...  then, we may have no other choice.  We will not go to war with them."

"As commendable as that may be, sir," Fitz said, leaning forward again, "what if this is a prelude to invasion, and they plan to declare war on us?"

"At present, I cannot officially condone actions which may lead to war for the Federation.  However, it is not my decision alone.  The Council must convene, discuss and vote on this issue.  Some of our members' governing bodies may wish to hear any proposals the Cireans might offer.  They may see this as a chance for progress.  It is the Council who must ratify any decision on how we'll proceed.  We will abide by the majority decision.  Agreed?"

The room quieted.  Eyes darted, met, looked away.  April could see the wheels turning... dividing lines becoming gaps.  He wondered on which side he would find himself.  He started to speak up, but held his tongue.  Politicians.  The political process was always a long-winded one.  It might be too long, for Earth.

April sat behind the desk in his ready room, watching newsgrids he really didn't want to see, and resisted the idea of going back to the planet now occupying Earth's orbit around the Sun.  Orders were orders.

"An anxious public continues to await announcement of an official position from the Federation Council," the face of the Ktarian reporter said on his desktop terminal.  "In a startling development, thirteen hours ago Sol Three, the planet Earth, disappeared—"

The newscasts were all the same, but for one common factor: All were about Earth... and none came from Earth.

"In the meantime," April resumed recording, "I have fifteen-hundred and forty-one people with nowhere to go.  The Mars settlements are overcrowded, the Jovians can't handle that many, and Titan's starting to fill.  I hoped to take them to Centaurus, but the Federation's under a state of emergency; this system's locked down.  They're no longer simply evacuees – they're refugees.  They're taxing crews and resources.  Replicator use has gone through the roof.  Yesterday someone figured how to reactivate one of the holodecks and treated everyone to a Praxis snowstorm.  Our medical department had fun with that one.  Not to mention the emotional and psychological aspects, the strain it's putting on my counselors..."

Many crew-members had given up quarters, most voluntarily, some by order, doubling and tripling with fellow crewmates.  April gave his own to two families, since he'd ordered the extra push to exceed capacity, and took to living in his ready room.

"End log."  He touch-deactivated the newsfeed and the recorder and linked in the new transmission.

It was hard to think of Court Baldrin as a Martian.  He looked human enough.  But he had those eyes, the rugged face, associated with descendants of the first-generation colonials – lives spent under pressurized domes and different gravity, shielded from cosmic rays.  Eyes that seemed... smudged, like an oil painting, irises fuzzy inside their corneas.  Too long staring up at a pink-orange sky.

He was also a stick in the mud.  The administrator's lips curled downward on the viewscreen, and Stephen April had his answer to the inquiry he had placed.

"Captain April?  I'm sorry," Administrator Baldrin sighed.  "As I've explained to the last five captains who made the same request: We simply don't have the accommodations."

April looked at the PADD in his hands.  It listed the name of every evacuee they had beamed aboard; it had taken the last twenty hours for roll call.  April wanted to push evacuation capacity, and it had been done: One-thousand, five-hundred and forty-one people, homeless, without a world.  Some had relatives elsewhere in the Federation, places they could go.  Some didn't.  Arcadia couldn't cart them around indefinitely.  Nor could they afford to spare any more time, from the plan to get Earth back.  He wanted to offload them, and fast.

"I've reviewed your housing capacity," April said to Baldrin.  "We have little more than fi—"

"Captain," Baldrin interrupted, a little hotly.  "You didn't rescue the only survivors from Earth.  We've exceeded capacity already.  We have taken in all we can.  Now we must decide where to put them, and I must tell you, I'm quite busy.  Try Titan, or a planet in some other system.  That's the best I can offer.  I'm really very sorry.  Good day."

The screen blanked.  April reached out to tap the monitor into his desk, hesitated, and didn't.  He reclined in his chair, thinking.

In the sensor-vised viewport, Utopia Planitia crews worked with a hard, steady fervor that made it seem they were all bucking for promotions, and giving a collective push as if that would garner attention.  Perhaps it would.  Across the vast shipyard, twenty-odd-thousand kilometers over Mars' rusty surface, workbees and environmental suits flew, fell, jumped, pirouetted, and clung to the struts of nearly finished ships.  They had been at it 'round the clock, trying to finish those docked or in need of repairs, and get others ready for launch, those that could be.

For years, Utopia Planitia had been the prime orbital starship-construction facility of the Sol Sector, an important one in the Federation overall.  Their companion had been McKinley Station, in Earth orbit, where ships were repaired.  A dual relationship: Built here, fixed there.

But McKinley was gone, along with a dozen comparable Earth orbitals.  Utopia Planitia suddenly had to pull double duty, and make room for ships in need of repair.  They had been coming from out-system, and were not turned away.  April imagined what the UP crews must be feeling.  It was a sad day for many, in many aspects.  No less for them, forced to abandon their 'babies', disengaging the moorings on frames, starship skeletons whose keels were laid, missing tritanium-and-synthalloy skin on their bones.  They disconnected them from the womb and let them drift into open space.  Tugs might retrieve them later, but for now, they were excess, more refugees, cast into the void.

