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Unofficial Literary Challenge #7: "Skippy's List: Starfleet Edition"
starswordc
Member Posts: 10,963 Arc User
Welcome to the seventh monthly edition of the Unofficial Star Trek Online Literary Challenge!
Prompt #1: "Things Crew Members of the (Insert Ship Name Here) are No Longer Allowed to Do" by takeshi6
Prompt #2: "Feet of Clay" by jonsills
Prompt #3: "What If?" by worffan101
Rules are the same as usual. No NSFW stuff, one story per author per prompt.
The discussion thread is here.
Index of previous unofficial challenges:
Prompt #1: "Things Crew Members of the (Insert Ship Name Here) are No Longer Allowed to Do" by takeshi6
One day, when walking into the mess hall/lounge of your ship for some food, you find that one of the LCARS display panels has been reconfigured. Rather than what it normally shows, it now displays a list. The list only has one item when you first see it (something like "Do not tease the Klingons"), but each subsequent time you visit the mess hall/lounge, things have been added to the list, usually in response to some event that has happened recently.
What items all end up making the list? Does your Captain know why each item goes up, or do they need to hit up the local grapevine? Do they take the list in stride or do they shut it down fairly quickly? If they take it in stride, do they add their own items to the list? Write a short story detailing what happens.
What items all end up making the list? Does your Captain know why each item goes up, or do they need to hit up the local grapevine? Do they take the list in stride or do they shut it down fairly quickly? If they take it in stride, do they add their own items to the list? Write a short story detailing what happens.
* * *
Prompt #2: "Feet of Clay" by jonsills
Nobody is completely good or completely evil. The legendary James Kirk, explorer and pioneer, was also a womanizer who never met a rule he didn't want to break. Jean-Luc Picard, great diplomat and reluctant warrior, was a bit of a martinet who would let an entire planet die rather than violate the Prime Directive in any way at all. Benjamin Sisko, hero of the Second Battle of Deep Space 9, abandoned his Starfleet oath and obligation to serve as a religious figure for a foreign power.
On the other side of the coin, Khan Noonien Singh, dictator and tyrant, expected absolute loyalty from his men - and gave absolute loyalty in return. Col. Green, terrorist and warmonger, sincerely thought he was fighting for the best possible future for his planet and his people.
Who does your captain look up to? And how does he/she react when the idol has feet of clay? Conversely, how does he/she react when the weaknesses are overshadowed by the virtues?
On the other side of the coin, Khan Noonien Singh, dictator and tyrant, expected absolute loyalty from his men - and gave absolute loyalty in return. Col. Green, terrorist and warmonger, sincerely thought he was fighting for the best possible future for his planet and his people.
Who does your captain look up to? And how does he/she react when the idol has feet of clay? Conversely, how does he/she react when the weaknesses are overshadowed by the virtues?
* * *
Prompt #3: "What If?" by worffan101
Every Captain has one big defining moment that started them on the path to the big chair. What if that moment never happened?
Write a day on your ship in an alternate universe where your Captain never became such. Alternatively, write a day in your Captain's life without Starfleet/the RRF/the KDF.
For example: She died in that fight with the Orion raiders. He dropped out of the Academy after losing a friend on that training cruise. She chose to join the Gorn separatists instead of trying to prove herself to the Klingons. He decided to go civilian instead of military, and won a Nobel Prize for his work on transdimensional abominations. She paid a little more attention while fleeing the secret police and sacrificed herself for her lover. He signed on with a different ship as a mercenary and never met his wife.
How is the universe different in this alternate timeline? How is your ship different? How is the Captain different (if he/she exists in this timeline)?
Write a day on your ship in an alternate universe where your Captain never became such. Alternatively, write a day in your Captain's life without Starfleet/the RRF/the KDF.
For example: She died in that fight with the Orion raiders. He dropped out of the Academy after losing a friend on that training cruise. She chose to join the Gorn separatists instead of trying to prove herself to the Klingons. He decided to go civilian instead of military, and won a Nobel Prize for his work on transdimensional abominations. She paid a little more attention while fleeing the secret police and sacrificed herself for her lover. He signed on with a different ship as a mercenary and never met his wife.
How is the universe different in this alternate timeline? How is your ship different? How is the Captain different (if he/she exists in this timeline)?
* * *
Rules are the same as usual. No NSFW stuff, one story per author per prompt.
The discussion thread is here.
Index of previous unofficial challenges:
"Great War! / And I cannot take more! / Great tour! / I keep on marching on / I play the great score / There will be no encore / Great War! / The War to End All Wars"
— Sabaton, "Great War"
Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/
— Sabaton, "Great War"
Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/
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"The Harder Path"
By Admiral Tayben Berat
Originally published in the 77th Fleet Sword and Inkwell
Released for general media distribution by the Starfleet Publishing Office
Today is the Day of Accounting in the Cardassian Union--the day we as Cardassians reflect on the most inglorious parts of our past. The day itself commemorates the adjournment of the Board of Accounting and the end of Cardassia's first step into its new era. We remember the victims--our victims--as well on that day.
This might seem odd to some who are unfamiliar with Cardassian custom, but for us these two remembrances must go together: that of the past and the future. To omit either the solemn mourning of the past or the disciplined work for the future is to paralyze the present. To commemorate without constructive action is to reduce our atonement to empty words that may slightly soothe for a moment but serve nothing except our own self-satisfaction.
As most in our fleet know, I served in the Cardassian Guard before and during the Dominion War. I therefore submitted to the Board of Accounting myself as was right. That they found my record and commands clean and counted my time in the Rebellion could easily become a comforting salve to excuse myself from restitution.
This must not be. Sober assessment must not cross into self-congratulation any more than the self-flagellation of which the extremists and terrorists accuse us. Nor is it cultural degradation to make a forthright assessment of where we have been and where we must go.
I can remember the images and sounds of these days without fail but it is harder to identify the moment when I first began to realize that the State was unworthy of worship: whether it was the day I realized a colleague of mine followed the Oralian Way and I chose silence instead of obedience to the law, or whether it was terrible day after my family and I had all been arrested and they killed nearly all of them, including publicly hanging my uncles and father. When I chose fear instead of courage and cast the stone the guards forced into my hand on the third day of the hanging. That I aimed to miss cannot erase the deed, nor the anguish in my father's dimming eyes as he watched from the gallows.
Perhaps it was both. I cannot own one act without the other--to do otherwise is a lie. But I realized in fullness of time that a State such as the Union once was deserved no worship. Eventually I also realized it deserved no obedience.
In understanding this I also came to understand why it was the State so deeply despised the Bajorans their religion. They framed it as intellectual superiority when what in fact they were smugly saying was, "Our god is better than your gods." These are hard words. However, the practices surrounding the old Union were in effect those of a secular cult set up in the ashes of Hebitian prayer masks. We derided the Bajorans for "constructed myths" when in fact our leadership and our propaganda offices churned out just that every day, and the terrorists still do to this day. We must face that past with open eyes so we recognize its shadows upon our present.
One of the questions I most often receive from those new transfers to the 77th Fleet who are bold enough to ask is why--especially in light of the cultural struggle for truth and reconciliation that I describe above--we of the Cardassian Union retain our sigil and those of us who serve in the Cardassian Defense Force wear the old uniform of the War. The boldest among them point out that in many of the Quadrant's cultures, to do so is the perpetuation of hate symbology.
I do not rebuke those who ask this question. From what I have learned about non-Cardassian cultures, I realize that this is a legitimate question and that those who ask have genuine need of an honest response.
First, I respect those whose worlds and political unions have chosen to destroy the symbols of past regimes for their rites of closure. My answer is in no way intended to criticize or suggest change to their freely-chosen practice. I speak as a Cardassian but I do not presume to speak as Bajoran or human or any other species or belief.
For us as Cardassians it is physiologically more difficult than for some to sever connections to tradition, custom, and past. We furthermore recognize a practical reality of our situation--and that is that while we try and execute our war criminals, it was impossible to reconstitute our public institutions and defense force without the use of cleared personnel who served before the War. Although I most often wear a Starfleet uniform in the performance of my duties under dual commission, I do still wear the traditional armor when the occasion calls for it. I am both the man who serves as CDF liaison to the 77th Fleet and the man who served in the days before the Treaty; for better and for worse I cannot do away with or ignore that past.
In some ways it could be said this is the harder path--that instead of rebranding, we have chosen to wear our full history on our sleeves and accept the doubts and the scrutiny that this brings, and endeavor that our actions would serve the purpose instead.
As for myself, I do not forget that I serve among the children of the people who were designated my enemy--and some of the veterans themselves. That offense, whether personal or collective in origin, is something I believe I must face not with indignation but with honesty when approached about it and respect for individual dignity and privacy, and with work in all instances.
I express hope that this could bring healing but recognize that it is not mine to ask of anyone. These, too, are hard words for us but we must make peace with this reality to make peace with others.
May we of Cardassia remember what was and rebuild what will be, this Day of Accounting and all days.
Christian Gaming Community Fleets--Faith, Fun, and Fellowship! See the website and PM for more. :-)
Proudly F2P. Signature image by gulberat. Avatar image by balsavor.deviantart.com.
“I believe that stone belongs to me, sir.” The red-uniformed Klingon JG across the table growled in frustration and took a pull on his glass of Romulan ale as the blue-shirted brunette petty officer with almond-shaped eyes removed the captured stone from the go board, grinning.
Ten Forward on the USS Bajor was reasonably uncrowded this time of day. The panoramic viewport on the front was dark, lit only by streaming stars as the vessel warped towards a transwarp conduit and the front lines of the Federation-Klingon War. Hardly what Petty Officer, Second Class Juno Ichigaki had enlisted for eight years earlier—the Japanese-South African was a geologist by training, not a soldier. But as the Alpha and Beta Quadrants slid ever further into chaos and more and more of Starfleet’s resources were diverted to its military functions, it was much harder to avoid getting assigned to the front lines.
The Klingon, K’lak, twitched an eye at her, then placed a white stone on the replicated spruce go board. Juno drew a black stone and fitted it into the formation she was building with a clack. K’lak started to play a stone but the intercom interrupted with an recording of an ancient bosun’s whistle. Juno recognized the command to listen up, and turned in her chair to the cluster of screens hanging from the ceiling at the center of the lounge.
An athletically built Bajoran woman with flaming red hair and two parallel scars marring her left cheek appeared on the screen, lounging in the captain’s chair on the bridge. “All right, I’ll try to keep this reasonably short. Some of you know me; most of you don’t. I’m Kanril Eleya, your illustrious captain.” Juno snickered at the Bajoran’s tone. “I’m setting some ground rules. Rule number one, don’t call me ‘sir’. I hate that. You need to talk to me, address me as ‘ma’am’ or ‘Captain’.”
“Well, that’s easy enough,” a sandy-haired Bajoran redshirt said from the bar.
“Rule number two, I have an open-door policy. You have a serious concern, bring it to me. If I’m doing something stupid, I want to know about it. If one of my officers is doing something stupid, I want to know about it. And if you think one of my superiors is doing something stupid, I want to know about it. If you’re right, I will back you to the hilt even if it means going up against C-in-C Starfleet or the President, even. However, there’s one exception.
“Rule number three, hand-to-hand and weapons drills are mandatory for all specialties. That means you, Astrometrics. I’ve been getting reports from Lieutenant Korekh that some of you have been shirking. That stops now. I run a loose ship as long as the work gets done, but this is a combat starship. Next person to skip combat practice or battle drill without a note from Doctor Wirrpanda, I dock a week’s pay from their whole section. Person after that, I dock two. You can do the math.” There were some open jaws around the room at this, including Juno’s. “Ditto vacsuit and hull breach drills, such as the one we’ll be running in three hours.” Kanril glared into the camera. “This is not negotiable. Cross me on this and I’ll bust you so low you’ll need the Bajor’s main sensor array to see above E-1.
“Fourth, an announcement. Lieutenant Korekh is forming an assault unit for emergencies. Combat experience is preferred, but we will take anyone with an A-minus or better on combat evals. That about covers it. We’ll hit the transwarp conduit in four hours and we’ll be at Deep Space K-7 soon after. Have a nice evening. Kanril out.”
The screen flicked back to a football match that had been playing before the captain interrupted it. Juno let out a breath. “Eish! She’s a firebrand, isn’t she?”
“Younger than I expected,” the redshirt from the bar said, bringing over a half-full bottle of Romulan ale.
“What is that?”
“I dunno, Romulan Republic stuff. Somebody named t’Thavrau. Weird aftertaste,” the Bajoran added, eying the label.
“Probably khellid honey, Senior Chief,” K’lak said.
“How do you know that, sir?” the Bolian gunnery chief sitting backwards on his chair next to them asked.
“There was a Romulan expat family near where I grew up on Ajilon Prime,” K’lak said, placing a stone, then refilling his glass. “They raised khellids and hlai’hwy.”
