Unofficial Literary Challenge #23: Battle Scars

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  marcusdkane Member Posts: 7,439 Arc User

  May 2016

  ULC#23: Prompt#3: Scars:
  

  Take away
  The sens-ation
  Ins-ide
  Bitter-sweet
  Migraine in my head
  It's like
  A throbbing toothache of the
  Mind
  I can't take this feeling any-more
  
  Drain the pressure from the swel-ling
  This sensation's overwhelming
  Give me
  A
  Long kiss goodnight
  And everything'll be alright
  Tell me
  That I won't feel a thing
  So give me Novacaine
  
  Out of body and
  Out of mind
  Kiss the demons out
  Of my dreams
  I get the funny feeling
  That's alright
  Jimmy says it's better than air
  I'll tell you why
  
  Drain the pressure from the swel-ling
  This sensation's over-whelming
  Give me
  A
  Long kiss goodnight
  And everything'll be alright
  Tell me
  That I won't feel a thing
  So give me Novacaine
  
  Oh Novacaine
  
  Drain the pressure from the swel-ling
  This sensation's over-whelming
  Give me
  A
  Long kiss goodnight
  And everything'll be alright
  Tell me Jimmy, I won't feel a thing
  So give me Novacaine
  
  
  Words and Music by Billie Joe Armstrong - Green Day - "Give Me Novocaine"

  
  
  
  

  B R E A K I N G . P O I N T

  
  
  Lantic City, Caladan, 5 September, 2412...
  
  ///Lucas Kane watched the slender young woman entered the room. She was taller than she appeared on camera, and kept a hand raised to the brim of her grey felt hat, keeping it lowered just enough to conceal her face from the nose up.
  
  Getting to his feet, Lucas approached the visitor, his hand outstretched.
  
  Rather than reaching out to accept the handshake, the woman released the hat's brim, which sprang up, revealing her full face. She was indeed as beautiful as he had suspected.
  
  "What can I do for y-" the words died on Lucas' lips as icy terror gripped him as he registered her vivid purple eyes. Oh f*ck, not another one!
  
  He had barely begun to turn away to reach for the intercom, when he felt fingers like iron grab the back of his jacket and the waistband of his pants, and for the second time in less than a week, Lucas found himself flying across the conference room, crashing into an ornamental lamp.
  
  "Where's Ambassador S'rR's?" demanded the woman, striding forwards, and hauling Lucas upright by his lapels, before casually back-handing him across the face with a blow hard enough to loosen teeth.
  
  "I don't know!" Lucas howled, blood spraying from his torn lip.
  
  "Wrong answer..." H''n'n snarled, pivoting from the hips and slamming Lucas against the edge of the conference table His ribs shattered under the impact, and he felt something shift in his spine, pain beginning to burn through his side...///
  
  ...getting more painful, flaring in his arm and leg where he lay on his side, the weight of the duvet on his skin and shoulder was agonising. Suppressing a scream, Lucas reached out in the semi-darkness, his hand frantically slapping the flooring beside the futon, each blow a white-out of pain from his fingers to his elbow, then he found the hypospray, jammed it to his neck and hit the trigger. Gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, the industrialist had no option but to endure, as the melorazine flooded his system, gradually numbing his nerves, eventually allowing the pain to subside.
  
  The conference lounge was unlit, except for the lights from the passing air-traffic, and looking to the other side of the futon, Lucas saw Kaathi asleep, and he realized what had happened... Falling asleep after satiating her sexual demands, he must have forgotten his nightly dose, and having rolled over in his sleep, he had broken the contact with the Deltan beauty which brought true relief from the perpetual agony of the allodynia, which the injuries H''n'n inflicted upon him had resulted in...
  
  Rolling off the futon and onto his knees, Lucas slowly straightened and began to walk towards the private elevator.
  
  

  * * *

  
  As the transparent aluminum doors sighed open onto the roof-top lounge, Kaathi pulled up the golden hood of her translucent silk rain-cloak. Beyond the infinity pool, she saw Lucas sitting on the edge of the tower, making no effort to shield himself from the driving rain.
  
  Walking across the peltogyne wood decking of the terrace, she folded her legs beneath her and sat at Lucas' side. She looked at the orange and amber highlights in the clouds.
  
  "What a beautiful sunrise," she noted.
  
  "I hadn't noticed," Lucas replied, gazing down at the air-traffic below. "I can't go on like this, living from one pain crisis to the next... If only I was immortal, like Uncle Marcus had been..."
  
  Reaching out, Kaathi ran a hand up Lucas' bare spine and into the thick hair at the base of his skull, her fingers deftly finding the right pressure points, releasing waves of soothing endorphins.
  
  "I've told you before why that won't work, my darling," she said softly. "Integrating the genetic sequence carries no guarantee that it would become active, and as you know, there is no physical damage to be restored... We need to do a hard-reset of your nervous system, stop your nerves delivering pain impulses rather than correct contact messages, and at present, Federation medicine has no way of doing that..."
  