The uproar was nothing short of unprecedented.  Here they were trying to decide what to do with refugees crammed inside their hulls, when very soon they might all become refugees out of their whole system.  Rumors circulated that the Federation Council might abandon all of Sol.  Mars, the Jovian satellites, the asteroids, the outposts on Venus, Mercury, Pluto... all might have to be evacuated, if it came to war.  It didn't seem so impossible or unthinkable anymore.  Between the combined, assembled ships near Earth who made it out before the 'switch', they had evacuated nearly ten-thousand people.  A paltry fraction of the twenty billion on Earth – better than none, though that scarcely consoled the survivors.

More and more ships were coming, by Starfleet order, piling in anticipation.  No one officially approved the deployment, as far as he knew.  It seemed like everyone was overreacting.  April didn't feel so bad, for having done so, himself.  His own precedent had saved lives.  But what sorts of precedents might he, or anyone, set over the next however many days?  The implications scared him.

"Finished, Captain."

Therese Redman rose from the floor.  With a sway of her long red hair she turned to face April.  "If there's nothing else, sir, I have other work to do."

April nodded and continued to sit in silence, staring at the terminal.

"Captain...?"  The master tech paused in the door to the corridor.  "If you don't mind me saying... you look like you need to rest."

"Thanks, Chief.  You're dismissed."

Redman pursed her lips, found her feet momentarily interesting, then left.  April continued to sit and stare at the terminal screen, the pink, blue and orange blocks of the LCARS display.

Following orders.  I'm following orders, he told his reflection in the screen.

Promise me you won't do anything without me, Brenda Shoemaker had whispered, upon leaving the meeting the day before.  April had given her an uncertain look, but knew exactly what she was talking about.  Why wouldn't she just do it herself?  She had taken initiative, rescuing the Council.  Maybe she would try; maybe she tried already, first thing, upon returning to her ship.  The Liberty was small, not as equipped as Arcadia, and the Sol system had been placed on lockdown.  But he knew that was not why.  Experience.  Another personal U-turn.

Subspace communications were allowed, but the wormhole network had been closed.  Only standard warp permitted access in and out of the system... and slipstream, for Arcadia.  The rest of the slipstream fleet had been recalled, but to where, he didn't know.  The most advanced, state-of-the-art Starfleet vessel in the sector, and she had to sit here, crammed with refugees.  They had comms access, to facilitate their eventual move out of the system.  Federation-restricted access.  What April needed was long-range com access.  What he needed was the wormhole network.

What he needed... wanted... was the Borg.  A force on par with these Cireans.  The Borg, just as advanced as they had ever been... if not more so... fit the bill, although they had withdrawn largely from interstellar affairs.  They declared neutrality – but if he could reach them, talk to them, attempt to involve them...  Once the most feared space-traveling race in the known galaxy, now secretive, reclusive.  Few knew exactly what they were doing anymore, in their own space.  April had no doubt they were fully aware of what went on in the galaxy at large, although they rarely involved themselves in it.

He could funnel a message through the quantum deflector.  He did it the day before.  But it would be detected.  It was not his decision to make.

"...In closing, I urge this Council and the Federation: Abandon your territorial greed, and embrace the commercial opportunities before us, as the Ferengi Alliance will.  Let us enter a new future of trade with these Cireans..."  Orange fingers interlaced on each stubby hand of the Ferengi representative.  "...Together, rich in latinum and credits for all."  Yellow teeth, straight and sharp, gleamed in an unsettling smile which he probably thought was amicable.

Stephen April sat in the second tier, fourth seat from the aisle, halfway down the length of the Federation Council chamber from the podium – listening to the Ferengi delegate's view... not so much on Earth's fate, but on the Cirean planet's potential.  He sighed.  In one day he had heard more viewpoints from more Council members than he did in his career, certainly more than he cared to hear – and the day was not over.  The Federation numbered some three-hundred planets – minus one.  While they verbally circled endlessly around Earth's disappearance, and the windfall, in every aspect conceivable – political, military, commercial, industrial, cultural, agricultural, scientific, technological – he felt he understood Cole Magriev's frustration, and felt the clock ticking for Earth.

Black holes: The most terrifying natural phenomena in existence.  Frightening, to imagine what the sky looked like now from Earth.  The Pacific to the Sahara, Greenland to Antarctica....  It still seemed too impossible to believe.  Earth: Gone.  And the Moon.  The people, cities, continents.  Paris.  Cairo.  Sao Paulo.  Beijing.  San Francisco.  Starfleet Headquarters.  The Academy.  The Louvre.  The Amazon.  The ocean settlements, the orbital stations.  New England, where he spent most of his childhood growing up.

His family.  Gone.  Those of them that lived on Earth.  His father and brother, a few cousins here and there, and a sibling he didn't know he had until the recent Khalindarian affair, remained, elsewhere in the Federation, but the majority lived on Earth.  His nephews, Christian and Nicholas, had returned to Earth with him for Neria's memorial.  He wondered what sort of sky they might be looking at now, if they were capable of looking up at anything.  It was a feeling he shared, at that moment, with thousands of other people.