“You’re from Ajilon Prime?” Juno asked.
“We’re not all Qo’noSngan.”
“No, I mean… Isn’t that awfully close to the front lines?”
“Jm’poQ Qang is not interested in killing fellow Klingons,” the lieutenant answered in a disgusted tone. “The honorless petaQ would rather aim his sword, and his abominable Orion allies, at unarmed Federation civilians.”
“And that’s why we’re headed out there, sir,” the senior chief added.
“I’m sorry, Senior Chief,” Juno said. “Were we introduced?”
“Athezra Darrod,” the Bajoran answered, proffering a hand. “Ranking Security noncom and the head of the assault unit the captain mentioned.”
“Juno Ichigaki, Planetary Sciences,” she answered, shaking his hand.
“Anyway, at least with the Gorn you can trust them to follow the Alphecca Convention, and they’re hitting military targets exclusively. What are you guys playing?” he changed the subject.
“Go.”
“Sorry I asked.”
Juno burst out laughing. “No, no! Ag shame, it’s a board game from where my family is originally from on Earth. I think your universal translator is acting up.”
“Well, you know how it is: they try to keep the idiom filters up to date but there’s always one or two that they miss.” He watched the game for a moment. “So, what do you think of her?”
“The captain?” Juno shrugged. “Seems like a bit of a hardass to me.”
“Really?”
“Ag, come on, you’re Security. I came in, I just wanted to study rocks, all right? Now I’m stuck on a warship.”
“There’s a good reason for that, Specialist Ichigaki,” K’lak said, placing a stone. “The captain is former Bajoran Militia. She was a sergeant, came into Starfleet through the OCS program.”
Juno gave the lieutenant a look. “Shame! She’s a mustang?”
“I looked up her dossier,” the Klingon confirmed, nodding. “She earned one of their highest awards for valor and was wounded in action twice, the first time almost fatally. In any case, the organizational culture is that every Militiaman is a rifleman first and foremost. I daresay she expects the same of us.”
“Should she? I mean—”
“I can tell you in all honesty,” the Bolian said, “that the Klingons and the Borg and whoever else won’t give a bock what color your uniform is.”
“Eish. Ag, outnumbered by redshirts. Hey! You in the gold!” she hollered to a random person at the bar. “Come here and back me up!”
Author's Notes: So I'm merging the "Skippy's List" and "Lower Decks" prompts here. I originally had a much longer piece planned, with Eleya springing an unscheduled drill on them and then b*tching them out on their performance a la a scene in K-19: The Widowmaker, but the scene felt more awkward by the paragraph as I was writing it so I cut it.
That's real South African slang that Juno Ichigaki is using, by the way. "Ag" is pretty much an all-purpose filler word, as is "shame".
— Sabaton, "Great War"
Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/
In a close parallel dimension, Vulcan 2412...
and there was light
In Vulcan's Forge, Marcus looked up at the aurora which illuminated the night sky.
"Fascinating," he murmured.
T'Reya turned to her husband, her hand raised with two fingers extended.
Raising his hand to his wife's, Marcus stroked his fingers down hers, across the back of her hand, then around and back to form the feh -- the Peak
Nothing needed to be said, it was time.
T U R N . A . D I F F E R E N T . C O R N E R
When I was young
The feeling was there
It is still there
Unweaving in me
As I recollect
Take me back to the stems of it
To the eyes of the parent's tongue
I'll listen to them
So I made up my mind
I'll be around for a while
You can bet on your life
I'll be around for a while
Call out my name
When you call
I'll be there
I'm always running chasing
Flames on a dare
Come back in the light
Come on darling shine
Call out my name
When you call I'll be there
So I made up my mind
I'll be around for a while
You can bet on your life
I'll be around for a while
Time after time
I'll be around
This love tonight
It will be around for a while
If wishes were horses
Then beggars would ride
Virtually a mystic couldn't ravel tonight
Harder than diamonds
Cut up the sky
Running like a river-wide out with the sun
So I made up my mind
I'll be around for a while
You can bet on your life
I'll be around for a while
Time after time
I'll be around
This love tonight
It will be around for a while
We don't need to say
uh-huh
I have seen things've changed my ways again
Really need to say
Really need to say
Girl I've prayed
uh-huh
Prayed I need someone like you someday
It's all I need to say
It's all I need to say
It's all I need to say
So I made up my mind
I'll be around for a while
You can bet on your life
I'll be around for a while
Time after time
I'll be around
This love tonight
It will be around for a while
Luke Steele and Nick Littlemore of Empire of the Sun - "I'll be Around"
"I'll be Around" Alternate Link
Folu monestary, 1 mile south east of ShiKahr, Vulcan, 13 February 2363...
For six days, she had burned with the pon farr, her mind racing, her body literally ablaze with the hormonal saturation, but as she had, both seven and fourteen years before, T'Reya knelt in meditation, focussing her will to channel her desires, guiding her thoughts to discharge the madness which the mating urge brought, but this time, the practices had brought no relief.
Through the near-consuming madness, T'Reya became aware of footsteps in the tunnel behind her. Turning, she saw Marcus entering the chamber. No longer the skinny boy who had followed her around the monastery like a pet sehlat -- by Human standards, he was a man now. A tall, handsome one. Even though she was ten years his senior, the speed of Human ageing meant their apparent ages had crossed, and he now appeared the slightly older of the two.
"I apologise, T'Reya," he said in Vuhlkansu as she spun to face him. "I did not realise the chamber was in use at this time."
"It. Is. Time..." she panted, rising to her feet, a predatory tone to her stance.
"I don't under-" he began, then he saw the sweat on her brow and body, the animalistic tension in her full lips, the furnace of lust in her eyes, and understanding of the situation dawned on him as he realised 'what time' it was. "You need help," he said, somewhat inanely.
"You can help me, Marcus," she insisted, approaching him like a predator stalking its pray. "I need you to help me."
"I..." Seeing all reserve stripped away to raw unbridled emotion, and somewhat terrified by it, he began to back away slowly toward the tunnel, but only succeeded in backing against the rock wall. "But you've always been my friend," he insisted weakly, hoping to reason with her.
"You always wanted me to be more," T'Reya countered, her voice breathy, as she reached up to touch Marcus' cheek, her fingers not quite in the right places to form a meld.
"You need help -- another Vulcan..." he suggested.
"I need to mate, Marcus," she insisted. "I need a man... I remember how you used to assist me with my duties when you were a boy, how you used to look at me when you thought I was unaware. I know you desired me then. Am I so undesirable that you won't help me now?" Pressing against him, she felt hard muscle across his chest and abdomen beneath his loose robe. "It's been six days, and my meditations have not broken the pon farr. I have no betrothed, and in another day, maybe two, the plak tow will take hold, and then, I will die. If You Don't F**k Me."
The obscenity was like cold water to the face, harsh, galvanising. He had lost count of the times as a youth he had dreamt of such an encounter, but T'Reya had always been unavailable, untouchable. A genuine and dear friend, but never more. His fantasies had remained thus. And then there had always been Alix, the only one who truly understood him, just as he was the only one who understood her, and now she was gone... But T'Reya was here, now, and he could feel her trembling against him under the massive hormonal onslaught. Was this the real T'Reya, stripped of the discipline and formality of Vulcan society, or would he be like a sober predator taking advantage of an intoxicated female? Would he simply be a friend providing assistance to another, and was this even the kind of assistance that one Vulcan would provide another? Was her judgement clouded to the point of irrationality, or did she know exactly what she needed? Was she the predator taking advantage of him?
"Please..." he implored her. But to what? To stop? To continue?
She stared directly into his eyes, and behind the smouldering, churning emotions, he saw her sincerity.
"Please," she echoed. "Help me."
"I'll help you," he breathed, unable to take his eyes from hers.
T'Reya moved her hands from his face to behind his head, holding it in place as like a striking snake, she launched upwards onto tiptoes, pressing her lips against his so fiercely that their teeth scraped together as she then roughly pulled him to the floor in a passionate embrace.
"Nemaiyo, t'hy'la," T'Reya breathed, relaxing against Marcus, her head on his shoulder, as her hormonal balance began to return to normal. Thank you, dear friend
"I am glad to have helped you," he replied, reaching over with his free arm, and holding her closer to him, her body warmer than a Human woman's would be, remembering what had transpired.
At the last moment, she had raised her hand to his face, involuntarily forming a mind meld, and in that instant, his inner-most thoughts were laid bare and she knew everything -- the agony of his mother's death, his relationship with his sister, his immortality, his fear of an eternity alone, but instead of the revulsion he expected, she had merely gazed upon him almost sadly, her eyes showing compassion as she moved her hand away, then shifted her body to lay beside him, spreading his discarded robe to cover them both. For the first time in over a decade, he felt no shame, merely acceptance. Just as T'Reya had always accepted him, had always offered him her time and company in return for his friendship.
Starfleet shuttle Tyderium, Vulcan orbital approach, 27 August 2363...
"I'm not looking forward to this," Vice Admiral Matthew Dougherty observed, looking up from his PADD.
At the pilots seat beside him, Admiral Wesley Cooper, made a dismissive expression.
"There's tri-ox in the medkit, and I've already said we'll beam down in the early evening," he replied. "Temperature should only be in the high teens by then."
"I was meaning, I doubt he'll be pleased to see me." Dougherty clarified. "I put one of my former pupils through a sham court-martial just so we could use him for intelligence work."
"Which returned some of the best information on the occupation we've had to date," Cooper replied. "But we never should have authorised that damned experiment, Matthew. It cost us a ship, and a lot of good officers. If the truth about the loss of the Pegasus ever comes out, we'll all be court-martialed for breach of the treaty of Algeron, not just the engineer we practically dared to build the thing."
"It did yield some impressive data on cloaking technology," Dougherty admitted. "But that doesn't justify our methods. And what's this about a court-martial at the beginning of the year? Conduct Unbecoming, and with his own sister, no less..."
"I was as shocked as you were," Cooper replied. "I damn near punched him out of his chair when he told me, but you've seen the psychologist's reports -- the circumstances for his behaviour were unique and deemed non-recurring. He hasn't got any other siblings, so I doubt we'll be seeing a repeat performance."
"I'd hope not," Dougherty harrumphed. "But, I have to admit, that when it comes to engineering, he did always knew what he was talking about."
"Which is why he's the ideal candidate for this mission," Cooper said, bringing the shuttle into a synchronous orbit.
"Have we explored all the other potential candidates?" Dougherty mused. "What about Will Riker? He's a good pilot, knows how to keep his head in a firefight, and served solidly since he graduated from the Academy. By comparison, Marcus has barely spent eight months on a starship in his entire career."
Cooper shook his head.
"It'll take a tractor beam to get Riker off the Enterprise. And you know that the reason for Marc's deployment history was because he was on Bajor, under deep cover, at our order, monitoring the Cardassian occupation. Now we have a ship designed for deep space tactical operations, as well as serving as a mobile fighter carrier and research facility, and you're having second thoughts about the ideal candidate?
"We don't just need a commanding officer, we need a test pilot -- someone with the engineering background to evaluate the ship around hpim who can say why something works or not, not just some spit-and-polish rank grinder who will bark orders from the big chair. Marc has those skills, and is still listed as an active test pilot. As unconventional as his career has been, he is the most logical candidate, no pun intended. After six months to clear his head and re-evaluate, I'm sure he's had enough time for him to sort himself out."
Dougherty sighed and nodded.
"You're right, of course, Wesley," he accepted. "Maybe I'm just getting old."
Folu monestary...
"There, that hike wasn't so bad was it," Cooper said, as he and Dougherty approached the massive statues which overlooked the monastery.
"It would've been easier to have flown out," Dougherty puffed. "I knew I should've taken a hit of tri-ox before beaming down... Where do you think he is?"
Cooper chuckled at his colleague's impatience, and nodded toward a solitary priestess-initiate who was walking nearby, her hands clasped sedately behind her back, her diaphanous gown billowing behind her as she walked.
"There's someone who may know," he said, before increasing his pace to draw closer to her. "Excuse me! Excuse me, Miss?"
At the summons, T'Pinna turned in the direction of the call.
"Good evening, Admirals," she said in Federation Standard. "You wish to speak with Marcus."
Cooper and Dougherty exchanged a glance.
"How did you know that?" Dougherty asked.
T'Pinna raised an eyebrow, her hands still behind her back.
"I believe it is still a felony to impersonate Starfleet officers, and costume night is not for some time," she replied. "Logic would suggest that you presence is to speak to the only other Starfleet officer present -- come, I shall escort you to him."
"Was she making a joke?" Dougherty murmured to Cooper, as they began to follow the young woman toward the cave-like structure, hewn directly into a cliff face. In the dwindling light, the rock appeared turquoise.
"Vulcan women're funny like that," Cooper replied, watching the mesmeric sway of T'Pinna's hips, and her long, straight hair rippling slightly as she walked.
