Sulu filed it away for discussion with Science Officer Beth Arista when they returned to base. For now, he tried to take advantage of the unprecedented calm to clear his mind and simply enjoy the pure pleasure of flight.

The day was beautiful, but his thoughts kept drifting to darker places. His last conversation with DelMonde still haunted him—the engineer's pointed questions about guilt and forgiveness, about the betrayal that had nearly cost him his relationship to Jilla years ago. Was he really still carrying that much anger and self-recrimination? His heart knew the answer, even if his pride rejected it.

If only he could see her again.... DelMonde did have a point about their friendship easing the pain of Sulu’s separation from Jilla. He supposed that he had been seeking the engineer out since his transfer to the Drake. Sulu had thought of it as providing companionship for DelMonde, but it was possible it was working the other way around as well…

He had to stop and laugh at the thought of his “friendship” with the Cajun. That was a strange label for a relationship with someone who regularly told him that he hated him or that he was dead to him and would readily inform anyone within earshot that he had shit for brains… The thought that the two of them might have some sort of telepathic bond… That was pretty hard to swallow.

However, Sulu had to admit that now that he wasn’t actively hating Del, something had definitely eased within him. It wasn’t just simple relief that a tense situation had resolved, either. It was as if a source of nourishment that had been shut off had resumed its flow -- which was weird. That wasn’t how he felt about Del. He didn’t look at their friendship -- or whatever the hell it was -- as a source of nourishment. He looked at Del as a frequently very annoying person who he put up with because they had a lot of history together and… well, he was Del. Not much you could do about that. The good and the bad all came together.

Sulu wondered what Jilla and Jer would make of this bonding angle of the engineer’s story. Both of them knew a lot more about that sort of thing than he did… As Del had said, weird stuff like he had described did sometimes happen…

He knew that Jer was going to howl when Sulu described the look on the Cajun’s face when he had said the thing about understanding that he had a crush on him… Probably would skip that part when he told the story to Jilla, though… That was a joke that required too many footnotes to be funny…

"Sir," Vale's voice cut through his reverie with professional urgency. "I'm detecting unusual long-range readings."

Sulu's introspection vanished, replaced by command focus. "What kind of readings?"

"Large concentrations of sea life, bearing two-seven-zero. Numbers are... significant."

Sulu's instruments confirmed what Vale was seeing—massive bio-signatures congregating in the deep waters west of their position. "Are they massing? Forming up for coordinated movement?"

"Negative. Still scattered across a wide area, but the sheer volume is unprecedented." Vale's apologetic sigh crackled through the comm. "It could be nothing, sir. Seasonal migration patterns, feeding behavior we haven't documented..."

But Sulu could hear the doubt in his co-pilot's voice, the same unease that was setting off alarm bells in his own mind. Too many anomalies, too many breaks from established patterns. "Could be."

"According to Calumbrian tradition, we should have a couple more days before the algae colonies reach critical mass," Vale continued, his scientific training warring with growing concern. "But if these readings indicate..."

"I think we'd all better get a good night's sleep tonight, Tristan," Sulu interrupted, banking the battle droid toward their coastal base. The magnificent machine responded with fluid grace, its transformation systems humming with barely contained power. "Something tells me tomorrow morning is going to come very early indeed."

"You got a minute, Lian?"

Dr. Rendell's plasma welder hissed as she sealed the jagged gash running down a Drake crewman's forearm—another victim of the razor-clawed prowlers that had somehow managed to breach the base’s biofilters. The medical hut reeked of antiseptic, blood, and sweat, packed wall-to-wall with wounded natives and overwhelmed medics. She glanced up to see Noel DelMonde silhouetted in the doorway, his tall frame leaning against a makeshift crutch.

The Haven surgeon blinked at him as if he'd sprouted tentacles. "Are you insane? No."

"Yes, you do." DelMonde's drawl carried the hint of an edge. "Trust me on this one, chère."

The sharp retort died on Rendell's lips. There was only one reason the engineer would drag himself here on a wounded leg in the midst a full-scale planetary crisis. Her stomach clenched as the implications hit her.

"Close for me," she barked to a nearby intern, already stripping off her surgical gloves.

The veranda outside offered no respite from the chaos. The medical hut normally overlooked a pristine coral lagoon where bioluminescent jellies drifted like living stars. Now the ocean churned blood-red, waves crashing in chaotic patterns that defied physics. Above them, the bio-dome's energy field flickered and sparked as pterodactyl-like creatures slammed into its protective barrier. Their shrieks pierced the humid air, competing with the thunder of phaser cannons from the perimeter defense.

DelMonde hadn't even taken the time to change when the alert sirens woke him. He was still wearing the faded medical scrubs from his surgery yesterday, his left leg encased in a duraplast cast reaching up mid-thigh. The length of titanium pipe serving as his improvised crutch had WASTE RECLAMATION stenciled along its side.

"Sulu wants you to send word to your bosses," he announced without preamble, pouring himself amber liquid from the dispenser—a native fruit punch mixed with something that burned like Terran rum.

Rendell's golden complexion went ashen. "Sweet Devri..." Her knees suddenly weak from both exhaustion and dread, she leaned back heavily against the wall of the medi-hut’s porch. "What did you tell him?"

"I not say nothing, chère." DelMonde filled a second glass.. "But you know old Kamikaze. He got him an absolute talent for connecting the dots that other folks not even see. And he got certain other factors boosting that agile brain right now… as you might well imagine."

A small noise escaped the surgeon’s lips as if such imaginings caused her great pain. "How much does he know?"

The engineer shrugged. "Figure he knows everything and you probably gonna be in the right neighborhood."

"Everything?" The word came out strangled.

"Lian, honey, you need to breathe." DelMonde handed her a glass. "Save some of that shock for what he's asking for…. Though that ain't even the real kicker.”

Rendell took a shaky sip of her drink, the alcohol burning her throat. "Just tell me."

"It's a non-negotiable deal, Lian."

The words hit her like a phaser blast. Her glass fell to the floor, the punch spilling to the wooden planking. Rendell didn’t seem to notice. She stood staring at him, her sharp mind refusing to process what she'd heard.

"What did you just say?"

"Non-negotiable," DelMonde repeated, each syllable careful and deliberate. "No bargaining. No counter-offers. No dancing around the terms."

Rendell shook her head slowly, her black eyes wide with disbelief. "Havens don't make non-negotiable deals with outsiders. Ever. It's not... we don't do that. There would—"

Above them, another massive creature slammed into the dome, sending cascades of blue energy crackling across the barrier. The lights flickered, and for a moment the medical hut behind them went dark before the backup generators kicked in.

DelMonde took a long pull of his drink, his dark eyes never leaving her face. "You know that. I know that. Lil’ Havani babies sittin’ on their mamas’ golden knees know that. But that not change the fact that right now Old Kam figures what he knows gives him enough leverage to rewrite the rulebook."

Rendell turned to watch a rescue team carry another wounded defender into the medical station—a Calumbrian woman whose blue-scaled skin had been shredded by something with claws like monomolecular razors. Beyond the dome, the ocean continued its unnatural boiling, filled with creatures intent on their destruction.