  Lucas sighed, "I know," he admitted. "But I can't carry on as I am... At the demonstration, I abandoned you and Molly -- I ran!"
  
  "You had a post-traumatic reaction," Kaathi observed, sliding an arm round Lucas' shoulders and pulling him toward her soothingly. "Arguably, that allowed you to react faster than anyone else. By running, you inspired us to do the same, and we escaped. He who knows when he can fight, and when he cannot, will be victorious..."
  
  "Making a strategic retreat, and running away, are two different things," Lucas stated quietly. "And remember what happened before you took over my treatment, when I was just dosing myself over and over to kill the pain... I appeared on a live broadcast naked! Half the quadrant saw me pi**ing in a bottle and recycling it into food! I humiliated myself..."
  
  Kaathi sighed.
  
  "What's past is past, my darling," she assured him. "All we can do, is continue working towards a cure."
  
  
  

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  starswordc Member Posts: 10,963 Arc User

  May 2016 edited May 2016

  All of My Scars

  I stare at the girl in the mirror
  T-shirt, torn up jeans, no beauty queen
  But the way that you see me
  You get underneath me
  And all my defenses just fall away
  Fall away
  
  I am beautiful with you
  Even in the darkest part of me
  I am beautiful with you
  Make it feel the way it’s supposed to be
  You’re here with me
  You show me this and I believe
  I am beautiful with you
  
  I stand naked before you now
  No walls to hide behind
  So here am I
  See all of my scars
  Still here you are
  I bare my soul and I’m not afraid
  Not afraid
  
  I am beautiful with you
  Even in the darkest part of me
  I am beautiful with you
  Make it feel the way it’s supposed to be
  You’re here with me
  You show me this and I believe
  I am beautiful with you
  
  I’ve been the strong one for so long
  But I was wrong
  It doesn’t make you weak if you’re needing someone
  I’m not holding back and I know what I want
  
  I am beautiful with you
  I am beautiful with you
  You want me for myself
  You look at me like no one else
  I am beautiful with you
  
  I am beautiful with you
  Even in the darkest part of me
  I am beautiful with you
  Make it feel the way it’s supposed to be
  You’re here with me
  You show me this and I believe
  I am beautiful with you
  — “Beautiful With You” by Halestorm

  
  The scars stare me in the face every time I look in a mirror, every time I picture myself. Two messily stitched gashes across my left cheek, a ropy mass of spiderwebbed tissue on the right side of my belly from where the Orion tried to gut me.
  
  Easy enough to remove them, just an outpatient visit to Warragul in sickbay. Half an hour with a dermal regenerator and I could wear a bikini again.
  
  But you can’t get rid of the memories. Can’t get back the innocence you lost from taking your first life. They stare me in the face every day, starting with a bald green-skinned man who probably wasn’t any older than myself. He comes at my barricade in Gunnery Two with a rifle leveled. I squeeze the trigger. The phaser squeals and he goes down in a silent heap.
  
  Next one splashes my green-and-gray with crimson from Lance Corporal Talhat before I can burn him down.
  
  “What about this one?” Gaarra asks beside me in the bed, stroking a ragged scratch along my ribcage below my breast.
  
  Gamma Hromi. Klingon emerges from the shadows swinging a bat’leth and cuts down Petty Officer Belknap before I can shout a warning, catches me on the backswing but the armorweave stops most of it. I throw aside my rifle and grab for my sidearm; he knocks it away and bellows something about my mother, raising the blade high as I yank the bayonet from my belt. Overhead chop, showy but impractical. I step inside, slash his wrist, and bright arterial blood sprays across my face. Matte black ceramisteel buries itself in the roaring Klingon’s chest as his sword rings against the concrete sidewalk.
  
  Belknap bleeds out before the medic arrives.
  
  “I’ll tell you mine, you tell me yours,” I tell Gaarra, rubbing the bare skin on his thigh, feeling a lump there.
  
  “ATV crash when I was fifteen.”
  
  “Compound?”
  
  “No, ripped it open hitting a log. Nalwood went right through my chaps.” The bristles of his beard tickle against my shoulder. “This one?”
  
  Kobali Prime. Vaad sniper saw a high-ranking target. Lucky me, I spotted her on my GUNGNIR hardsuit’s IR and she only grazed me. Unlucky her, I keep my DMR set way higher than standard. Didn’t even hit her, couldn’t with that burn on my arm, but the tree bole she took cover behind was enough. Just an orange flash, a thunderclap of superheated sap exploding.
  
  Sightless dark eyes staring up at me from a young woman's face, as young as my sister when I graduated the Academy. Too young to be impaled on a wood splinter as big around as my arm.
  
  I tap a mark on his wrist. “Guy at the machine shop teaching me to weld.” I wince. “And this one?” He leans away and rubs my ankle.
  