They walked through rough-hewn tunnels, lit with flickering oil-burning lamps, before coming to an ascending tunnel. As they climbed higher, Cooper heard music, a simple, ascending plucking sequence of notes. The metallic bite to the notes was clearly that of a ka'athyra -- the Vulcan harp -- but the melody, was one he recognised from Earth's past: Intro, by the XX.
They reached the top of the slope, and the tunnel opened out into an open-air temple, circular, with cube-shaped stone seats around the circumference, and a double alter, much like the temple at Mount Selaya. At the foot of the steps, even with his back to the tunnel, he immediately recognised his former protege, and sitting in a semi-circle before him, were half a dozen Vulcan children, of maybe ten or twelve years old, each clutching a ka'athyra.
"Master, I keep faltering on the twenty first bar," one girl complained, addressing him with the honorific of a teacher.
"You need to relax your hand, T'Fairu," Kane said. "Allow it to rest naturally over the strings, and remember that that bar begins with a return stroke, to ready your hand for the following sequence."
With a nod, the child carried out the instructions, but part way through, her fingers began to catch stray strings, and she stopped.
"Don't focus so hard on which finger plucks which string," he advised her. "Use whichever finger is nearest, and most comfortable."
"Yes, Master," T'Fairu replied, proceeding to play the entire sequence flawlessly, as well as manipulating the ka'athyra's rotatable pitch control to swerve the notes.
Cooper wanted to applaud, but could not bring himself to interrupt the cyclic melody. T'Pinna, however, walked to stand behind Kane, bent at the waist to murmur in his ear, then turned and walked back towards Cooper and Dougherty, nodding to them as she proceeded into the tunnel in the rock wall.
"It would appear tonight's lesson is concluded," Kane said. "Thank you for your attention."
As the class wrapped their instruments in large leather sheets, and silently filed out, he stood and turned to face the admirals.
"Wes, Admiral Dougherty, it is agreeable to see you, Sirs," he said, as they moved into the temple and down the stairs.
Jesus, he's gone native... Dougherty thought, taking in Kane's attire, and now-messily long hair, worn in the style of Syrran.
"We have an assignment for you, Commander," he said. "If you'd be interested."
"As an officer, I shall endeavor to perform to the best of my ability," Kane assured them.
"You know, there are times," Dougherty observed. "That I wonder if I was to cut you, if you would actually bleed green."
"Thank you, Admiral," Kane replied, as they moved to sit on the closest of the rock seats. "What's the nature of the assignment you have for me?"
"We're re-launching the prototype of, what some wag on the design staff, has dubbed the Akira-Class," Dougherty said. "Preliminary testing of the NX 62497 in 2358, was halted due to issues with Consolidated Fusion Inc.s M/ARA and Impulse engine design. The test hull didn't reach warp three before the safety cutoffs dropped the hull out of warp, and she was towed back to the New Aberdeen Fleetyards by the USS Zachary, under escort by the USS Spann, for review.
"After three more time trials utilizing the CFI M/ARA configuration, strong and potentially damaging stress fractures occurred within the main structural network. It was determined that the warp harmonics generated by the core was the cause of the damage, and the CFI M/ARA unit was scrapped. The NX 62497, along with its two half-completed sister ships, were put into cold storage for nearly five years, until someone at Star Enterprises came up with a better alternative.
"Now those issues have all been worked out, the NX 62497 is once more ready to undergo a shakedown cruise. We -- that is Admiral Cooper, and myself -- would like you to command that cruise, so you can give Command a final evaluation."
Kane raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"I have not served in a command capacity aboard a ship in my career," he pointed out.
"But you do have tactical command experience from your time on Bajor," Cooper replied. "You had men under your command on that raid on Terok Nor, the mission was successful, and the Bajoran Militia were grateful. That earned you your third pip. This will be no different. Just a quick trip from the ship yards on Aldebaran to the border, and back again."
"The border?"
"With the Cardassian Union," Dougherty said, handing over a large PADD. "Take a look at these schematics and specifications."
Kane took the PADD from the admiral, and quickly glanced down the listings.
"Primary weapons system is torpedoes rather than phasers," he observed with surprise, looking at the graphic of the ship. "That's a first for a Starfleet ship... Sharp turn-rate too, this ship was built to compete directly with the Galor-Class, wasn't it. And from the look of it, based on the NX-Class..."
Dougherty nodded.
"We need the union to see that they won't get away with another massacre like they did last year at Setlik Three, but in such a way as to show our strength without being seemingly aggressive," he said. "We need something which has not only more of a bite than the Excelsior and Galaxy Classes, but more flexibility it mission profiles..
"As can see, there's also a fly-through flight deck, housing Kaneda-Class fighters, extensive science labs, sensor suites as well as variable environment ambassadorial quarters. This is truly a multi-mission platform, so we need someone who can evaluate every aspect of its capabilities. You were on the Academy flight team and are a test pilot now, you have your engineering doctorate, as well as the tactical experience, so you're ideally qualified to make those observations."
"I'm hardly an Archer, Sir," Kane replied, returning the PADD to Dougherty.
"No, you have the benefit of over a century of Starfleet exploration experience and protocol to fall back on, which Jonathan Archer never had," Dougherty said. "We know things now which they didn't know then. We've learned from those early examples. But you do have the same skill set, and not only that, but familiarity with the tactics which these ships may come up against. This isn't like any other test flight, Marcus, this could lead to a permanent assignment as commanding officer, but this first flight will be just a quick trip round the block."
"One calculated to show the Cardassians what we have if they want to resume hostilities?" Kane pressed.
"That was one of the parameters," Dougherty admitted.
"As we used to say back in the twentieth," Cooper said. "We want you to do a drive-by -- just, don't start shooting."
"Unless they fire first," Dougherty stressed.
"And then give them," Kane paused, trying to recall the old Earth expression."'Both barrels'?"
Cooper nodded.
"Given the firepower the Akira carries, hopefully that will be enough of a deterrent that there will be no shooting, just a nice steady cruise to test the ships capabilities."
"How soon do you require an answer?" Kane asked. "I imagine this is not an entirely time-sensitive mission, as other assignments have been."
"We have a provisional launch date," Dougherty replied. "We can give you twelve hours, but if this isn't something you can commit to, we will move on to other candidates. You would appear comfortable here, and you're good with your students."
"Vulcan is my home," Kane replied without even considering. "But I haven't forgotten my oath, I am a Starfleet officer, and will do my duty. However, I do not believe I am suited to such an assignment. I have to meditate on this before I can give you an answer."
Cooper nodded.
"I understand," he said. "We'll be in the diplomatic suite at the Weyland, for twelve hours. Contact us when you're ready."
As he knelt in the meditation chamber, Kane stared at the jasif crystal form of the vre'katra -- the katric ark -- of Sovak, the Vulcan Master who had taught him the philosophies of Surak and the Vulcan Way. So extensive had been the emotional trauma he had suffered witnessing his mother's death, that the only option had been to create a new emotional equilibrium, based on Vulcan techniques. And to an extent, it had worked, albeit sacrificing emotional expression in order to maintain that new equilibrium.
Illogically, on instinct, he reached out, pressing his fingers against the cubic base, but there was nothing. No sense of Sovak's katra, not even the slightest temperature increase, merely the ambient warmth.
"That will not work, t'hy'la," T'Reya's voice said with a hint of amusement from the shadows.
Turning, Kane automatically made the ta'al, which she returned. In the months following her pon farr experience, T'Reya's behaviour had returned to normal, albeit with an additional layer of familiarity, although neither of them had spoken about what had passed between them.
"I understand you have had visitors," she said, and Kane nodded.
"My supervising officer, and another who taught me at the Academy," he replied.
"I presume you have been recalled from leave," T'Reya summarised.
"In a manner of speaking," Kane replied, as the priestess-initiate moved to kneel before him, then raised her hand.
"May I?"
With a silent nod, he felt T'Reya first anchor her thumb beneath of his chin, then her index finger beside his nose, then the middle finger at the edge of his eye socket, making contact with the neuropressure points which formed a gateway to the katra. As Sovak had taught him, he did the same, as although he could not initiate a mind-meld, he was capable of serving as an additional conduit, of enhancing the connection.
They want you to leave
Yes to command a ship
Will you accept
I am content here
But you are a Starfleet officer
Yes
You are being recognised for your skills
I am being sought for my skills
That is still recognition you have earned
I feel obliged to do my duty
Is duty an obligation
Yes
Then you should go
I don't want to go
Please do not leave me
Kane was so startled by the plea, that involuntarily, he sat back, breaking the connections. Reality, his surroundings, returned, rushing back as the internal input was severed.
Before him, T'Reya continued to kneel before him, her face lowered, and he saw an emotion he had never before seen from her. Vulnerability.
"You would like me to remain on Vulcan with you?" he asked.
"I would, t'hy'la," T'Reya admitted, her voice soft, fragile. "Since my pon farr, I have -- recollected -- upon our encounter on numerous occasions. In each instance, I found the memories to be -- arousing -- as I do now. I would very much like to create new memories between us."
Kane could feel his pulse racing, the blood coursing in his veins, and he swallowed involuntarily.
"But... I'm Human..." he pointed out .
"You are more than Human," T'Reya observed rationally, looking up once more. "You embraced the Vulcan Way as a boy, we share many cultural interests, and we have many years of friendship between us. When we were -- intimate -- with each other, you assisted me with no intent to sate your own attraction, and for that assistance, I am grateful. Additionally, unlike many Human Vulcan relationships, you have the potential to equal, if not exceed, my lifespan. It would, therefore, be illogical to discount you as a partner." She took a deep, measured breath, and looked directly into Kane'e eyes, fixing him with an intensely honest gaze. "I believe the contentment I find in your company, and the covetousness I experience in anticipation of it, to be ashaya." Love
She extended her hand, with two fingers extended in invitation.
"I love you too," he assured her, resting his fingers against hers. "We shall remain on Vulcan. Together."
On the Jenova, Captain Iviok pointed at the view screen in utmost immediacy. "We've got them! Fire the tricobalt device!"
"We had one of those for the last two hours??" Gondi said in realization while simultaneously firing it.
The glowing shot slowly arched out into space's icy vacuum with more than enough of an opportunity to be snubbed out, until, once and for all, it detonated into the head of the Himotek's modified framework. The Himotek blew apart, sending debris flying out in all directions.
"Nice work, crew!" Iviok complimented, taking an exhausting seat in his chair.
Doyanis, the helmsmen, turned from his position. "Captain, permission to go to the bathroom? It seems like we've been working at that little scout heap all morning."
"Actually," Iviok checked his chair's chronometer, "It's passed lunch now." Then, strictly, the Andorian turned his attention to the crew. "You all know we have to work a little harder to take out enemy hulks. But we're a good ship. Yay us. Huzzah."
Gondi added: "We're a Tier 1 vessel."
"That's not an official rating system!" Iviok warned. "Those classifications were invented by tired, old, Irish noncoms!"
---
Later, Iviok entered the messhall, where crew were mostly in-and-out due to ship repairs being top priority. He noticed a nearby display blinking an engineering readout with the words: Do not tease the Humans.
"Iviok to Caveat." He tapped his commbadge. "A messhall screen is presenting an odd, but perhaps necessary report. How is an Andorian supposed to replicate redbat up in this place?"
The Chief Engineer replied over air: "Sorry, sir. I'm running an experimental reporting-nanite which predicts and takes into account all ship system issues. It's programmed to dictate precautions in layman's terms."
"So, teasing Humans is somehow detrimental to the Jenova?" Iviok questioned, confused. Just then, Sara entered the messhall and Iviok turned to her. "Walking through doors, huh? Typical Human. Haha."
Sara stopped, momentarily upset. "Sir, you know that's the only way I can get room-to-room!" She then ran out, crying.
"You....... you have weird exchanges with her," Doyanis squinted at Iviok, truthfully.
Just then, a nearby oxygen vent blew apart, spewing more oxygen into the messhall. Doyanis quickly put his food down and repaired it.
"Captain," Caveat's voice came through the comm, "Somehow, the messhall vent mechanisms are responding to specific sound frequencies. I'll have to investigate."
Iviok tapped his commbadge, "Understood. Iviok out." He then turned to his helmsmen. "Do you think the Jenova is a sagging old rust bucket, designed like a garbage scow?"
"I don't not think that."
---
At the end of the shift-day, Iviok returned to the messhall for dinner. He stopped in his tracks as he was about to walk passed the same display from earlier. On it: Don't eat meat.
"What? I'm the Captain! I can eat all the meat I want!" Iviok then went over to the replicator, in protest, and made himself a Starfleet-imitation Andorian krill-beast steak. After taking a hearty bite into it, Iviok was compulsed to spit it out in utter disgust. "Ugh! By the creepy giant eye balls of Aenar babies! That steak tasted like my regulation boot!"