The holodeck simulation aboard the Galaxy reproduced the Federation Council chambers precisely.  Representatives lined the ascending pews, only some physically present.  Most were off-world at the time of the displacement, for one reason or another; Council gatherings weren't daily get-togethers.  And with the significant increase in membership of recent years, spread over four quadrants of the galaxy, many preferred to 'attend' via long-range com-link.  Those same long-distance members 'sat in' by remote, now – the sensor-feeds in the room, their eyes and ears.  When one wanted the floor, holo-representations activated to be their voice.

They weren't the only ones assembled.  Theft of the Federation's capital world was the most controversial event in recent Federation history... not to mention Earth's.  Displacement by another civilization, apparently one with the clout to call itself a major power, concerned everyone involved with the Federation.  Ambassadors from the other major nations also sat in by remote holo-link.  The Klingons had sent a physical representative, directly.

April still didn't know why the president wanted him here.  The Galaxy's CO didn't attend.  Most Starfleet uniforms in the room belonged to 'official' officers, assigned to such proceedings for benefit of Starfleet interests supplementing Council affairs.  Admirals, commodores, attachés, officers with the Diplomatic Corps and their ilk.  April hadn't belonged to the D-Corps in almost a decade.  He hadn't expected this level of organized chaos, never saw it in the past, as everyone tried to discuss what was obviously foremost on their minds in relation to Earth's disappearance.  Some mimicked Strek's example, wanting their planet to be the next choice of Federation capital – as if Earth had indeed been written off.

Everyone came.  History had been made, and everyone had something to say about it.  Even the mysterious Muru sent a representative – a short, balding man who sneezed a lot.  A new face for an old race.  Curiously, he wore a Starfleet uniform; three shining pips, a full commander.  The Federation knew the Muru by name for the better part of a century.  They had been around much longer than that.  They seemed rather enlightened, for a race of symbiotic viruses.

For the whole three days, three tumultuous, exhausting days, the Council argued and debated endlessly.  It was more than April could bear.  Never had he seen the Council so deadlocked, between sides who wanted to reclaim Earth, who wanted to declare war on the Cireans, and who wanted to make peace, accept them.  Compelling arguments came from either side, from reasons for suspicion to potential gains.  April found himself on the fence, in the middle.  He didn't want war, but couldn't accept writing Earth off to its fate, when the possibility existed of reclaiming it.

Earth was more than just the center of the Federation, lying at the periphery of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, and more than the seat of Federation government and military power.  Earth was everything he said it was, and more.  The delegates wanted practical reasons, which there were: Earth was an important commercial center, handling nearly twenty-thousand ship-calls a year.  Their orbital facilities and dock yards were among the top notch in the quadrant.  Their exports matched their imports, and they practically wrote the book on Federation educational institutions.  Humans had come a long way from the primitives who once burned their own people alive for religious beliefs, and warred for similarly dubious ideas such as 'territory' and 'power'.  One of the Federation delegates, a Terran herself, cited the similarity of Federation political structure to the medieval alliance of American territories known as the United States – comparing Earth's loss to the great California quake, which reduced one of the most influential states in America.  The loss to the Union in the 21st century, she cited, had been, like Lieutenant Plunkett said, 'incalculable'.  Representative Carla Gentry Reid was a driven, passionate woman; April liked her immediately.  Yet most found it a quaint comparison.

Strek's seemingly casual disregard – of the world that had been the Federation's beating heart for two-hundred and twenty-five years; April's world, his homeworld – fueled April beyond annoyance, into anger.  Rage swelled: Massive, molten, a slow thick lava rising from the core of a missing planet.  It startled him with its intensity; he didn't know where it came from, but it felt good.  Righteous and just, and a little prideful.  He needed to feel good about something, for once – for the first time in a while.  How strange, for him, that it should be this.  He walled it off, contained it, directed it.  Undirected anger was dangerous.  Directed rage was inexhaustible.

Hours became like days, around the debate pressing on for what seemed that long.

The Arc's science department had been running simulations, extrapolated from atmospheric scans of the new third world.  April personally witnessed the simulated sphere of massive, static-like sizzle.  Particle collisions affected that atmosphere, the result of solar winds violently off course – pulled by a powerful gravity well, four to six light-years away.  That same ravaging solar wind now barraged the Earth, his Earth, if it survived.  He submitted the data to Fitz.  And still they sat in discussion.

There was only one option, one decision to be made, in his mind: How to get it back.

Most favored doing what, if anything, could be done to rectify the situation, which meant reclaiming Earth, if possible.  Yet no one could agree on what that was without offending others – and those who agreed, also agreed to stand by the majority decision.  Democracy.  The Hekaran was right: Some were very interested in the Cireans, not in how to get rid of them.  He was surprised to hear the Cardassian ambassador support Earth, perhaps because Cardassia opposed Earth and the Federation so intensely in the days before the Dominion.  Most representatives of major powers voiced opinions early in the proceedings.  The Ferengi waited until the end.  The last word: More impact.  Romulus, even the Dominion, took the pro-Earth stance.  It was better to deal with the devil you knew.  The Breen envoy struck points that the 'arrangement' was 'old' and 'tired', and the time had come for 'change'... echoing what many Council members essentially implied.  Officially the Breen held neutral... in effect waiting to see if these Cireans might do what his people had not, to date – which was, trump the Federation.  In the end, it still came back to the Council: Their decision.