  “Stepped in a hara cat burrow in boot camp.”
  
  “Really? A hara cat?”
  
  “Hey, I’ll have you know that hurt like hell!” He laughs, and I laugh with him. “Phekk’ta hara cat…”
  
  He leans over me and kisses the scar on my cheek. I lean my head back and kiss his mouth in return, then stroke the burn over his eye. That one I know. Graze from a disruptor bolt during the Badlands mission.
  
  I rub his back as he kisses above my nose and feel the other scars there. Messy web of gashes and burns. Schrodinger’s Butterfly, when he saved a woman’s life and nearly lost his.
  
  I inhale deeply of him, tasting the spicemint fragrance of his body wash and the fainter, earthy musk of his own skin. I accept him moving atop me, wrap my legs around him.
  
  Since I was seventeen all I’ve known is war. Never peace, just the gap between one fight and the next, a time to check your weapons, replace your armor, wait for the other shoe to drop.
  
  I can’t get rid of the past. It’s always with me. I think it always will be.
  
  But maybe we can make a different future.

  "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/

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  shevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User

  May 2016

  Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere NCC-92984
  
  The face on the viewscreen is humanoid, hairless, golden-skinned and impossibly beautiful. "Welcome, King Estmere." The voice is a liquid, fluting contralto, as beautiful as the face itself. "Welcome, Ambassador Starel."
  
  "Thank you, Minister Ajaris." Starel steps out in front of the viewer, raises his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute. "Live long, and prosper."
  
  Ajaris raises one perfect hand in response. "Peace and long life. You have, of course, permission to approach the docking port. Our traffic control is sending the requisite information to your data channel now." I glance at Dgy-Coosh, the Rigelian who's at the helm station today. He nods to confirm. "An appropriate reception has been arranged at 1900 hours - we will be gratified to make your acquaintance, Ambassador." Ajaris smiles. "And, please, bring your fascinating military advisor with you. We should like to make you all feel welcome."
  
  "Thank you, Minister," says Starel. "We shall begin our final approach now, and will join you as you request."
  
  "Until that time, then, Ambassador. I shall go, now, to ensure all is in readiness." Ajaris's eyes are brilliant green, like jewels; their gaze rests on me for a second. Then the screen goes blank.
  
  Starel does the Vulcan eyebrow-quirk thing. "Interesting," he says.
  
  "I'm not sure why I'm so fascinating," I say. "The Antosians are pacifists, mostly, aren't they?"
  
  "Indeed. I do not envisage any particular difficulties in the coming negotiations, but it would be appropriate to accede to requests of this nature. Would your duties prohibit you from accepting this invitation?"
  
  "No, sir. My orders are to facilitate your mission as much as I'm able. I'll be happy to help out." I consider for a moment. "Military advisor, she said. I'd better wear dress whites, then."
  
  ---
  
  Antos IV. It's one of those worlds on the fringes of the Federation mainstream; a nominal Federation member, these days, but with deliberately restricted contact. Starel's trade and cultural exchange mission represents a chance to open things up, to see more of the Antosians' science and art, maybe to get more Antosians into the galaxy as a whole in exchange. I doubt I'll see Antosians serving in Starfleet any time soon, though.... Well. The Federation is not a conquering empire, cultures get to join it on their own terms. And the Infinite knows, the Antosians have reason enough to be wary.
  
  Though there is no sign of wariness at the diplomatic reception. Starel is in full Ambassadorial uniform; he is tall and saturnine and rather handsome by Vulcan standards. He looks quite dowdy, though, by comparison with the Antosians. They are graceful people, almost ethereal; they are all flawlessly beautiful, but in different ways; their hairless skins gleam with metallic or pearlescent lustres, and their eyes are jewels.
  
  "Admiral Shohl. Welcome."
  
  Minister Ajaris is wearing a floor-length golden gown that seems almost a continuation of her golden skin. She smiles at me; her teeth gleam, perfect as the rest of her. "Minister Ajaris. Thank you. I'm delighted to be here."
  
  "We are delighted to see you," she says. "You are Andorian, yes? We have had little contact with your people. I hope you will forgive any errors of etiquette or protocol I might make in addressing you."
  
  "We're guests in your system, Minister - we should be the ones to watch our steps! Though it's hard to imagine that being a problem. Everyone here seems so friendly... I'm sure no one will let any trivial misunderstandings spoil that."
  
  "That is my hope, certainly. It is the feeling of many that we should have more outreach into the wider Federation. Your people were among the original founders of the Federation, yes? It may surprise you, how exotic you seem to us."
  
  "Well, Andorians are a little outside the normal humanoid biological spectrum, it's fair to say."
  
  "You have four genders, I understand? That must be... complex."
  
  "It makes family life, umm, a matter of negotiation, certainly. But I think that's true of a lot of species!"
  