Gondi paused with his tray of food, as he was about to walk by. "Are you referring to the time we were on Kobali lockdown under constant annoying Vaadwaur attack and we had nothing to eat but our footwear?"
"Of course!" Iviok slammed his useless tray onto a nearby table. He then went back to the replicator. "This means, no one on the ship can eat meat anymore. --Computer, make me a.... vithi salad. Ugh."
As soon as Iviok's salad was replicated, Gondi watched Iviok take it out and fork a cold bite.
"So... health....y..." the Captain yawped unconvincingly between chews. "Let me know when the display changes again." He left with a little less hope for the situation, more anxious than ever for a solution.
---
The next morning, Iviok was called into the messhall by Caveat to review the next message: Items used from only one corner at a time.
"What?" the Captain griped, confused. He and Caveat approached a corner of the messhall, only to be deflected by a force field. "Ugh!"
Caveat looked before them, "Dammit. I have specialized tools laid out in all corners of this room. Strange how evenly dispersed each of the access points are; almost conveniently inconvenient."
"Can we at least eat meat now?" Iviok asked.
Caveat nodded, "Just the poultry, so far. The tool I need for the rest is behind that force field. Furthermore, I discovered a piece of that Vaadwaur scout embedded into our hull. It transmitted an Iconian algorhythm into the Jenova's systems, effectively causing all these specified malfunctions."
"But there's meat we can eat now?" Iviok re-asked, just to make doubly sure.
Just then, the monitor nearby blinked a new rule: Only speak to people whose names start with an S.
"That's more ridiculous than the last rule," Iviok complained to Caveat in frustration-- only to be followed with a horrific feedback noise through the comms.
SZZZZKKKCCKKK!
"Ugghh! What the hell was tha---?" But he was interrupted again by that awful noise.
SSSZZZKKCKKKKK!
"Sara," Caveat stopped the Lieutenant, just as she was walking by. "Please tell Captain Iviok that the Himotek's Iconian algorhythm is getting more aggressive."
The science officer turned to Iviok. "Sir, Caveat says the Iconians are responsible for everything that happens everywhere, which is less a surprise and more a redundancy now."
"Sara," Iviok sighed, "Please tell Caveat I'm not prepared to give up the Jenova to the Iconian-infused Vaadwaur hull fragments. The line must be drawn here: this far-- maybe a tiny bit further."
She then turned to Caveat, "The Captain says the Andorian equivalent of 'For Cardassia!'"
The floor is lava: The three turned, curiously, to see the next rule blink on-screen.
"Sara, what does that mean?" Iviok asked in shared confusion.
The Lieutenant looked at the message, unsure. "I think it means I wish we were back on Kobali Prime, eating boots."
Suddenly, the floor plating beneath them lit up in an over-heated blaze, while the gravity all over the ship disengaged and sent everyone floating into the air.
"Sara, I'm getting reports all over the ship of burned soles and flaming socks!" Gondi floated near a side-console, next to a table full of spawn beetle-infested oblissian cabbage.
Iviok's antennae twitched, "Why is my crew reporting that? Nevermind. --Sara, is Caveat able to purge the algorhythm from our systems?"
"Uh, how would I know? I'm not a telepath, nor have Caveat and I had any relations of any kind," Sara replied, sharing a quick feared-glance with the Chief Engineer.
Caveat then floated over to another force fielded corner, nodding. "Sara, I can purge our systems from here by amplifying this mini reverse-ratcheting routing planer into any data port. Only problem is, I can't get to it."
"Uggh! Am I seriously the only one who can talk to non-S's? Also, isn't Ensign Salisbury out of bed yet??"
Gondi floated over. "She transferred to the Phoenix-X last week. She said she couldn't handle another eight hour Argala patrol."
"Once! That happened only once!" Iviok interrupted in protest before suddenly being cut off by the interference--
SSSSZZKKKKKCCCKK!!
"--Sara; I meant for that to be directed at Sara," Iviok back-tracked just moments before the next item blinked on screen.
Do not live.
The messhall crew floated in shock, reading it once more, just to make sure.
"Do not live?" Gondi repeated in Sara's general direction, only to be cut off by a sudden lack of life support.
Every floater in the room began having trouble breathing, including Captain Iviok: "Dammit to hell--! We need a new-- ship! The Jenova shouldn't be hauling garbage--- it should be hauled away as garbage--!"
He sufficatedly floated over to Caveat.
"Sara, the first message said-- to use items from one corner at a time-- If we're-- receiving limitations caused by the algorithm-- then we have to work with those limits--" Iviok took a short breath. "I want Caveat to use--- the tool sitting in the open corner-- on something."
The popular science officer scoffed, "Why does Caveat--- get to do all the fun things? --Rude."
"Would you guys-- stop-- taking-- up-- all-- the...... oxygen??" Gondi struggled, seconds before he and Sara passed out in a drooling, mid-float.
Caveat took the isolinear spanner from the open corner and sloppily adjusted the replicator into a mode where it began constantly producing nothing but meat. With floating meat slowly invading everyone's space, another corner opened up and Iviok grabbed the reverse-ratcheting routing planer.
"Maybe--- I'll get--- one of those--- canon-breaking-- intel ships---"
After amplifying its output and applying it to a data port, Iviok and Caveat found themselves losing consciousness in a sea of glorious meat. Moments later, they blacked out in steak heaven.
---
Later, Iviok, Caveat, Sara and Gondi all awoke in Sickbay, groggy, but bound by gravity and supported by a full atmosphere.
"I quickly grabbed a Benzite respiratory device when things got hazy," Doctor Rubens explained. "It did nothing to prevent me from having Seven of Nine hallucinations."
Everyone looked around in anticipation of a loud noise until finally falling their gaze upon Sara.
"Sara--" Iviok started--
But she slammed her palm against her biobed. "Enough! Enough of everyone talking through me! I am not dream-state Hoshi Sato!"
"I was just going to thank everyone systematically," Iviok offered, "And assure you all that we are going to purchase a new ship, just as soon as we spend a few months on Vlugta, dilithium mining. --Everyone this time; not just me with you all watching on the view screen."
Gondi glanced at everyone. "Captain, this is about us operating within our limits. After all the struggle we continuously put into this junk ship-- working Edward Jellico-level shifts-- just to keep us barely above water in a Tier 5-U/6 Quadrant, I think I speak for all of us when I say, the Jenova is our home-- as painful as it is to live here."
Iviok looked around to the others, who were all confirming with subtle, second-thought-prone nods. Doyanis then entered Sickbay just as everyone was finishing, him holding sole-less boots.
"Well, with barefoot footwear, I was able to feel my stepping on this one non-replicating nanite who must've ejected himself from the Jenova systems during your meat-filled purge. He's, uh... he's dead now."
Caveat grasped his face in terror, "Nannie-- Noooooooooo!"
"Sorry, Cav," Doyanis apologized while dropping the black-dot-looking nanite from his fingertip into Caveat's hand.
Caveat glanced over at Iviok, with sad, pleading eyes. "Torpedo case funeral...?"
"Ugh; fine." Iviok conceded, annoyed.
Things left behind…
Admiral Antonine Revka sat in the main crew cafeteria of her beautiful new ship, looking thoughtful. Around her, the crewman and junior officers continued through their mean, though they occasionally glanced at their reptilian captain as she examined the panel that had been set up. Charlie watch was going on-shift, and the scents of a hundred worlds’ breakfasts wafted around her.
Conversation was muted – she was generally called captain on board by convention, and her command currently didn’t extend beyond the Trafalgar, but her word to Starfleet Command could scuttle or send into warp any poor lieutenant’s career. The crew didn’t know her or her moods yet a scant few weeks into commission, and the whispers grated on her ears. The sound of the ship still wasn’t ‘normal’ either – too quiet, besides the occasional haunted beeping of the Borg components.
Louder still was the Andorian silently stewing at the table next to her. Takerra had been on board during the Guardian-class outfitting while Antonine had been being stuffed with intelligence reports and diplomatic briefings in Paris and San Francisco. Commander Takerra’s had two jobs on board, in her opinion. The first was making sure that the ship operated at a high peak of sustainable efficiency to be able to anticipate and support Admiral Revka’s command style in the drill patterns set down by the Admiral. The other, and occasionally more obvious role, was blasting into particles anything from a knife-wielding thug to a Borg tactical cube that interfered with the former.
Both had thought they were running a ship that was working its way to a level of success far beyond what Starfleet considered acceptable. Antonine had even hoped it was steadily making its way towards a happy ship, even thousands of light years from home facing unknown dangers. She’d loved Constellation, and Antonine’s old crew was determined to put it back together, even if would have a new command crew after the Emissary-class had been stuck on the brutal tip of the Undine spear during the invasion.
She’d been working towards loving the new ship, but without the picked core of before, she was wondering if she’d misjudged the situation or her new duty officers. Was there some tyrant of the lower deck? Some deck officer manipulating events for their advancement? It did happen occasionally, less often than whispered, but still.
For on the panel before them, reconfigured from one of the replicator displays on the wall outside the captain’s private dining room, was a simple list. “Things Crew Members of the Trafalgar are no longer allowed to do:
1: Don’t provoke the Borg.
2: Travelling the Dyson sphere is for science – no ‘buzzing the spire’.
3: The Diplomatic Corps would appreciate if we stop offering to sell Klingon corpses to the Kobali.
4: Don’t provoke the Borg.
5: The ship’s weapons’ bays are highly modular, but work together as a cohesive suite– please no longer offer to replace the beam arrays with ‘thermocyronic radiation catapults with improved accuracy’. You are out of warnings.
6: The graviton generators are no longer allowed to be used in singularity mode near inhabited worlds.
7: Don’t provoke the Borg.
8: Time Travel is a privilege, not a right. The ship will no longer used for meeting celebrities that have passed away.”
Takerra had spotted it when coming down for their weekly status breakfast, and locked the panel until the admiral could investigate. A brief computer investigation showed no entries into the panel directly recently.
“I like seven, but I’m not sure about four,” Antonine mused. Takerra stared at her CO, somewhat surprised. “I take it they want us to stop using the transwarp conduit assault for drills?” She asked.
Takerra shrugged, still appalled, “I suppose – I checked the computer but access logs to the panel have been wiped. I could check the security logs to trace it back but that’d almost have to end in court martial charges.” She looked glum. It wasn’t really a data breach – shipboard concerts were often advertised there. She looked at the list, “I don’t think we’ve done anything like six?”
“Well, maybe astrophysics has been discus-“ Antonine stopped, “Ah, astrophysics.” She leaned back in her chair, looking smug. “She’s after your job still,” the admiral remarked.
“What?” the Andorian was feeling lost at this point, and looked around – she didn’t see the ship’s watch officer for the late shift around, a particularly promising Betazoid lieutenant Antonine had brought on board as a favor to Quinn to help fast-track her. She’d probably be past Antonine’s friends and bridge crew – most of them hadn’t had a chance to technically qualify command track for their positions so they hadn’t had a chance to rise to their own ships yet.
“No, think higher rank and earlier – there’s maybe twelve people on board from when that Voth cruiser at the wrong time cut Constellation’s engines and we nearly hit that control spire on momentum,” Antonine said, then leaned forward, thinking, then sighed. It’d been a rough minute, but Antonine knew her ship’s EPS the way the Andorian knew her plasma banks, and they’d managed to force the impulse coils back into operation. Dramatic, but a minor note in a larger adventure. Takerra would come around and realize the culprit – she would still see this as an attack, but Antonine was considering repair.
“I don’t think we have a choice, Commander – unlock the panel when I’m over there, and we’ll have to leave it unlocked,” she sighed. Ship traditions had started on less, probably. Takerra shrugged, watching closely. She’d had her chance to go get her own ship, but being practically flag captain was nearly as good. She could manage, but the ability to command could only be aped if it wasn’t inherent, and what she wasn’t granted naturally there was still more to learn here.
In view of dozens of crewman and low-ranking officer, Admiral Revka went over to the console, smiled, and tapped in an additional entry.
9: Environmental controls are maintained for crew efficiency, please no more wind tunnels on deck nine.
She could feel the crew leaning in to try and read the words, and Antonine suspected a minor stampede once her and her first officer left the room. Antonine motioned Takerra – it was probably politic to go breakfast elsewhere, and she tapped briefly on a PADD to ask a yeoman to deliver to the office off the flag communications suite, which wasn’t used when they weren’t shepherding frigates. The trick in question was always technically possible, but basically impossible in practice. True enough, she supposed.
Takerra folded her arms, sighing, and made a mental note to inform environmental to expect some odd requests as she followed, and the thought tickled some old comrades loose.
“So, was it our favorite Trill,” The Andorian asked, shaking her head. Commander Dunwen, unjoined, and a science officer more or less plucked from Earth Spacedock when Antonine was a young upstart trying to pull a crew together. She’d been second officer more or less falling into the position, thanks to all the status reports that had to be delivered with the odd phenomena Starfleet kept sending them into.
