Episode 46 - The Measure of a Man
Stardate: 42001.2
Earth Standard Date: January 01, 2365.
Location: RNS Haakona, In Orbit of Romulus, Beta Quadrant
The fist connected with Tyson's stomach again. He barely flinched, just a slight curl of his lip as the impact registered. The big Romulan stepped back, flexing his knuckles with obvious frustration. Whatever he'd expected from beating a Starfleet officer, this wasn't it.
The door hissed open, casting a brief rectangle of light across the metal floor before sealing shut again. Tyson's head lifted, and surprise pulled him up short. The figure stepping in was unmistakably Vulcan, not Romulan. Pointed ears, severe features, that characteristic rigid posture. But more than that, he recognized her.
Commander Oh.
The same Vulcan who had presided over his promotion hearing. Of all the people who might walk through that door, she was perhaps the most unexpected. As she'd been the most unwelcoming. And of course, the one Starfleet sent to negotiate for his release.
His luck really was spectacularly bad.
"Commander Oh—"
The Romulan's fist slammed into his ribs before he could finish the greeting. Tyson's breath hitched, more from annoyance than pain. The interruption was becoming a pattern.
Oh stepped closer, her hands clasped behind her back in perfect military bearing. Even in this dingy interrogation room, she maintained that Vulcan composure that had made his promotion hearing feel like a funeral.
"Where is T'pol?"
Tyson tested his restraints briefly, feeling the metal bite into his wrists. "She fell through a wormhole that spontaneously opened under her, while you were transferring us. Quite the coincidence. Pretty sure there was a beach on the other side—"
Another punch cut him off, this one catching him just below the sternum. The Romulan was getting creative with his target selection, if nothing else.
Oh moved to stand directly in front of him. "She's not fully Vulcan, you know."
That got his attention. Tyson's head tilted slightly, waiting for the elaboration that was clearly coming. Oh didn't disappoint.
"T'pol's heritage is more... complex than most realize. One of her grandparents was Romulan. The Tal Shiar maintains extensive genealogical records, going back centuries. We are quite thorough in our documentation." She began pacing. "Vulcans with Romulan ancestry often struggle more than their pure-blooded counterparts. The emotional suppression that comes so naturally to true Vulcans becomes a constant battle. The Romulan blood calls to them, makes them more... volatile. More susceptible to passion."
He filed it away. T'pol's occasional emotional nature, for a Vulcan, suddenly made more sense. Her fierce protectiveness, the way she sometimes seemed to fight against her own reactions.
"So you're with the Tal Shiar?"
He braced himself, expecting another punch from his enthusiastic interrogator. Instead, the big Romulan stepped back, creating space between them. Tyson looked up at Oh, confused by the change in pattern.
There was a disruptor in her hand. She fired without hesitation.
The energy bolt hit him center mass, and Tyson's entire body convulsed. He groaned through gritted teeth. This was considerably more unpleasant than the punches.
"That was the highest stun setting," Oh said conversationally, holstering the weapon.
Tyson blinked hard, trying to clear his head. The tingling sensation was already fading, his Augment physiology shaking off the disruption far faster than normal.
"I felt that one. Stung a bit. So, you're a double agent I take it. Starfleet Intelligence and the Tal Shiar."
"Yes." Oh resumed her pacing, hands once again clasped behind her back. "I read the report about you being an Augment. It was our perfect opportunity, really. Starfleet wouldn't risk war with the Romulan Star Empire over an illegal who had infiltrated their ranks. Your genetics make you quite expendable from a diplomatic standpoint."
Oh stopped pacing and turned to face him directly. "No matter. If she's still on the ship, we'll find her. If she has escaped, no major loss. She isn't that important. What I want to know is about the android, Minuet."
Tyson's face screwed up in genuine confusion. "Minuet? Wha—"
The Romulan's fist connected with his jaw, cutting off his bewildered question mid-word.
The laughter started as a low chuckle, building until Tyson was genuinely laughing despite the restraints cutting into his wrists. The sound was completely inappropriate for an interrogation room.
"I'm sorry, I just—" He shook his head, still grinning. "I don't get how Vulcans are so amazing and disciplined, and Romulans are like... human-level strength and dicks."
The big Romulan's face darkened, his jaw clenching. His fist crashed into Tyson's cheek with considerably more force than before, snapping his head to the side. The laughter cut off abruptly.
Tyson worked his jaw, tasting blood. "Touched a nerve there, huh?"
Oh stepped closer, something calculating in her dark eyes. "Vulcan's gravity is forty percent stronger than Earth's. Romulus's is not. Three thousand years of divergence changes things. When our ancestors left Vulcan, they settled on a world more similar to your Earth. Over millennia, our physiology adapted. We retained the mental disciplines, the longevity, but the raw physical strength... that faded."
"So you're basically long-lived humans with pointed ears and bad attitudes."
The Romulan stepped forward again, but Oh raised a hand, stopping him mid-swing.
"We are far more than that," she said coolly. "But your observation about strength is accurate. It's why we rely on superior technology and tactics rather than brute force."
Tyson tilted his head. "Speaking of superior technology, you've had three thousand years of warp drive? How did the Federation catch up in like a hundred years?"
Oh's composure flickered.l, visibly irritated. When she spoke, an edge had entered her voice.
"Humans and their allies threw themselves into exploration and advancement with reckless abandon. Quantity has a quality all its own, as they say."
"So you got lazy."
"We got cautious."
Tyson grinned despite the blood on his lip. "Same result, in the end, really."
Oh drew her disruptor and fired. This time the convulsion was stronger. When the spasms subsided, he was breathing hard.
"That was considerably less amusing," he managed.
"You misunderstand our history," she said, her voice taking on an almost lecturing tone. "The Romulan settlers had no warp drive when they left Vulcan."
Tyson blinked, still recovering from the disruptor blast. "What?"