In his ready room aboard the Arcadia, April shifted in his chair, butt numb from sitting for so long.  The holo-interactive system Redman installed the day before hummed, invisible scan beams reading every inch of his body, relaying his image to the Galaxy's holodeck.  He pulled the goggles from his face, rubbing his temples; the straps would leave marks.  He replaced them and the Council chamber popped back into sight.  He'd had to pay Cao a visit in sickbay before joining the second day of deliberations, for stimulants to keep him awake and alert.  Klingon raktajino, with caffeine stronger than Terran coffee, wasn't doing it anymore – and also made him pee a lot.

Strek had his own camp behind him, smaller in number than the pro-Earth faction, but numbers didn't matter.  It shocked April that it existed at all.  He saw with his own two eyes, the day before, on the first day of Earth's displacement: Factions forming in the ranks of Starfleet Command... what was left of it, in the tumult of post-displacement events, or what it was becoming... over Earth's disappearance, and what to do about it.  April found himself emerging as the unofficial voice of the pro-Earth side.

What shocked him more was that he accepted it.  He didn't know where it came from, at first.  Perhaps the fact that anyone was willing to write Earth off, after all Earth did for the Federation.  Earth, the Federation capital, core of the core planets, a founding member.  Home of Starfleet and the Federation Council.  His homeworld.  He felt oddly right, despite the circumstances – just, and empowered.  Don't get caught up in politics, his subconscious warned, but like a sudden addiction, he couldn't let it go.  It fired a passion he didn't know he was capable of feeling anymore.

He realized he was searching, waiting for some profound realization, some truth which had eluded him in his life.  It occurred to him how badly he needed it.  He had grown used to looking at life and the universe in a certain way, and had then outgrown it.  He needed to see it in a new light.  He needed to be that light.  He would have settled for something new, period.  Every day he spent in command was the same old thing – same routines, same manner and mode of behavior and operation, the same people in the same rooms with the same views.  Nothing ever changed.  He needed change.  He had become that discharge on the screen: Static.

Losing his homeworld wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

During a break in the proceedings, the president came up and nonchalantly dropped a bombshell in his lap.

"Captain, Earth's disappearance has depleted us of valuable flag officers.  In conjunction with the admirals, I've had you promoted to commodore."

There it was.  If April's jaw had hit the floor, it would have collapsed several decks.  "What?"

"You'll be put in charge of a task force, and—"  The president paused, frowning.  "Is something wrong?"

"Sir, I... I'm honored, but... frankly, I don't want to be promoted.  I've had other offers, but I'm fine where I'm at.  I never wanted to be more than captain."

"Hmm.  I see.  Well, this puts me in an awkward position.  Admiral Strek recommended you highly."

Double whammy of surprise.  Strek?  Recommended April?  The Vulcan had a motive, he was sure.  What that was, only Strek knew.

"If you like, it need only be temporary, until a suitable replacement arises.  Duty places unwanted demands on us all.  Surely you understand this."

April could hardly argue with that.  But every fiber of his being told him to anyway.  He wrestled with his conscience, trying to muster the courage to tell a president no.

"Please, Captain.  I realize this is a difficult time.  I like you, and I trust you.  You're a reasonable man.  Conscientious... dedicated... loyal.  Do it for me.  As a favor."

April sighed, closed his eyes, teeth clenched.  "Very well, sir.  I... accept."

The president smiled.  "Thank you..."  He shook April's hand.  "Commodore."  And walked away.

April rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead.  Good God, what have I done...

'Commodore April'.  Mentally, it made him gag.  He hated the sound of it.

A formality.  That was it.  He would just look at it as a formality, and go by 'captain'.  Most commodores were just 'fancy captains' anyway – fleet captains, starbase commanders, or task group leaders, as in his case.  He would not let anyone call him commodore.  He did not even have to tell them.  He would keep the same rank pips he had on.  Just a captain, with some extra responsibilities; he could handle that.  And when it was all over, he would undo the formality, and relinquish that silly rank.  Commodore April.  Ugh.

"Stephen... tell me what the Borg are like."

April stretched, and groaned, into the couch.  The fibers prickled his cheek.  The weight on his back seemed light, as if artificial gravity had been lowered in the room.  His fingers brushed the glass beside the couch, felt the damp splotch in his carpet where it tipped over.

"Oh.  A little further down... that's it.  Ohhhh..."

Captain Brenda Shoemaker's fingers kneaded into the small of his back.  "You sound a lot different than you did the other day."

She straddled him on the couch, her duty jacket hanging open, burgundy shirt on underneath... and little else.  April, half-dressed in reverse, duty slacks, boots, and topless, reached to scratch his side, felt one of her thighs wrapped around him, and stroked her leg.

"Uh feel diff'rent," he mumbled into the armrest.  "If uh drink enny more o' that stuff, meh uniform will light up."

"That takes two bottles.  I only brought one."

He turned his head slightly.  "Too bad.  What'd you... oh yeah.  The Borg, the Borg.  What's to tell.  They're...mmh!"  He winced as she loosened a tight muscle.  "Shapeshifters... now.  They look like..."

"I know what they look like," she said patiently.  "I mean, tell me what they're like now.  What's not in the Starfleet record."

"Never met one?"