She’d also been angling for command but had missing some qualifying exams, but was now flying the Luna-class Daystrom somewhere out here in Delta as well. And apparently been cultivating some cyber-warfare experts of some kind, though Takerra was sure her own crew would be able to backtrack from an astrometrics update package or the like.
It was perfectly harmless as pranks went, and Antonine hummed to herself a bit as she worked to the turbolift. She was expecting some amusing entries in the future. Takerra still looked a bit irritated. At a questioning eyeridge, the Andorian blurted as they entered the turbolift, “But how are we going to get her back?”
Things left undone….
D’ellian, of the Orion House of M’ara, a general of good standing, though somewhat less so in her house. Her loose ‘understanding’ with the House of Martok was her current voice in the Great Hall of the High Council. Her interests in shipping and smuggling were minimal and appropriately discrete for a commander in her standing, and she had shown enough care and discretion the KDF had granted her an effective independent command as a privateer.
These were all words well known to Thraak, poorly born to the Gorn warrior caste. D’ellian had offered him an opportunity to engage in the pursuit of knowledge, while still engaging in the bloodshed demanded of his birth. He had thought it had a been a hallucination, when deep in his cups and at loose ends following being paid off his last commission with few prospects, when the green apparition had listened sympathetically and offered a bridge slot. He’d said yes – it was wise to honor potential ancestor spirits, or potentially the waitress. He’d been there for several hours.
Then she had punched him away from the table, force-injected him with an alcohol antagonist kept at hand in the bar (one must always be ready for challenges) and beamed him to her Raptor until he had sobered. Then in the privacy of the sick bay, she’d asked again more seriously, and he’d sworn his service to her crew. It was almost tragically Klingon, the public violence followed by backroom deals. The operas would leave that out, and the desperate spreading of coin by a non-Klingon captain without strong patrons for an even reasonably competent science officer.
Now, he was technically between commissions – if only because their new ship was not ready. D’ellian had been serving as a ‘jobbing captain’ of one of the KDF’s big carriers while its true shipmaster worked with his House leaders on rebuilding the High Council. Clearing Tholians pirates sniffing at Imperial possessions during the chaos had proved lucrative, and the General had been able to arrange a ship to her name whose previous master no longer required it from within Sto’vo’kor’s gates.
The House of Martok had no issues with transferring one of their new Mogh to a non-Imperial Klingon, but the Houses, shorn of guidance, had made noises about a ship whose design had been so legendarily compromised by Starfleet Intelligence being transferred. She was, as such, visiting one of the offworld monasteries on a ritual purification tour.
Or that was the cover story. D’ellian had been unable to describe exactly what sort of mission she was operating on or for whom, one that she had travelled on with only ethnic Klingon members of her crew on a nondescript freighter. The only hint she’d given was to try and secure the nameplate Demonslayer for the ship.
This meant little in terms of target in these times with tortured souls scrabbling to break the Empire, fluid entities from beyond space twisted to mock and mimic good-hearted soldiers, and demons of air and darkness walked through walls of force and metal to strike at the Empire’s heart, but Thraak supposed it was a hint. Or just a good name. His good captain may just be on a mandated interplanetary drinking tour.
He stood now above Q’onos, mighty homeworld of a warrior people, one whose honor was given and taken by acclimation, not by how many people were under them, or even what their birth was. Its ways were often still alien in terms of politics, and without guidance, he was loathe to navigate them. There was always duty, thankfully.
He tapped a panel, and it went from the default trefoil insignia of the Empire to a view of the massive and ever-growing shipyards above the Klingon homeworld. Another tap put the ship he would be serving on in the future, looking still ragged. The ship would not be truly complete until its own heart was active, relying on forcefields more than metal. But it would be done. Even if itss shape did remind him more of the Saurs his cousin raised as guard dogs than the sleek, marine look of most Klingon ships.
He growled slightly and unconsciously. For the first time, this was a ship that could be considered his captain’s, a ship of her own forces seconded to the KDF in the matter of House vessels, instead of a ship belonging to the Council or a temporary posting.
He considered ranking across societies and nodded. She could be considered to have effectively reached Matron status in her own people’s terms, even if she did not describe herself as such. Something was deserved for the effort. She had a crew of aliens whose first instinct was dominance, not from any weakness, but a physiological inability to hit all the glottal stops in tihIngan Hol. But she’d lived among them and risen to mastery on their terms, instead of turning their chains back on themselves, the easier path for her, but she’d risen through the path of military, the strength that lent the Klingons supremacy.
It deserved something, as any noble would on reaching ascension. Rulership spoke across all the Empire’s cultures, it was the concept of warrior that bound all the unconquered races. It deserved to be spoken to. Empowered by the thought, he considered further.
Several hours later, he stirred – he had it. It would require some coin, some discussion with his mess and the other officers, and perhaps some sort of sword. To consider their previous deeds, if broadly. Yes.
General D’ellian returned towards Q’onos, still feeling unclean. It was a quirk of biology, but the Tholians simply felt wrong. Just from what she had been born to, carbon-based life had certain subconscious responses she’d been trained to react on since birth. It’d proven useful in swordsmanship to make up for the lack of brute strength compared to her peers, so she’d kept the practice even after that final argument at home.
But the Empire had lacked information on the current status of itself in the strange Mirror Universe, a quantum where passions seemed to burn even hotter and impulses laid closer to the surface, and yet remained eerily similar to their own. When the distress signal had been received from a Bird of Prey on the surface of a distant planet, lured through the Tholians still-mysterious subspace tunnels, a Bird of Prey that was on no record within the Great Hall, it had demanded investigation. One who was available, could operate without supervision, and one who was unlikely to meet themselves. The status of Orions was not clear in the other Universe, so she would either be unknown, or underestimated.
Personally, she suspected her people were maintaining the Terran Empire’s equivalent of Memory Alpha, dedicated to restraint and their long history, or had else immolated themselves in pursuit of the ultimate pleasure.
Bringing only ethnic Klingons had been the oddest part of her orders, but ethnic Klingons were the only they’d be sure to serve on Mirror vessels if biometric locks had to be…. Confused. And mirror ships, were their subtly different configurations, were often in demand by captains seeking their own confusion. She was used to having more tools available across physiologies for her strike teams. Fortunately, it’d been a simple counterraid against Tholians, and she was looking forward to seeing the rest of her followers and forging her new crew.
The freighter was slow, though she was amused the quarters were more comfortable than the warrior caste allowed themselves on Klingon vessels. On ‘pilgrimage’, she did not have access to the military communication net, and while she had no doubt that the crew that had bled together would work hard towards outfitting their newest ship, there were certainly issues that would require her, either with a pointed word or a blunt bat’leth.
She grinned, but only inwardly. Sure, it looked like the Saurs Thraak’s cousin raised, but it was hers, in ownership and captaincy. Its capabilities would be limited only by what they could win for themselves. It was more than she’d dared dream. Won by her own hand, rather than stolen out from under some other power. The complacency of M’ara had led to the final break.
At long last, the freighter entered transporter range of the shipyard complex, she and her crew beaming to the cradle holding their new ship. She narrowed her eyes. Thraak, long happy for a role she had given him he had trouble finding on his own, calm if not cold-blooded Thraak, and very dependable… was radiating satisfaction. She stopped and studied him. He did not appear intoxicated – which was an easy thing to mask in Gorns, admittedly.
“Commander Thraak? You figured out how to put those prototype weapons in the weapon bays?” she asked hopefully.
“Not a prototype weapon exactly, General. I have considered the situation with the oncoming crew and believe I have a way to deal with oncoming discipline problems.” D’ellian studied her fingernails in an Orion show of unconcern. Thraak knew she was pleased, temporarily then, if she was affecting mannerisms. Discipline was always a concern for Klingons.
D’ellian stood in the lounge, Thraak still radiating some satisfaction, as her Klingon officers made some shocked noises. “I speak for the crew, lord captain,” intoned Thraak, “But I carry your words, spoken and unspoken to them as well.” He grinned, a faintly terrifying prospect, “But sometimes the tales should simply be boasts.” It stood there, inscribed in stone at the back of the lounge, blood flecked – Klingon colored – enameling highlighting the words. Two (holographic) torches had been set up to give proper lighting.
"Things the crew of the Demonslayer are no longer permitted:”
“1: Bloodwine is not a direct substitute for Klingon medical supplies.”
“2: Shore leave with Orions is no longer to be considered broadly.”
“3: Nausicaans no longer to be offered latinum for intervening in private disputes. Blades are in the armory.”
“4: Gorn are no longer to be used from other duties when hand tractors unavailable for quartermaster staff.”
“5: Tactical operations should consider that physical victory over demons is not a metaphysical one.”
“6: The captain baring her teeth is not to be considered an invitation.”
There was, notably plenty of space left to add items. She folded her arms. They’d run into or across, all the situations at some point. Not pleasant memories. But instead, they were simply there, all the anger displayed where the whole crew would see it. War songs or mourning, it would be known and simply be, without having to fight it head on, it’d be known the officers were watching, and expected to watch.
It was an… odd gift, cross-culturally. She eyed Thraak. But it was a gift, certainly, and she could certainly use it. But then, this beyond what honor or duty required in all their societies – what do you get in return for a friend?
Things looking forward….
R.R.W. Ghost Shrike had no relation to Admiral An’riel seh’Virinat. This was important to remember. The Faeht, designed to utilize experimental technology beyond accepted safety limits, was one of the Republic’s newest ships, and certainly fit well with the Admiral’s mission to investigate the Delta Quadrant for traces of Iconian activity. And certainly she’d been asked to consult on the post-Imperial generation of Rihannsu ships, along with the rest of the Republic’s top captains.
But the Ghost Shrike did not have any ties beyond those of its class. A determined operative would be able to find logistics and personnel reports that indicated the ship operated in similar sectors as An’riel’s ship, the battleship Tempestuous Kestrel, and both had been refitted with fruits of the study of Tholian raiders. That was all true. A mere round of drinks with the right dockhand would note the ships had shared dock space, but the Ha’pax was so large a Faeht could easily slip under its broad nacelle pylon, nestled in its wings, so that was fairly sensible if they were being refitted with similar equipment. And it was sensible technology for searching out subspace anomalies with for either ship in the wild and rough Delta Quadrant. Even Starfleet with all its science admitted the Tholians were as skilled with subspace and its fractals as the Rihannsu with gravity.
A skilled and determined operative would be able to dig up twice-encrypted shipyard reports that had mapped and tuned the Shrike’s weapons’ energy emissions to match the larger battleship’s as precisely as possible. That would indeed be suspicious, since the Admiral was very publicly on a Navy mission to chart the surrounding area for Undine, not operating for Republic Intelligence. Certainly, the Kestrel, often after the fact, was reported to have stumbled across and short-circuited operations that were allowing the Alliance to rapidly gain Influence, and the sensor logs proved it being there.
Of course, a well-placed traitor at the heart of Mol’rihan would have access to the Shrike’s mission logs and make the whole thing academic. An’riel reflected on this as she sat on the Ghost Shrike’s narrow bridge, glaring at the engineering repeater. She missed the Great Owl, of course, especially after so much effort into her own refit, but the Sphere needed the Owl’s sensor capabilities with the main Alliance fleet, and the Ghost Shrike’s sensor suite and drone compliment certainly satisfied her urge for situational awareness. And the interaction of new technologies was fascinating, even if her engineering background wasn’t sufficient to understand them all. She knew enough to be frightened, though.
The technology was all a mission to fight in the shadows could ask for. The load out was, to borrow a loanword from her liaison, bananas. (A strange word that rolled off the tongue more musically than most Federation Standard. What a monoculture fruit had to do with things being crazy she was unsure of. She suspected the Trill’s sensor of humor was manifesting tragically late in life and she was being had).
The ship’s weaponry and support systems were designed to accept near-future damage for very short-term gain, or used weapons or techniques so exotic that they weren’t cleared for general fleet use. Its support systems and cargo space for cruising and range were nearly non-existent, and it was the only Republic vessel she’d ever seen that required hot-bunking. It had almost no central coordination of repair or emergency equipment. Like much of Intelligence, it was designed to be support carefully for a long time for a very brief and busy period of activity. Fighting in it felt like being on the razor edge. It was certainly a stiletto designed for a master fencer, hence her as ‘fighting captain’ at least and nominally in charge of its administration.
The crew were pure Intelligence in background though, and that brought back uncomfortable memories of other ships. They were perfectly polite, if not downright obsequious. The crew spoke in low whispers to her, seeing only Hakeev’s slayer, and never the long healing periods and damage from her work to undermine the Tal Shiar. Their ship training had been secondary, though they were all technically Navy. D’tan wasn’t going to make the mistake of giving a top secret intelligence apparatus weapons of war without some check.