"What do you think, Cajun?" Her voice sounded small, much younger than her years. "Really."

"Me?" DelMonde laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I just a foot soldier. I just a messenger-boy in all this. But you wanna know what I think? About how much Kam might be pulling from all the brains around him about the heinous shit ya’ll been up to on this planet, the larger implications of that information for the HTE’s current, past, and future galactic alliances, and how he might be willing to operationalize that information to the HTE’s very distinct disadvantage?” Another pause. Another crash from above.

"I think the most cost-effective way for a bunch of high and mighty Havens to save their collective asses right now is to give that man exactly what he wants."

Rendell bent her head and released a long, slow painful breath. Noticing the glass she’d dropped, she bent to pick it up. She set it down with the careful precision of someone trying not to shatter.

Finally, the doctor turned and gave him a nod that looked like surrender.

“I will relay the sentiment.”

Sulu's finger hovered above the comm button as a serpentine horror the size of a freight train coiled past his cockpit, its acid-green breath searing the air where he'd been a heartbeat before. The creature's obsidian scales rippled with bioluminescent patterns that hurt to look at directly—like staring into a kaleidoscope of malevolent stars.

"All fighters, heads up for final briefing."

Through the psychic link that connected him to his pilots, Sulu felt their emotions crash over him in waves. Lieutenant Tsing's analytical mind was a glacier of control, but beneath it lurked the exhaustion of continuous combat. Ryan's usual battle-joy flickered like a candle in a hurricane. Paine's arrogance displayed cracks, through which Sulu could read his agonized memories of DelMonde bleeding in the med-bay. The Calumbrian warriors radiated something else entirely: a bone-deep acceptance that reminded Sulu of old soldiers who'd seen too many friends die.

"Listen carefully," Sulu continued, banking hard to avoid the snapping jaws of a chitinous nightmare that looked like someone had crossed a praying mantis with a jet fighter. The creature's blade-arms, each longer than his entire droid, whistled through the space his cockpit had occupied. "What we're about to attempt is going to be pretty rough. You're going to experience a complete disconnect—not just from your war machines, but from everything you've come to rely on in this battle."

Grata's ancient voice crackled through the comm, weighted with the authority of a man who'd lived through his planet’s darkest hours: "The Splintered Soul Gambit."

"That's right," Sulu confirmed, feeling his stomach clench as he said it. "DelMonde has engineered a feedback program that will sever the neural networks linking us to our droids' systems. For the Calumbrians, this means losing the bond with your Epiphany Swords. For my team, it means losing the enhanced coordination that's kept us breathing."

The psychic ripple that passed through both groups hit Sulu like a physical blow. Lieutenant Tsing's ice-cold composure cracked just enough for him to feel her terror—not of death, but of fighting blind. Through the link, he watched her mind already calculating how coordination with her gunner Owusu would suffer without neural synchronization. Paine's surface bravado couldn't hide his panic at losing the tactical overlays that made him feel godlike in combat. Ryan's battle-joy didn't just flicker now—it guttered like a flame in a windstorm.

But it was the Calumbrians who truly staggered him. Their emotional resonance carried the weight of ancestral memory, echoes of warriors who'd attempted this same sacrifice generations ago. Most had never flown again. Some had never spoken again. The neural severance didn't just take away their abilities—it left scars on their souls.

"When that connection breaks," Sulu continued, dodging between the membranous wings of a creature that looked like a flying manta ray crossed with a venus flytrap, "you're going to feel lost, confused, maybe even blind. That's when you fall back on your training—pure pilot instinct, muscle memory, and trust in your wingmates. We're going to fight our way north, staying as tight as possible, so the Drake can get clear shots at those sentient algae colonies orchestrating this nightmare."

"Sky Captain," Mardag's mental voice was tight as a wire about to snap. Through the neural link, Sulu felt the Calumbrian’s anguish—not fear of death, but terror of spiritual mutilation. "When our grandfathers attempted this, most never flew again. The Splintered Soul... it breaks something that cannot be repaired."

The weight of what he was asking settled on Sulu's chest like a stone. These weren't just pilots—they were the living connection between their people and the sacred warrior traditions that had sustained them for centuries. He was asking them to cut themselves off from everything that made them who they were.

"I know," Sulu replied, his voice gentle despite the chaos around them. A bio-luminescent horror with too many eyes and serrated tentacles swept past, close enough that he could see his reflection in its compound gaze. "I'm asking you to sacrifice everything your culture holds sacred. But if we don't do this, there won't be a culture left to hold anything sacred."

The Calumbrian warriors began to sing—not their usual battle chants that made the stars themselves seem to pulse in rhythm, but something older. Something that sounded like grief given voice. It was a song of farewell, Sulu realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the void around them. They were saying goodbye to who they had been.

"Del," Sulu switched to the private channel, banking hard as a dragon-thing the size of a city block belched a stream of acid that turned his droid's hull plating into smoking slag. "How much can you shield them from this?"

DelMonde's mental presence carried the thick bitter flavor of guilt. "I gonna do everyt'ing I can t' hold y'all together, but I ain't gonna lie t' you. This is gonna hurt like hell, an' I not know how much o' your connection I can preserve. There might be psychic resonance that lasts a few minutes. Might last a few seconds. Might not last at all."

"Understood." Sulu took a deep breath, feeling the weight of command settle deeper into his bones. Around them, the alien predators seemed to sense the change coming—their attacks became more frenzied, more desperate. A school of aerial piranha-things, each one the size of a fighter jet and twice as vicious, swarmed past in a feeding frenzy that turned the air around them into a blender of flashing teeth and spurting ichor.

"All fighters, we execute in thirty seconds. Calumbrians, it has been an honor to fight beside you. My team—remember, we've trained for situations where our tech fails us. Trust your instincts, trust each other."

"Sky Captain," General Thex'ara's voice carried the weight of ancient ritual, each word chosen with the precision of a master swordsmith. "May your blade find its target, and may your spirit find peace in the songs of those who remember."

"Ten seconds," Sulu announced, his hand hovering over the signal transmitter. A massive creature that looked like someone had given an octopus the ability to fly and the temperament of a berserker came spiraling toward them, its beak large enough to bite his droid in half. "Execute!"

DelMonde's remote activation code screamed through the neural networks of every Calumbrian mechanoid flyer simultaneously. Sulu felt the engineer's psychic abilities strain to their absolute limit as he tried to cushion the devastating disconnection, his mental presence fracturing under the load like glass under pressure.

The effect was immediate and catastrophic.

Sulu had thought he understood why the Calumbrians called it the "Splintered Soul Gambit." He was wrong. The name was inadequate. What happened to him felt less like splintering and more like having his soul fed through a wood chipper.

Digital feedback tore through the war machines like an electronic earthquake. Every neural pathway that connected pilot to droid, every enhancement that made them more than human, every sacred bond forged by generations of Calumbrian warriors—all of it died in the space of a heartbeat.

Sulu's own connection to his team didn't just fade—it was ripped away like having a limb severed without anesthetic. The psychic awareness that had let him coordinate their attacks, feel their emotions, guide them through the chaos—it all collapsed into static and screaming silence.