"When?  Was I s'posed to take my ship, and... vroooosh... right to the Deltaquad and yell, 'Hey Borg!  Come out, come out to me, alley alley oxen free!'"  Her voice sounded too loud.  She laughed, jiggling on his back.

"They... send reps... when they... well hell, when they want I guess.  D'no why they didn't come to the conference.  Why dun you just..."  He lifted his hand, moved it in a circle, let if flop down to the floor.  "...say what you really mean.  And the answer is... I'd know."

"You'd know?"

"I... dunno.  Don't.  Know."  He chuckled.

"Ah.  Hmm. " She leaned over close, breathed directly into his ear, raising hairs on his neck.  "Hey, we have friends," she said sweetly.  "You know that?"

"I know that."

"A lot of friends."

She laid down on him, wriggling until she was flat on his back.  Straight brown hair fell into his eyes; he blew the strands out, to no effect.  Her breasts squashed against his shoulder blades, rolling as she breathed.  The alcohol on her breath hit his nostrils.  Somehow her words didn't slur like his.

"We think it's a good idea... a good idea... to... to..."  Her voice trailed off; she was whispering to herself.

"Get help?"

"Yeah.  But..."  She shrugged.  "You know... the Council, and all..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"So you think the Borg, huh?"

She giggled.  "Stephen, I'm drunk.  I don't know what I'm thinking.  No, no, wait... yeah I do.  Yeah, the Borg.  Yeah.  But... I just don't know what they're like now..."

April groaned again; she was starting to feel heavy now.  He tried to move under her, but she pressed down like concrete.  "Don't pass out on me."

"Still here, Admiral."

His gut churned, uneasy.  Maybe the president intended to promote him to that, next.  Politics.  But at least she didn't call him commodore.  "It's not... the Borg... that's the problem."  The words came out in sync to his wagging finger.  He heaved a sigh.  "You've got to move."

"Ohhh..."  She whimpered in protest and reluctantly crawled off.  Her rump landed on the floor with a thud.  April exhaled in relief and turned himself halfway to face her.

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

Brenda Shoemaker cracked a grin.  She had violet eyes – strange how he never noticed that until now.  They reflected light like purple wine.  Natural, like Strek's?  Not entirely human?  He looked at her.  More beautiful than any woman he ever met.  It was the alcohol.  Yet she was pretty, in her plain, tomboyish way.  "Mmm.  But right now... what else can you do?"  She planted a finger on his nose, made beeping noises, nudging it back and forth.  "I saw your picture once.  You were a heartthrob," she said in a dreamy drawl.

She didn't say if he still was, but that didn't seem to matter.  April flashed a disbelieving sneer.  "Give me a break.  I'm a hairy old man."

She ran a hand through the hair on his chest.  "What do you want to bet Cole goes Klingon on Strek."

April couldn't resist a laugh, despite it all.  "There might be a few court-martials in the works."  He shut his eyes.  This would be about time for the room to start spinning, but it didn't.  He couldn't remember the name of the stuff, but Shoemaker knew her booze, and it was better than synthohol.  "Where were we... friends... Borg... Council..."  He snapped his fingers.  "Oh, right."  His eyes reopened.  "This, B..."  He had taken to calling her B, about the same time she started using his first name.  Halfway into the bottle on his desk.  "This, B, could be, the biggest thing... I mean, it is the biggest thing, but could get bigger... Anyway: This could be the thing that changes everything."  He frowned.  "Am I making sense?"

She nodded dramatically.  "M-hm."

"I mean, 'slike the Mah-kee."  His slur emphasized Maquis.  "Member them...?  In reverse.  And I mean... Starfleet, against Starfleet... goin' 'gainst the Council... risking war with those, those bastards, who took my planet... our planet... slipstream drive."  He whistled.  "They could kick... our... collective... ass.  But good."

"I wonder what they're waiting for."

"Whatever... wish they'd hurry up and get it over with.  Suspense is killin' me."  He grunted.  "Speakin' o' collective... I just don't know... Would the Borg help us...?  They're so... so..."

"Secretive."

"Mysterious.  Somethin' like that.  They... do their own thing now."

"You helped them, right?" she said.  "Would they help you?  Help us?"

"One way to find out."

"Ask them."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a few moments, April prostrate on the couch, Shoemaker beside him, twiddling her hair.  Through the stupor they both knew: Once it started, there was no going back.  But then, it had already started, with the Cirean planet.

"You should," Shoemaker said.

April stirred from sleep, blinked once or twice, rolled over – and fell off the desk.  Pain shot through him on impact with the floor.  He sat up slowly, cradling and rubbing his arm where he'd landed, instantly awake after a tumble like that.  That's what you get, he told himself.  "Note to self," he said aloud.  "Beds good desks do not make."

Shoemaker was gone – probably returned to her ship.  He was out cold before she left; he couldn't remember the last subject of their raving discussion.  He didn't recall having sex with her, but that wasn't the point anyway.  Trying to apply different adjectives to Brenda Shoemaker, to clarify their mutual interests – it had only been a few days since they met – didn't work.  None quite fit.  That didn't matter either.  They were adults, with mutual interests; they fulfilled a mutual need.  End of story.  He hoped she beamed straight from the ready room.