She was happy to help them out in the role of temporary captain. She had the tactical understanding to use all that crazed weaponry, and she had a few tricks with support systems that couldn’t be directed out of a singular console that o. And her experience meant she had the right strategic view to support the ship’s missions and develop training regimens. But she was happily a visitor on the ghostly ship, and spent most of her time on the Kestrel.
She glanced at the viewscreen, showing the massive Advanced Warbird streaming on, its skin highlighted by the tetryon and tachyon emissions of its Tholian deflector grid. It was still slow at impulse despite all their efforts, but all the supplies of the Shrike could be hidden aboard. Its massive warp field helped mask the small ship nicely as well, and saved them the expense of cramming quantum slipstream inducers on an overloaded hull. And, the Kestrel had cheerfully stumbled across several incidents, besides the pre-planned maneuvers to be at two places at once.
That was the whole point, after all. The true enemy still remained hidden despite their efforts. Every effort of confusion and underestimating their presence here was needed. And a ship the size of the Kestrel could make the long trip home if needed, so they were covering a bet of the loss of a ship with another bet.
She was confident the scheme would work out. She guessed, since it made no sense to officially know, that Jarok had some similar schemes on that monstrosity of hers to keep attention off other assets. She was damn sure it wasn’t the only Borg half-breed the Republic had sent this deep into the quadrant, but the flagship was too vital to not keep tracked, and it was becoming clear even with the gates, the Iconian resources were not limitless.
Still, she’d be happy to head back after this latest mission to confuse time on target. They’d be breaking off soon. Tovan would have the Kestrel keep a Talaxian trading outpost intact from a Vaadwaur time-on-target attack they’d uncovered. It was vital, but straightforward, they’d gotten a good read on what the Vaadwaur were able to accomplish were their boosted technology. Fortunately, their tactics had not yet caught up with their capabilities.
And while the Talaxians (Nice people, loquacious generally, but as the survivors of an absolutely ruined military empire, she understood their new cultural desire to please. It was certainly a more healthy direction to go than the Vaadwaur had, but she’d seen both reactions far too closely in her own fallen empire) were being saved and being allowed to continue their own subtle but vital force towards unifying the Quadrant, the Shrike would be shattering the supply depot the strike was from at the same time.
The recriminations in Vaadwaur command alone would probably slow expansion in the sector. The scramble to set up a new base would give more time to find the real heart of their power. Such did the Rihannsu uncover and destroy their enemies.
All was understandable, and An’riel knew her younger self would be very disappointed in herself right now. Here she was, an unthinkable distance from home, working with ancient enemies in a ship of wonders and technology undreamed of, and she was reminding herself again and again that, by public word, she was not here and this ship was not hers. It helped, to think of it as not hers. She would never understand Intelligence, clearly, as they’d obviously found the list in the warbird’s tiny cube of a galley amusing:
“Things the R.R.W. Ghost Strike’s crew is no longer allowed to do:
1: Propose ways to reverse engineer Borg technology. Working with nanoprobes never ends well. They are lively and they don’t like us. Stop asking.
2: Elaborate holo-simulations faking time delay and amnesia to gain the trust of enemy combatants always forget some detail. They are short-term use only.
3: It is not all a Tal Shiar plot.
4: It also isn’t all a Starfleet plot.
5: Or an Iconian plot.
6: We don’t know why Starfleet is scared of dragons, but stop making their captains twitch by saying the word ‘Drake’.
7: Remember, just because our enemies of a year ago are our friends doesn’t mean they will be our enemies again. Stop spying on our neighbors.
8: At least, stop spying so badly.
“
And so, it was easier to face the enemy and the threat of destruction, because they didn’t worry her quite as much as those at her back.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
With this, I wanted something darker; having Azulas voice for Adani gave me a great but creepy idea. Hope you guys enjoy. Trigger warnings: Torture (Ive been very careful to avoid graphic descriptions of organ damage and such, but still torture), mentions of r*pe, and Hakeev. Seriously, this is dark, and contains the most openly monstrous character in the game played absolutely straight with his more comedic aspects minimized. Ive been careful to avoid graphic stuff, but there is still implied horror.
Cast:
Rahaen'Enriov Adani ir'Aethra t'Harvannsu, CO, ch'M'R Bhath'rhienn: Grey DeLisle.
Riov Ameh ir'Tanat tr'Shaien, flag commander, ch'M'R Bhath'rhienn: Harrison Page.
Erei'Riov Kadel ir'Virinat t'Aanikh, operations officer, ch'M'R Bhath'rhienn: Morena Baccarin.
Enarrain Rai i'Ra'tleihfi t'Liun, tactical officer, ch'M'R Bhath'rhienn: Jennie Kwan.
Lieutenant Commander Tialana sh'Shrall, sensor officer, ch'M'R Bhath'rhienn: Jenette Goldstein.
Dtrel irAehallah: Linda Hamilton circa Terminator 2.
Hakeev: Dave Rivas (kudos for an magnificently excellent evil overlord performance, there).
ch'Rihan. Equivalent of June 2362.
D'trel rushed in, the others just starting to discuss Ambassador Spock's latest speech.
"They're coming. Tal Shiar."
The others were stunned into silence for a moment, and then they moved as one, some swearing, some grimly silent. D'trel didn't bother with picking up important papers and such as the others did; there was only one thing that was important to her.
"Adani, come on! I'll take you to the escape hatch, we can get out if we go now!"
"Some last weekend before our bonding this turned out to be," said Adani, always looking on the bright side.
"Yes. Come on, we have to run!"
Maiel ir'Kesslan screamed, and fell to the floor with a smoking hole in his back. A bald, thickset young man strode in, plasma pistol smoking, a dozen Tal Shiar stormtroopers behind him.
"Attention, Unificationist traitors! I am Subcommander Hakeev of the Tal Shiar! Surrender, and your deaths will be quick!"
Arrhae i'Hatham stood, pulling out a knife. "We will never surrender. We know what awaits us. You can take our lives, but you can never take our..."
Hakeev shot her in the face.
D'trel grabbed Adani and hauled her bodily into a side passage as the room exploded in screams, shouts of defiance, and plasma fire behind her.
"In here! They damaged my beacon when they tried to force the door, so it looks like you're the only one making this trip. Remember, don't try to stop the fall, just drop through the sensor and you'll be transported to a safe location near the spaceport."
"D'trel..."
"Not now, dearest." D'trel tapped in a quick code and opened the hatch. "Don't worry, I can make it out. You know me, I killed a mogai once. I'll be fine!"
Boots clapped against the floor in the tunnel. Adani was close, clutching D'trel.
"Jol-ao au, e'lev."
"Jol-ao au, my sahe'lagge. Now come on, they're almost to the door!"
D'trel felt something snap around her right wrist as something, Adani's foot, hit her legs.
Adani felt a wave of relief as D'trel fell backwards. She was dead, but D'trel at least would...
D'trel grabbed her wrist and the edge of the chute's hatch, arresting her fall before she could tumble into the opening. She lunged forwards; Adani had never been the fighter, D'trel always had. The hawk-faced Rihanha tried to counter her shorter lover's trip, but she was too slow, and then she was on the ground, gasping for breath.
"I love you," whispered D'trel in her ear, deftly slipping the transponder bracelet back onto Adani's wrist. "Move on from me, alright? I love you forever, let that be enough."
Adani tried to struggle, tried to even say No, but she was still wheezing and disoriented, and D'trel, always so strong, was heaving her into the chute.
The last thing Adani saw before the transporter took her was her lover being grabbed around the neck and hauled back by someone's hand.
Virinat colony. 2409.
Keep the rifle up, kid!
Adani spared half an ear for her former commanders exhortations as she, the old man, and the kid in question (a young Havran woman whod been raised by trAanikh down the street and his wife when her birth parents had died shortly after her birth) moved swiftly but cautiously across the flaming wreckage of the town square.
Adani plugged a TalShiar sniper as the man stood, Ameh covering her and the kid as she moved forward.
Old man, watch the flanks.
Who are you calling old? chuckled the beefy Rihan man, still fit despite his graying hair. Ive got a good thirty years in me yet!
Aue, rekkhai. Of course. You still arent as young as you used to be, though.
That is a demonstrable fact, said the career security officer with a snicker in his voice. Kid, watch the sky; those drones are fast but if we watch for them we might just get them.
Her names Kadel, said Adani absently as she walked forward, checking ahead for more TalShiar. Ameh, I think we can
Then a drone grabbed her, and she was being lifted
Ameh irTanats rifle took the drone in its power core with pinpoint accuracy, and Adani dropped.
Nice save, old man! she managed, rolling back into a crouch.
Yeah! Ive still--
GET DOWN! screamed Kadel, pulling the Rihan man down just as a plasma bolt blazed over his head, where his chest had been moments before. Kadel and Adani both fired back, and the TalShiar man died without even a scream.
Move! barked Ameh, pulling himself to his feet with speed and agility that belied his graying hair and built physique. Good save, kid, now lets get to the shuttle!
They bolted, Adani covering the flanks now as Ameh pulled the kid along ahead. It wasnt a long run; barely a quarter-mile, but in this hell-hole that had been their home that was an eternity.
Uncle! Up here!
Get in the shuttle, boy! Ameh snapped to his wifes nephew, that swarthy kid trKhev who liked all things Human, as they tore up the slope and into the waiting shuttle. Adani, youre a better pilot and a better space commander than I am, get us the ariennye out of here!
On it, the Rihanha replied, shoving herself past the ten or so people already huddled in the runabout. Strap in, Im skipping preflight clearance.
The shuttle lifted off, and weapons fire from that strange alien ship blazed around them, but Adani threw the shuttle sideways, ramming the thrusters and blasting right past the sound barrier. From the crash and sound of curses from the back, someone, likely trKhev, had not been strapped in and had been flung into a wall. Damn outdated inertial dampeners.
Water, boy! What did I tell you about strapping in?
Ameh, where did you and the Riov leave the ship the last time you took it out? Adani had them out of the atmosphere now, and the alien ship wasnt pursuing, thank the Elements. Three other shuttles limped up alongside them.
Asteroid belt! Near one of the larger ones, powered down but with the autopilot programmed for collision prevention.
Thank you.
She keyed the comm, and passed the directions on.
Kadel, Ops. Ameh, weapons. trKhev, either get on sensors or get your rear down to Engineering and keep the core stable. Clear?
Aue, rekkhai, Kadel said with a salute as Ameh grunted in acknowledgement and trKhev nodded with a certain degree of surliness.
They had barely made it a light-minute when the Dderidex-class battlecruiser decloaked in front of them.
Ariennye!snarled Ameh irTanat. Adani, that ship wouldve outgunned us ten to one in the DNneikha War, we dont stand a chance. Ill bet that theyre faster than us at warp, too.
Rekkhai? Kadel spoke up. Were being hailed. Transponder says chR Khnial.
On screen.
What have we here? gloated Hakeev. A few Unificationist traitors, fleeing to their precious Federation? Some Republic terrorist scum, maybe? No matter. I am Colonel Hakeev of the Tal Shiar, and Im going to enjoy interrogating you
OPEN FIRE!!!!! Adani screamed. Ameh irTanat reacted without thinking.
Hakeev, being profoundly arrogant, had left his shields down. One of chR Ravons quantum torpedoes took chR Khnial directly in the bow; it wasnt enough to destroy or seriously damage the massive ship, but it was enough to send Hakeev flying off of the viewscreen with a scream.
Keep shooting, snarled Adani. Strike to disable; I want the one called Hakeev alive!
Wait, said Ameh slowly, turning in his seat. Is that him?
Yes, snarled the Rihanha. I will find out what he did to my Dtrel, and Ill make him feel every single thing that he did to her. And then, if Im satisfied, I will allow him to die.
MY EYE!!! screamed Hakeev, clawing his way back onto the viewscreen. You will pay for that! Fire everything! Annihilate
Another warbird, this one a sleek, hawk-like Dhelan-class, dropped out of warp on Khnials flank as its shields raised, and Adani had enough sense left to tear the Ravon sideways in a diving turn.
Republic filth! snarled Hakeev. Crush them! Target the Republic ship, fire everything!
Alarms blared on the enemy vessel as Adani and Ameh harried the massive warbirds flanks.
Sir! screamed a man on the TalShiar ship. That first torpedo took out the secondary command processor! Shields arent redistributing properly and we cant aim our weapons!
NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! DAMNED REPUBLIC SCUM!!!!! Hakeev paused to take a breath, still clutching his damaged eye. Retreat! This isnt over, rebel scum! I will have my revenge!
Six months later
In the depths of space, nothingness moved.
Inside the pocket of nothing, there was a ship. A broad-winged, hawklike ship, with the High Rihan words chMR BhathRhienn painted on its predatory prow, the sleek, feather-patterned wings scorched by recent disruptor fire.
