Unofficial Literary Challenge#19:Once in a Lifetime

marcusdkane · January 2016

Welcome to the nineteenth edition of the Unofficial Literary Challenge: "Once in a Lifetime"! It's not the end of a year, it's the beginning of a new one, bringing new names, new faces, new challenges and new accomplishments. I don't like odd numbers, so as this month's host, I'm invoking host's privilege to add an extra prompt...

Prompt #1: "The Officer Exchange" by @sander233

- in which one of your bridge officers is selected to serve a tour on a ship from the opposing faction.

* * *

Prompt #2: "History Lesson" by @moonshadowdark

Your Captain has recently returned from a Federation lecture about the importance of genealogy. After hearing about other people's ancestors, you decide to do a little digging of your own. What do you find? Any interesting characters? A lost war hero or an infamous black sheep? Write a log detailing your search or write the personal chronicle of the ancestor, from their perspective

* * *

Prompt #3: "On a Pedestal" by @marcusdkane

A routine mission brings you into contact with someone who you have always admired from afar. They might be a renowned officer who has accomplished great things, or a scientist you have always respected... Perhaps they are an unrequited crush who you have never had the nerve to speak to, or maybe they are even a historical figure you have always admired... Do you tell them of your admiration, or keep it on the down-low? What is your idol like in person? How do they measure up to the image you always held of them? What do you learn from them in the course of your time together? Alternately, could this even be an instance when it may have been better to not have met your idol?

* * *

Prompt #4: "Epilogue" by @proteusrex

Throughout its history, Starfleet has visited thousands of worlds, and while some become Federation members or resource worlds, others seem to slip through the cracks. With the Undine influence creeping through the quadrant, command has ordered you to visit a planet first explored by your favourite Starfleet crew. What has happened since their visit, and how do they fit into the Galaxy now?

For example:
Did anyone ever settle on Archer's Planet?
What happened to the androids of Mudd's planet?
Are the people of Malcor III finally ready for first contact?

As usual, no NSFW content, and one entry per prompt per person (multiple prompts are not just allowed, but encouraged

) LLAP \\//_

The discussion thread is here.

Index of previous ULCs:

grylak · January 2016

Saarish stalked along the promenade of this foul smelling Federation Starbase. So clean. So sterile. The KDF starbases had that unique Klingon aroma, a muskiness of grounded hearth and wild animals. It always made him feel like that base could be a home. But with the close of the Iconian war, a new attempt at extending a hand of friendship between the empires was attempted. Officers from both sides swapping ships to learn cooperation. The seven foot Gorn with an eye patch over his right eye and a blood red left eye snorted a smirk. Yeah, and how many Starfleeters are going to have an 'accident' in their postings? What were the higher ups thinking? Still, he was a loyal warrior of the Empire, so he would obey and serve on this Starfleet ship until he was recalled.

Both Starfleet officers and civillians wondered around the promenade. Saarish swore they were in a daze. Looking in every window. Moving without purpose. No place to be. How disconcerting. He couldn't imagine just walking somewhere for the sake of walking. At least make some exercise of it. They were annoying him already. Then he let out a grunt as something occured to him. What insane food were they going to feed him? He'd heard the stories, that no Starfleeter ate live food. Or real meat. He couldn't live on Jumja sticks, beetroot cake and pineapples for the next few months. Or years. Smeg. What if he was going to be stuck here for years? He'd have to start smuggling in animals just to eat. Ha! That would be an interesting conversation if he got caught:

'Hey. What are you doing with these animals?'
'Tenderising them.'
'Why?'
'To eat. Obviously.'
'What? That's barbaric?!'
'What's barbaric is restraining your animal instincts and eating some puffy fake junk that probably came from a recycled boot. Now leave my stock alone before I eat you!'

He smirked again as it played out in his head. He had to admit though, he had only seen Starfleeter races in combat. He had no idea what they would be like. But he had read up on intelligent reports before leaving Ganalda Station. He figured he had a good idea of what to expect.

His captain, one Talaina Kazzur, had asked him to meet her and the senior officers on the promenade, at a place called Shorty's. He knew nothing about what it was, but he assumed it was some kind of eating establishment.

Walking around the Promenade, he eventually came to the place. He paused by the entrance, tightening the grip on his suitcase. It was indeed a restaurant. And the smell forced him to swollow bile before it erupted across the decks. The sterile smell was far more preferable than this putrid stench. The joy of having a sensitive nose. "Well, let'ssss get this over with." Taking a deep breath that was instantly regretted, he marched into the place and looked around. A Bolian came over to him.

"Welcome to Shorty's. Table for one?"
"No. I'm ssssuppossssed to meet Captain Kazzur here."
"Ah, yes. That party is over here." The Bolian lead Saarish to a table surrounded by an Andorian female, a human female, a Vulcan female and a Saurian male. Saarish didn't realise he was going to be on a chick ship. That wasn't going to irritate him. At. All. The Andorian saw him approach and stood up with a smile. She extended a hand.

"Hello Saarish and welcome to Serenity Station. I'm Captain Kazzur." Saarish looked at the hand for a moment before enclosing it in his free hand and shook it furiously.
"Captain. It honourssss me to serve on your ship." He placed a fist over his chest and bowed in respect. To her credit, Kazzur returned the salute.

"May I introduce some of the other officers who will be serving with you. This is the First Officer, Commander Ttorkkinn. This is our Operations officer, Lieutenant Zhong, and another new addition to our crew, our new science officer, Lt. Commander T'Vrell. Everyone, this is Commmander Saarish, our echange officer and new Doctor." Everyone exchanged pleasantries and Kazzur sat back down, though Saarish remained standing. "Won't you care to join us?"
"It'ssss been a long trip Captain. If you don't mind, I would prefer to retire to my quarterssss for some sssleep. And the sssstench in this place is overpoweringly noxious."
"Very well. You have a bunk assigned on the Viper, but as we're operating out of Serenity Station for the foreseeable future, crew members have also been assigned quarters on the station. Yours are on deck five, section forty seven Alpha. Report to the Viper at Zero Eight Hundred tomorrow. She's at Docking Port three."
"I will be there. Good night Captain."

He turned and left the establishment. No doubt they were making disparaging remarks about him. Like he cared. He could easily beat up any of them. The Saurian looked tough, but the women would go down quickly. And that Saurian would fall before the might of Gorn scales. A grunt escaped as he remembered he was here to follow their orders, not to analyse them for weakness. But saying that, he couldn't help it if he were to observe things....

Saarish walked along the corridor. He was in the right section, he just had to find his room. As he came around a corner, he bumped into someone. More accurately, they hit and bounced off him. He remained perfectly unflinching. It was a young human woman with long yellow hair. "Oh. I-I'm so sorry."
"Watch where you're going in future."
"I'm sorry! It's a common accident around corners."
"Then make sure it isn't." He growled and leaned forward slightly, making sure this young thing wouldn't forget him in a hurry. And it seemed to work. She went slightly pale and backed away from him.
"Say, you wouldn't happen to be the exchange officer on the Viper, would you?"
"Yessss. What's it to you?"
"I-I'm Jenna Jones. The helmsman." Saarish noted she didn't extend her hand like Kazzur did. Far too afraid to most likely.
"Well Jenna James. I hope you can fly the ship better than you walk around corridors. If there's nothing else, I tire." Saarish started marching forward, Jenna jumping backwards against the bulkhead. Saarish smiled. He'd left a definite impression on the young girl. Good. Maybe if he got into enough trouble, he'd be sent back to the Empire and some other poor sod would have to take over. Regardless, he finally found his room and entered. Locking the door, he placed the suitcase on the bed and yawned. Clenching his fists, he stretched out as far as he could. He wasn't lying when he said it was a long trip. Ganalda Station to the Badlands was not a hop to the next system. Opening the case, he picked out his violin and set it on the bedside table. He then took out some clothes and shut the case. Fighting another yawn, he quickly got changed into his pyjamas, setting the KDF uniform over a chair. He paused, squeezing the back of the chair. So much padding. This was a station clearly designed for comfort first. Walking over to the bed, he grabbed the matress and flung it across the room. Curling up on the hard base unit of the bed, he closed his eye and went to sleep, wondering just what he had done to get such a terrible assignment.

marcusdkane · January 2016

T H E . P R O D I G A L . F A T H E R

San Francisco, 1962...