He stumbled to his feet, now bare, padded behind the desk.  He still had his pants on, but his boots had been flung to opposite corners of the makeshift quarters.  Leaning on the desk, he brought the monitor up.  There were always new messages.  The first detailed a cleanup of the "Aquarium", the Wembahdnaw's quarters on Deck Twelve.  When the crew puked their guts out, the aquatic lifeform suffered a similar mishap.  Umpteen messages waited from crew wanting to see him about this or that.  Toole needed him for something in Engineering.  B'Eryn and Bauval's plan to handle psychological duress among refugees had been implemented, and was proceeding apace.  They were calling it 'displacement trauma'.  Fitz finally obtained clearance for ships to pick them up and take them out of the system.  Well, that was good news, of a sort.  April stopped reading, rubbing his eyes.  No hangover but he had a mild headache.

The next message caught his attention.  It had been shielded and encrypted.  Words popped up: Alpha Clearance – Command Code Required.  No identification for sender or recipient, accessible by he alone.  He lowered himself into his chair, staring at it, then entered his code.  It read:

ID trace led nowhere; they knew how to encrypt.  It could have been a Starfleet sender, but something in his gut told him civilian; it sounded too desperate.  Not Brenda Shoemaker; he felt sure of that.  Yet someone aware of the Council deadlock, who knew what was going on.  Who also had access to his record.  Who had an interest in Earth, wanted to avoid war, and wanted to remain anonymous.

There was only one person he could think of.  Carla Reid, the Earth representative.  He resisted the urge to find out.

He sat staring at the message for a long time.  Through the viewport, providing a daily reminder of what transpired outside, he glimpsed ruddy Deimos, alone, in the distance.  Mars had two natural satellites, like the Cirean planet, of similar appearance.  Orbit had carried the Utopia Planitia yards from sight.  He deleted the message, then deleted its imprint from the communication logs.

Standing before the mirror over his sink, a toothbrush shoved between his lips, he glimpsed his gray eyes' reflection and saw something different: A new will staring back, lurking inside the pupils.  For some reason he felt... centered, calmer after the chaotic sadness of Neria's death.  He had been feeling sorry for himself, he realized.  A kind of resolve settled into place.  A purpose, a drive, a goal.  He needed that.

The doorpad chimed on the bridge side.  "Enter," April said.

"Captain..."  Libra stepped in, looking around – at the clothes draped over chairs, the PADDs piled and cluttered, toiletries littering one side of the desk.  He sniffed and noticed the bottle, then the glasses tipped over beside the couch.  He opened his mouth, closed it.

April spat toothpaste into the sink.  He passed the toothbrush under the faucet, rinsing, glanced at Libra in the mirror.  Dark marks hugged the science officer's eyes; he scowled slightly, haggard.  "You have something to report?"

"Afraid not, sir.  And that is my report.  I've had the whole department working nonstop, but we can't pull any more quantum rabbits out of the hat.  The displacement particles have dissipated... and after the initial slipstream flux, those ships have gotten pretty good at covering their tracks."

"You haven't identified their plane of origin."

"No, sir, and I don't think we're going to."

"And still no response from the Cireans."

"None."

April faced himself in the mirror, grim.  "We tried.  Is there anything else?"

"I could use some sleep, sir."

"Go get some.  Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

"Door lock," April said after he left.  He craned his chin in the mirror.  He needed to shave.  Instead he went to get dressed.  He had rounds to make.

The refugees were everywhere – in the lifts, spare rooms, corridors.  After nearly a week of being cooped up on board, they had been let out, into areas slightly less secure than the most secure and off-limits.  Pagliacci's department had its hands full, monitoring them, but few had the spirit to cause trouble.  A kind of communal depression had sunk in.  April felt guilty for feeling better, as they felt worse.  An inverse ratio.  He couldn't look into their faces.  He had to turn them off, make them 'non-people' in his mind.  No one he knew, none of his relation or former friends or acquaintances.

He walked into the mess hall; Adrena ambled up.  The Zaldan was pregnant.  When that happened, he didn't know, but she gestated fast.  He didn't envy Cao, knowing Zaldan... 'courtesy'.

"Usual, Captain?  Raktajino?"

"I want a Klingon virgin."

Adrena frowned.  Not at the term – the Klingon version of a bloody Mary, with bloodwine.  It was the fact that April ordered it.  So rarely did he consume alcohol, one might as well have said he never drank.

April eyed her, waiting.  "Got a problem with that?"

"Coming right up," the Zaldan said, unoffended by his directness.

The mess was, understandably, packed.  April waited for a seat, then decided against it.  He downed the drink before Adrena got more than arm's length away, replaced the mug on her tray.  "Thanks."  She stared at the empty mug then at him as he turned, walked back out.

Something was happening inside of him.  The rush of competence he'd felt in the old days, the old days way back when things seemed to matter, crept into him again – a psychological animal pent up in some cellar of his soul, testing its chains, sniffing for meat.  It was him.  The most real, bedrock Stephen April, the one he'd thought dead and forgotten.  It welled up, warm and refreshing.

A short time later, April stood in the doorway from the ready room to the bridge.  "Haskins."

The XO rose from the command chair.

"Sir?"

April gave the bridge a once-over and motioned between the doors.  "Come on in here for a minute."