On the Bridge, Tialana Tia shShrall, sensor officer on the ship she knew as RRW Bloodfang, passed a mug of genuine Thavrau Wineries Romulan ale to her CO.
Ah! Thank you, said Commander Ameh irTanat gratefully, accepting his mug with a smile.
No problem, sir, said Tia, taking her seat. I figured that youd need it after that fight. Wheres the Admiral, anyway?
Interrogation room, said the older Romulan man shortly.
What, with Hakeev? What does she want with that ice-cursed f*cker?
He killed her lover.
Ah. Nasty. Whos watching the interrogation?
Nobody. And if anyone on this ship values their hide itll stay that way. Security chief Rai tLiun looked up at that, objection in her eyes, but Tia spoke up first.
Sir...you know I cant be
You dont get it, said Ameh, his voice hard as he put down his mug. First, this isnt Starfleet. Second, that man deserves every bit of what hes going to get and then some, and our culture considers revenge to be permissible. Legal, too. Third, the enriov is a Rihanha. You know how Vulcans have extremely strong emotions, have to keep everything repressed?
Yes, but
Were the same way. We came up with mnheisahe and such social protocols as an iron law to keep us from tearing our society apart. Losing her lover was everything to Adani. Ive known her longer than any of you, and Im saying right now that for her own sanity she needs to face this man, face this moral abyss, and make her decision.
Rekkhai, said Rai. Fleet protocol states
No, snapped operations chief Kadel. We let her do this, and we clean up the mess. And if she comes out bad, we take it to the KhreEnriov and he makes her disappear. Thats how it was handled in the Galae in the better years, thats how we do it now.
Shes going to kill him, said Tia. I dont deny that Hakeevs beyond a monster, but we need him alive.
Heh, chuckled Ameh irTanat mirthlessly. She made him a promise, Andorian. Hell live. At least until she gives him her permission to die.
Heres how were going to do this, said the woman, after jabbing the sixth knife into Hakeevs arm. Youre going to tell me what I want. Every time you refuse, I add a knife. If necessary, I will bring medical assistance. You may only die when I allow you to do so. Im not the brave one, like Dtrel was. Im a coward, Hakeev. Im weak. And when weak people break...we come back wrong.
Hakeev laughed, despite the pain. Youll have to do a lot more than this to make me talk, rebel scum.
They reached fourteen knives before Hakeev agreed to talk. Not because of the pain, per se, but more because of boredom. And, of course, the game.
Heres what youre going to tell me, said the woman. Forty-seven years, three months, and four days ago, you raided a Unificationist cell on chRihan. There was a woman there, short, brown hair. She would have been caught by your thugs by an escape chute.
Which day was this? asked Hakeev, coughing blood. And what time, what district? I can think of a number of possibilities.
Central city, around high noon. Fifth day of the month.
Youre really going to have to be more clear, wheezed Hakeev, every jolt causing a flare of agony. We got a lot of short brunettes.
Another knife was added to his leg. Hakeev screamed.
Her name was Dtrel, scum. What did you do to her?
Why did you add the knife? That was a busy day! He screamed again.
Answer the question.
Dtrel...yes, I remember her. I think. We took all of the women from that group, did standard procedure. Strap them to the table, r*pe them until they died. I let Dorak have his little amateur surgery fun on a few of them--Dorak isnt quite right in the head, you see. Merik took some video--Merik always has liked his art.
Why? Ah. There was the emotion, the choked realization of the woman as she realized that not only was Hakeev beyond evil, but that he was turning her into him. Elements, he loved that.
Its fun, said Hakeev with bald honesty. I like hurting people. I like violating people. Sometimes wed strap one of the prisoners down and make them watch the others die. Oh, those were the days
The woman stumbled back, and Hakeev craned his head as best he could. Her eyes were wide, and she was looking alternately at him and at her own hands.
Hakeev smiled.
Everyones got to have a hobby, you know, said Hakeev. And its good to enjoy your job, yes? He spat up a little more blood. One of his lungs was punctured, but he could survive for a while yet. So thats what I do. My duty is my hobby. I like to hurt people until I break them. I think I remember the one youre talking about, actually. She lasted five whole days of constant, intense pain before she died on us; Dorak always thought it was by sheer will. Elements. She was beautiful. She didnt scream much, but the reward of coaxing them out was so
She turned and ran, rushing out the door with an arm over her mouth.
Hakeev turned back to look at the ceiling. And smiled.
Tia Shrall looked up as the turbolift door chimed.
You good? asked Ameh irTanat warily as he stood up.
It took High Admiral Adani a full three seconds to respond.
No.
Do we need to dispose of him?
No. Ariennye no. Death is far, far too good for him. I cant I saw what he wanted, in that smile. He doesnt just like hurting people, he likes making them as awful as he is. I I almost did it. Elements, I was doing it, I was torturing him, and he just looked at me
Fire, whispered Rai. Kadel, you ever see her like this? The Reman shook her head wordlessly.
I need to get a therapist, said Adani, still in that awful hollow voice. I need I need to never even consider that again. Ameh, old friend. I want you to promise me if I ever start behaving like him, if I ever torture someone or do anything even remotely like what I was going to do...put a disruptor bolt between my eyes. I cant I wont be that person.
Understood, sir, said Ameh irTanat. I will make some arrangements.
Tia Shrall watched, unable to think of anything to even possibly say, as the High Admiral, moving like a woman who had been utterly broken, stumbled to her ready room and set the lock.
And that, said Ameh irTanat, is why we let her face the abyss.
The Ministry of Justice hanged Hakeev two weeks later. The Admiral didnt attend. Tia wasnt entirely sure why, but she was beginning to understand the general idea.
“So we’re still not sure, Captain Kanril. Lieutenant Zara thinks the problem’s in the interface connections, Kora Lorn thinks it’s an EPS issue, and Captain Kurland is starting to think it’s a case of PEBCAC.”
“‘PEBCAC’?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at the dark-skinned Perikian in the chair to my right.
“‘Problem exists between console and chair’,” Staff Sergeant Morai answers with a grin. I snort into my glass of kava juice.
“Has anybody considered that the wormhole itself might be acting up?” Ro suggests from across the table. “I mean, I’m just a shooter, not a squint, but—”
“It’s a possibility,” I allow, wiping my face off on my sleeve. “Phekk, if it is, the Prophets had awesome timing, what with this conference and all.”
“Mm,” Ro grunts. “Speaking of which, how are we doing on the additional security?”
Commander Andrews, an older brown-haired human woman with an accent, answers, “Conference room and Ops are being swept for bugs at random intervals, your 4th Regiment, 2nd Battalion is all here and in position, and the guns are fully manned.”
“I guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, then,” the graying woman answers with a nod. Andrews stands and we stand with her. Ro raises her right palm to the side of her face and the rest of us quickly follow.
“General,” she acknowledges, returning the Militia salute as a courtesy.
A blue-and-gold light illuminates the Deep Space 9 wardroom as Andrews leaves. “There it goes again,” I comment, glancing up. The Celestial Temple is swirling open as if there’s a ship coming through, but nothing emerges or enters. After a few moments the aperture swirls shut again.
“Maybe the Prophets have gas or something, Captain,” Ro suggests in a sarcastic tone. I don’t dignify it with a response. Brigadier General Ro Laren’s an atheist and she’s been a bit of a thorn in my side since I landed the gig here at DS9 two years ago.
Oh, well. Least I’m back in the black again, even if I don’t get to go anywhere. Beats being stuck dirtside.
I finish my kava juice, salute Ro’s rank, and leave the wardroom, making my way to the Promenade.
The place bustles with activity and I find it easy to lose myself in the crowd. I stop by a street vendor and pass him my credit card for a jumja stick and take a lick. “Huh, what’s with the flavor? It’s bitter.”
“I’m trying a new flavor, Captain Kanril,” the Hathoni woman in the kiosk answers. “New import from the Republic, khellid honey.”
“Maybe go a little lighter next time, Shegu.”
Then I hear a thud and a crash from downspin. “Ql’yah! Stupid, incompetent verengan!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—Help!”
I swear, pass the jumja stick to Shegu, and force my way through the crowd, drawing my sidearm as I go. A small crowd is gathered around an enraged Klingon who has a terrified Hadron backed up against the wall with his bat’leth. I don’t recognize the Klingon from the local consulate which means he’s probably part of the ambassadorial guard detail. A pair of boxes are on the floor, one with blue liquid starting to seep through.
“I’m going to bleed you like a stuck targ!” the Klingon snarls into the Ferengi barman’s face.
“Nononononono don’t hurt meee!”
Then I jam the barrel of my phaser pistol into the back of the Klingon’s head and he stiffens. “Station Security,” I announce conversationally. “Drop it or I drop you.”
“Officer, this verengan—”
“—is not worth ending up in ghe’tor for being shot in the back. Drop. Your. Sword.”
The meter-plus of steel clangs to the textured polymer floor and I shift the pistol to his back and tap my combadge. “Captain Kanril to Security. I got a two-forty at Promenade Forty-Six. Requesting backup.” I pat down the Klingon, retrieving a small arsenal. Two d’k tahg, a disruptor pistol, four throwing knives, a cosh, even a pair of grenades I found stuffed down his pants, and I’m going to have to wash my hands after this guy. “You guarding Ambassador S’taass or occupying the station, taHqeq?” I back away. “Turn around.”
He turns, all right; he turns and roars, charging me, Hadron completely forgotten. I sidestep, trip him, and as he falls past I drop the pistol and snatch his arm, planting a knee in his back and twisting his arm behind him. “Let’s see, that’s one count of assault and now one of assaulting a law officer, and half a dozen weapons charges. You’re under arrest, *sshole.”
He curses at me, starts to struggle, then he roars in pain as I pull his elbow hard to the left. “I’ll break it,” I warn him, then reach around my back for a set of zipcuffs. “You do not have to say anything, and anything you say may be used against you. Remaining silent may also be used as supplementary evidence. You have the right to contact a family member or acquaintance and an attorney regarding your arrest, and you may be held seventy-eight standard hours without charge. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?” He growls. “Answer the question!” I bellow in his ear as I snap the cuffs on him.
“Yes,” he grits out.
“Make way! Ma’am, we got this,” Gunny Boaol Umjohn says, pushing through the crowd. The gold-uniformed man from Dahkur Province grabs the Klingon and hauls him up and away. He’s one of my peacekeepers; he’ll make sure I get the credit for the collar.
“What the phekk happened, ma’am?” his partner PFC. Brohm asks me.
I shrug and flick a thumb at the Ferengi, who’s dusting himself off. “Ask Hadron. I was over at Shegu’s getting a snack when he started yelling.”
“I was carrying two cases of Romulan ale and I couldn’t see where I was going!” he says. “Ran into him by accident and he starts… Oh no! Half of these are broken! Quark’ll fire me!”
I turn around, hands on my hips, and smile at him. “If he does, come to me and I’ll break his legs for you.”
“You mean that?”
I give him the hairy eyeball. “You think of me as a woman who makes idle threats, Hadron?”
“Uh, no.”
“Good. Private, grab one of the cases and help him. You!” I point to two of the grayshirts who came with her. “Start taking witness statements. I want to nail this guy to the wall.”
“Ma’am.”
I go back for my jumja stick and then head for a turbolift. “Habitat ring.” A five-minute walk later and I’m at my quarters.
I pull my gold Security uniform jacket off and head into the bathroom for a shower. Naturally that’s when the comm goes off. I answer it in my undershirt, snapping into a salute for Captain Kurland. “Sir. Thought you’d be a little busy getting ready for the conference.”
“Yeah, I got a complaint from Ambassador S’taass about you arresting one of his bodyguards.”
“Tell him I said to take it up with the Home Affairs Minister,” I retort, going to the replicator for a synthale. “I got the guy in the act. Security cameras, thirty-some-odd witnesses…”
He sighs. “I know. I’m not disputing it was a good arrest, but, you know, diplomatic immunity. The guy’s out.”
“Figures!” I yell over my shoulder. “Look, phekk’ta Klinks think the galaxy’s theirs and they can do as they please. Well, not on my station!”
“It’s my station, Chief Kanril,” he answers with a modicum of amusement. He sighs. “Bajor’s probably going to declare the guy persona non grata but we can’t charge him.”
“I don’t honestly give a flying phekk. This war is their fault; they can damn well live with the consequences.” I let out a breath. “I really don’t think this conference is going to change anything, not even after the Borg took out the entire Thirteenth Fleet at Vega two years ago.”
“Well, you’re a real ray of sunshine.”
“I’m a realist,” I retort, taking a drag on my synthale. “J’mpok doesn’t want peace and as much as I like Ambassador Lizard-Breath, he’s going to toe the party line, at least in public.” I gulp down another mouthful of beer and wipe my mouth on my sleeve before reaching under the counter for something to spike it up. I hate the fake buzz from synthohol; one of these days I gotta remember to get a few real booze patterns from Hadron.