But in that moment of dissolution, he felt something unexpected. The Calumbrian warriors' chant had changed. They were no longer singing farewell—they were singing defiance. Their voices rose in harmonies that spoke of sacrifice willingly given, of souls that chose to break rather than bend.

"When the darkness comes for all we hold dear,

When the ancient evils wake from their sleep,

We offer our spirits, we offer our years,

For the world that our children shall keep!"

The pilots began to scream.

Not cries of pain, but roars of primal fury as they felt their enhanced abilities stripped away like skin flayed from bone. Sulu's tactical display showed chaos—flyers spinning out of control, formation discipline collapsing, weapons firing wildly into the void.

But through the fading neural resonance, flickering like a dying campfire, he could still feel them. Tsing's iron discipline kicking in as she relied on pure flying instinct, her hands steady on the controls despite the terror that threatened to paralyze her. Ryan's fierce joy transforming into something more primal and dangerous—the berserker rage of a warrior with nothing left to lose. Zel's meditation training creating pockets of calm in the psychic storm, his presence like an island of sanity in an ocean of chaos. The Calumbrian pilots drawing on muscle memory older than their technology, flying patterns their ancestors had used with primitive aircraft when the first invaders came from the void.

"Neural resonance holdin'!" DelMonde's voice was strained to the breaking point, his psychic abilities pushed far beyond safe limits. Sulu could feel the man's mind stretching like a rubber band about to snap. "Use it while it lasts, Captain!"

Sulu felt the connection like a fraying rope in a hurricane—thin, fragile, but still there. With desperate focus, he projected a single, overwhelming command through the dissolving link:

NORTH. FORMATION DELTA. TRUST YOUR WINGS.

The response was immediate but imperfect. His fighters began to move northward, but their coordination was ragged, their movements less precise. Without the neural enhancement, they were flying on pure skill and decades of training—and it showed.

A massive flame-breathing horror that looked like a dragon designed by committee dove toward Lieutenant Tsing's position, its wingspan blotting out the stars. Through the failing connection, Sulu felt her moment of pure terror as her enhanced targeting systems went dead, leaving her flying half-blind into the creature's gaping maw.

But then her training kicked in—she rolled her droid into a defensive spiral that would have made her flight instructors weep with pride. Owusu, her gunner, was firing by instinct rather than computer assistance. Half his shots went wild, stitching lines of energy across empty space, but he quickly steadied into a crude but effective pattern.

The dragon-thing exploded in a shower of alien ichor that painted the sea below blackish-green. "That's it!" Sulu shouted over the comm, his voice hoarse with something between exhaustion and exultation. "Trust your training! Trust each other!"

The formation began to tighten as pilots fell back on fundamentals. The Calumbrian warriors were singing again, their voices strong despite the spiritual amputation they had just endured. They flew their ancient patterns, weaving between their Star Federation allies with a grace that spoke of skills learned in flesh and bone rather than neural networks.

The waves of predators were relentless. Creatures that looked like flying sharks with too many fins and bioluminescent death-threats scrolling across their flanks swept through their formation. Things that might have been jellyfish if jellyfish were psychedelic battleships with a taste for mayhem pulsed through the air, their tentacles crackling with bioelectric death.

"We're not going to make it," Lieutenant Eddie Dowd's voice cracked with exhaustion as his droid's left shoulder weapon array went dead after taking a hit from the thorned tail of a nightmare that defied description. The creature looked like someone had crossed a scorpion with a fighter jet and given it the personality of a serial killer.

"Yes, we are!" Sulu replied, pouring every ounce of authority into his voice while mentally reaching out through the failing neural resonance. The connection was weak now, barely there, but he could still feel his people. "Zel, cover Dowd's left flank. Ryan, take point—clear us a path. Calumbrians, diamond formation."

The neural resonance was almost gone now, reduced to brief flickers of emotion and instinct. But somehow, impossibly, they were holding together. Not through psychic enhancement or technological superiority, but through something more fundamental—trust forged in battle, loyalty earned through shared sacrifice, and the kind of desperate courage that only came when everything else had been stripped away.

A bio-energy bolt lanced up from one of the algae colonies below, a spear of sickly green light that struck Mardag's droid center mass. But instead of the Turncoat Madness that would have turned him into a weapon against his own people, the pilot simply lost power to his weapon systems. The neural networks that could be corrupted were gone, burned out by DelMonde's systematic cleanse.

"It's working!" General Thex'ara's voice carried grim satisfaction. "The corruption cannot take hold!"

Through the neural link that should have been gone, Sulu felt the jubilation spark through his fighters like wildfire. They had given up everything—their enhanced abilities, their sacred connections, their technological superiority—and it was working.

"Push north!" he ordered, feeding that flame of hope through whatever connection he still had with them. "Push north with everything you've got!"

They were three kilometers north of their starting position when the Drake finally had a clear shot. The starship's massive form blotted out a section of the blood-red sky as it assumed attack position, its main phaser arrays cycling to full power with a sound like thunder being born.

"All fighters, clear the firing zone!" First Officer Jerel Courtland's voice boomed over the comm. "Phaser strike in ten seconds!"

Sulu's formation scattered like leaves in a hurricane, each pilot trusting their wingmates to find safe positions without the benefit of psychic coordination. Through the last flickering moments of neural resonance, he felt their individual moments of terror and triumph as they dove, climbed, and spun away from the target zone with the desperate grace of people who knew they were dancing on the edge of eternity.

The Drake's phaser arrays fired in perfect synchronization.

Twin beams of coherent energy, set to low-intensity stun rather than destroy, lanced down from orbit and struck the largest algae colony dead center. The bio-mass convulsed like a living thing in agony, its crimson and gold veins flaring with brilliant light before dimming to a sickly amber that spoke of dreams dying.

The effect on the predator swarms was immediate and profound.

The perfect coordination that had made them so deadly simply... stopped. Creatures that had been flying in formation like disciplined soldiers suddenly scattered in all directions, their individual hunting instincts reasserting themselves with the chaos of a prison riot. Many of the smaller predators, no longer held in check by the colonies' psychic dominance, immediately began attacking each other with a savagery that painted the sea in a dozen different colors of alien blood.

"Secondary targets!" Courtland's voice carried professional satisfaction. "Firing at remaining colonies!"

More phaser beams lanced down from the Drake, each one sending another algae colony into psychic shock. With each strike, more predators broke free from the collective consciousness, their alien minds reverting to individual rather than hive behavior. The perfectly orchestrated assault that had threatened to overwhelm them devolved into the kind of chaotic free-for-all that favored the skilled and the desperate.

Within minutes, the coordinated assault that had threatened to overwhelm them had devolved into beautiful, life-saving chaos. The sky was still full of dangerous creatures, but they were no longer working together with terrifying efficiency.

"Base camp t' all fighters," DelMonde's voice was weary but triumphant. "Predator pressure on our perimeter is droppin' fast. Whatever y'all did up there, it worked."

Sulu felt the last of the neural resonance fade away like a dying echo, leaving him alone in his cockpit. The psychic connection that had let him coordinate the battle, feel his pilots' emotions, and guide them through the impossible was gone. He was alone in his cockpit again, just a human pilot in a war machine, flying on skill and instinct and the stubborn refusal to give up that had kept humanity alive for a thousand generations.