  She gives a little tinkling laugh. "And the antennae - sense organs, yes?"
  
  "Sensitive to variations in air pressure and electromagnetic fields. It's - well, it's something I've known all my life. It's hard for me to imagine living without that sense."
  
  "Intriguing," says Ajaris. "I could wish to know how to see the world as you do. It has advantages, yes? Your people are famous as artists, as well as warriors. You must live your lives with a great... intensity, yes?"
  
  It's my turn to give a little laugh. "I don't normally think of it that way. But when I think back, over all the things I've done recently - well, I guess it's fair to say I keep myself busy!"
  
  "No doubt. I hesitate to raise the matter...." She seems almost shy, all of a sudden. "But curiosity compels me. Is this intensity... the reason behind your fascinating asymmetry?"
  
  For a moment, I don't understand what she means, and then it hits me. I raise a self-conscious hand to the looping scars on my right cheek. The Antosians... they're all beautiful, with smooth, gleaming skins, unscarred and flawless. Symmetrical. Quite. "This? It's the... relic of an old injury."
  
  "A trophy of some desperate struggle?"
  
  "I wouldn't call it a trophy, exactly." I take a deep breath. "The Nausicaans invaded the colony planet where I was borne. I took a stray disruptor shot to the head, was spacelifted off." I grimace, acutely aware, now, of the stiffness of the right side of my face. "Disruptors make a mess. By the time the medics had rebuilt my head, well, this was the best they could do."
  
  "Surely not?" Minister Ajaris looks genuinely troubled, now. "We know mainstream Federation medical technology is less advanced than our own, but even so, their techniques must be adequate to restore you wholly."
  
  "Eventually, maybe. The whole of my cheekbone was destroyed - it's a ceramic replacement, now, with a titanium core. The nerve damage and the residual scarring from the deep-tissue disruptor burns left - well, this." I brush my fingertips over the scar tissue again. "It'd take a vat-grown cloned-tissue replacement to fix it, and then integrating it into my neural body picture would take months. If it worked at all - a friend of mine had to have a similar procedure done, and she's still having trouble with it."
  
  "So sad," Minister Ajaris breathes. She looks into my eyes.
  
  Then her face, her whole body, blurs.
  
  It happens instantly. One second, I'm looking at a bald, gold-skinned humanoid - then her skin is blue, and she has long white hair, and antennae rising from a ridged forehead. It takes me a moment to realize I'm looking at an exact copy of my own face. Exact - except for the scars.
  
  "Cosmetic only," she says, in my voice. "These -" she flicks one antenna with her finger, and I can't help but wince "- are just decoration, they do not show me the world as you might see it. That would take a somewhat more involved procedure. But even the cosmetic change - well, it is both rapid and complete."
  
  I find my voice. "I've heard of your cellular metamorphosis technique, obviously. But this is the first time I've actually seen it...."
  
  "A demonstration, only." She blurs again, and resumes her original form. "My point is this. The cellular metamorphosis process includes all the necessary modifications to what you call the neural body picture. Instantly. The process would be of little value if it did not - we could not stumble like infants, taking days or months to adapt to each new form." Her emerald eyes are very sober, now, as they gaze into mine. "Our medical techniques could replace your damaged tissues, heal your wounds, remove your scars... in mere seconds, Admiral Shohl. If you wished it."
  
  ---
  
  "So," I say later, "do I wish it?"
  
  We're in my ready room, holding the post-mortem on the reception - me, and Starel, and one other.
  
  "It would be tactful to accept, certainly," Starel says. "The offer is clearly meant in good part, and acceptance might make a contribution towards the general warming of relations between ourselves and the Antosians. I understand, of course, that this may not be the only factor in your decision, and I certainly cannot oblige you to undergo a medical procedure. I merely suggest that your acceptance would not be unwelcome."
  
  "My feelings aren't the only point at issue, though." I turn to the other person in the ready room, a dark-haired human female wearing a data monocle. "Doctor Beresford?"
  
  "We have precisely one previous case of someone being taught the Antosian cellular metamorphosis technique," Samantha Beresford says crisply. "That wasn't an Andorian, of course - but it didn't exactly turn out well. Opinion is still divided on the question of how much the Antosian technique contributed to Garth of Izar's mental breakdown -"
  
  "The cases are surely dissimilar in all important aspects," Starel protests politely.
  
  "Garth might have had a pre-existing brain injury, which Tylha doesn't have," says Samantha. "And the Antosians have made progress with their techniques - I gather they're suggesting just a one-off session, guided by an expert in the metamorphosis technique. Even so, there is a risk."
  
  "It is hard to see how the removal of facial scarring might turn Admiral Shohl into a megalomaniac," Starel says.
  
  "You'd think," I say. "But I met my mirror universe duplicate, once."
  
  Starel does the eyebrow-quirk thing. "Is that a factor?"
  