While he waited for his coffee to be prepared, William looked across the station concourse. On one of the nearby benches, sat a young man in a maroon turtle-neck, a grey and black jacket folded beside him. Something about him struck William as strangely familiar, and in the bustle of the crowd, he had a look of resigned patience.

William turned back to the vendor, "Make that two cups," he said.

Laying his lightweight overcoat over his forearm, William took a paper cup in each hand and walked over to the solitary young man. "Here, you look like you could use a cup..."

Marcus looked up to see a steaming cup of coffee held out to him by an older man in his mid to late sixties.

"Thank you, it's been a while since lunch," he admitted, taking the cup, and blowing across the top of the scalding hot beverage. Real coffee, not replicated. Real beans, roasted and ground, unfiltered water. Real cow's milk. He couldn't remember the last time he'd drank real coffee.

The older man held up a couple of paper sachets, "If you take sugar..." he offered.

Mindful of where, and when, he had been deposited, Marcus knew that the denizens of this time would likely mistake his Vulcan-disciplined appearance as rudeness, so he gave what he hoped passed as a grateful smile.

"That's very kind of you..."

"William," the older man replied. "William Kane,"

Oh universe, you have a sick sense of humor... Marcus thought, flicking the sugar to the bottom of the sachets, to buy time before replying, "Marcus Ravillious."

"Ravillious..." William mused. "I knew a Ravillious when I fought in the war... French family?"

"Some, on my mother's side," Marcus replied casually. Placing the paper cup on the floor, he tore open the sachets and upended them into the coffee. "Although she was actually from London."

The older man nodded, before lowering himself onto the bench and looking about the crowded station concourse. "I know a Brahmin accent when I hear one though. Are you in town on business?"

"No, just visiting," Marcus replied. "I'm just ...waiting on my lift to pick me up."

"That makes two of us," William replied. "I haven't travelled by train in years, but my driver came down with food poisoning, so it's the train back to Boston for me. How about you? Are you going far?"

"Just back to Fort Baker on the other side of the bay," Marcus replied, forcing a smile once more as he picked up the cup. "It started raining, so I came in here to take a seat while I wait it out."

"Can't say I blame you," William admitted, before coughing discretely, but deeply into his handkerchief. "This kind of weather's no good for anyone's health..."

Marcus nodded while he took a sip of the coffee, savoring the richness of the flavor.

"You know, you remind me of pictures of my father," William said. "I remember him sitting in his study going over the papers -- financial section, of course -- charcoal pinstriped suit, even at home, lamp-light gleaming off his hair... He died when I was a boy, you see. A few faded photographs, fading memories and a legacy I never lived up to are all I have of him. "

"I... guess I just have one of those faces," Marcus replied as casually as he could, before saying. "I was at the academy when I lost my father. It came as a shock."

"Military man?" William guessed, to which Marcus nodded. "Just back from 'nam? It was World War Two for me. Well, we all did our part..."

Marcus nodded again, taking another sip of coffee to negate the need to answer directly.

"Children?" William asked. Marcus shook his head as he lowered the cup, and William nodded approvingly. "If you want my advice -- don't. In my experience, they're nothing but a disappointment."

"Why do you say that?" Marcus asked, taking another sip of the coffee.

"My son," William replied wearily. "My wife and I, we gave him the best of everything... Sent him to the best schools, gave him the best opportunities, and he goes and marries a damn florist..." And not just any florist, but the daughter of Abel f**king Rosnovski...

"My wife raised a few eyebrows when we got married," Marcus admitted, and William glanced sideways at him.

"Foreign girl?" he asked.

Pentaxian Dynasty... Marcus thought as he raised an eyebrow in amusement and nodded, before saying, "You could say that... She's a doctor. Gets on well with my friends, too. We make each other happy, and I think that's the most important thing. I'm sure that's the same for your son and his wife."

William shook his head wearily, and coughed once more.

"It's complicated," he said. "Her father and I... Well, let's just say we don't see eye to eye, and with good reason... I haven't spoken to my son in some time..."

"You should give him a call," Marcus suggested. "I lost a good friend when she got married -- someone I'd been friends with since childhood, but her husband's a jealous, arrogant man..."

"Beat you to the punch, did he?" William intuited, before Marcus could continue.

Marcus sighed and nodded. "I was too focussed on my career... I let myself be guilted into returning to duty... I couldn't see the wood for the trees, and I hesitated... I let someone very important to me slip through my grasp... As you say, time beat me to the punch... I hope it won't do the same to you and your son."

William nodded slowly.

"Thank you for your insights, young man," he said appreciatively.

Marcus dipped his head in acknowledgement, and raised his cup, "Thank you for the coffee."

"Well, next time you're in Boston, look me up," William said, extending his hand. Marcus took it, surprised by the strength in the older man's grip.

"If circumstances ever allow, Sir, I certainly will," he assured him.

antonine3258 · January 2016

“Officer Exchange”

ULC 19 entry

By antonine3258

Timeline point: After “Midnight” but before “Sunrise”

*

A spider’s skeleton hung in orbit over Qo’noS, trimmed in lights of welders and spacebees. Its heart, the massive disruptor lance, was already installed, a dozen spindly frames connecting it. Surrounding it was a second exoskeleton; one of the dozens of docks that made up the primary shipyards of the Empire.

Many were dark – under repair from surprise strikes during the Iconian War, but even as they were salvaged and repaired, more and more new bays were being constructed next to them. The Chancellor was determined to keep the Empire as a pillar of strength in the uncertain future, and ships based on the designs of all the Empire’s major races were now being constructed at the Klingon homeworld.

Large ships, Commander Thraak noted. Even in the wonders of the modern age, the capital ships being built took time to finish – it showed the peace that had been won- no more Bird of Preys being put in the hands of young warriors and fed to the maw of endless waves of Iconian raiders. It was also a commitment that the Empire would have the organization and strength to hold up against any future threats.

He had to admit, there was a thrill of pride at seeing Gorn designs being produced here. The occupation had been so recent, though it felt like decades after all the insanity of the last few years.

“Do you like it?” came a quiet voice from behind him. “I think that one’s taken – cadet branch of the House of Duras.” The speaker stepped forward – green skinned like him, but that was about all the physiology they shared. Dahar Master D’ellian of the House of M’ara – still technically a general by the tabs on the shoulders of her KDF uniform, but no one wise would ever refer to her by that title again.

She pulled up a scan and nodded, explaining, “Yes - must be Duras, their fire control is House-made and a generation behind, no one else would bother.” Thraak said nothing, and she cocked her head, urging, “Maybe one of those command cruisers? The waiting list isn’t as long and they’re more likely to see action on the frontier – the Empire needs good squadron commanders.”

Thraak shifted his shoulders, the cloth material pulling differently than the KDF demi-armor. He scratched at one, rolling his shoulder. “I finally get used to KDF uniforms in time to wear something else,” he said. “Ironic, I suppose.” Unlike his normal duty wear, he was wearing the blue-lined dark bodysock of a Starfleet science officer, awaiting the diplomatic courier to Mars for a period of liaison.

“Your judgement has saved my life countless times. My glory has been stoked a dozen times brighter through your actions,” D’ellian said neutrally. Very neutrally. It was rare for one of her training to sound over-controlled, and her conscious reminder that she would not beg him tore at him, but he was firm. “But the Gorn have never been higher in the halls of the Empire, and the tales of the Iconian War may be harder to acquire. Six months from now a command may be harder to acquire, despite what my crew has done, and your own great merits.”