"All units, form up for return to base," he ordered, his voice carrying across the comm with natural authority rather than psychic enhancement. "We may have to come back and mop up some of these stragglers, but we've got wounded to attend to."

The Calumbrian warriors' song rose once more over the battlefield, no longer mournful but victorious. They had sacrificed their sacred connection to their war machines, had willingly broken their own souls, but they had saved their world. The melody was different now—not the song of warriors going to their deaths, but the song of warriors coming home.

"We did it," Eddie Dowd's voice was hoarse with amazement.

"Like there was any doubt," Dylan Paine retorted with his usual cocky scornfulness, but Sulu could hear the relief underneath the bravado.

"There were a few moments of doubt this time, Paine," Sulu corrected, gratefully turning his craft back toward base. "Believe me, I could tell..."

A brisk twenty-nine hours later, a trio of Haven Trading Empire ships dropped into orbit around Sagron IV.

Captain Jek Harzem, speaking as leader of the group, contacted the U.S.S Drake to announce that while on a mission nearby, they had been monitoring the starship’s progress. A science officer on one of the Haven ships had discovered a wealth of pertinent information in old records dating back to the time when the planet was a protectorate of the HTE and suggested a possible solution for the current crisis.

Knowing that phaser stun might prove only a temporary solution, the Haven biochemists had contrived a chemical concoction that would dull telepathic emissions from the algae for a much longer period while simultaneously calming the creatures. This compound, Harzem stressed, was completely non-toxic and would harmlessly disperse after doing its work.

Because of intellectual property laws, the Havens could not, of course, divulge the contents of this solution, but could completely guarantee its efficacy.

Furthermore Ambassador Gage had contacted the Antari Ambassador. The two of them had already secured special permission from the Federation Council to draft a special Task Force of telepaths and aquanoids to immediately head to Sagron IV. This task force’s mission would be to establish communication with the algae colony before they entered their next long hibernation cycle, investigate the causes of their rage at their fellow inhabitants, and negotiate a course for lasting planetary peace.

When Jerel Courtland relayed all of this remarkable news to his commander -- who was in the midst of an aerial battle to engage the scattered flights of winged predators still attacking the base camp’s defenses --he was more than a little shocked at how little surprise Sulu displayed.

“Tell them we welcome their aid,” was the captain’s only reply.

The tropical air hung thick with salt and machine oil as Noel DelMonde hammered his makeshift crutch against the hangar's metal door. The titanium pipe—still bearing the scratched and faded stencil WASTE RECLAMATION—rang like a bell against the sun-warped surface.

"Wilkens!" he bellowed, his Cajun drawl carrying across the ramshackle beachside compound. "Open 'er up! We got another customer wantin' t' make a return!"

The twenty-foot war machine that emerged from the cluster of palm-thatched repair huts moved with the deliberate grace of a stone giant come to life. Each thunderous step of the Calumbrian battle droid sent up geysers of white sand, the impact reverberating through the wooden walkways that connected the base camp's scattered buildings. DelMonde's brow lowered as he catalogued the damage—black acid burns had melted through the ornate silver filigree that decorated the droid's armor plating, testament to yesterday's aerial carnage when the sky had been filled with screaming predators and the crimson tide had tried to obliterate them all.

The droid's transparisteel cockpit dome hissed open like a giant's eye, revealing the familiar scarred blue features of Mardag.The Calumbrian pilot's ritual tattoos—intricate spirals that marked him as warrior-caste—seemed faded and lifeless against skin dulled by exhaustion.

"Hail, Ga'Hai'lh DelMonde!" Mardag called down, using the honorific title the Calumbrian pilots had bestowed upon the engineer—Grand War Leader DelMonde.

DelMonde dismissed the grandiose title with an irritated wave of his free hand. The metal hangar doors groaned open behind him, revealing the cathedral-like space where a dozen battle droids stood in various stages of repair, their massive forms dwarfing the scurrying technicians who crawled over them like industrious ants.

"Where ya'll at, Mar-dawg?" DelMonde called, his voice echoing off the hangar's vaulted ceiling. "Ready t put this here baby t bed?"

"All the proper rites to retire the Epiphany Sword will be observed," Mardag assured him, his droid continuing its stately march toward the maintenance bay. Even in exhaustion, the pilot's voice carried the ritualistic cadence of his people—everything was ceremony, everything was sacred, even the mundane act of parking a war machine.

DelMonde struggled to his feet, his duraplast-encased leg making the movement awkward. "Look, son," he called after the retreating droid, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had been keeping machines running in impossible conditions since the age of eight. "I not care if you got a convent of nuns praying the rosary over that thing day and night for a week. You best lube the servos and clean every grain of sand out the joints, or that machine's gonna seize up and land on its sacred ass the next time you even sneeze in its direction. You hear me?"

"I hear your wisdom, Ga'Hai'lh!" Mardag's laughter rang out across the hangar as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "And I fear your righteous wrath!"

"Yeah, well, you better..." DelMonde grumbled, settling back onto his rough wooden stool as the hangar doors slid shut with a final, echoing clang.

"You're still here?"

Dr. Rendell was approaching from the direction of the medical hut. Her Star Fleet medical scrubs, once pristine blue, now bore the rusty stains of alien blood and the grime of days spent patching up the wounded.

DelMonde gestured to a second wooden stool positioned in the shade of a massive palm tree whose fronds rustled in the offshore breeze. "Me and my crew gonna be here probably another week repairing damage to the droids and helping the Calumbri put the bulk of them into long-term storage." He paused, studying her face. "Sulu' got you runnin' yourself ragged, don't he?"

Rendell unwound the Calumbri headdress she wore to tie back her hair, shaking free her dark curls. The salt air caught them, lifting them in a way that made her look younger, more vulnerable. "I heard Sulu sent the pilots and the wounded up to the ship," she said, settling onto the offered stool with a weariness that went bone-deep.

"Yep." DelMonde offered her a glass of the local punch—a deceptively potent amber liquid that the Calumbri brewed from fermented tropical fruits.

The physician's eyes narrowed as she studied his injured leg. "Lieutenant Commander, this seems to have escaped your notice, but you are wounded."

"Oh, I' takin' it easy," DelMonde assured her, though his definition of "easy" still involved twelve-hour days directing repairs in the sweltering heat. "Lots o' breaks. Mostly supervisin'."

Rendell's expression suggested she found his definition of rest about as credible as a Tellerite’s promise of amiability. Her gaze drifted to a strange object propped against the palm tree—an intricately carved wooden leg, complete with articulated toes and what appeared to be painted toenails.

"What's this?" she asked, pointing at the peculiar artwork.

"Oh, yeah." DelMonde's dour expression split into a grin. "The Calumbri are still pretty damned sure that my leg's gonna fall off after that critter took a bite out o' it, so they made me this here replacement."

Rendell examined the prosthetic more closely. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—every surface was covered with relief carvings depicting epic battle between Calumbrian war droids and the winged nightmares they had fought above the crimson sea. The level of detail was staggering, each scene telling part of the story of their desperate defense.