  "Apart from quantum signatures, she was different from me in two ways. She had no facial scars - and she was a megalomaniac." I can still see that smooth-skinned face looking at me from the viewscreen; proud, arrogant, exultant.
  
  "That is a function, surely, of the cultural influences of the mirror universe, not any innate character flaw," says Starel.
  
  "You'd think that. I'd like to think that. But how can I be sure?"
  
  ---
  
  How can I be sure? I pace up and down my living quarters, considering.
  
  Probably, though - thinking realistically - the Antosians will get it right. They probably know better than we do what went wrong with Garth of Izar. And they've had a couple of centuries to improve their techniques. If they say they can do this, they probably can.
  
  In which case, the question comes down to... do I want this?
  
  Why should that be a hard question to answer? Who would want to be scarred, when they could be... whole?
  
  I leave off pacing, and stop to look at my face in the wall mirror. It's not a bad face... I suppose. A bit too stern and severe to be attractive, even without the scars. I cover my right cheek with my hand, then take it away again. Pointless. I know what it would look like, I don't have to imagine.
  
  I sigh, and go to sit down at my desk. I drum my fingers on the desktop, five-four time, the rhythm for "Mars".
  
  "Computer. Music. Holst, 'At the Boar's Head', Interworld Academy of Music recording dated 2275."
  
  The first chords sound from the speakers. It's an interesting production, this one. Something tells me that the role of Falstaff was just made for a Tellarite. At any rate, it should take my mind off things -
  
  There is a discreet chime from the door, so discreet I almost don't hear it through Falstaff's blustering. "Computer, pause recording. Come in."
  
  The door slides open, and Anthi Vihl comes in. "Flag Captain. Good to see you." I like to remind Anthi of her new rank. The Infinite knows she's earned it, ten times over. And it's made surprisingly little difference to our working relationship - she is, still, my right arm, as she has been for... so long, now.
  
  "Sir. Sorry to interrupt you. I just need you to sign off on some passes for the station - Ambassador Starel wants the crew on best behaviour, I thought I'd better run this past you."
  
  "Right, fine. Though I'm not expecting any problems. The Antosians seem like a pretty friendly bunch." I take the proffered PADD, scan the list of names, try to remember if any of them's likely to cause a diplomatic incident. "Thirethequ and Jeroequene? Well, if you reckon the Antosians can cope with Jolciot language...." We both smile. I am acutely aware of how lopsided my smile is. "Anthi, have you heard about my, um, offer? From the Antosians?"
  
  "I have, sir."
  
  "So what do you think?" Anthi, among her many virtues, is a clear thinker. I hate to think how many times over I'd be dead, if I hadn't listened to her advice.
  
  Now, though, it seems she has none to give. Her mouth opens for a moment, then shuts tight, and her antennae writhe, as if she's in the grip of some strong emotion. Finally, "I think it has to be your choice, sir. It's your face, after all," she says, in dead-level, neutral tones.
  
  I stare at her. "Well, I know that. But you don't have a suggestion?"
  
  "It wouldn't - it wouldn't be proper, sir."
  
  Anthi is descended from generations of pure Imperial Guard military. It looks like I've hit on some part of Andorian military etiquette even I didn't know about. "All right," I say mildly. I hand her back the PADD. She salutes formally, and positively marches out. Her antennae are still twitching violently. I stare at the door as it closes behind her. Now what was that about?
  
  ---
  
  The Antosian space station is as beautiful as its occupants: a work of art, hanging above the blue-green gem that is Antos IV itself. The planet is half-full, visible through the windows of the arboretum where I find Ambassador Starel and Minister Ajaris.
  
  "I've given a lot of thought to your suggestion, Minister," I say, once the initial pleasantries are over.
  
  She gives me another of those dazzling smiles. "And you have reached a decision, yes?"
  
  "I have. And I hope I won't offend you if I decline your kind offer."
  
  Starel says absolutely nothing, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't change his expression one iota. I have never before seen anyone signal absolute disapproval that way. Ajaris merely inclines her head a little. "May I know your reasoning?"
  
  "I'm not sure it's well-organized enough to qualify as reasoning, Minister. But this -" I raise my hand to my scars "- is too much a part of me, now. We are the sum of everything that happens to us, and everything we do, in this life, Minister. This... is something that happened to me. I find I can't just - erase it."
  
  "I see." Her face and body blur again. Now, she is human, with short dark hair and deep brown skin. "We make something of a virtue of our plasticity, Admiral." Another blur, and she is some reptilian creature, slit-pupilled yellow eyes and shining blue-grey scales. "We can be almost anything we want to be. It is interesting that you think otherwise. That you make a virtue of constancy, of stability." And she blurs back to her golden-skinned Antosian form. Is this her real shape? Does she even have a real shape? She turns to Starel. "Your people, I think, have a philosophy, yes? The IDIC?"
  