"The great exodus occurred over two thousand years ago, during the Time of Awakening. When Surak began preaching his philosophy of logic and emotional suppression, not all Vulcans embraced his teachings. Those who rejected Surak's way, who refused to abandon passion and emotion, were called 'those who march beneath the Raptor's wings.'" The big Romulan stepped back slightly, apparently as invested in this history lesson as Tyson was. "They left Vulcan in massive generational ships, traveling at sublight speeds for decades. The journey to Romulus took eighty years. Eighty years of cramped conditions, resource scarcity, and the constant threat of system failures in the void between stars."
"No warp drive at all?"
"None. Warp technology was still theoretical when our ancestors departed. They had impulse engines, fusion reactors, and little else. The ships were essentially mobile cities, carrying everything needed to establish a new civilization." Oh stopped pacing and turned to face him directly. "Many ships were lost during the journey. Engine failures, life support breakdowns, conflicts over dwindling resources. Of the original fleet, less than half reached Romulus. Those who survived were hardened by the experience, shaped by decades of struggle in space."
"So how did you develop warp drive?"
"We didn't." Oh's lips curved in what might have been a smile on a less controlled face. "We acquired it. Approximately four hundred years after settlement, we encountered a species called the Debrune. They possessed crude warp technology, barely warp two, but functional. We... learned from them."
The way she said 'learned' suggested the process hadn't been entirely peaceful.
"The Debrune were eventually absorbed into our growing empire. Their technology became the foundation for our own warp program. Within two centuries, we had improved upon their designs significantly. By the time we made first contact with Earth forces, our vessels were superior to anything in your fleet."
"Pretty sure most of that is fiction. Romulus is how many lightyears from Vulcan? 80 years at sublight is a fantasy. It took much longer, or you had warp drive. As for that last bit, I read about the Romulan War. Captain Archer and all that. Even met the guy, decent enough fellow. But didn't you lose that war?"
Oh's expression hardened. "We chose to withdraw rather than commit to total warfare. The Federation's willingness to sacrifice entire worlds for strategic advantage was... instructive. We learned that humans fight differently than we anticipated."
"More recklessly?"
"More desperately. Vulcans fight with logic and precision. Romulans fight with cunning and patience. Humans fight like cornered animals; unpredictably, willing to accept catastrophic losses for marginal gains. It makes you dangerous. The Neutral Zone was established not because we feared defeat, but because we recognized that victory against such opponents would be pyrrhic at best."
"I'm starting to understand the difference between Vulcans and Romulans," Tyson said. "Vulcans always embrace logic. Romulans embrace logic when it allows them to rationalize their shortcomings—"
The energy bolt hit him before he could finish the sentence. The smell of singed material and flesh filled the small room. Tyson's head dropped forward, breathing hard through gritted teeth.
"That was the lowest kill setting," Oh said matter-of-factly, examining the disruptor's power indicator. "If you were a Romulan or normal human, you'd be dead. Do we want to find out how many shots it takes to put you down?"
Tyson lifted his head. "Must be my Betazoid half. Wanna talk about your feelings, Vulcan? Why you're so angry—"
Oh raised the disruptor again. Tyson's mouth snapped shut.
She held the weapon steady for a long moment, letting the threat hang in the air before lowering it slightly. "Minuet. How did you create her? What are her strengths and limitations compared to Lieutenant Commander Data? Can you create more?"
The questions came rapid-fire, each one clipped and precise. Tyson answered with the same mechanical cadence, his voice flat and matter-of-fact.
"I put her in a fancy replicator. Similar I guess. Sure can."
The disruptor fired again, the energy bolt slamming into his other side. This time a scream tore from his throat. His body convulsed against the restraints, every muscle seizing as the pain overwhelmed his enhanced nervous system.
When the spasms finally subsided, Tyson slumped forward in the chair. His breathing was ragged, shallow gasps that sent fresh waves of agony through his burned ribs.
"Soong-Type androids cannot be replicated," Oh said, beginning to pace around his chair in a slow circle. "The positronic matrix alone requires materials and manufacturing techniques that are beyond current replication technology."
Oh raised her disruptor so that Tyson could see her adjusting it to the highest setting. The weapon's power indicator glowed an ominous red as she made the final calibration. She pointed it directly at his chest.
"Tell me the truth."
"Shoot me." Tyson looked her in the eye without flinching.
Oh stared him down. After what felt like an eternity, she lowered the weapon.
"I know you're not from this time," she said, beginning to pace again. "So let me give you a small stellar cartography lesson."
Tyson said nothing, listening.
"Sector 23 is one of the Federation sectors that borders the Neutral Zone. I'm stationed there, on Starbase 173 under Vice Admiral Nakamura. As his only Vulcan, he relies on me to provide logical, objective opinions on his decisions."
She stopped pacing and turned to face him directly. "The Enterprise is at port for a crew rotation. When she arrived, I orchestrated a meeting between Commander Bruce Maddox, a Starfleet cyberneticist, Vice Admiral Nakamura, Captain Picard, and Data."
The name Maddox caught Tyson's attention. He knew that name from his metaknowledge, and nothing good came from Bruce Maddox's involvement with androids.
"Maddox was the sole member of a Starfleet special admissions panel to oppose Data's admission to Starfleet Academy, on the basis that Data was not a sentient lifeform." Oh's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Maddox is planning 'work' which includes dismantling Data."
"Data concluded that Maddox lacked sufficient technical knowledge to carry out the procedure safely and declined to participate. Picard supported him. But Maddox, prepared for this eventuality on my recommendation, procured orders from Starfleet Command separating Data from the Enterprise and transferring him to Starbase 173, under his command."
The pieces were falling into place, and Tyson didn't like the picture they were forming. Oh had orchestrated this entire situation, manipulating Starfleet bureaucracy to put Data in an impossible position.
"Data, not willing to accept the order, attempted to resign." Oh stopped pacing and fixed Tyson with a calculating stare. "Now there will be a hearing to determine if Lieutenant Commander Data is property of Starfleet."
If Data were ruled to be property rather than a sentient being, he would have no rights, no protections. Maddox could dismantle him with impunity, studying his positronic matrix until there was nothing left of the android who had become his friend.
"And you will be unable to help your friend unless you cooperate with me." Oh's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "Think wisely."
Data was walking into a trap he couldn't escape.