"Nice, non?" DelMonde's grin widened. "I t'ink I gonna slice it in half an' mount it on th' wall o' my cabin back on the Drake. Conversation piece."

"Definitely unique," Rendell agreed, though her physician's eye lingered on the real leg beneath the duraplast cast. The swelling hadn't gone down as much as it should have, and the color was concerning. The Calumbri might not be too far off in their estimation about the potential severity of the injury if the engineer didn’t keep off it...

They sat in companionable silence, looking out over the bay where the water had returned to its natural blue-green hue. It was almost impossible to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, these same waters had been a roiling crimson mass, alive with malevolent intelligence. The telepathic algae colonies had turned the entire ocean into a weapon, directing wave after wave of hyper-evolved predators that had nearly overwhelmed the bio-dome protecting the base. Only the Sulu’s tactical genius, the skill of the team from the Drake, and the desperate courage of the Calumbrian pilots and their ancient war machines had stood between the base and annihilation.

"So you 'bout t' wrap t'ings up?" DelMonde asked, taking a long sip of his drink.

Rendell used one of the silk scarves from her discarded headdress to wipe perspiration from her golden skin.

"We've beamed all the casualties from the Drake up to sickbay," she said, "but there are still some natives who need our attention. I hope to have things under control by end of day... tomorrow morning at the latest."

"You sure you not wanna stick 'round fo' that Special Task Force t' get here an' try t' make contact wit' them algae t'ings out there?" DelMonde teased, though there was a serious undertone to his question.

The Haven physician blinked in surprise. "You believe they’re going to arrive that quickly?"

"T'ings are movin' at warp speed," DelMonde confirmed, his voice carrying the weight of insider knowledge. "They on their way."

The Federation Task Force had been assembled at the specific request of the Haven Ambassador — a collection of telepaths and aquatic species specialists tasked with the seemingly impossible job of establishing communication with the algae colonies before they entered their next hibernation cycle. Their mission: to investigate what had driven the ancient organisms to such apocalyptic rage and negotiate some form of lasting peace.

"Ol' Beth Arista is beggin' Sulu t' let her stay an' be part o' th' fun," DelMonde added, referring to the Drake's Science Officer. "Woman's got more curiosity than sense."

"It would be a relief not to have to listen to her mourn over how many of her monsters we had to put down when they all suddenly decided they wanted to kill us," Rendell replied, her tone carrying the bitter edge of someone who had spent an intolerable amount of time treating the wounded while listening to scientific regrets over necessary defense.

"I sure th' captain'll let you stay if you want to," DelMonde joked.

Rendell's laugh held no humor. "I am certain that he would."

The engineer's expression softened. "You t'ink this mess is gonna put you in much trouble wit' your bosses, Lian?"

She stared out over the shoreline, watching a serpentine flyer wind its way through the sky like a living ribbon of purple silk. Her golden features became an unreadable mask.

Finally, she took a deep breath that seemed to carry the weight of several worlds. "For those who were in communication with me to act against me now would be to acknowledge that something happened."

DelMonde nodded slowly, recognizing the intricate dance of institutional politics as readily as he might have spotted the hunting pattern of a group of predators above them – and liking it less. "So, as of now, on th' part o' th' Haven Trading Empire, not'ing happened here—other than them being all heroic an' lendin' aid t' th' people of Sagron IV in they hour o' need?"

“No.” The doctor took a long sip of her drink. “Other than that – no.”

"Well..." The engineer shook his head with sardonic appreciation. "Ain't that jus' dandy?"

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks and watching the endless blue horizon where clouds gathered like distant mountains. Above them, a flight of chittering creatures—their exoskeletons gleaming like polished obsidian—flew in perfect formation above the bio-filter dome that protected the base from the planet's hostile atmosphere. Their cries sounded almost musical in the distance.

"It gotta make you feel at least a li'l good, though," DelMonde persisted after a moment, his voice gentle but insistent. "This sets t'hings right now. This finally starts t' clear th' slate fo' all th' harm your people have done here."

He leaned forward, his long fingers wrapped around his glass. "I mean, it was mainly th' Orions' fault this planet got so badly messed up. They were th' ones who did those genetic modifications that evolved th' wildlife here into super predators. But th' planet was a protectorate o' th' Haven Tradin' Empire. Y'all should have done more t' protect them, non?"

The doctor's shoulders sagged. "The Haven Trading Empire doesn't function on the same sort of ethical principles as the Federation," she said quietly. "We saw our responsibilities toward the Calumbri differently. Nothing seemed to improve their outcomes. The Orions sold them things. We sold them things. They just never bought the right things to make a good future for their planet..."

"Oh?" DelMonde's voice dripped with sarcasm, his capacity for cross-cultural understanding finally hitting its limit. "What jackasses."

Rendell sighed, staring into the amber depths of her drink as if it might hold answers to questions she wasn't sure she wanted to ask. "Well, someone was..."

The conversation was interrupted by the mechanical whine and heavy thump of another Epiphany Sword droid approaching from the jungle. The sound carried a different rhythm—the measured gait of a machine whose pilot was in no hurry to reach his destination.

"Wilkens!" DelMonde banged his crutch against the hangar door again. "We got another customer!" Rendell gestured toward the improvised crutch with her glass. "I can have one of the nurses fabricate something more appropriate for you..."

The engineer frowned, genuinely puzzled. "What wrong w' this?"

"Forget that I spoke," the physician apologized quickly, recognizing the futility of trying to improve on one of the Cajun’s homebrewed solutions.

DelMonde squinted at the approaching droid, studying its gait and posture. "I t'ink that there's Sulu's machine."

At the mention of the captain's name, Rendell's composure shifted subtly. She set down her drink and rose from her stool with the careful movements of someone steeling herself for an unpleasant encounter.

"I should be getting back," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Come on, gal," DelMonde scolded gently. "Don't tell me you not gonna be able t' look him in th' eye now."

The Haven medic rose and stretched, her movements carrying a weariness that arose from more than just the physical exhaustion of the past few days.

"Not until after I've had a good drink," she decided, turning toward the path that led back to the medical hut. "And a shower... and a nap... Maybe several of each..."

The Calumbrian war droid approached with ponderous, earth-shaking steps, its massive form casting a shadow that swallowed half the sandy path. Silver armor plates gleamed like mirrored scales in the alien sun, and servo-motors whined softly as the mechanical giant came to rest just short of the hangar entrance. The transparisteel dome crowning its torso iris'd open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing Captain Sulu's sweat-slicked face framed by the droid's communication headset.

"Hey," Sulu called down, his voice carrying the edge of command even in casual conversation. "Didn't I order you to report to the ship?"

"No, sir." The Cajun insisted innocently, holding up a finger of protest like a student correcting his teacher. "What you done told me t' do was t' have a conversation wit' Dr. Rendell—which I jus' did. Th' two of us jus' had us a nice long heart-to-heart." The engineer gestured with his crutch down the path to the surgical hut. "You can probably still see her. She slunk off that way in hopes of avoidin' your fearsome ass."

Sulu's snort of disbelief was audible even from his perch fifteen feet above. "What did she say about that leg?"