D’ellian still wasn’t sure what Thraak was looking for here. Liaison was normally an excellent way to polish credentials and showcase talents that made one a worthy command officer. But at this moment, she could simply grant it.

And Thraak had not been able to tell her, yet. The Demonslayer had ended up crippled halfway through the war, after a dozen runs burning a way through for troop transports to Qo’noS, and they’d been in public barracks or allied Houses since, no where they could say was secure.

“I am happy to serve by your side, Dahar Master,” Thraak rumbled. “Liaison officer is a temporary assignment, and I will be happy to return in whatever capacity you desire. K’Gan is a very talented first officer – to fight him for that would be a waste of ability.” He looked towards the stars. “But in Starfleet, science officer can mean much more – there is an opportunity to learn many things while the alliance holds.”

He tapped an armband, and continued, “Sixty seconds – I am sorry D’ellian, but while command under your lead would be no small thing…” he swallowed, “No small thing at all, I have older oaths to eggparents and homeworld. This may be the one time to be able to peacefully see the Federation’s civilian life, and settle for sure in my heart that the Gorn’s eventual place in the Empire is the best one for my people.”

D’ellian closed her eyes, “I can’t stand in the way of that – but six months without you will be an eternity,” she said quietly. She’d long settled her allegiance to the Council as the best for the Orions – but the Gorn separatist movement was always a question in the back of the mind for any of them serving in the Empire’s armed forces.

Thraak tapped his armband, “Five seconds, and it will seem like years, but I must.” He continued in a slightly different tone, “Bringing home their latest techniques will surely be useful to continue refining our cloaks against all comers, Dahar Master.”

D’ellian picked up smoothly, “But my House has few connections on the Federation side. I know nothing more than any other officer about the captain you have been assigned, or the ship.”

“The politics of Starfleet,” Thraak said, “Are more subtle than our organization, and played out more in the Council halls than the stars – I doubt any ship I assigned to will be a playing piece in their games. I’m sure there will be many interested in seeing a non-Klingon who proudly serves the Empire, and I’m sure much of what I will do will be diminishing their propaganda.”

“Be sure to keep up with the security digests,” she warned, playfully, artificially to Thraak’s ears. “I do not want to have to disqualify my science officer, but Demonslayer will be done with her rebuild and shakedown cruise by the time you are back.” That was still a few months away – there was plenty to do coordinating the political opportunities, and without good privateering opportunities, House finances were better spent on those investments rather than restoring the battlecruiser. It gave time, however, for the new version of the Mogh to finish their shakedowns so that Demonslayer would not have to suffer the obvious first-round of inevitable issues.

“The Kurak specifications are fascinating, and a tribute to the Empire’s engineers,” Thraak said. “I will do ready to do my duty when I return, and come back to serve at your side, Dahar Master.” Thraak bowed, and D’ellian returned it.

End Part 1

antonine3258 · January 2016

Part 2
*

The flight had gone well – one of the high speed courier ships with quantum slipstream endlessly shuffling diplomatic missions back and forth between the two capitals. Thraak had been sure to mess in the main hall of the small ship – and discovered that that the bureaucratic mentality was indeed apparently universal. Most of the flight were disaster relief specialists headed back from helping coordinating supplies to worlds cut off during the War, and burying the bodies.

The talk was similar to those in supply departments back home – quotas and promotions and considerations of reports and presentation. Thraak wasn’t sure whether to be reassured by the similarity or worried. It was, fortunately, a brief interlude, and he spent most of the short trip reading briefing material for his position.

There’d been a brief medical check at Utopia Planitia – probably for bombs, if Thraak was any judge. He did his best to act like he didn’t know his way around – the scars from the raid long ago were gone, but the layout remained the same. And then, yet another small office.

He looked around – offices seemed very important to Starfleet – the structure was definitely more monolithic than the KDF, similar to what his older siblings had said of the Gorn Hegemony in the old days. He heard the door move open – quietly, no heavily sealed grinding bulkhead, no structural members intruding on living space here.

The oddest thing was activity – Utopia Planitia was also being repaired from Iconian raids – except instead of spidery frames, fat ovals were being filled in with equipment. Starfleet had no qualms about reminding its allies it was also prepared to fulfill its obligations to defend its people. On that note, he’d looked for the new Jupiter carriers Starfleet was constructing, but couldn’t identify them from the other primary hulls.

“Commander Thraak?” said a small (though they all seemed to be in the Federation) female wearing a commander’s rank pins and engineering colors. Thraak double-took, the woman was a Kobali, and almost as out of place as he was.

“Yes,” he said, giving the Klingon-style salute. “Clan-world Viik, I was told to wait here for assignment.”

She held a PADD up, offering it, which he took in a delicate claw-grip. “Yes – Commander Ten’tita, chief of engineering on the Mutara. Captain Vexa sends her regrets, but the port admiral called an emergency briefing, she wanted to meet her new section head.”

“I understand,” he said. “Are you also serving as a liaison?”

The twice-born shook her head, “Technically I’m commissioned with dual citizenship – they’re not perfect over here, Commander, but they don’t act ashamed of their ideals.”

Thraak nodded again, more hesitantly. He saw a convert’s fire clearly across the species barrier.

“If you’ll follow me,” she said, “We can take a shuttle so you can see your home for the next few months – I can go over some of the basics.” She started walking – apparently without checking if he was following.

Thraak followed – but glanced at the door frame for confirmation. No grinding bulkhead, but force field emitters were cunningly wrought – if needed, it could stand up to heavy plasma artillery for at least a few minutes from the intelligence brief’s he’d seen. Not ashamed of their ideals, but there was always the claws within the courtesan’s glove. It’d be good to remember.

*

Whatever Ten’tita’s species had been, Thraak was uncertain if it needed oxygen, as she’d kept up a running commentary the whole period to the shuttlebay.

“It’s really picked up here in the last month as they got the slips clear of the easy jobs, but I’ve had more time to look around. We were drifting near Phobos for half that time on auxiliary power – never thought I’d be happy to put my ship in the hands of a bunch of yardbirds. I’d like to think we gave a good accounting of ourselves, not up to the 106th, but damn good for such a new crew, and I’d put the survivors against anyone. We heard about the action down your way, we didn’t see any ground-side except for some boarders.”

“Survivors?” Thraak broke in, “I’m sorry – the mission profile indicated you were undergoing repairs and your science officer was on a training mission.”

“Oh,” Ten’tita said, “Yeah we’d taken fire near the bridge – solar portal at close range, and too much ionic interference to get away on impulse. Radiated most of the secondary hull, we had to eject the weapon pod – I was in impulse control, so… ta-da, got to move up in rank, the chief was trying to save the bridge… and she got the XO slot.” She shrugged, “We didn’t lose the warp core, so we did pretty well, I think, and brought three hundred back. And we got half the transports through.”

“My condolences, on your loss,” Thraak said uneasily.

“We got off light,” Ten’tita replied simply. There was nothing to be added to that.

Ten’tita switched topics, “But, there were plenty of escape pods to pick from – so we’ve got survivors from other class ships, and even got some of the new upgrades. So – you ever run up against a Nebula before? They got put on a lot of the anti-privateering squadrons.”

Thraak flashed back, briefly, to a small bird of prey, far outdated, hidden in the lee of an asteroid as tachyons washed the air around them. “Some brief encounters,” he allowed. “This was before Task Force Omega, so some of our cloaking device’s latest tricks hadn’t been released yet – early enough in the war we still had an edge there.”

“Well, they’ve gotten some of all the engineering from the last couple years finally out of the prototyping stage and where it’s stable enough for replicated parts in the field, instead of needing a genius specialist team. All those fiddly little Dyson and Borg improvements to up the skinfield and improve our power generation, so specs are increased across the board – we’re rewriting the manual on most of the old ships.” She glanced at him, “Saw your service jacket though – this is a step down for you, right?”