This wasn't like the show. Tyson remembered how the hearing had gone in the show. It was one of the best episodes. Measure of a Man. But here things were different. From the way Oh talked, the hearing would be a sham. She had orchestrated the entire situation, from Maddox's involvement to timing it to coincide with the Enterprise's arrival at Starbase 173. She had positioned herself as Nakamura's trusted advisor, the logical Vulcan voice that would guide his decisions. The outcome was predetermined.
"What do you want?" he asked finally.
Oh's lips curved in satisfaction. "Information. About Minuet's construction, about any other technologies you might possess from your... unique background."
The big Romulan stepped forward again, flexing his knuckles in anticipation. But Oh raised a hand, stopping him.
"Commander Maddox's hearing is scheduled for tomorrow at 1300 hours. Captain Picard will undoubtedly serve as Data's advocate, but the outcome is already determined. Vice Admiral Nakamura will ensure the judiciary rules based on my recommendation, and I will recommend that Data be classified as Starfleet property."
She moved closer to Tyson's chair, watching for any sign of weakness.
"Unless, of course, you provide me with what I need. Information about advanced android construction techniques could be... valuable to the right parties. Valuable enough to ensure that certain recommendations might be reconsidered. You have no options. Give me what I want, or your friend dies."
"Only Sith deal in absolutes."
She stopped directly behind him, her voice dropping. "I've no idea what that means, but it's clear you're not being cooperative. But in your current state, perhaps the mines will soften you up." Oh moved back into his field of vision, holstering the disruptor. "Release him into the mines with the other prisoners," she instructed the big Romulan. "Two days should be enough time to relax his tongue. Hopefully, your friend Data will still be in one piece the next time we speak." She turned on her heel and strode toward the door, which hissed open, casting that brief rectangle of light across the floor again before sealing shut behind her.
"You're gonna love Remus," the big Romulan said, speaking for the first time since the interrogation began.
"Sounds lovely."
— Star Jumper —
The cargo bay doors hissed open, revealing Remus. The dusty-red surface scarred by massive excavation sites that disappeared into the planet's crust. The air tasted metallic, heavy with particulates. In the distance, primitive-looking structures dotted the horizon, processing facilities, storage depots, and likely barracks for the workforce.
The big Romulan shoved him forward with unnecessary force. "Move."
Tyson stumbled deliberately, playing up the weakness from his interrogation. His ribs ached where the disruptor had hit him, but the Grey Goo Suit was doing its job, maintaining the illusion of serious injury while his enhanced physiology had taken only a fraction of the actual damage.
They approached a crude entrance carved directly into the mountainside. No fancy Federation architecture here, just raw stone and metal supports that looked like they'd been installed centuries ago. Off to one side stood a collection of mining equipment that made Tyson do a double-take.
"You've got to be kidding me."
A rack of mining picks leaned against a weathered metal stand. Not energy tools, not sonic excavators, not even powered drills. Actual picks with metal heads and wooden handles, like something out of Earth's industrial revolution.
"It's the future," Tyson said, his voice carrying genuine bewilderment. "Why are we mining with picks? Isn't there some kind of laser cutter we could use?"
The big Romulan looked at him strangely, as if the question itself was somehow alien. After a moment, he seemed to decide that explaining wouldn't compromise security.
"Some of the metals down there are volatile when exposed to heat," he said, gesturing toward the mine entrance. "Trilithium deposits, unstable isotopes of pergium, trace amounts of protomatter. Hit them with an energy beam and you'll bring down half the mountain."
Noted.
"Grab a pick and get to it," the Romulan ordered.
Tyson shuffled over to the equipment rack, making a show of favoring his injured side. He reached for one of the picks, wrapping his hands around the worn wooden handle. When he tried to lift it, he let out a pained grunt and nearly dropped the tool.
"Heavy," he wheezed, struggling to maintain his grip.
The pick wasn't actually that heavy, maybe fifteen pounds at most. His enhanced strength could have wielded it one-handed without effort. But the big Romulan didn't need to know that.
"You'll get used to it," the guard said with what might have been amusement. "Or you won't. Either way, you've got a quota to meet."
Tyson hefted the pick with both hands, letting it drag slightly as he shuffled toward the mine entrance. His posture was hunched, his breathing labored, every movement suggesting a man pushed beyond his physical limits.
The Romulan watched him disappear into the darkness of the tunnel before turning back toward the transport. Apparently, guard duty ended at the entrance. Whatever security they had down in the mines was either automated or handled by the prisoners themselves.
The moment Tyson was out of sight, he straightened up and dropped the act entirely.
His ribs still ached, but it was manageable pain rather than the debilitating agony he'd been pretending to feel. The Grey Goo Suit had done more than just mimic surface wounds; it had absorbed and distributed much of the disruptor's energy, preventing the worst of the damage. The cortosis had helped, its unique properties interfering with directed energy weapons.
He was tough enough to take some hits anyway. His Augment physiology meant he healed faster and could endure far more punishment than baseline humans. But why reveal that advantage when deception served him better?
Honestly, he was surprised they'd brought him this deep into Romulan territory. Remus was the moon orbiting the Romulan homeworld of Romulus itself. This wasn't some border outpost or neutral zone facility; this was the heart of the Star Empire. The fact that they'd transported him here suggested not just supreme confidence in their security, but an oversight of the highest order.
The tunnel carved roughly from living rock and reinforced with metal supports that had seen better decades. Emergency lighting strips provided minimal illumination. The air grew thicker as he descended, heavy with dust and the metallic tang of exposed ore.
The rhythmic striking of picks against stone, muffled voices, and the occasional clatter of equipment echoed from deeper in the mine. He wasn't alone down here, which could be either an advantage or a complication depending on who else the Romulans had decided to disappear into their mines.
Tyson adjusted his grip on the pick, testing its weight and balance properly now that he didn't need to pretend weakness. The tool was crude but functional, designed for breaking rock rather than precision work or use as a weapon. The metal head showed signs of repeated sharpening, and the wooden handle was worn smooth by countless hands. Did the Romulans not have replicators?