  Starel is wearing a small gold IDIC pin on the breast of his tunic; now he raises his hand to touch it. "That is correct," he says.
  
  "So, today, we have a demonstration, yes? My values, and Admiral Shohl's. Neither is better than the other, I think - but, though they are different, they need not be in conflict. There is room in the Federation for Antosian plasticity and Andorian constancy, yes?"
  
  Starel blinks, once. "Indeed. An admirable demonstration of the principles of IDIC, and of the Federation," he says. I have a feeling he'd talk about Andorian obstinacy, rather than constancy. But he is far too much of a diplomat to say so. And so, I find, am I.
  
  ---
  
  I run into Anthi at the docking tube to King Estmere. She looks at me, a little apprehensively. "I made my decision," I tell her. She says nothing. "I'm not taking the Antosians' treatment. You'll have to live with me the way I am, I'm afraid."
  
  The stiff line of her shoulders relaxes slightly. "I'm - actually, I'm glad, sir."
  
  I look at her curiously. "Glad?"
  
  "I've... always thought your face looked - distinguished, sir. Like a warrior. In the Guard's tradition... warriors wear their scars proudly. Sir."
  
  "I see. Makes sense, I guess." I frown. "Why couldn't you just say that, though? It wouldn't have... offended me, or anything."
  
  "Not my place, sir," says Anthi firmly. "I had no right to influence your decision. One way or the other."
  
  "I see." Well, I don't see at all, actually. Some things, you can't perceive, even with Andorian antennae. And Anthi's are twitching like anything, again. I decide to give up and leave it. "Well, in any case, the decision's made now. Come on, Flag Captain Vihl. Let's get back to work."

  
  

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  azniadeet Member Posts: 1,871 Arc User

  May 2016 edited May 2016

  [B]The Cost of Progress[/b]
  (Direct continuation of "New Frontiers")
  http://www.arcgames.com/en/forums/startrekonline/#/discussion/1214906/new-frontiers-u-s-s-federalist-story
  
  
  Captain Tala sat anxiously in the Command Chair of the U.S.S. Polaris, the ship cruised through subspace at an extreme transwarp speed. She wasn't sure what she would find when the ship disengaged from subspace.
  
  "Captain," the helmsman reported, "We're about to leave subspace."
  
  "Very well." the Captain readied her crew, "All hands to battle stations, divert power to weapons and shields."
  
  The Polaris slowed to a stop deep within the Beta Quadrant, five ships nearby waiting for her arrival.
  
  "Where is the Romulan ship?" Tala wondered aloud.
  
  "The Federalist is hailing us, sir." the comm officer reported from a rear bridge terminal.
  
  "On screen."
  
  Captain Deet's image materialized on the viewscreen, appearing relieved. "We're glad you could join us, Tala."
  
  "The Romulan ship?" Tala immediately inquired.
  
  "Upon arrival, they cloaked and retreated as quickly as they could." Aznia explained.
  
  "It's going to be a long trip home for them." Tala suggested, "If that's where they're heading."
  
  "Something tells me they're going to stick around." Deet lamented. "We're off to a bumpy start, but it's a start all the same."
  
  "How do you think the Romulans knew?" Tala questioned, "It would be one thing to have intelligence about the project, but to know the exact time of launch... to time their attack so precisely? That's too much of a coincidence."
  
  "Cause for concern to be sure, Captain." Deet responded, "We need to remain vigilant, but for now, the only course forward is to go on as planned. How is the Polaris holding up?"
  
  "Only minor damage from our fire fight with the Romulans. It shouldn't hold us up."
  
  Deet nodded, satisfied, "The convoy has decided to set a course for the Nu Columba star system. At maximum warp, we can be there in two days."
  
  "Very well Captain. We'll lay in a course. Tala out."
  
  ---
  
  Aboard the Federalist, First of Eight worked diligently in engineering to prepare systems for the tasks ahead. The focus and energy she'd invested in this project was beginning to wear on both her biological Human systems and her synthetic Borg appendages. Despite the palpable exhaustion, she pressed on. "Ensign Solis," she turned around expecting to find the familiar engineer working nearby. He was not there.
  
  "Ensign Solis went off-duty at 1700, Commander." Lieutenant Coleman explained from another workstation nearby.
  
  "Of course," First of Eight shook off the mistake. "Coleman, we need to have the Bussard collectors degaussed by the end of Beta shift. Can you take care of that?"
  
  Coleman raised an eyebrow, "Commander? The Bussard collectors were degaussed earlier today. I believe Ensign Solis completed that work before ending his shift. Is everything alright?" the subordinate officer expressed concern at the Chief Engineer's apparent confusion.
  
  "I am feeling oddly fatigued, perhaps I should report to sick bay."
  
  "I'll take care of things here." Coleman reassured her.
  