"She offered to fabricate a proper crutch." DelMonde frowned with genuine puzzlement, tapping the titanium pipe against the metal door to demonstrate its structural integrity. The hollow ring echoed across the compound. "I not know figure why. This one's got plenty o' life left in it."

"Might outlast the leg," his captain observed with dry humor.

The engineer rolled his eyes, refusing to dignify this speculation with a reply.

"Ya’ll finished fo' th' day?" DelMonde called up. "Or jus' takin' yourself a break from playin' wit' that fancy war machine?"

"Done for the day." Sulu hauled himself out of the pilot's seat, his flight suit dark with perspiration. Before descending the ladder built into the mech's dorsal spine, he pounded twice on the silver giant's shoulder armor—a signal that resonated through the machine's frame. "Take it from here, Tristan."

"Yes, sir, Captain," came Lieutenant Vale's voice from the droid's internal speakers, tinny but clear.

Sulu jumped the final few feet to the sandy ground, landing with a grunt, and gave the droid's ornately filigreed shin armor an affectionate thump. "All right. Take her in for her nap."

"Acknowledged, sir." The transparisteel dome sealed with a whisper of pressurizing air, and the metallic colossus resumed its stately march toward the hangar's yawning entrance, where its mechanical siblings waited in orderly rows like sleeping titans.

he hangar doors—massive slabs of reinforced durasteel—began their slow slide closed, their motion accompanied by the deep rumble of heavy machinery. Sulu watched until his droid disappeared into the shadowy interior before turning his attention to more immediate needs.

"Water?" the captain asked as the hangar bay doors slowly slid closed behind his droid with the finality of a tomb sealing.

"In that white dispenser on th' far end."

Sulu poured himself a glass of the ice-cold beverage, the condensation immediately beading on the plastic surface in the humid air. Moving to that end of the area at the corner of the hangar gave him a better view of the surgical hut.

"So Rendell was just here?" he asked, frowning in that direction with an expression that was hard to read.

"Yep." The engineer leaned back on his stool, studying his captain's face. "She not wanna stick around an' talk t' you, though."

Instead of answering, Sulu drew a second cup of ice water, bent forward, and poured it over his head in a cascade that drenched his hair and ran in rivulets down his neck. He shook his hair out like a dog, water droplets catching the filtered sunlight like diamonds.

DelMonde frowned as he topped off his rum punch, the amber liquid catching the light. "You t'ink Rendell is gonna come out o' this mess all right?"

Sulu poured himself another cup of water and took a seat on the wooden bench positioned on the other side of the hangar doors. "Moving against her would hurt the Haven's prospects for plausible deniability in this affair."

The engineer nodded slowly. "She said as much."

The captain took a long sip of water, his throat working as he swallowed. "She's a smart woman."

"I hope you're right." The Cajun frowned as he worried at a bit of bioluminescent moss in the sand near him with his crutch, the alien organism pulsing with soft blue light. "I like her... She done saved my life two... maybe three times so far… jus' in recent memory."

"Not to mention that leg," his captain commented wryly.

"I wish you'd quit mentionin' th'damn leg," DelMonde growled, shifting uncomfortably. "Makes it itch somet'ing fierce."

The two fell into a silence, gazing out across the bay where Sagron IV's twin suns painted the water in shades of gold and crimson. The ocean stretched before them, deceptively peaceful, its gentle swells lapping at the shore with hypnotic rhythm. It was almost impossible to believe that just twenty-four hours earlier, these same waters had boiled red with rage—alive with sentient algae colonies whose telepathic screams had driven waves of nightmare creatures against the bio-dome protecting their base. The war droids now resting quietly in the hangar behind them had fought a desperate battle against creatures that defied natural law.

"If the water were whiskey and I were a duck," DelMonde sang lazily, "I'd swim to the bottom and drink it all up."

The old friends exchanged a knowing look and burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the hangar walls and dissipating into the tropical air. "That water's not whiskey, but..." Sulu grinned, alluding to his friend's teenage dependence on sapphire, an anti-psychic pharmaceutical that had helped DelMonde control his telepathic abilities and shield against unwanted mental intrusions.

DelMonde squinted out at the bay, where crystalline particles caught the sunlight like scattered jewels. "How many tons o' sapphire you reckon th' Havens ended up dumpin' out there?"

"It wasn’t pure sapphire," Sulu reminded him.

The engineer waved dismissively, taking another sip of his potent drink. "Hell, I know that."

A grin tugged at Sulu's lips. "Probably the only thing keeping you on dry land right now."

"I not much of a swimmer anyway," DelMonde admitted amiably.

Sulu raised an eyebrow. "I thought your family were shrimpers down in Louisiana."

"That not mean I had to swim back an' forth to work every day, cher."

"Fair point," Sulu conceded.

As they watched, a squadron of mantis-like flyers emerged from the jungle canopy—graceful creatures with gossamer wings that caught the light like stained glass. They danced across the waves in complex patterns, their alien beauty a stark contrast to the horrors that had emerged from these same waters the day before.

DelMonde propped his injured foot against a convenient rock, seeking relief from the constant ache. "I'guessin' when Rendell was able t' whip up a sapphire cocktail aboard ship t' restart my telepathic abilities durin' that psychic breakdown, then rustle up another batch o' somet'ing similar here planetside when Tristan was experiencin' neural feedback from th' droid networks, you put two an' two together an' figured that th' Havens had th 'pharmaceutical chops t' throw together somet'ing that could be of use here?”

Sulu's shrug was eloquent in its noncommittal nature, but it confirmed DelMonde's suspicion.

"Figured they had th' know-how to cook up somet'ing that could block th' algae colonies' telepathic abilities an' cool down their homicidal rage?" DelMonde pressed.

"Seemed like it would be in their skill set," Sulu admitted.

DelMonde's expression darkened. "But they sure as hell weren't offerin' t' share that particular expertise wit' anyone, was they?"

The captain picked up a handful of small stones from beside the bench, their surfaces worn smooth by wind and water. "That's not how the Havens operate."

"That exactly what Rendell tol' me," DelMonde said, his voice carrying bitter understanding. "Th' only solution th' Havens knew was t' keep sellin' t' th' Calumbri. These poor bastards jus' kept buyin' th' wrong damn shit, though."

"To fight super-evolved telepathic algae they'd accidentally created when they made bio-manipulation deals with the Orion Syndicate," Sulu said, sending one of the stones skipping down the sandy path with considerable force, "the Calumbri bought state-of-the-art war droids from the Havens—machines equipped with neural networks designed to make their pilots temporarily telepathic."

"Which jus'pissed off th' sentient algae colonies even more an' made 'em want to sterilize th' entire planet," DelMonde continued the grim narrative as his captain launched another stone after the first.

"Should have put a warning label on those neural interfaces, shouldn't they?" Sulu's next stone hit the path with particular violence.

DelMonde gazed out at the deceptively peaceful waters, where the alien flyers continued their graceful hunt. "Whatever chemical soup they dumped out there must've cost th' Haven bastards a fortune."