He moved deeper into the tunnel, following the main passage as it branched into smaller corridors. The sound of mining grew louder, and he began to make out individual voices, some speaking Federation Standard, others in languages he didn't recognize. Definitely not all Romulan prisoners then.
The first side chamber he passed contained three figures hunched over a section of exposed ore, their picks rising and falling in steady rhythm. They looked up as he passed, taking in his appearance.
One of them, a Klingon woman with grey hair and arms corded with muscle, straightened up. "Fresh meat," she called out.
"Looks like he's been through the wringer already," another prisoner observed, a Bolian whose blue skin was streaked with mineral dust.
Tyson nodded acknowledgment but kept moving. He needed to understand the layout of this place, figure out who was running things down here, and if there was anyone of note. Playing the wounded newcomer would buy him time to gather intelligence without immediately marking him as a threat.
The main tunnel continued to descend, branching into a network of smaller passages that disappeared into the mountain's depths. Each branch seemed to lead to different mining sites, different groups of prisoners working under whatever system of organization had evolved in this place.
Tyson found what he was looking for about fifty meters down the main tunnel; a side passage that dead-ended after only a few meters, creating a natural alcove. The walls showed promising veins of ore, giving him legitimate reason to work there, but more importantly, the position offered a clear view of the main thoroughfare while keeping him partially concealed in shadow.
He settled into the alcove and began working, letting the pick strike stone with deliberate, measured blows. Not the frantic pace of someone trying to meet an impossible quota, but the steady rhythm of a man conserving his strength. The Grey Goo Suit continued maintaining the illusion of his injuries.
Between strikes, he observed the flow of traffic through the main tunnel. Prisoners moved in small groups, some heading deeper into the mine complex, others emerging with crude containers of extracted ore. The diversity was striking. Klingons, Cardassians, Bolians, humans, even what looked like a Pakled or two. This wasn't just a Romulan penal colony; it was a dumping ground for undesirables from across the quadrant.
The irony wasn't lost on him. If someone had asked him to choose where he wanted to be transported as a prisoner, Remus would have been at the top of his list. The Romulans had unknowingly delivered him to exactly where he needed to be, at exactly the right time in history. His metaknowledge of future events made this place valuable.
A klaxon echoed through the tunnels, and around him, the sound of mining ceased as prisoners began setting down their tools.
"Meal time," someone called out from the main passage.
Tyson set his pick aside and joined the stream of prisoners moving toward what he assumed was some kind of mess facility. The crowd was larger than he'd expected, easily two hundred people, maybe more. The Romulans were running a substantial operation here, though the primitive mining methods suggested they were more interested in keeping prisoners busy than maximizing efficiency.
The mess hall was a large natural cavern that had been roughly finished with metal supports and basic lighting. Long tables made from salvaged materials filled the space, surrounded by mismatched chairs and benches. At one end, a serving area had been set up with industrial-sized containers of what could generously be called food.
Tyson grabbed a metal plate from a stack near the serving line and shuffled forward, maintaining his injured posture. The server, a Romulan civilian who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, ladled a portion of grey protein paste onto his plate along with what might have been vegetables if you squinted hard enough.
He turned to find a seat, scanning the room for potential allies or threats. The prisoners had naturally segregated themselves along species lines, though there was some mixing at the edges. Klingons dominated one section, Cardassians another, with smaller groups of various species scattered throughout.
A massive shape stepped into his path.
The Nausicaan was easily two meters tall, with the characteristic ridged skull and predatory features of his species. Scars crisscrossed his arms and face, and his prison clothes looked like they'd been tailored for someone half his size. He stared down at Tyson's plate with obvious intent.
"You're new," the Nausicaan rumbled. "New prisoners give tribute."
Tyson looked up at him, letting confusion and fear play across his face. "Tribute?"
"Your food." The alien reached for Tyson's plate. "I'll take it."
"I haven't eaten since—" Tyson began.
The Nausicaan's hand closed around the edge of the plate. Tyson's grip tightened reflexively, and for a moment they stood there in a tug-of-war over a plate of prison slop.
"Let go," the Nausicaan growled.
Instead, Tyson stumbled backward, crying out as if the movement had aggravated his injuries. His grip on the plate shifted, and suddenly the Nausicaan was pulling against nothing. The alien's own momentum sent him staggering forward, and Tyson's "weakened" attempt to steady himself resulted in his elbow connecting solidly with the Nausicaan's solar plexus.
The big alien doubled over, gasping. Tyson dropped his plate with a clatter, falling to one knee as if the brief struggle had overwhelmed him.
"I'm sorry," he wheezed, one hand pressed to his ribs. "I didn't mean to. The pain made me—"
The Nausicaan straightened up, fury replacing surprise on his scarred features. He raised one massive fist, clearly intending to finish what he'd started.
"Enough."
The voice carried absolute authority. The Nausicaan froze, his fist still raised, and slowly turned toward the source of the command.
Tyson looked up from the floor. The man approaching was young, maybe early twenties, with sharp features and he was bald. But it was the face that made Tyson's memory kick into overdrive. He'd seen that face before. The resemblance to Jean-Luc Picard was unmistakable once you knew what to look for, though this version was younger, harder, with none of the measured dignity that would characterize the Enterprise captain.
Shinzon.
The villain of Star Trek Nemesis, a clone of Jean-Luc Picard, created by the Romulans as part of some long-abandoned infiltration plan. Shinzon had been discarded when the political situation changed, sent to the dilithium mines of Remus to die in obscurity. Except he hadn't died. He'd survived, thrived even, eventually becoming the leader of the Reman people and orchestrating a coup that would shake the foundations of the Romulan Star Empire.
That was still years in the future, though. Right now, Shinzon was just another prisoner, albeit one who'd clearly established himself as a power broker in the mine's social hierarchy.
"This one's under my protection," Shinzon said.
The Nausicaan's face twisted with frustration, but he lowered his fist. "Since when do you protect the weak?"
"Since I decide who's weak and who isn't." Shinzon's smile was cold. "Walk away, Grakk."
The Nausicaan, Grakk, apparently, glared at both of them but stepped back. The confrontation was over, at least for now.
Shinzon extended a hand to Tyson. "You handled that better than most newcomers."