“Prototype equipment sometimes cutting edge bugs,” Thraak assured her. “I’ve only been serving on a new-model ship for a few years. And even with replicators, it’s been very difficult on our logistics to maintain the prototype ships.” Keeping the Demonslayer finely tuned in the Delta Quadrant had consumed roughly half his captain’s waking hours slipping needed items into supply convoys to the Sphere. Barring once or twice against the Vaadwaur battlecruisers, it’d been more trouble than it was worth.

“Well, all those retrofits through the fleet are paying off for us peons – though we’ve got something new that’s been released to mass production – not as good as some of the adapted equipment, but we’ve got that new equipment the Alliance is rolling out,” Ten’tita said happily.

“Oh, you got the new quantum phase equipment?” Thraak said. It’d been one of the many outgrowths of the desperate innovations at the Kremin facilities. Improved zero-point energy was going to do tremendous things, but for now, it was a bigger bang, with faster on-target projection and improved power flow.

“Yup – I know you guys are rolling it out too on your new production…. So guess which big Klingon science hotshot the captain picked to make sure it’s behaving and doesn’t accidentally scramble our computers?” Ten’tita finished with a big grin. Thraak growled a little deep in his throat.

*

Thraak had only been able to tell by the details on the hatch that he’d slipped from the station to the ship; the interior styling matched so closely – there was no usual feeling of a ship. The work had picked up a bit in intensity – crews carrying equipment pallets using anti-grav pallets or arguing over the results of tricorder scans and pointing at EPS conduits.

Most, however, stilled when seeing him go by, at least briefly. Discipline, to his approval, was tight enough that they ducked back to it even before he had a chance to let his gaze rest on them. The stares briefly were questioning, not challenging – he was unused to not having to defend himself, at least a little.

Ten’tita left after a while, stopping to gently go over some urgent bit of repair work at what looked like a processor subnode, giving directions to one of the working turbolift shafts in between showing the crew how best to use a polarizer.

The turbolift was smaller than on Klingon vessels – he supposed there was less expectation of moving marine squads around than was still a traditional requirement on Imperial ships. It moved with the usual Starfleet whisper-quietness of overly-precise machinery. He hoped he would get used to it before he woke up and grabbed emergency breathing gear by reflex.

The bridge, unlike the corridors, were nearly silent – but only two people were on the harbor watch at operations and security, with most of the stations dark. Both stood to salute – they seemed human, or close enough to Thraak.

“Hello Commander, welcome to the bridge of the Mutara,” the taller of the two said. “I’m Lieutenant Dorsey.” He was dressed in Starfleet’s tactical uniform variant. “Captain Vexa was called to the port admiral’s office but is not expected to be long delayed – she offered you use of the ready room to examine the ship’s files in the meanwhile and any refreshments you needed.”

“Thank you,” he said, trying to memorize the faces. “Carry on.” He stopped briefly, at what wasn’t so much a ‘console’ as a ‘fortification’, with multiple standby and secondary displays. It was placed on the same side, from the captain’s perspective, as the operations console operating on the back. He tapped his claws on it, “Would this be my station?”

“Yes sir, on bridge watch – Captain Vexa appointed you department head as well – Lieutenant Commander Yetkina used an office on deck 3, it’s been temporarily reassigned to your care,” Dorsey said.

Thraak barely heard ‘department head’, at first, he was still counting subprocessing nodes, and the resolution defaults were twice what he was used to. Having come up on raiders and battle cruisers following D’ellian’s star, it was like four feast days at once seeing that sort of functionality. His head snapped around when it hit him.

“I thought the Captain had been looking for a sensor officer,” Thraak said, “Science operations on a Klingon ship are… different, is my understanding. We only rarely carry research crews.”

“If you call what they’d been doing research,” the other lieutenant muttered – Dorsey made a shushing gesture.

“I’m sure the Captain prefers to explain herself, sir,” Dorsey said more diplomatically.

*

The captain’s office was still being moved into, apparently – several small statues of uncertain providence and artistry were situated near the desk, with several plinths scattered without lights being set yet. The chairs had been brought in – Thraak was not foolish enough to sit behind any captain’s desk, and so he’d been reading the documentation on the ship’s refit.

Given the Alliance, nothing was classified – most of the better systems had been either developed with the Empire or held no secrets – improved targeting for a nadion emitter array wasn’t that different from a disruptor. Still, it was important to maintain the KDF’s pride and his own, and be properly qualified.

He was rereading on the communication systems – perhaps the most important component for his personal mission, when the captain arrived. It took him a moment to realize – she had the rank pins and command-piping, but she didn’t hold herself as Thraak had subconsciously come to expect from his long exposure to D’ellian.

Captain Vexa straightened after a moment, holding herself more like an unbarred knife than the opening posture she’d adopted… and Thraak remembered she was Betazoid, and as gentle as they seemed, they were one of the most powerful ranged telepathic species at picking up thoughts that hadn’t collapsed into indolent self-reflection. Shocked, he managed a Starfleet salute.

“I’m sorry,” Vexa said, relaxing again into a more neutral posture, “The surprise was just rolling off of you. Hello Commander, at ease.” Thraak dropped the salute, and the Captain moved behind her desk, making motions that he should be seated.

“I try not to make it a habit of reading my crew’s thoughts, Commander,” she said, continuing, “One’s mind should be their own whenever possible – emotions are a different concern, but empathy is a much more available skill than telepathy.” She smiled briefly, “That’s more a knack I can’t turn off.”

“The KDF makes heavy use of Lethean mercenaries,” Thraak said stiffly, bringing his thoughts under control. It’d affected him more than he thought, to have it happen here, even gently. “We are familiar with telepathic defenses.” He was building his quickly, and Vexa gave a sad smile.

“I am sorry,” she said again, “And I really hoped to start this on the right foot – you’re probably more qualified for the center chair out there than I am, Commander, and I’m very pleased to have gotten you as science officer, since you could probably teach me a few things. And I think seeing how the rest of the Alliance helps reaffirm the Khitomer Accords”

Vexa, Thraak recalled, was one of the many captains who’d been jumped up during the last phase of the war with the Federation. “About that,” he rumbled, “I was told this would be a bridge position, but I wasn’t expecting to take charge of your science department.”

Vexa rubbed the bridge of her nose, “It’s a matter of expedience, my science officer was absolutely brilliant – is absolutely brilliant – she’s done some papers I’d recommend if they haven’t been translated to Klingon journals yet, but she’s no great administrator – even if it doesn’t have our stamp on it, I’d much prefer to have her running an established department than building one.”

“Any surviving staff?” Thraak said, concerned.

“A few,” Vexa stopped rubbing her nose, “None in previous leadership roles – and since we can reestablish the combat stress rules I’ve furloughed most of those to research stations based on the counselor’s recommendations. It’s basically a new detachment.” She looked straight at Thraak, “I realize what I’m asking would fast-track you in Starfleet, I don’t know what it would do in the KDF, and if you’d prefer to be a bridge officer, I completely understand.”

Or he could request another ship, Thraak noted she did not add - she was desperate to keep him. “I think the closest to my position on my previous ship was second officer – a chance to observe your personnel in such a non-combat setting is one of my goals for joining the liaison program.” Also – a chance to train a bunch of scientists for ship duties couldn’t hurt – D’ellian kept muttering about carriers in the way lesser men talked about owning land.

“Though if I may ask, Captain Vexa, even if it would be difficult, surely there was an easier way to get a science officer than the liaison program,” Thraak continued, “Or even myself.”

Vexa snapped up straighter, a bit guiltily. “I did actually ask specifically for one of the major warrior races that wasn’t Imperial Klingon,” she said. “I’m technically aristocracy myself, but it has no real meaning except cultural. Your species… and you specifically – are you familiar with the Federation’s approach to caste systems?”