As soon as Haskins was in and the door shut, April said, "I'm going to be leaving the ship for a bit.  Prepare the Synergy for immediate departure."

Haskins gave a dutiful nod.  Was that the scent of... bloodwine, on the captain's breath?  "Going somewhere, Captain?"

April hesitated.  Since the first officer's assignment, both had been busy, never spending more than passing time in each other's presence.  Jeremy Haskins seemed trustworthy, all things being equal... but things weren't equal.  April wasn't sure how he would react.  "Haskins... this may sound strange, and I don't have time to explain, but I need you to make sure no one knows I've left.  I shouldn't be gone long.  A day, at most.  You can hold the fort, right?"

Haskins knew something was on, after a statement like that.  "May I ask what this is about, sir?"

"For now, it's better, I think, if no one knows," April said.  "It may be for nothing.  If it is, then it won't have mattered.  But we may be facing harder times ahead.  As the saying goes, it gets worse before it gets better."  And despite Earth's loss, they hadn't hit rock-bottom yet.

Haskins was perplexed, but didn't ask too many questions.  "You can count on me, sir."

"Good boy.  On your way."

April waited until he was out and started packing a case.  He tapped his com-badge.  "Yeoman Moon."

"Good morning, Captain sir!" she squealed, her usual perky self.  No matter how far chips were down, Sunni Moon maintained a pleasant personality.  Some deemed her insensitive; others called her unflappable.  "And how did you sleep—"

"Sunni, listen."  She gasped on the other end; he rarely called her Sunni.  "I need you to pull off one of your little miracles.  My ready room's a mess and I don't have time to clean it.  Can you—"

And everything else, he thought.  He wondered how many other specialties she had.  "Thanks, Sunni; you're a doll."  From the sound of the giggle, that really made her day.  "April out."

The young man shrugged.  "It doesn't matter."  His name was Lerry Struyck.  Seventeen, and depressed.  He wasn't the only one.  Refugees lined the shuttlebay, more people than she ever imagined would fit.

Hearing the ship's counselors needed assistance in dealing with the refugees, to relieve the pressured crew, Adia volunteered.  Though a science officer, she had taken counseling courses at the Academy.  She had little actual experience, but growing up with her fellow El-Aurians, she grasped their intuition – in principle.  She lacked their sense, their ability to 'listen'... but thought maybe, just maybe, she could be good enough, this one time.

She found the situation nothing short of ironic.  The El-Aurians: Once proud starfarers and philosophers, exploring the galaxy.  Then the Borg came, reducing them to a handful of homeless refugees, those who escaped assimilation a century ago.  A handful of refugees was virtually all that remained of Earth.  Everyone looked strained, unsure, brows furrowed, eyes down.  Adia had seen recordings of her people, after the Borg carved up their planet like a Terran turkey.  It was the same.  And here she was, the 'deaf' El-Aurian, trying to listen to them.  Most reacted as Lerry did to her attempts.  She couldn't blame them.  Her parents still talked, on occasion, about the Borg.  Had it been like this, for them?

A big ship.

Before he could attempt to identify it, brilliant light exploded.  A nova flared into existence, drowning the stars, causing him to turn away.  Like a sunburst, it faded, and he dared to look.

The vessel consisted of shapes, multiple shapes, compact and merged.  A sphere, inside a cube, inside a diamond, each outer point creating a pyramid.  The facets sparkled in colorful, lustrous panes like stained glass around white light.  The outer hull could have been metal, crystal, something else entirely.  It was the size of a small moon, bigger than any ship he ever saw.  Bigger than most space stations.  Instruments measured exactly six-hundred kilometers in diameter.

It took April a moment to realize he was gaping.  He had expected, at the most, a com-band response.  Mala Hendriksson would have jumped at a chance to see this.

He started to open a com-channel.  A booming voice leapt ahead of his intent, coming from everywhere, and nowhere.

April forced down a swallow.

"To you, or to us?" April finally said.

"You know who I am.  I was there when you evolved, remember?  I helped to make what you've become.  You wouldn't be here, wouldn't be what you are, if it wasn't for me."

April tried a different tack.  "Listen.  When you assimilated you took lives from all over the galaxy, including the Federation.  Humans.  From Earth.  They're part of you now.  Don't you feel... a sense of loyalty, of compassion?  Wanting to help, to make up for it?"

April was about to give up, but the conversation wouldn't have gone this long if the answer was a simple no.

"Then... why are you here?  Why send a ship?"

³¹  And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.  And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

In the tier to his left, April watched Strek.  The Vulcan gave away nothing – the perfect stone face, one he could barely emulate.  April did not think Strek cruel or even unfeeling, despite his defense of the Federation at Earth's cost.  Strek was cold, yes, the Vulcan coldness necessary to maintain control.  A valuable asset in many circumstances.  Every race had their specialty, and their time to exercise purpose.  April could not deny that he was right: To risk plunging the Federation into war, a war possibly lost before it began, for one planet... or the chance to save one planet, which might be impossible to save... That was not right.  April had spent hours debating with himself, trying to relinquish his passions, do the logical thing.