Tyson accepted the help, making sure to wince as he stood. "I got lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it." Shinzon studied him. "That elbow strike was perfectly placed. Either you have combat training, or very good instincts."
"I used to work security," Tyson said, which was technically true if you stretched the definition of security work to include his various activities across multiple realities. "Before the Romulans picked me up."
Shinzon nodded. "Join me. We should talk, tonight."
Tyson held Shinzon's gaze for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Tonight, then."
Shinzon studied him a beat longer, then turned and walked back toward a table where a group of Remans sat hunched over their own meager meals. The Remans watched Tyson with pale, light-sensitive eyes before shifting their attention back to their leader.
Tyson retrieved his spilled plate, scraped what he could salvage back onto it, and found an empty spot at the end of a table occupied by no particular faction. He ate mechanically, cataloging the room. Shinzon's authority over both prisoners and Remans, the Nausicaan's deference despite his size advantage, the way the rest of the mess hall had watched the exchange without intervening. The social hierarchy here was well established, and Shinzon sat near the top of it.
The rest of the shift passed without incident. Tyson returned to his alcove and worked the ore vein with steady, unhurried strikes, filling his crude container with chunks of raw mineral. When the end-of-shift klaxon sounded, he hauled his quota to the collection point near the mine entrance, where a bored Romulan civilian weighed and logged each prisoner's output.
"Acceptable," the clerk said without looking up. "Barely."
Tyson shuffled away, maintaining his wounded gait until he'd cleared the checkpoint and entered the corridor leading back toward the prisoner barracks. The passage was quieter here, most of the workforce already ahead of him or still finishing at the collection point.
A soft chime sounded in his ear. His HUD flickered to life with Vicky's voice.
"You have incoming orders from Section 31. Priority channel. Also, I'm opening a door for you."
The air three meters ahead of him split apart. A circular seam of light appeared in the middle of the stone corridor, opening into the Personal Reality.
Standing just inside the portal was a figure that looked exactly like him. Same height, same build, same face. The Soong-Type android wore an expression calibrated to match his own resting demeanor.
"Orders are straightforward," Vicky continued through his HUD. "The cryogenic passengers and several of your former crew need to be delivered to Earth for reassignment. Section 31 wants them processed."
Tyson glanced back down the tunnel. Empty. He looked at the android, then at the portal.
"Alright, let's go," he said, stepping through the threshold. "We couldn't stay here long anyway. Transmit all the recordings we have of Commander Oh to Sloan." He paused, a thought catching up to him. "And while we're at it, let's plan to pull the rug out from under Data's trial too."
The android walked past him into the Reman corridor without a word, picking up his shuffling gait and wounded posture. It grabbed the pick he'd left leaning against the wall and continued toward the barracks as if nothing had changed.
— Star Jumper —
Tyson moved past crew quarters and duty stations, nodding to a passing ensign who snapped to attention before hurrying on her way. He reached the executive office suite and stood outside until it opened on Riker's command. The room was modest by starship standards, a wide desk with a built-in terminal, a few chairs arranged for small briefings, and a viewport that showed the stars holding steady at impulse speed. Commander Riker was already inside, standing near the viewport with a PADD in one hand and a troubled look on his face.
"Commander," Tyson said, crossing to the desk.
"Tyson." Riker set the PADD down. "I was starting to think you were lost."
"Just spent some time under Romulan hospitality." Tyson dropped into the chair behind the desk and pulled up the terminal. The reassignment orders were already queued, a neat column of names and new postings that Starfleet Personnel had pushed through while he'd been away.
"I expected this. All the officers under my direct command. Every one of them is being reassigned." He turned the terminal so Riker could see. "Prieto, Yar, Thomas, Beverly, Wesley, Remmick. All have new postings, effective within the week."
Riker leaned over the desk and read through the list. His jaw worked slightly, the way it did when he was chewing on something he didn't like. "That's not a coincidence."
"No, it isn't." Tyson tapped his combadge. "Tyson to Lieutenant Prieto."
"Prieto here, Commander."
"Report to the executive office, Deck 8."
"On my way, sir. Prieto out."
He repeated the call five more times. Tyson closed the channel and sat back.
"While we wait," Riker said. He picked up the PADD he'd set down earlier and held it out. "There's something else you should know about."
Tyson took it. The screen displayed a formal notice from the Judge Advocate General's office, a hearing scheduled aboard the Enterprise at Starbase 173.
The Question of Lieutenant Commander Data's Legal Status as Starfleet Property.
He read it twice. Commander Bruce Maddox wanted to disassemble Data, study his positronic brain, and attempt to create more androids like him. Data had refused. Maddox had petitioned to have Data declared property of Starfleet, not a person, stripping him of the right to refuse. It was as the episode went, as Commander Oh, the traitorous Romulan infiltrator, had explained.
"Captain Louvois is presiding," Riker said. "She's the JAG officer assigned to the starbase. And since there's no staff available to serve as opposing counsel..." He trailed off, and Tyson looked up from the PADD. Riker's expression had gone tight. "She's appointed me to argue for the prosecution. To argue that Data is property."
Tyson set the PADD on the desk. "And if you refuse?"
"She enters a summary judgment in Maddox's favor. Data gets disassembled. So I get to stand up in front of everyone and make the case that one of my fellow officers isn't a person. That he's a thing."
"A strange position to be in, given your relationship with Minuet. But all you need to do is do your duty, Will."
Riker looked at him sharply. "My duty is to argue that Data doesn't have rights."
"Your duty is to make sure there's a trial at all. If you don't stand up there and argue the prosecution's case, Louvois rules by default, and Data loses everything. You arguing badly on purpose doesn't help him either. She'll see through it and rule against him anyway. So you argue it like you mean it. Give Picard something real to fight against. That's how Data wins."
"And if he doesn't win?"
"He will. But if something goes sideways, I'll make sure Data is safe."
Riker was quiet for a moment. "If you remove Data from the Enterprise before the ruling, you know what that looks like."
"I do."
"It looks like you're obstructing a legal proceeding. Harboring Starfleet property, if the ruling goes against him. You're already on shaky ground with Starfleet Command—"
"I'm aware of my standing with Command."