"Redemption can be expensive," his captain confirmed. "The seemingly altruistic intervention by the Haven Trading Empire on Sagron IV at this particular moment will send a clear message in certain political circles that they support Federation principles and have severed ties with the Orion Syndicate."

DelMonde made a sound of contempt deep in his throat. "Whether any o' that's actually true or not."

"The Havens are allies of the Federation today," Sulu tossed the remaining little rocks in quick succession, then dusted off his palms with sharp, decisive movements. "Everything else is theater."

The engineer sighed and shook his head. "It not that Havens are bad folks… I t'ink individuals like Lian Rendell are genuinely sorry 'bout what happened t' this world. Their system jus' not allow them a lot o' opportunity t' be nice t' other people."

"No," Sulu agreed. "As a civilization, they don't place much value on 'nice.'"

A sea breeze stirred the massive palm fronds around them, carrying scents of salt, exotic flowers, and something indefinably alien. The captain ran his fingers through his damp hair and shook it out again in the humid air. From the jungle beyond the protective bio-filter dome that surrounded their compound, the haunting cries of Sagron IV's indigenous creatures drifted through the thick air—sounds that spoke of a world still wild and dangerous despite their recent victory.

DelMonde stretched and yawned, the surface of the duraplast cast catching the light as he shifted position. "How you t'ink this new Task Force is gonna work out?" going to work out?"

"I think it'll be fine," Sulu replied with characteristic confidence.

The Cajun shook his head with a rueful grin. "I can't imagine Lane Gage is gonna thank you fo' fixin' it so he gotta work wit' that snooty Ambassador Evan Rhialan."

Sulu spread his hands in a gesture of innocent protest. "I just happened to know that the Antari Ambassador is hungry for this sort of project right now. I knew that he could take something that involved a newly discovered telepathic species in an ecological crisis straight to the council without going through normal procedures and debate."

"Y'all could have jus' talked t' th' Zehara," DelMonde suggested, referring to the Antari's political and spiritual leader with the casual familiarity of someone who regularly brushed shoulders with those in high places.

"No, Ambassador Gage is a mere mortal." Sulu grinned with genuine amusement. "He is not -- as you sometimes claim to be -- her boyfriend."

"Laugh all you want..." the Cajun leaned back and smiled with the confidence of a man secure in his charms, "but that old Gal does have a yen fo' me... Are you gonna let Beth Arista hang around an' join up wit' th' Task Force?"

"I might." Sulu sighed deeply. "Otherwise she's going to drive everyone on that Task Force crazy with subspace queries and want the Drake to conduct a ton of in-depth follow-up briefings."

The engineer shook his head and made a "tsk" noise of disapproval. "Makes me sick t' see somebody get obsessed wit' th' job like that."

Sulu snorted with laughter that caught him by surprise.

The Cajun narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry." The captain wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "I laughed too soon."

"Huh?"

Sulu pointed at the duraplast cast encasing DelMonde's lower leg. "I should have waited until after your leg falls off while you’re climbing over one of those droids."

"Now hold on jus' a minute," the engineer protested with wounded dignity. "Yes, I been on this job fo' months researchin' how t' restore, rebuild, an' repair these mechs. An' yes, I was sicker than a dog while doin' it. An' yes, I took that fall an' nearly died. But that was mostly coincidence. This leg situation has not'ing t' do wit' th' droids themselves. An' I not askin' t' stay on this planet permanently—I jus' wana stick 'round long enough t' see everyt'ing properly fixed an' packed up. When a man puts in a certain amount o' effort, he likes to see a job through t' completion."

Sulu took a long, deliberate sip of water. "Sure."

"Well, if it so damn funny, what th' hell are you doin' here?" DelMonde retorted indignantly. "Your ass could be up on that ship right now, enjoyin' climate control an' decent food."

The captain's only response was an amiable shrug.

"I know what this is really about," the Cajun accused, gesturing toward his elaborately carved prosthetic leg where it leaned against the hangar wall. "You jus, jealous they not give you one o' these beauties. You scared o' th' figure I would cut if I would show up in that rig."

Sulu's eyebrow arched with amusement. "Am I?"

“Absolutement,” the Cajun confirmed. “Look at that craftsmanship. Look at them toenails -- Fierce! A person gonna make a lastin' impression steppin' into a briefi' room geared up in that thing. That baby slings attitude from top t' bottom.”

Sulu lifted an eyebrow in mock consideration."Oh, so that's it?"

"C'est vrai," DelMonde declared defiantly.

"Del," the captain leaned forward conspiratorially, "think back over your entire life. Has anyone, at any time, ever told you that your problem was that you did not know how to walk into a room and immediately start projecting attitude?"

"Mais..." The engineer took a long moment to consider this challenge, and then measured a brief distance between his finger and his thumb. "You might have a point there… an itsy-bitsy, tee-tiny point, but, I grant you, a point, none-th'-less."

"Del," Sulu's tone shifted to serious, "when you asked me to meet you at the perimeter barrier that morning, were you planning to tell me what you knew?"

The engineer drew in a long breath as if this were a question that required a very delicate response, like defusing a bomb with words. "That was a possibility that was on th' table."

Sulu's eyebrow climbed higher. "That's not exactly a resounding yes."

"The first priority was repairin' t'ings 'tween us," DelMonde explained firmly. "Not'ing could move forward 'til that happened."

"You were carrying two phasers," Sulu remembered, the detail nagging at him.

"I knew there were barrier problems at that specific location," DelMonde admitted with a conciliatory gesture.

"And you knew about the neural nets." Sulu tapped a finger against his lower lip as his memory of the elements of the accident began to rearrange themselves in his mind like puzzle pieces finding their proper places. "You knew that as soon as you stepped into the cockpit of one of those droids, every other pilot would know every bit of information in your brain."

DelMonde spread his hands helplessly. "That how that sort o' telepathic stuff works."

"Those native melons you were handling while we talked," Sulu continued, his memory sharpening, "their scent was guaranteed to attract the predators, wasn't it?"

The engineer shifted uncomfortably on his stool. "Now that th' sort ' question you'd need t' take up wit' a science officer like Miss Beth..."

"The creature attacked before you could tell me what you knew," Sulu stated with hopeful certainty.

DelMonde nodded, but there was an equivocal tone to his voice that suggested the truth was more complicated. "Mais, you know you're a hard-headed cuss an' we had a lot o' shit t' work out..."

"But you were going to tell me." The statement was almost an order.

"Th' conversation was headed in a good direction," the engineer confirmed obediently, like a student giving the answer the teacher wanted to hear.

Sulu sighed and his frown deepened. "You'd already spent all night installing the kill switch that would disable the neural networks in every Calumbrian war droid."

"I was in one hell of a difficult position that mornin'," the Cajun replied, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

Sulu narrowed his eyes. "That was not your call to make."

"In that moment, I was sure that it was," DelMonde replied firmly, his voice carrying the conviction of someone who had acted according to his conscience. "I might not know much 'bout some t'ings, but on this subject, experience has made me an expert. The Federation is not ready fo' this technology. They t'ink they use it fo' good, but they are not ready. Jus' look at what has happened wit' me in th' past few months. I have lived all my life as a telepath. Then my work life gets rocky, my love life gets strange, I get sick, an' then boom! I start turnin' into an ancient evil. Look at these algae critters out in this here ocean. They were floatin' peacefully in th' ocean 'til supercharged neural net war droids showed up, an' then they went apocalyptic. What you t'ink happens when you take ordinary people who've never been telepathic an' suddenly plug 'em into machines that make 'em instant telepaths? It's terrifyin'."