But he still had a choice.  It was a matter of principle.  Earth was part of the Federation.  The Federation could not cast off parts of its self without resistance, for the sake of peace.  Do that enough times and eventually no Federation would remain.  Someone had to speak for Earth.  Someone had to make a choice.  Had to choose for Earth.

The question was, how many made that choice.  He looked for, and found, Carla Reid, in a tier further down, between the Catuallan and Elaysian ambassadors.  She was watching the president.

April concentrated on the podium as the votes tallied.  It suddenly seemed very much like a courtroom drama, with the fate of Earth on trial.  The Council, the jury; the president, the judge.  The Rigellian ambassador, bailiff, standing to the right of the podium.  The Rigellian turning, handing the PADD into the president's waiting hand.  The suspense as he surveyed the results.  The final verdict would appear on the large viewscreen behind him.

And yet, the process had grown so long and confusing, April could not remember what it was exactly they were voting for.  Was it a vote to go to whatever lengths were necessary, to verify Earth's existence, and then reclaim it?  Was it a vote to simply say Earth was finished, and it was time to move on?

He found he was clenching his fists so tight, his knuckles had turned white.

"That is hardly a fair assessment," Strek countered.  "The consensus is to seek a peaceful solution."

"Which means we wait until the Cireans decide to give it to us," Brenda Shoemaker threw in.

"If they do."

"While Earth gets sucked into a black hole," others said.

The command ranks had gathered, one last time perhaps, in the Galaxy conference room.  April wasn't sure, but thought it had been intended for the human officers, and those sympathetic to Earth – explaining the presence of the Andorian from the other day, the captain of the Galaxy, as it turned out.  His name was Thalas.  Yet others had shown up, less than sympathetic, Strek among them.  Any potential for physical alteration was offset by the fact that, except for Thalas, all were holographic representations.  Shoemaker had insisted that April come, and he did.

It wasn't a good time right then to be Strek.  This was one of the dangers in assigning a Starfleet official as planetary representative.  He had to stand on both fronts, bear the displeasure of officers who didn't agree with Council decisions, or defend, and represent, Starfleet military interests to a civilian government.  Impartiality was difficult.  It was uncommon, but not unheard of.  Starfleet regulations disallowed it except in certain circumstances.  Apparently this was one of those circumstances.  He would not be the official representative for long, now that the vote was called.

Cole still looked like he wanted to rip his ears off.  He glared at the Vulcan.  "If Vulcan becomes the next seat of government... so help me..."

"May I remind you, I am still a ranking Starfleet officer, Captain Cole."

Cole exhaled harshly through his teeth and turned away, stopped and turned back.  "Well you know what?  I don't care.  I don't care.  I'm not the type to defend the government which sentenced my people to death.  Call it what you want, call me unenlightened, but I won't do it.  And you can bet your pips, Admiral, sir, that every other Starfleet officer out there right now on our side is thinking about the same thing.  How well do you think Starfleet's going to work if we all suddenly say to hell with it.  And you already know, there are quite a few planets out there who would be willing to stand behind us."

"You are, without a doubt, the most flagrantly emotional man I have ever met."

Cole laughed, a hard, bitter laugh without humor.  Right in Strek's face.  "Good!"

Vulcans suppressed emotions.  But they still had them.  Strek's eyes gave a nasty lift to Cole's as the two squared off.  Cole stood with his feet apart, as if he had lived a life withstanding powerful winds.

"We have laws—" Strek started.

"Law only works if the majority let it," Cole said.

"Cole, back off," April commanded.  Anger surrendered power, not gained.  His own felt sharp, razor-edged, at that moment, but again, a controlled, directed anger.  He looked at Strek, unsure if deep down the Vulcan was enjoying this.  Unlike Cole, probably, April was willing to give him the benefit of doubt, as he would anyone.  Cole wouldn't help anyone, least of all himself, if he got himself thrown in the brig.  "The Council has made its decision," April said simply, eyeing Brenda Shoemaker.  "Now it's our duty as Starfleet officers... to live with it."

April sat on a marble bench in a bright atrium, under a roof made of glass.  Between the girders the moon was out, while it was still daylight.  Flowers, white and green with huge petals, spilled down the sides of giant vases.  A tall water fountain spouted over a pond nearby.

"It's my home," Fitz had said.  "My wife decorated it."  Why would Fitz choose such a program?  Maybe he thought it was conducive.  April wondered if his wife had escaped.

"The Borg can't help us," he told the group gathered around, on the other marble benches – Fitz, Shoemaker, Cole, Thalas, others whose names he was still learning.  All holos, each in the privacy of their ships – ready rooms, quarters, wherever they transmitted from.

"Figures," Brenda Shoemaker muttered.

No one asked why.  He was glad.  He didn't know how to break it to her, to anyone.  They had other problems right now.  He thought of Jeremy Haskins, out on the bridge.

"So, this is it," Cole said.  "It's up to us."

A butterfly landed on April's leg.  He gently brushed it off.  "It's up to me."

"You won't be alone," Shoemaker assured him.

Fitz said to April, "Are you sure?"

Dark silhouettes blotted the rusty half-sphere on the viewscreen.  April picked out configurations at a glance, hovering over the Martian surface, glinting in the light of Sol.  The ships coming to take the refugees.

"Lieutenant M'Rrai, assemble the department heads in the briefing room, port side."