"Then you know that pulling something like this gives them exactly what they need to come after you. They're already reassigning your entire team. This isn't subtle, Tyson. Someone up the chain wants you isolated. If you give them cause on top of that..."
"I saw this coming." Tyson's voice was calm, unhurried. "I have contingencies planned. I'll return before the end of the trial. Everything will be fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I'll make sure it's true."
Riker studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. Not in disagreement, exactly. More like a man who'd learned to recognize when pushing further wouldn't change anything. "I hope you know what you're doing."
The door chimed. Tyson straightened in his chair and pulled the reassignment orders back up on the terminal.
"Come," Riker said.
The door opened, and Lieutenant Prieto walked in first. Tyson waited until they all arrived and the door closed. He looked at each of them in turn. Prieto, with his hands folded in his lap. Tasha watching him with that sharp, patient attention. Wesley trying not to fidget. Beverly calm and composed. Thomas with his arms crossed and his jaw set.
"I'll get to the point," Tyson said. "Starfleet has issued reassignment orders for every officer under my direct command. All of you. New postings, effective within the week. I'm not going to stand here and pretend this isn't what it is," Tyson continued. "Someone at Command decided that the people closest to me needed to be somewhere else. And I'm sorry." He paused, and the pause had weight to it. "I'm sorry we didn't get more time together. I would have liked that. I think we were building something good here, and I would have liked to see where it went."
He leaned back in his chair. "Now, I can't exactly blame Starfleet for all of it. The part where they're targeting me because I'm an Augment?" He let a dry smile cross his face. "That part is stupid. I'll own that assessment freely."
A few small sounds around the room. Prieto's mouth twitched. Wesley laughed before he caught himself.
"But I can't blame them for not wanting such a fine collection of officers all concentrated in one place. That's just good resource management." He looked around the room again. "Every one of you is exceptional. Starfleet knows that. They'd be fools not to spread you out where you can do the most good. So while the timing is suspect and the motivation is transparent, the outcome isn't wrong. You'll all do well wherever you end up. I know that."
He let that settle for a moment before straightening.
"We'll all be returning to Earth. From there, you'll proceed to your new assignments." He pulled up the terminal and glanced at the list. "All except Thomas."
Thomas pushed off the wall. "Why not?"
Tyson didn't answer. He looked to Will Riker, who spoke up.
"I used my pull with Personnel," Will said. "With Commander Tyson being removed from active duty, it made sense that at least one Force-sensitive officer remain aboard the flagship. I made the case, and they agreed. You're being reassigned back to the Enterprise."
Thomas stared at him. The room was quiet enough to hear the low hum of the ship's environmental systems cycling through the vents. Will had done this for him. Not because they'd resolved the tangled mess of being two versions of the same man. Not because things were easy between them. Thomas knew exactly what Will had done, and he knew why. Deanna was on the Enterprise. Will had made it so Thomas could stay close to her, at least for now, with the option to request a transfer later if he needed it.
"Thank you, sir," Thomas said.
Will gave a single nod.
Tyson turned to the terminal. "The rest of you. Lieutenant Prieto."
Prieto sat up straighter.
"You're being assigned to the USS Saratoga. Miranda-class. She's a good ship with a solid crew, and they're getting one of the best pilots in the fleet."
Prieto nodded once. "Understood, Commander."
"Commander Remmick."
Remmick met his gaze.
"USS Melbourne. Excelsior-class. You'll be serving as Captain. Congratulations on the promotion." Tyson held the look. "They're lucky to have you. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"I won't, sir," Remmick said quietly.
"Lieutenant Yar."
Tasha straightened against the bulkhead, chin up.
"USS Yamaguchi. Ambassador-class. Chief of Security." Tyson watched her face. "You've earned it, Tasha. Every bit of it."
"Yes, sir."
"Wesley."
Wesley stood up properly, shoulders back.
"Starfleet Academy. Full enrollment."
Wesley blinked. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He looked at his mother, who was watching him with an expression that held pride and loss in equal measure. "I... yes, sir. Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me. You earned your spot." Tyson turned to Beverly last. "Doctor Crusher. Starfleet Medical. Chief Medical Officer, head of the division."
The room shifted. That wasn't just a reassignment. That was the top medical posting in all of Starfleet. Beverly's composure held, but barely. She took a slow breath.
"That's quite a promotion," she said.
"Gather your things," Tyson said. "All of you. We leave from Transporter Room 2 in three hours."
Wesley was the first one moving, slipping past Thomas and out the door. Beverly followed at a measured pace, one hand briefly touching Tyson's shoulder as she passed. Tasha gave him a nod and was gone. Prieto and Remmick filed out together, already talking in low voices about transfer logistics. Thomas lingered a beat, glanced at Will, then left without another word.
Riker watched the door close behind them. "You going to be alright?"
"I'll be fine, Will."
Three hours later, Transporter Room 2 was crowded. Six officers with duffel bags and personal effects, plus Tyson, filled the small space to capacity. Chief O'Brien stood behind the transporter console, waiting for coordinates.
"We won't be needing the transporter, Chief," Tyson said.
O'Brien looked up. "Sir?"
Tyson raised his right hand, and a vertical seam of light appeared, widening into a shimmering oval roughly two meters tall. Through it, the high windows of Starfleet Command's main atrium were visible. Officers in uniform moved through the space on the other side, some glancing toward the sudden distortion with mild curiosity.
O'Brien stared at the portal, then at Tyson, then back at the portal. "Right then."
"After you," Tyson said to the group.
Cadets and officers moved through the atrium in clusters. A few heads turned at the group's sudden appearance, but San Francisco had seen stranger things walk through its halls.
"This is where we part ways," Tyson said.
The goodbyes were brief. Military people learned early that long farewells just made everything harder. Prieto shook his hand firmly. Remmick gave him a salute that was technically unnecessary between their ranks but felt right anyway. Tasha gripped his forearm in the way she'd picked up from Worf, warrior to warrior, and held it for a second longer than protocol demanded. Wesley hugged him, which surprised no one. Beverly kissed his cheek and said, "Be careful."