  First of Eight slowly walked out of engineering to a nearby turbolift, ordering transit to Deck Four - Sickbay, she closed her eyes as the turbolift whirred through the decks, only opening when she heard the swish of the opening doors on deck four. It was only a few steps down the hallway to Sick Bay, but each because more and more laborious as the exhaustion seemed to compound every moment.
  
  Stepping into Sick Bay, she was greeted by an unfamiliar Saurian woman, "Hello, Commander. Is everything alright?" the Saurian approached with a Tricorder.
  
  "I am feeling unusually fatigued. I have had difficulty concentrating and focusing today."
  
  The Saurian approached with her Tricorder in hand, "Any dizziness, nausea, dry mouth?"
  
  "Not notably."
  
  The doctor folded her Tricorder, looking First of Eight carefully in each eye, "When is the last time you regenerated?"
  
  "Overnight, I regenerated for six hours."
  
  "Hmm..." the Saurian loaded her scans into a nearby display panel. "Your Borg implants seem to be operating adequately, but your biology isn't being refreshed. I'd like to take a sample of your nanoprobes."
  
  First of Eight nodded in approval, and the doctor found an empty hypospray to extract a small blood sample from the Drone Engineer's neck. She placed the vial into a scanner, allowing a diagnostic to run. The results appeared quickly.
  
  "This is interesting." The doctor explained, "Your Nanoprobe count seems to be down substantially. Normally your Borg implants are maintained during your regeneration cycle, this allows your nanoprobes to draw energy from your implants, and to maintain your body tissue elsewhere. It would seem that your Borg implants are no longer efficiently replicating nanoprobes, so your biological systems are suffering from severe exhaustion as a result."
  
  "Can this be treated?" The Borg officer pleaded.
  
  "Quite Simply." the Doctor explained, "You need to find a bed and get eight hours of rest. Doctor's orders."
  
  "Sleep?" The Engineer was taken aback. "...in place of regeneration?"
  
  The doctor shook her head regretfully, "Until I can find a way to stimulate your nanoprobe production, you will need both sleep and regeneration. Perhaps we can explore some solutions to try and find a balance between the two, but for the immediate future, you will need at least six hours of each, every night."
  
  "I don't think that I can afford to spend twelve hours a day resting Doctor..." First of Eight stopped awkwardly, not knowing the new Doctor's name.
  
  "You're not going to be any help to the mission if you aren't rested." the Doctor reassured the Engineer, "Get some rest, and let us work on the problem. I'll let you know if we find anything out."
  
  First of Eight nodded, accepting the prognosis.
  
  The Doctor tapped a control panel on the wall, entering a few commands. "I've just sent an order for the ship's quartermaster to have a bed installed in your quarters immediately. Until that's complete, I'm going to have you rest on bio-bed nine for a while."
  
  Sighing in resignation, First of Eight accepted the order, "Thank you, Doctor."
  
  The Saurian escorted the Drone to a quiet bed in a shaded corner of sickbay; "My name is Egraw, I just transferred here from Deep Space 3. We'll get to know each other better later. For now, get some rest."
  
  ---
  
  "The time is 0600." The Computer coldly notified, as it illuminated the room.
  
  Unconsciousness was an uncommon experience for First of Eight, and she sprung awake quickly. She prepared for her duty shift and was out the door within a few minutes. As annoyed as she found the need to sleep, at least she felt well rested, ready for a day's work. It was the third morning since her diagnosis, and she'd begun to settle into a routine, as inconvenient as she found it.
  
  The Federalist was in orbit of Nu Columba, and had spent the past two days surveying the system carefully, trying to determine its feasibility as a staging ground for the graviton catapult. It wasn't shaping up to be an adequate site, unusual gravitational eddies and inexplicable temporal anomalies rippled through the system.
  
  First of Eight entered Engineering, she walked through the doors to find the Captain at her workstation with Lieutenant Atom.
  
  "Commander. How are you doing?" Deet turned to the Chief Engineer.
  
  First of Eight nodded, "I am doing better now. Thank You."
  
  "I think we've pretty well concluded that this isn't going to be our system. But I wanted to get your opinion on this." Deet pointed to a diagnostic monitor. "We may not have our staging area, but we are still explorers after all."
  
  "What is it?" The Engineer inquired.
  
  "A very small object, metallic, spherical, in a very low orbit. It's small size and insignificant energy output made it quite difficult to detect."
  
  First of Eight tried to wrap her head around what the object could be, "Have we been able to determine its purpose?"
  
  "Negative." the Captain informed, "We can tell that it's mechanical, and it seems to have some form of data storage aboard; but its speed makes it difficult to get consistent scans. I've got Lt. Atom working on establishing a data link."
  
  "Captain, I believe I have an idea. If we patch the internal scanners through our transporter's confinement beam, we can use Scott's Equation for Transwarp Beaming to make a positive lock."
  
  "Intriguing." the Android science officer piped in. "I believe it would work."
  
  "Make it so." Aznia ordered.
  