Thraak nodded, “They consider it an unacceptable diminishing of the individual and their aspirations, and have heavy doubts about what are, effectively, supporting breeding programs, especially among my people.”

“That’s putting it well,” Vexa said neutrally, “We’re familiar with the Klingon nobility here in Starfleet, but I hoped to help our understanding as the Empire becomes more… cosmopolitan. You caught my eye with your history of being shunted to minor assignments despite excellent marks, before suddenly rising to prominence after, of all things, a tour as prison guard in the prison within First City. Several people in that prison found their careers ended – why is locked by Starfleet Intelligence.”

“I don’t understand what point you are making. I owe much to the Dahar Master’s success after she requested a transfer,” Thraak said, gorge fluttering, making sure his thoughts were calm. Everything about that mission and its success in salvaging his honor was secret.

“Before you got a chance to serve as a combat science officer; your marks were poor at best – you found a way to fit in and still benefit your society – Klingon society is changing. For the sake of the Alliance, and the Federation, and maybe your government, understanding that direction is one of Starfleet’s highest priorities,” Vexa said solemnly.

Thraak couldn’t help but find himself nodding, though he was wondering how so much of that Klingon internal matter had been released to a mere captain. “Yes – the power blocs are consolidating – being prepared for the counter-reaction is in both our worlds’ and their larger confederations’ governments interests, naturally. The greatest self-interest is survival. I’ll be happy to try and educate you, if you can tell me of your own ‘aristocracy’.”

Vexa smiled briefly, “Of course – though I also want your expertise as a science officer – you saw the mission precis?” Thraak nodded, “Our patrol region has two primary concerns – piracy after the war is at a very high level, of course, but our greater concern is smuggling.”

“Smuggling on the Klingon-Federation border?” Thraak said dubiously, “In peacetime?” Even with patrols reduced, smuggling contraband was almost easier internally than cross-border… and far less was contraband with the vast Federation markets available to flood Klingon space.

“Depends what’s being smuggled,” Vexa replied automatically. “Specifically, with control lessened over recent, ah, acquisitions into the Klingon sphere, well-meaning private groups have been moving high-grade explosive and weaponry up to shuttle-scale to interested parties taking advantage of the reduced authority during the Iconian War. Your familiarity with the border region will be very handy.”

That was politic. Thraak didn’t laugh, but he was sure Vexa could pick up the blaze… and somehow, he suspected his old friend had been unable to resist some matchmaking while he was ‘single’. “I’m sure I’ll find these next six months very interesting,” he said neutrally.

rllaillieu · January 2016

*This is my first submission for these challenges, and it's not as well written as I'd like, but I might add more later... Welp, here goes nothing!*

"Time Doesn't Heal All Wounds"

T'Ali i-Ashalla t'Ahvi scowled at the computer console in her Ready Room. What in the hell was Command thinking?

"Is this for real?" she asked her first officer, who just shrugged.

"According to them, this is a brilliant strategy to cultivate a stronger alliance with the Klingons," Tovan tr'Khev scoffed. Clearly their opinions were similar here.

"But sending Tan'atar? Are they trying to get one of my officers killed? If they are, Command is really going to dislike me now."

"How about just ask him? If all else fails, send him with a small cache of weapons. The Klingons will either kill him or die trying."

T'Ali sighed and tapped her comm unit.

"Lieutenant Commander Tan'atar, report to my Ready Room."

As if on cue, the Jem'Hadar officer briskly stepped in, holding a datapad.

"It appears that my timing is accurate."

T'Ali poked a finger in Tan'atar's direction as she said to Tovan, "He's good."

Tovan just chuckled and stood, "Have fun."

"Yay me."

As Tovan left and Tan'atar walked closer to the desk, T'Ali gestured for him to take a seat.

"Latest armory checks, Riov."

"Thanks. Now, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here. Never fear, I have the answer. Command wants to give you a posting as an exchange officer on a Klingon ship."

"Your odd sense of humor remains untouched despite recent strife."

"So, now for the big question: Do you want to take a potentially deadly posting or not?"

"Do I have a choice?"

T'Ali snorted softly, "The fact that I've told Command to stick their idiot ideas up their asses more than once should tell you that you do, regardless of who is pushing for this."

"Very well. I will accept."

"What? Tan'atar, are you suicidal? They'll kill you, they've never gotten along with the Federation and the fact that you're Jem'Hadar is only going to make this worse."

Tan'atar was perfectly calm as he replied, "Victory is life. If they should kill me, I am not worth the life I live now."

She stood and walked around the desk, proceeding to lean on it and look at the officer.

"As far as I'm concerned, this is your choice. And as far as you're concerned, you tell me if any of them try to kill you. I don't know what ship you'll be on, but we'll be given rendezvous orders shortly."

"You already sent confirmation."

"Of course I did. I knew you'd take this assignment, despite my resistance of it. Or perhaps in spite of that..."

"I take this assignment because it is ordered that I do. Should it become a problem, I will inform you."

"Good ma. Now, off with you. Work to be done."

Tan'atar left and T'Ali returned to the bridge, glancing at a brewing argument near the science station.

"For the last time, I did not do anything to disrupt your precious experiment!"

"I saw you in there. You had absolutely no reason to be in there!"

Subcommander Hiven tr'Rejai was frantically looking around for help as Subcommander Satra t'Hreinteh and Subcommander Veril. These arguments between the chief engineer and chief science officer were becoming frequent as of late. And, of course, the poor chief medical officer seemed to be generally caught in the middle.

"Problem, ladies?" T'Ali called out. Both women turned sharply and glared before resuming their argument. Oh, they were certainly bold now, but wait until she got started.

Hiven hurried over, looking unusually anxious as he said, "I was running a test in the main science lab and Veril dropped by to deliver a report about a modification to one of the biobeds that I'd asked be made and in the meantime, Satra's experiment went foul and now she thinks Veril did it because they don't like each other and what do I do?!"

The operations officer, D'Vex, scoffed, "Let them be. They'll get themselves sorted out."

T'Ali rolled her eyes, "Yeah, like I'm going to let them give me a headache. Hey, you two, knock it off, now!"

Both officers stopped this time and turned towards T'Ali. Satra was still visibly angry and a green flush had appeared on her cheeks. Veril looked indignant and ticked off. Time to defuse this.

"Satra, Veril was in there to deliver a report to Hiven. Veril, next time try not to let your temper get the better of you. Despite your beliefs, I do pay attention. Sort out your problems on your own time. You will not do it on duty and you will not do it on the bridge, do I make myself clear?"

Helmsman Jalai looked impressed as Hiven breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ie, Riov," Satra bit out.

"Understood," Veril replied, spinning on her heel and making for the bridge turbolift, briskly ordering it to descend to Main Engineering.

Satra returned to her console and Hiven disappeared, presumably back to Sickbay.

T'Ali signed and flopped into her chair.

"Dear Elements, please don't let me kill them."

!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!

Aenlyn Yirit listened as her officers debated their new arrival.

"A Jem'Hadar? It is clear the Romulans are working with the Federation against us!" Commander Keth sneered, his expression creasing the scar on his cheek.

"Oh, keep that spew to yourself, Keth. Nobody cares to hear such things, as you're always wrong," Lieutenant Tiyana scoffed, flicking a lock of black hair behind her shoulder. Keth seemed intimidated by his junior, probably because one never knew if the Orion woman had a knife in her hand or not.

"Enough. Our orders come from the High Council and will be followed. There will be no bloodshed unless you feel willing to explain to me your reasons for shedding blood. We rendezvous with the... ah, the RRW Telnor shortly. Back to work."

Aenlyn felt a glimmer of gratitude towards her Nausicaan first officer, a burly man whose name she couldn't actually pronounce without getting tongue-tied, but she just called him Bokk. The only one who could actually pronounce his name was Tiyana, but he preferred being called Bokk, because it reduced the mangling of a name he clearly hated.