Tyson watched them go, each heading in a different direction, except the Crushers, scattering like seeds thrown to the wind. He stood alone in the middle of Starfleet Command's atrium and let himself feel it. While his former crew had gathered their belongings, Tyson had dropped off the capsule refugees.
His mission was complete.
His HUD flickered.
Vicky's voice came through his internal comm, quiet and urgent. "Tyson, incoming message. Sloan. Priority encrypted. I'm patching it through now."
The message populated across his field of vision, overlaid on the real world in pale blue text that only he could see.
He didn't finish the first line.
"Commander Tyson."
The voice came from his left. Tyson turned. Two full squads of Starfleet Security had arrived from adjacent corridors, eight officers in tactical blacks fanning out in a formation that cut off the atrium's three main exits. Phaser rifles held at low ready, not aimed at him yet. Two officers peeled off to cover the corridor behind him. The rest formed a loose semicircle, maintaining enough spacing that he couldn't rush through a gap without exposing his flank.
At the center of the formation stood a tall woman with commander's pips and close-cropped silver hair.
"Commander Tyson, you are to surrender yourself into custody immediately," she said. Her voice carried across the atrium. Civilians and junior officers were already clearing the space, moving toward walls and exits, recognizing trouble. "By order of Starfleet Command, you are under arrest pending formal charges. Place your hands where we can see them and step forward."
The security officers tightened their formation. Rifle stocks shifted against shoulders. Tyson could hear the faint whine of phaser power cells cycling to active status.
"Tyson," Vicky said in his ear. "The message. Read it now."
He looked down at his HUD. The rest of Sloan's message scrolled into view.
UPDATED MISSION PARAMETERS. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.
DO NOT SUBMIT TO DETENTION. RESIST. AVOID CAPTURE BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY. MINIMAL CASUALTIES PREFERRED. ESCAPE EARTH. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.
— SLOAN
The silver-haired commander took a step forward. "This is your only warning, Commander. Hands up. Now."
Tyson's left hand raised, but in his right hand an object appeared, as if magic, thanks to Master With Your Hands.
The snap-hiss of the lightsaber igniting cut through the atrium. A blade of vivid green light extended from the hilt. The low, resonant hum filled the sudden silence, a sound that vibrated in the chest and set teeth on edge.
Sixteen phaser rifles came up to firing position simultaneously.
The first volley came fast.
Tyson was already moving. He threw himself sideways as orange phaser beams converged on the space he'd occupied, the bolts striking the floor and leaving black scorch marks. His boots hit the ground, and he pushed off hard, Augment muscles launching him into a dead sprint toward the left flank of the semicircle.
The security officers tracked him. Beams cut through the air in stuttering bursts, each one arriving a half-second behind where he'd been. He was too fast. Not by a little. By enough that their targeting instincts, trained on human-speed opponents, kept feeding them the wrong lead. They were shooting where a normal person would be. Tyson closed the distance to the nearest officer in three strides. The man tried to bring his rifle around, but Tyson was inside his guard before the barrel finished its arc. He caught the rifle by the stock with his free hand, wrenched it sideways, and the officer came with it, stumbling forward off balance. He planted a boot in his chest and shoved. The officer flew backward into the woman behind him, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs and tactical gear.
Two rifles swung toward him from the right. Tyson brought the lightsaber up in a tight vertical sweep. The first beam hit the blade and scattered, redirected into the ceiling, where it blew out a lighting panel in a shower of sparks and composite dust. The second beam he caught on the backswing, sending it wide into a support column.
He kept moving.
The green blade carved a short arc through the nearest rifle barrel. The phaser's emitter assembly separated from the stock and clattered to the floor, still sparking. The officer holding the ruined weapon stared at the cauterized stump of his weapon for one critical second. Tyson hit him with an open palm to the sternum. The man left his feet, skidding across the marble on his back.
"Six still standing," Vicky reported. "Two repositioning behind you, northwest corridor."
Tyson spun. The two officers who'd been covering the rear corridor were advancing, rifles up, trying to catch him in a crossfire with the remaining four in front.
He reached out with the Force.
The two rear officers stopped advancing. Something unseen gripped them, an invisible hand closing around their center of mass. They had time to look confused. Then Tyson pulled his hand back, and they slid across the marble like they'd been caught in a river heading downstream. Dragged ten meters in a second and deposited in a heap against the far wall. One of them tried to stand immediately. The other didn't.
The remaining four officers had spread out, abandoning the tight formation for individual firing positions behind columns and planters. Smarter. Harder to rush. The silver-haired commander had drawn a sidearm and was barking orders, directing them to stagger their fire so he couldn't deflect everything at once.
The first staggered volley came from three angles. Tyson deflected one beam into the floor, sidestepped the second, and took the third on the blade with a twist of his wrist that sent it back along its own trajectory. The officer who'd fired it threw herself flat as her own shot scorched the column above her head.
Tyson vaulted a planter. The ceramic pot exploded under a phaser hit as he cleared it, showering the atrium with soil and the shredded remains of some decorative fern. He landed on the other side and found himself face to face with an officer who'd been using the planter as cover.
The officer was young. Ensign's pips. His rifle was up, but his finger was outside the trigger guard; his training taught him not to fire until he had a clear shot. He didn't have one. Tyson was too close.
Tyson grabbed the rifle barrel, pushed it aside, and punched the ensign once in the jaw. Not full Augment strength. Maybe a quarter. Enough to put him down without breaking anything important. The ensign's knees buckled and he sat down hard, consciousness leaving him before he hit the floor.
A phaser beam sizzled past Tyson's ear close enough that he felt the heat on his skin. He turned and saw the silver-haired commander advancing, sidearm up, firing with a steady two-handed grip. She was good. Her shots were tight, controlled, tracking his movement with more accuracy than the rifle team had managed.
He deflected her next shot and charged. She fired twice more. He caught the first on the blade and ducked the second, dropping low and covering the last five meters in a sliding lunge that brought him inside her reach. His free hand closed around her sidearm, and he twisted it out of her grip with a motion that was almost gentle compared to what he'd done to the others. The phaser came free. He tossed it behind him.