Sulu thought back to the battle, remembering the moment when the neural network had connected him to all his pilots—feeling their thoughts, emotions, and fears flooding through his mind while the homicidal fury of their enemy crashed over them all like a psychic tsunami. He recalled the disorienting sensation of being turned inside out, violently exposed to alien thoughts and feelings… the incredible sense of power, the simultaneous naked vulnerability, the gut-wrenching danger…

"C'est vrai," he admitted quietly.

The engineer smiled gently. "Suddenly a man's makin' non-negotiable deals wt' th' damned Haven Tradin' Empire, non?"

"Such things have been known to happen," the captain acknowledged.

"Not somet'ing t' experiment wit' lightly."

Sulu sighed deeply. "True enough."

"Leave telepathy t' th' telepaths," the telepath advised with the weight of painful experience. "People who have centuries o' tradition, trainin', an' hard-learned lessons t' guide them through th' dangers."

"It's still not your call to make," Sulu reminded his friend firmly. "When someone approaches you with plans for sabotage, you're supposed to say 'Hell no' and report them to me immediately. You don't half-implement their schemes and then go rogue looking for ways to screw everyone involved."

"But we did find a way t' screw everyone, non?" The Cajun grinned with satisfaction. "Those neural networks are burned out beyond repair. It'll be a long, long time 'fore anyone figures out how to reactivate that technology. An' if this Task Force works out th' way you hopin', the Calumbri not gonna need war droids f'r this kind o' fight again."

"Is that why you're dawdling here?" Sulu accused. "Making sure your sabotage of the neural networks is complete?"

"Me?” DelMonde protested with injured innocence. “I am sittin' in the shade wit' a busted leg drinkin' rum punch. What you t'ink I am—some kind o' magician?"

Sulu crossed his arms and studied his old friend with narrowed eyes. "During the battle, you disabled the system in each droid in the entire fleet remotely from miles away."

"Mais…” The engineer chuckled in appreciation of his own technical wizardry. "That is true enough."

"Don't exceed your authority again, Del," Sulu warned, pointing a finger at him. "Come to me the next time you dream up one of these harebrained schemes."

"Harebrain schemes?" The engineer snorted indignantly. "Now you' makin' me sound like Ruth Valley…”

With an open palm, the captain invited him to provide evidence to dispute the comparison. “Well?”

“Look, let me…” the Cajun traced a square in the air before him, “… reframe this situation fo' you, Captain. I not never been able t' read Haven minds clearly—they mental shieldin' is too… fancy. I only catch glimpses and fragments here and there. So I not got nothing like absolute proof for you -- I not able t' read Lian worth shit. I not know what her bosses were tellin' her on them calls she was gettin' that night -- but I firmly believe th' Havens were prepared t' go t' extraordinary lengths t' prevent that neural network technology from fallin' into Federation hands. Those three Haven ships who arrived after you made your deal? They got here in twenty-nine hours. Sagron IV hasn't been on regular HTE trade routes fo' years."

"They were already en route," Sulu realized with a stab of alarm.

"Their estimated arrival time woulda put them here right when th' Calumbri predicted th' Blood Tide would rise."

A cold knot formed in the captain's stomach. "The Haven ships were planning to be here for the battle."

"My belief is they intended t' ensure th' algae won this time – decisively -- leavin' those droids at th' ocean bottom in pieces th' Federation could never reassemble," DelMonde said grimly. "My further belief was that if anyone needed control of a kill switch fo' th' neural network technology in those droids, it should be me, not them. An' I was correct, non?"

"We were very, very lucky," Sulu rebutted stubbornly. "Your 'plan' worked better when we collaborated."

"True dat," the engineer agreed readily, taking another long sip of his drink. "I was in trouble deep 'fore that happened."

"For the ten-thousandth time, Del," Sulu said with exasperation, "don't exceed your authority. I have access to information you don't. I have scope to act that you lack. I have protections you don't possess. You're a lieutenant commander—you're not even the chief engineer."

"Well, now, if you gonna bring rank into this discussion," DelMonde began, reaching for his crutch as the whine of servo-motors and clouds of disturbed sand announced the arrival of another Epiphany Sword war droid, "that more a function o' me not gettin' th' promotions I deserve—which, not t' point fingers -- rests wit' a certain commandin' officer I could name…"

"Oh, really?" Sulu shot back. "Look, Del, if you want to talk about the remote possibility of a promotion, come back to me six months after you haven't sabotaged battle equipment, come within a hair of committing treason, suffered a telepathic breakdown that almost transformed you into an ancient evil, staged an accident that might cost you your leg and nearly got us both killed..."

"Sweet Baby Jesus, Kam…" DelMonde rolled his eyes expressively. "This is exactly why I not even t'ink I want that promotion no more. If I have to deal wit' this kind o' nitpickin' an' fault-findin' wit' every single t'ing I say or do... Castin' every'ing in th' worst possible light…."

"Nitpicking?" Sulu made a sound of frustrated disbelief as he stood and pulled out his communicator.

“You beamin' back up?"

"It's either that or stay here and strangle you."

"Oh." The engineer seemed genuinely regretful. He shook his head and whistled out a long breath. "This one turned out t' be a close shave,non?"

"Too close for comfort," the captain confirmed. "And these issues aren't resolved. Eventually someone in the Federation will re-examine our mission logs. Someone will attempt to recreate this neural network technology. The Havens will have to protect their intellectual property again. The ethical questions about military applications of telepathic abilities will persist."

"Th' body count from those in power tryin' t' develop psychic 'weapons' will continue t' climb," the telepath added with bitter knowledge.

In the silence that followed, Sulu could sense his friend's rising anger as memories surfaced—missions, some classified, in which DelMonde's telepathic abilities had been deployed as tools of war.

"You can't fight a one-man war against that tide, Del," Sulu warned.

"I know that." DelMonde nodded slowly, then looked up with a determined half-smile. "But ever' once in a while, we can do somet'ing t' slow those bastards down."

"When we're lucky," Sulu agreed, flipping open his communicator. "Sulu toDrake. One to beam up."

"Yes, sir, Captain!" came the immediate response.

"Check in with Rendell about that leg before end of shift," Sulu ordered as the familiar sparkle of the transporter beam began to take hold.

"Yes, sir, Captain, sir!" DelMonde shouted over the rising hum of the transportation system and the thunderous approach of the war droid. "I gonna be sure t' take care of that t'ing jus' like you say, sir!"

Alone again with the approaching mechanical giant, he lifted his crutch and hammered against the hangar wall. "Wilkins! We got another customer!"

DelMonde glanced at the spot where his captain had stood, then over at the prosthetic leg leaning against the wall. He gave the leg a satisfied pat and nodded to himself.

"Jealous," he concluded decisively, glancing skyward to where the Drake and her commander circled in orbit.

The End