Of course, Aenlyn quashed that glimmer as quickly as it appeared. Her adopted father, Ju'toQ, had taught her that such things could be used against her, due to the simple fact that she was a joined Trill. Although, Yirit thought it was completely insane, but didn't seem to mind overmuch.

"Helm, set a course for the rendezvous point. Maximum warp," Aenlyn ordered. The helmsman, a nervous little Lethean with a surprisingly sharp wit, tapped in the course heading and punched in the warp speed, instantly shooting off towards the rendezvous point and their new officer.

!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!

Lieutenant Lhyt'tes waited at the transporter console for the debarking party. Lieutenant Pevro was silently tapping his foot as he waited. Satra and Veril were on opposite sides of the room and the rest of the senior staff was gathered and waiting for their friend and comrade.

At exactly 1100 hours, Tan'atar walked in, perfectly ready to go. He didn't generally keep much in the way of possessions, so he just had his uniform, a couple of weapons, and a deck of cards he'd grown fond of, simply by virtue of being the de facto dealer at the semi-weekly-or-whenever poker games. Commander t'Ahvi was beside him, handing him a last-minute PADD with his orders and other info for the other commander.

"Ready to go, sir?" Lhyt'tes asked, already prepping the transporter console with the coordinates.

"Yes."

Tan'atar stepped on the transporter pad, and just as Lhyt'tes activated the transporter, Tovan lifted a single finger.

"Don't come back in anything but one piece, you head me?" the first officer warned, his tone one of mock seriousness.

"I will endeavour to do so, Subcommander."

And with that, the transporter shimmered him out of sight...

!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!

... Only to reappear on the transporter pad of a Klingon vessel. Behind the console was a burly Klingon warrior with an eyepatch. Beside him was a surprisingly blonde Trill of stocky build and tall frame. She wore armor that protected her, yet also made it obvious that she was female.

"Captain Yirit?" he asked.

"Yes. You must be Lieutenant Commander Tan'atar. You are aboard the IKS Du'tagh. I do not believe I need to explain to you how to behave," the Trill replied curtly.

Tan'atar was quite surprised that she was Trill. He had only been told her second name, which sounded rather Klingon, so he had simply assumed she was Klingon.

"My transfer orders are here, Captain," he said, holding out the PADD.

She grasped it and quickly skimmed its contents.

"This says you're a security officer on the Telnor, as well as having a secondary specialization of operations. My security department is full, but I am short an operations officer. My last was unfortunately killed by a Vaadwaur attack," Yirit told him, "You start immediately."

Tan'atar nodded and asked, "May I be permitted to deposit my bag in my assigned quarters?"

"I need an ops officer now, as the current one is inept. Permission denied. The current shift has only three hours remaining. After that, you will be shown to your quarters."

"That is acceptable."

And just like that, Tan'atar decided he liked this woman. She was brisk, efficient, and wasted little time in useless chatter. She also appeared to be a capable warrior, which only served to elevate her in his eyes.

The remainder of the shift was rather quiet and full of simple duties and orienting himself to the new customs of the Klingon ship. The helmsman seemed to be scared of him, but Tan'atar suspected that only hid a cunning interior. More study would need to follow to be sure.

Yirit was in her Ready Room most of the time, so the crew seemed free to stare at Tan'atar with a mix of suspicion, fear, and anger in their eyes. It would take time to convince them he was worthy, but he did not feel it was worth his effort. He did not need to prove to others what he already knew, that he was worthy of serving alongside them, even for such a short time.

As the shift ended, the tactical officer, Lieutenant Tiyana, offered to lead him to his assigned quarters. With the first officer's grudging approval, they headed off. Tiyana explained how things worked on the way there.

"First, don't ever call the captain anything but 'sir'. She might stab you if you say anything else. Second, even if you do learn how to pronounce Bokk's name, don't ever use it. He prefers the nickname the captain gave him. Third, if someone wants to start a fight, let them. I can tell you're a decent fighter, so just kick their asses and move on. You're rather taciturn, so no need to gloat. Just... I don't know, glare or something. Be scary. Scare them away. Fourth, you are on the roster for secondary security personnel, so you bunk with the ground troops. I hope you can gamble, because they love to."

Tan'atar listened diligently as they enared the enlisted infantry bunks. He could already hear loud singing and raucous laughter. A Klingon male, the transporter operator from earlier, stepped out of a supply room and stopped grinning at the newcomer.

"Fresh meat, men!" he roared. More laughter spilled into the hallway as Tiyana led Tan'atar into the main common room.

Klingons of every description and size were within, along with Gorn, Letheans, Nausicaans, Orions, and even a few other species.

"What are you looking at?" a Nausicaan sneered at Tiyana.

The Orion woman didn't even hesitate. She had a knife out and aimed for the bigger man's private area in a matter of seconds.

"Now, now, Chok, is that any wat to talk to a lady?" the eyepatched Klingon officer rumbled.

The Nausicaan backed away, muttering a half-hearted apology as he did.

"You are Lieutenant Commander Tan'atar, correct?" the Klingon asked.

"Yes," Tan'atar replied simply.

"Good. I am Commander Cho'bek. These are my men. You bunk with us. Chok here will show you where you stay. Bunk sweeps are every morning at about one hour before day shift begins. They may be earlier, they may be later. You are to rise two hours before your shift starts so that you may tidy your bunk before that time. Any infractions will result in punishment for your entire bunk room. Extra punishment will be doled out by your comrades. Any questions?"

"No. I will obey."

"Good. It would be unfortunate to have to let my men have at you. You'd send a good number of them to the Infirmary before they took you down."

Tan'atar cocked his head slightly to the left, "What makes you so certain they would succeed in harming me?"

Cho'bek's laughter joined the others.

!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!

"Do you think the Klingons are behaving?"

The random question startled Tovan as he turned towards the sudden visitor to his table in the mess hall.

T'Ali was surprisingly in civvies for once as she plopped down in a chair, a glass of kali-fal in her hand. Tovan noted that it was most likely not syntheholic and a sure indicator of their upcoming return to Mol'Rihan. Granted, he had gotten used to her tells by now. They had known each other for a decade at this point.

"Are we three hours out now?" he asked. A lifted eyebrow was his only reply, as if he should have known the answer to that/ He probably should have, but he didn't much care to at the moment.

"So, d'you think the Klingons are behaving? Because I don't plan on losing a good officer to a bunch of grudge-holding, trigger-happy Klingons."

"Perhaps you should lay off the alcohol before we arrive at Mol'Rihan," Tovan advised, "It would be unseemly for you to say that directly to the Klingons."

"I'm the master of unseemly."

"As I am aware."

"I mean; I hope you would be. After that one-"

Tovan held up a hand as he winced, "Didn't we agree never to speak of that again?"

"Right," T'Ali muttered before glancing at the kali-fal, "Last glass it is."

He returned to perusing reports from the Delta Quadrant as she finished the alcohol, all in silence. Tovan wasn't too worried about Tan'atar, the Jem'Hadar officer was more than capable of looking after himself. On the other hand...

"Hey, I didn't say anything!" Hiven was protesting as Satra muttered something crude. She was becoming unusually irritable lately, even towards Hiven. Tovan idly wondered if or when Satra and Veril would quit arguing for three minutes to notice that the third corner of their imagined love triangle was decidedly not interested in either, or anyone else for that matter.

"Poor man. He's got to put up with that," T'Ali muttered.

"Why are they in such foul moods?"

"Why is Satra being a special kind of nasty lately? Do you think it's that stick up her TRIBBLE?"

"That seems to be the most likely of scenarios."

Tovan continued to sit in silence as he finished the reports and moved on to department status reports. T'Ali seemed content just sipping what she claimed was her last glass, but Tovan highly doubted that. Despite being several years his junior, she'd already developed something of a drinking habit that she claimed was inherited from her mother. Tovan had never bothered to point out that she had been very young when her mother died and really wouldn't know.