Kurland grunts noncommittally. “Are you guys at least ready to provide security? The conference is tomorrow.”
I finish putting my impromptu boilermaker together. “Well, if this afternoon demonstrated anything, it demonstrated we can keep the Klingons from causing trouble.”
“All right. Oh, one other thing. The Romulans are sending one of their senior commanders, woman by the name of t’Thavrau.”
“Was she on the list?”
“Last-minute addition.”
“All right, I’ll pass the word to my people to expect…”
“D’deridex-class battlecruiser, RRW Bloodwing. She’ll be here tomorrow morning. I want you to liaise with her.”
“Can do. Anything else?” The human shakes his head. “Then can I go take a shower?”
“Yes, you can go take a shower,” he chuckles. “Good night, Chief Kanril.”
A shower and a boilermaker later I slip into my civvies and head back out to the Promenade for dinner at this new Romulan place that’s opened up in the last couple weeks. Dirin Kos meets me there and I jump into the big dark-skinned Wyntaran’s arms with a squeal and attack his mouth. “Good to see you,” I tell him after we break the kiss.
“I’m here for a couple of days,” he says, putting me down and guiding me to a booth in the corner.
A waitress, short blonde Romulan, meets us there. “Shaoi ben. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Mnean stheirhn kre kheh’irhor u’hlai’vnau akhiy,” I order. The Romulan takes it down on her PADD.
“Since when do you speak Romulan, El?” Kos asks in surprise.
“Since this restaurant opened up,” I joke as the Romulan moves off. “Learned it in officer school.”
“That’s what, four languages now?” I nod. “You’ve got a real knack.”
I change the subject. “So, how’s the Tzenkethi border?”
“Actually Captain Takar wants to try our luck, make a run to Klaestron IV.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” He’s cargomaster.
“We can make a profit, and it’s a shorter haul than the Omega Piscium transfer station. So what have you been up to, El?”
“Oh, the usual.” I start counting off on my fingers. “Two assaults, four burglaries, Garak’s got vandalized by the Circle again, and… oh yeah, one indecent exposure.”
He looks up at the last one. “Hm?”
“Impromptu lapdance at Quark’s. Kanar was involved.”
The waitress comes back with our ales and I take a sip. Strong stuff and not particularly well-brewed, makes my eyes water.
Kos and I talk about sports and politics and random nonsense as a course of hlai’vnau and another of jumbo mollusk come and go. A spicy soufflé with icing makes up our dessert and we amble back to my apartment. I kiss him hungrily at the door. “Shera out?” he whispers.
“Planetside visiting family,” I answer huskily, pulling him inside.
My alarm goes off way too early—Kos kept me up pretty late, not that I’m complaining—and I swing my legs off the bed and dig my dress blues out of the closet.
“Official function?” Kos asks from behind me.
“Kurland wants me to meet the Romulan Republic delegation.”
“So that’s why you picked that restaurant.”
“Just wanted to try the place.” I settle a sports bra into place and pull on my undershirt, then the royal blue dress uniform top, then I step back to the bed and lean into Kos for a kiss. He pulls me head to him and squeezes my breast and I have to half-fight to get away. “Let go, I gotta go to work,” I tell him, laughing.
“See you this evening?”
“Absolutely,” I agree, kissing him again. “Also, I got some leave coming. We could go somewhere nice on Bajor when you get back from Klaestron IV.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I grab a hasperat from the replicator and munch on it on my way to one of the shuttlepads, where a Romulan Kestrel-class runabout sits idling on the other side of the airlock. A slim, weatherbeaten-looking Romulan woman with a couple patches of silver at the temples strides through the door in blue and gold robes. A sword is buckled at her waist. “Aefvadh, Riov t’Thavrau,” I say in formal Rihan, bowing.
“You speak my language quite well,” she answers in Federation Standard. She’s got a light accent and sounds impressed at my lack of one.
“Thank you. I’m Captain Kanril Eleya of the Bajoran Militia, station security chief. Captain Kurland’s getting ready for the conference but he sends his regards.”
She nods. “I believe we’re short on time?”
I nod. “Follow me, please. Back to your stations,” I tell the honor guard.
Well, Kurland said ‘liaise’, but it doesn’t seem like she needs me. I drop the Romulan at the conference room and head back to the security office to do some paperwork. One of my peacekeepers comes through hauling some alien from the Gamma Quadrant I don’t recognize that stinks of alcohol. “Drunk tank?”
“Drunk and disorderly, ma’am,” the lance corporal answers.
“Drunk tank.” I glance at her as she goes by. Red hair, tanned, works out. Could be me at that age.
Then sirens start going off. “The phekk?” I grab my sidearm and stab vest and run out the door.
The gateway to the Celestial Temple is open again, only this time there are ships coming through, a lot of them. Can’t tell what at this distance but everyone’s going nuts so it can’t be good. I hit my combadge. “Kanril to Ops! Andrews, what the phekk is going on?”
“Jem’Hadar! Jem’Hadar vessels on an attack vector, a lot of them! Their weapons are hot and they’re not responding to our hails!”
“Sher hahr kosst! Defense?”
“There’s too many of them; we need to evacuate! Chief, I need your authorization to—”
“Already on it! Broadcast an evac plan to all ships in the vicinity!” I key my combadge and link it to the P.A. system as I run for the conference room, taking a deep breath to steady my voice. “Attention, this is Security Chief Kanril. Attention. Deep Space 9 is under attack, and likely to be overrun. Starship crews currently in the vicinity may consider themselves deputized into the Bajoran Militia as evacuation ships. Failure to comply is punishable by thirty years on a penal colony! Starfleet and Militia personnel, prepare to repel boarders!” I stop in the security office to get the cells cleared out and grab my rifle and every deputy in the place, then continue to the turbolift, fishing my bayonet out from inside my uniform and fixing it under the barrel as I go.
The dignitaries are already on their way out of the room and blood drips from the big Gorn ambassador’s right hand. “Madam Ambassador, you okay?”
“It’s not mine,” she answers. “Admiral Trem is dead but I avenged him.”
“All right, come on!”
We force our way out onto the Promenade, Jem’Hadar already beaming in through the station’s shields. Overhead and below I can hear the thunder of the weapons emplacements and outside the sky is lit up with lances and bolts of light in orange, purple, and green.
A Jem elder unshrouds in front of me, his kar’takin raised to split me in half, and I bayonet him without slowing down. As I kick his dead weight loose from my rifle I hear steel sing behind me and glance over my shoulder. Seems the Romulan’s sword wasn’t purely ceremonial.
“Where are we going?” Kurland asks, grabbing a rifle off the Jem’Hadar that t’Thavrau killed.
“My shuttle has a cloaking device. It will not stand up to the Jem’Hadar in such numbers but we can use it to get through the shield and get to the Bloodwing.”
“Shuttlepad Three,” I agree. I grab the other Jem’s rifle off him and throw it to a Starfleet crewman who’s just got a pistol, while t’Thavrau grabs a pistol, and we head off down the corridor.
A Jem in a stall to the left fires into a group of civilians. I fire a burst and miss and he ducks behind cover again. The big Gorn ambassador charges his position and rips the door off its hinges; the Jem never has a chance. I hear a whine above us, swivel, and spit one on the catwalk through the head with a golden yellow lance. “Above us!” I throw Ambassador Skyl into the wall as Kurland and t’Thavrau fire, downing four of the five warriors; the other goes flat.
“Kanril!” S’taass shouts, tossing an object to me. Jem’Hadar cloaking mine; Starfleet calls it a Houdini. I flick it to proximity detonation and toss it into a clump of Jem’Hadar that just beamed in at the replimat and it goes off with a loud crump; gore and shrapnel sprays everywhere.
Another pair of Jems beams in right in front of us. I block a kar’takin strike with my rifle and kick the Jem in the knee with my boot; he grunts in pain and I knee him in the stomach and throw him off-balance. Out of the corner of my eye I see t’Thavrau fling her robes up to blind her opponent while she swings her sword and buries it halfway through his torso, then spins and headshots my Jem with her appropriated pistol. I shove the half-decapitated trunk out of my way. “Thanks!”
“You’re welcome.”
I turn my and see Kurland in a fistfight with one of them, weapons forgotten, and shoot the Jem in the back. “Way’s clear; let’s move!”
We battle our way down to where some of the guys from the 4th have set up a barricade at the passageway to the docking arms. T’Thavrau leads the way to her runabout. “Move! Move! Move!” Ambassador Skyl pushes past me. “Gunny! Get those civilians in here!” Gunny Baoal hand-signals and a dozen more people cram inside. “Okay, we’re full! Come on!”
Then a Jem beams in behind him, kar’takin raised, and buries it in the top of his head. “No!”
Flashback to ten years ago. PFC. Davos with a knife in his chest. I force myself back to the present and fire, hitting the Jem square in the chest and throwing him against the far wall. The door slides shut and the airlock tunnel falls away, and the lights dim as the shuttle cloaks.
Then the dark sky opens above us and the runabout leaps skyward, dodging low across the station’s docking arms and burning hard for space. I force my way through the people crowded into the cabin and take a seat next to t’Thavrau.
In the distance I can see the emerald-green double hull and beak of her D’deridex-class hanging in the black. Beams in glittering green snap out from its emitters, swatting fighters and attack ships out of the sky. “Bareldak to Aen’rhien,” the Romulan next to me says in Rihan. “We are inbound.”
“Understood. We’re coming to you. Wait, watch it! Jemhhadarsu warbird, coming in!”
An indicator panel lights up and t’Thavrau throws the ship into a corkscrew turn as the enemy ship, one of their bat-winged battlecruisers, opens fire. Bluish purple polaron bolts pass where we were two seconds ago. “I thought we were cloaked!” Kurland exclaims from behind us.
“Antiproton sweep,” she says by way of explanation. “They pioneered it, we copied it.”
“Rekkhai,” the voice named tr’Sauringar says as the lumbering warbird starts to yaw towards us, “on my mark, come high right. Three, two, one, mark!”
T’Thavrau pulls back on the stick and swings us to the right as her battlecruiser’s forward batteries blaze green and terajoules of energy blast into space. Triple streams of light reach across the void, ripping a hole into the shields for the salvo of plasma torpedoes that follows. A wing tears off the Jem’Hadar vessel in the silence, air, debris, and bodies spilling into the vacuum. The guns fire again, skewering the hole and ripping through to the other side, continuing on into space to skitter off Deep Space 9’s shields, now constantly a-glitter from the Jem’Hadar bombardment.
No more Jems pursue us as we make our approach to the hangar on deck five, the shields dropping for five seconds as we pass between the dual hulls. “Your orders, Riov Kurland?” t’Thavrau asks as the autopilot brings the runabout into a docking cradle.
“We’ve got to get the diplomats to Bajor. Closest safe harbor and as far as I know their non-aggression pact with the Dominion is still in force.”
“Hey, t’Thavrau,” I say, grabbing her arm. “You got any room on your gun crews? My original MOS was naval gunnery tech.”
“Rekkhai, you’d better get up here,” tr’Sauringar warns through the intercom, “we can’t hold them much longer: there’s too many of them!”
T’Thavrau unbuckles her wrist comlink and hands it to me. “Take this; it will guide you to the gun deck. Report to Erein t’Dhaviulla. I must get to the bridge.”
I break away from the group and follow the directions as the warbird shakes around me under fire from enemy ships. The antecenturion in question, a short, pale Romulan woman with short black hair and wide hips, directs me to a spare console. I quickly familiarize myself with the configurations and start working.
The ship jolts beneath me and the gun goes into rapid fire. The status display flicks to a new mission profile; we’re flying escort for SS Second Chance.
Then it hits me. The Second Chance.
Kos.
Prophets.
I mutter a quick prayer but there’s not much else I can do. I focus on keeping the guns running. Once there’s an overload and I have to swap out a part. A siren goes off, signalling a hull breach dozens of compartments away.
Gradually the shaking from shield hits abates. The intercom is crackly, seems to have taken some damage, as t’Thavrau’s voice comes through. “All hands, all hands. We are clear of the battlespace. The Jemhhadarsu are not pursuing. Mnekha.”
The Romulans start cheering but I key my intercom key. “Kanril to t’Thavrau. Can I get a private line to the Second Chance?”
“Why?”
“My boyfriend’s the cargomaster.”
“I see. One moment.” The screen clicks over to a staticky view of Captain Takar Edmen. Half-Bajoran, half-Boslic. “Edmen, it’s Eleya. Is Kos there?”
“Took a nasty gash from a kar’takin but he made it aboard before we undocked.”
I let out a breath. “Thank the Prophets. Can I talk to him?”
“Sorry, I don’t have any cameras down in sickbay and we’re about to jump to Bajor.”
“Fine, just make sure I get to see him.”
“I’ll do that.”
Author's notes moved to discussion thread due to character limit.
— Sabaton, "Great War"
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