The commander didn't back down. She threw a punch, a proper one, weight behind it, aimed at his throat. Tyson caught her fist in his palm. Her knuckles pressed against his skin and went nowhere. She tried to pull back and couldn't. The strength difference wasn't a gap. It was a canyon.
"You did your job," Tyson said. "Stop."
She stared at him. Then she tried to knee him in the groin, which he respected even as he stepped his hip to block it. He released her hand and shoved her backward, putting three meters between them. She stumbled but stayed on her feet.
The last two standing officers had repositioned. Tyson felt them through the Force before he saw them, two points of focused intent converging from his four and eight o'clock. They fired together.
Tyson dropped to one knee. Both beams passed through the space where his torso had been and hit each other's cover positions. He swept the lightsaber in a low horizontal arc, not at the officers but at the floor beneath them. The blade carved through marble like it was wet clay, cutting a shallow trench that destabilized the footing of the officer on his left. She stumbled. He reached out with the Force and pulled the rifle from her hands. It spun through the air and he caught it, reversed it, and fired a single stun shot into the officer on his right. The man dropped.
The disarmed officer put her hands up.
Tyson stood. The atrium was wrecked. Scorch marks on every surface, a destroyed planter, shattered lighting panels, unconscious bodies scattered across the floor. Alarms were sounding now, a rising wail that meant more security was coming. A lot more.
He deactivated the lightsaber. The green blade vanished with a descending hum, and the sudden absence of its light made the atrium feel darker.
"Tyson, you have maybe ninety seconds before the next response team arrives. Heavier armed. And I'm reading a site-to-site transport lock forming. They're going to try to beam you into a holding cell."
Tearing a portal open three steps ahead of him, Tyson walked through into the Control Room of his Personal Reality. He stood in the center of the room and let out a long breath. His pulse was still elevated. Not from exertion. From the sheer audacity of what had just happened.
He collapsed the portal behind him with a thought, and the torn edge of reality sealed itself shut, taking the sound of Starfleet Command's alarms with it.
"Vicky, open a channel to Sloan," Tyson said. "Let him know my officers have been returned to Starfleet Command safely, and I've evaded capture and escaped Earth."
The channel opened faster than he expected. Sloan had been waiting for his call. His face appeared on the main display. Same neutral expression. Same dark eyes that gave away nothing. He was seated somewhere nondescript, a gray wall behind him, no identifying features. Standard for the man.
"Commander Tyson," Sloan said. "I see you received my message."
"I did. Along with sixteen phaser rifles pointed at my chest. Not that I mind a good fight, but what's going on, Commander?"
Sloan folded his hands. "We've been investigating your accounting on Commander Oh. Her identity as a Tal Shiar operative went undetected for years, which is troubling in itself. But now that she's known to us, we have a mole we can control the flow of information to. She's useful where she is."
"We're still examining her actions over the past several years. But one thing is clear from her evaluation of you and her current movements. She has a vendetta of some kind against Lieutenant Commander Data. She is actively working to have him dismantled and declared property of Starfleet."
"The trial."
"Yes," Sloan said. "She was the one who pushed for the trial currently occurring on the Enterprise-D. Commander Maddox is the public face, but Oh provided the legal framework and the political pressure to make it happen. She's been building toward this for months."
Tyson's jaw tightened. He could see it now, the machinery behind the curtain. Maddox wanted Data for research. Oh wanted Data destroyed, or at least reduced to something that could be taken apart and studied, because a sentient android with positronic processing power was a threat to whatever long-term operation the Tal Shiar was running. Remove Data, remove a variable she couldn't predict or control.
"But you want to use her," Tyson said. "So we can't stop it."
"The trial will have to play out. It may be difficult for you to accept, but having a direct feed into the Tal Shiar is more valuable than Data."
Tyson said nothing for a moment. He hated it, but he understood it. Intelligence work wasn't about saving every piece on the board. It was about knowing where the enemy's pieces were.
He pushed past it. "And what about me? I fulfilled my end of the bargain. I delivered you half a dozen Force-sensitive officers. The deal was that I'd be made Captain. Seems like things are moving in the opposite direction."
"Commander Oh has the ear of Admiral Nakamura," Sloan said. "He issued your arrest order. Officially, it stands."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially..." Sloan paused again. Something changed in his face. It took Tyson a second to identify it because he'd never seen it before.
Sloan smiled.
It was a small thing. A slight upturn at the corners of his mouth that didn't reach his eyes. On anyone else, it would have been unremarkable. On Sloan, it was deeply unsettling.
"Admiral Nechayev has approved your promotion to Captain and command of a starship," Sloan continued. "However, we cannot provide you either... directly." He let that word hang. "Reports indicate you're quite the renowned space pirate. I'm sure you can acquire a ship of your own." The smile didn't fade. "I read about the USS Imperator in Captain Varley's report. A Galaxy-class vessel is certainly impressive. But I'd say this is an opportunity to give the Romulans a black eye, wouldn't you agree?"
Tyson felt his own smile forming. The Romulans. Sloan was pointing him at the Romulans and telling him to take a ship. Not just any ship. A Warbird. Something that would hurt them, embarrass them, and give Section 31 and the Federation plausible deniability all at once.
"Either way," Sloan said, "you'll be expected at Starbase 211 in one month's time."
"Understood," Tyson said.
Sloan's expression returned to its default state, the smile vanishing as cleanly as if it had never existed. "One final issue. You'll notice Ensign Ro Laren was left out of the reassignment orders."
Tyson had noticed. He'd assumed it was an oversight or that her situation was being handled through different channels. The look on Sloan's face told him otherwise.
"She was also ordered to be detained," Sloan said. "Unofficially, she's still a member of your crew. It was that or have her sent back to her cell on Jaros II."
Tyson exhaled through his nose. Ro Laren was a convicted officer with a prison sentence hanging over her head like a sword, kept out of her cell only by the thin thread of being useful to someone with enough pull to keep the paperwork buried.
And now she was his problem. Permanently.
"I'm sure she'll be thrilled," Tyson said.
"You have your orders. Sloan out."