Flicking a glance around the room, he noted that many people seemed content to just sit and stare at the stars as they neared their new home. A few games of various natures had popped up around the place and those members of the crew who had culinary talent were busy trying to get everyone else to taste their newest creation. A flash of dark blonde hair signaled that Bohina had entered, chatting with the most recent male to brave her company. Most men tended to stay far away from the chief of security.

There was a sudden commotion as a game of khariat went in a direction no one had been expecting. Clearly, no one was expecting Thras to win, but then again, most people here doubted that Andorians were as cunning as people said. The token Orion aboard, Juril, was ecstatic that his friend had won and Decurion Ratek looked mildly amused at the whole deal.

Idly, Tovan wondered what Tan'atar was doing.

!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!

Tan'atar was in a mild state of confusion. He'd never seen this much chaos in one place before, and he'd been in numerous battle zones.

Klingons were everywhere, interspersed with Orions, Gorn, Nausicaans, Letheans, and a few species he didn't recognize. They were all loudly carousing about something that had recently happened. Perhaps some great victory.

Captain Yirit was still in her full armor, but she was watching the chaos with a smirk. The first officer was watchfully breaking up any fights that looked like they might turn serious. Tiyana was flirting with just about anyone there, very clearly inebriated.

To Tan'atar's surprise, a young Klingon man sauntered over and stuck out a mug of bloodwine.

"If you want to serve on this ship, you must prove yourself!" he told the Jem'Hadar. Tan'atar didn't even hesitate, just took a swig of the beverage with his typical neutral face.

"It is alcohol. It is not used to prove whether one is worthy or not."

"You're right," the man sneered, "Combat is!"

Tan'atar was suddenly surrounded by the man's friends. There were four of them. Two Klingons, a Gorn, and a Nausicaan. All carried only blades, but kept them sheathed. Tan'atar noted that the leader had his blade out.

"If you wish to fight me, put the blade awa. It marks you as a coward."

The leader scowled, but did as he was asked before attacking with what would have been a gut punch, had Tan'atar not sidestepped it and slammed a foot into the man's gut in return. The other four leapt into the fray. One tried to bash his head, but reared back when his arm met the Jem'Hadar cranial spines.

The leader was easily put out of commission with what Tan'atar had heard referred to as a "right hook". The Nausicaan was susceptible to a punch to the face and the Gorn wound up tossed over a table. The other two Klingons were inebriated enough to be lured into punching each other as Tan'atar slipped past and jammed his elbow into one's neck and the knuckles into the other's throat.

The first officer appeared, mildly displeased.

"Perhaps there were less... incapacitating ways to go about that," Bokk chastised.

"They would not have ceased their attempts if I had done anything else," Tan'atar replied calmly.

"Maybe so," Yirit interjected, "But those five deserved what they got. I think they can be dealt with by the doctor. Someone can drag them to the Infirmary later. Well done, Lieutenant Commander. It seems you are as competent a fighter as your record suggests."

"My record would not be falsified."

"No. Maybe embellished."

"I would be most displeased were that the case."

"I imagine you would be. Tiyana, he's not interested. Stop pretending to be drunk."

The Orion woman scowled and moved away from her flustered target. Tan'atar noted that Bokk glanced at the man briefly before looking away. Given their similarities in appearance, he surmised they were sibling, or perhaps close cousins.

Yirit turned her attention back to Tan'atar.

"Looks like you got lucky for now. Bokk might have kicked your TRIBBLE for managing to beat some of his underlings, but you seem to have done a good enough job at getting them out of his way for now that I'm sure he won't be too hard on you. Have fun, Lieutenant Commander," she offered a jaunty wave as she walked out of the mess hall, tailed by a security officer who didn't seem to notice the glares being thrown his way from the captain.

A most interesting ship, indeed. Fortuntately, he only had another year before he could return to the Telnor.

!@#$%^&*())(*&^%$#@!

On Mol'Rihan, a gaggle of officers were sitting in a makeshift bar and discussing recent changes on their ships.

"We got a Klingon officer the other day," Elena Garson casually said as she took a swig of that awful booze she managed to tolerate.

Chaliszava zh'Thane chuckled, "I got stuck with a cranky Gorn. At least he plays tongo decently."

Noemi Idaris exchanged a look with Veren tr'Hhloal, a rather distinguished elder gentleman with an apparent affinity for strange new boozes.

Daylon Kril and Gary Williams swapped stories of their new officers as Gary's former boss in Starfleet, Sarissa t'Kaveth-Colvem, chatted with her cousin, Jarell Colvem.

T'Ali nodded, "Tan'atar got sent over to a Klingon ship. He's over there for a year. I feel so bad for him, they're probably going to kill him."

"That'd be the least of his worries," Varakya pointed out. Being an officer who worked closely with the KDF, she would know. Besides, T'Ali trusted her judgement, having known her for many years.

T'Lira lifted an eyebrow as she replied, "I believe his primary concern should be the prejudice that may come with his being Jem'Hadar."

Elena sighed, "I hate to admit it, but I still can't look at him without remembering the war. Honestly, I feel like such an awful person for saying it, it's not his fault, but... history and all. 'Lira, you explain it."

"I have no better explanation," the Vulcan answered stoically.

"Anyway," T'Ali lifted her glass, "Let's toast to our new officers and the health of those who've been exchanged away against our will."

"Hear, hear!"

*I feel like that last part is going to become a thing of mine, where at the end of all of my future stories, they all get together and chat about what happened. I dunno. Also, I just typed this entire thing because I gave up on trying to copy and paste it over. So, I hope this is a decent story! I feel like it needs more, and I might add more later.*

hawku001x · January 2016

The Steamrunner-class U.S.S. Tsunami dropped out of warp in the H'atoria sector like some kind of space-traversing mechanical conglomeration.

Approaching the Klingon Bird of Prey I.K.S. Rotog, Captain McCary and Commander Morris beamed over to its dank, sterile Bridge of dread.

"Thanks for answering my distress call, Captain," Starfleet officer, Deborah, said, turning from her seat at tactical. The entire area was full of unconscious Klingons; blood drenching the floors like a badly handled meat processor. "Apologies for the mess."

McCary crossed his arms. "Have the targs finally rebelled?"

"No, sir. The targ supply has run out due to it being Beast Appreciation Month," she replied. "This; I have no idea what's going on here. Sorry, sir, but it appears my progress in the exchange program has been a failure."

In a bustle, Captain Sigon exited his ready room and joined them. "Utter baktag! Your Lieutenant has been more than exemplary!" he defied. "I just ordered her to the Messhall this morning for early drinking, as we all know, from Riker to Jadzia episodes, that that is the only circumstance one can truly bond with a Klingon."

"I am quite drunk, sir," Deborah admitted in her usual deadpan tone, betraying no intoxication whatsoever.

McCary looked at her, bewildered, then away. "Never mind. What can you tell me, Captain? And please, let this not be an obvious Arin'Sen revenge story. Despite the justice they'd be serving tenfold by your repetitive enslavements."

"I know! I even offered them the idea of that, but, alas, their bones are as brittle as Ferengi knee caps." Sigon sighed. "No, it all started this morning: We had just completed our usual hit-and-run on your Starbase 234 when suddenly systems throughout the Rotog went haywire. Next thing I know, my night-shift Bridge crew is taken out-- My existing BOFFs are fine, though; for continuity's sakes."

The Captain turned to him in complete shock. "Whoa! Are you serious right now? You know we're not supposed to break the fourth wall!"

"Puncture wounds." Morris interjected, examining one of the unconscious Klingons. "Looks like some-thing was responsible for this."

McCary sighed. "Damn the Federation's on-again off-again relationship with the Klingon Empire. We send acronym text-based transmissions with pictorial faces and smiling droppings and you never respond. Fine. For the sakes of my Lieutenant, we'll check things out-- But no Warrior's Anthem! The group synchronicity elicits forced camaraderie."

---

Walking down the eerily dark corridors with flickering lights, McCary, Morris and Deborah pulled hard on keeping their wits about them. Following closely behind, Sigon held his disruptor at the ready.

"Whatever has got this ship is emitting high-energy interference," Morris reported. "Internal scanning and your mercury vapor, phosphor coated tube lights have been severely affected."

Sigon replied, "When it comes to deck lighting technology, we Klingons are centuries behind."

Then, grunting sounds and wheezing breaths snapped its way to their senses but it was too black to see what was making it. For Sigon, the scent was clear.

"He is Klingon!" Sigon identified. "Bekk Tars, if I'm not mistaken."

McCary shone his palm beacon into the corridor. "Don't move! We're investigating first-hand rather than by proxy-hologram which would make much more sense."

"Heegghhhh," Tars uttered through his own bodily pains as he was lit up. Patches of brightly colored fur had grown, unnaturally out from his-self all over his body. "UGGH!"

A surge of agony shot him to his all-fours. The group ran over to check on him. "It's.... fur?" Morris examined. "It looks like Tribble fur?"

"Feels like it too," Deborah added, petting a furry patch coming out of Tars' shoulder armor. "Err, that's the blood wine talking," she explained quite soberly as McCary and Morris looked at her quizzically.

McCary perked up. "You know something, Lieutenant. Tell us the truth about what's going on here."

"Sir, this exchange program has confused my loyalties," Deborah admitted. "The truth is, Sigon ordered me to secrecy over his murderous hunting objectives. We'd been chasing a prey for days, and instead of sleeping were sent to the Messhall to drink."

Sigon stepped around. "It was important to me that we differ ourselves from the Hirogen somehow; those warrior rip-offs! As a one-fourth Klingon yourself, Captain, I'm sure you understand."

"You see, earlier this year, the U.S.S. Phoenix-X visited a parallel universe completely occupied by Tribbles in space," Deborah explained. "When they returned, unbeknownst to them, a single, solitary Tribble was brought back and escaped."

In the dark, McCary could have sworn he heard purring. The thought of it sent chills down his spine.

Sigon continued: "From that one spaceborne Tribble, a whole colony was bred! Klingons everywhere cried out in pain! With your officer's help, we've been tracking them throughout the sector."

"Then it's clear," McCary finished. "My Tactical officer appears to have switched allegiances. Oh, and these spaceborne Tribble are fighting back."

Flashing his palm beacon around, he unintentionally revealed the group to be completely surrounded by angry, self-aware, parallel universe Tribble.

"AaaH!"

The fuzzballs then began buzzing in unison. Their adorable vibrations converted through the universal translator. "Your non-space, combat-buff Tribble are a failed evolutionary variation descended by the ancient one, Trebbly; one of our own."

"He/she was sent to your universe eons ago to facilitate Tribble Space. We must ensure this original goal continues!" another proclaimed. "All of your space are belong to us!"

Sigon pulled out his disrupter. "The Empire will not bow to these puffy-veQ! We stand for roughness, hard looks and the generational-tangents that made us that way! Destroy their cute little faces!"

But the Tribble were faster and leapt onto each of the humanoids, biting into McCary's skin. Morris tried to pull out his phaser but was taken down by a flurry of fuzz. Deborah's neck was pierced and bloody, while Sigon fired his disruptor until his hand was covered in furry fury!

"The Tribble have got us! If Bekk Tars is any indication, their venom re-sequences our DNA. We'll soon become one of them!" Morris cried in agony.

Debroah struggled with her miniature attackers, pulling one off her face. "Captain! When we confronted these spaceborne mothballs, it was the Tribble themselves that explained to us how they got to our universe... one, giant Tribble."

"The Mother Tribble!" McCary realized through his fight. He struggled to glimpse what looked like an overly humanoid-sized ball of fur, emerging at the other end of the corridor.

Deborah added, "It's the one that traveled here with the Phoenix-X."

Under continual attack and the pains of transformation, McCary rolled his fur-building physique over to his fallen phaser, and crawled his way toward the Mother Tribble.

"Enormous hair monstrosity, I wish to discuss your terms of surrender," McCary offered, aiming his phaser.

To that, all the small Tribble scurried away to the sides in fear. The Mother Tribble vibrated in response. "I am known as Tribblone and our purpose is reproduction; not to destroy others. These transformations are a biological confusion."

"Your self-impregnating Tribble-venom is selfing us into Tribble! As such, I propose a non-aggression pact," McCary suggested. "We leave you alone, and you stop converting us into one of you."

The dimly lit, giant fuzz-machine cooed in agreeance. "It is done. But we will occupy all of known space eventually. We have already permeated your universe with utmost adorability!"

"SQUEEEEEE!" Through the dark, the little creatures all leapt back into the fur of the Mother Tribble while she, herself, re-merged into the darkness.

The lights in the corridor then flickered on. Deborah, now part-fur, took out her tricorder and read it. "It's leaving the ship through one of the ports... Like the Rotog just coughed up a hairball."

"Well, it's clear now your treasonous ways were a product of pure investigative drive in service of the unnatural-- a reflection of the Tsunami's own efforts," McCary breathed, appeased, while checking out his own partial trans-fur-mation. "Is anyone as ichy as I am?"

Sigon got up and tore the growing fuzz from his neck. "It is not the last we've seen of those fluff-multipliers. And your insidious diplomacy has triumphed over my destructive war-mongering; but this remains a win for the unchecked Klingon genome none-the-less! Thanks."

"So, is the only reason your species goes on because of us?" Morris asked.

Captain Sigon shrugged. "Probably." As the group made their way back to the Bridge, he continued, "To that, I foresee this as the start of a wondrous relationship!"

---

Entering the Bridge, McCary, Sigon, Deborah and Morris discovered all the unconscious Klingons replaced with large, lumpy-ovals of fully-converted, fur-drenched Tribbles. The nightshift having completed transformation did not bode well for the four.

"Well, it was fun while it lasted!" Sigon corrected. "Warrior's Anthem anyone?"

cmdrscarlet · March 2016

Prophetic Epilogue - Prompt 4
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Captain’s Log, Stardate 91247.5

As the Federation, and its Allies, expands into the Delta Quadrant, several systems are being properly charted. Even if this age of conflict with the Iconians, there is a need to explore. Solaris has seen some front line action, yet being an Excelsior-class meant we were delegated to supply runs. Naturally this meant we have suffered fewer casualties than some other ships of the line. In the course of our duties, I have ordered that we be sure to collect data on planets otherwise missing from record at every chance we can.

On a particular low-priority mission, we were to pass system E538-alpha-7B. This was the system on Stardate 54529.1 then Captain Kathryn Janeway deposited a group of Klingons who were travelling the Delta Quadrant in search of the kuvah’magh. The third of six planets was logged as M-class. Very little information about the system otherwise existed. Solaris took the opportunity to develop information and check on the status of the pilgrims, maybe even offer the survivors a chance to “come home”, so to speak. Coincidentally, my Security Chief had a distant relative who joined the crew of the Klingon vessel when it left the Alpha Quadrant.

Long-range scans returned contradicting information from Voyager’s logs. As we altered course for further investigation, we determined only five planets were in-system. Eventually we learned an M-class planet was not to be found.

Entered the system on the outer planet’s L2 point, deep scans of the system were conducted. Immediately noticed was a large debris field between the second and third planets. After a few hours correlating and verifying data, we discovered heavy traces of Anti-Proton radiation. Although Astrometrics is convinced this was the class-M planet in Janeway’s logs, proof is either missing or circumstantial.

Without more time, or further analysis, I loathe thinking the Iconians were the direct cause. Any reason for their action can only be speculated. I’m also not willing to declare a natural catastrophic event either, yet it cannot be ruled out. I think the presence of Anti-Proton radiation is the key. It’s a mystery Solaris will have to leave for another time.

Unofficial Literary Challenge#19:Once in a Lifetime

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