  First of Eight turned to leave the room, "I will go to Transporter Room 2 to manually control the confinement beam. Atom, prepare to receive the data file as it comes through."
  
  "Yes sir." The Android dutifully turned back to his console.
  
  First of Eight left Engineering and walked toward the Turbolift. Captain Deet hurried to join her. "First." she stopped the Engineer and entered the Turbolift with her. "I want to make sure you're not pushing yourself too hard? How are you feeling."
  
  "I feel well physically, Captain." she lamented, "But the constraints on my time are difficult to deal with."
  
  "Understood. I need you at your best though. But I'd rather see you taking shorter shifts than overexerting yourself. Let me know if there's anything I can do to accommodate." the Captain explained, "Don't let pride get in the way of your health."
  
  "It is frustrating..." the Drone opened up, showing a moment of vulnerability, "To deal with these constant reminders of the worlds I am trapped between. As much as I embrace my individuality, I can never truly escape the collective."
  
  Deet wanted to say something comforting, but she didn't know what to say. She simply hung her head, and gave her old friend a soft pat on the shoulder.
  
  The officers arrived in Transporter Room 2, and powered up the transport console. First of Eight entered several adjustments to modify the confinement beam before hailing Engineering to begin the procedure. "Lt. Atom, we're ready up here."
  
  "Very well, proceed." The android's voice responded.
  
  "Establishing a lock. This is an incredibly dense computer core... I've never seen anything like it." the Borg informed.
  
  "Can you isolate any specific sample of data? Maybe we can extrapolate its purpose from there." Deet asked.
  
  First of Eight was stunned by the amount of data to pull from, "There are dozens of individual data nodes. I'm going to pull one full node up."
  
  The transporter console whirred and buzzed for a long moment before Atom called back over the Comm, "This is too much data, I can't maintain the transfer into the computer core."
  
  First of Eight studied the fragments of the pattern that flashed through her console as the data transferred, suddenly they looked familiar. "Captain, I believe this is a matter stream. Permission to attempt materialization."
  
  "A matter stream?" the Captain was taken aback, "Could this be a person?"
  
  "A person, an animal, a chair; it could be nearly anything Captain; but we need to make a decision before the pattern degrades."
  
  "Deet to Quallo," the Captain tapped her comm badge, "Have a security team sent to transporter room 2." She turned back to the Borg Engineer, "Go ahead. Energize."
  
  The pattern flickered on the transporter pad for a long moment, "I'm going to try to boost the confinement by diverting power from auxiliary." First of Eight informed the captain.
  
  "Very well."
  
  A young copper-skinned man materialized from the data stream. He was dressed simply in a loose grey shirt and black pants, his white hair was buzzed short against his smooth scalp, stopping just above his vented ears. He spoke with calm trepidation, "What vessel is this?"
  
  Captain Deet stepped forward, "This is the Federation Starship Federalist, I am Captain Aznia Deet. We mean you no harm."
  
  "The others?" the Alien's concern shifted. "There were 117 people aboard the Lyviron."
  
  "The Lyviron?" Aznia asked, "Is that the name of the data capsule we retrieved you from?"
  
  "No." the Alien responded, "Our patterns were stored in the retrieval ark when the Lyviron lost power for life support."
  
  "It's an escape pod." Aznia spoke aloud to herself in realization. She turned to First of Eight, "Can you begin transporting the others from the pod, Commander?"
  
  "I believe so, Captain. But we will need to divert additional power to the transporters. It may take some time to retrieve them all."
  
  "I was the head Engineer aboard the Lyviron, perhaps I can assist." the alien suggested.
  
  Aznia nodded as he moved beside First of Eight at the control panel.
  
  "My name is Tyle." the man spoke to First of Eight directly as he manipulated the foreign control schematic like a seasoned veteran. "My people are in your debt."
  
  First of Eight only nodded politely as she struggled to keep up with his pace of work.
  
  "Your name?" the alien continued.
  
  The Chief Engineer stalled for a moment, gazing over at her inquisitor, "First of Eight. I am Chief Engineer aboard this vessel."
  
  "I didn't want to assume based on your implants, but that certainly seems like a Borg designation."
  
  "Correct." she sternly answered, "I was liberated from the collective five years ago."
  
  "You choose to keep your Borg designation?" he inquired again.
  
  First of Eight tried to remain focused on her work in the face of the uncomfortable question.
  
  Tyle sensed her discomfort, and backed off the questioning.
  
  The uncomfortable Drone quickly returned the conversation to work "The modifications are complete. I believe we are ready to transport a group of your people aboard. I recommend we transport no more than five at a time."
  
  Tyle nodded as the transporter pad hummed to life.
  
  ---
  
  After over 20 transporter cycles, the Rivory crew had fully transferred aboard the Federalist. An older male Rivory had established himself as the leader of the crew. Captain Deet arranged to meet the man as soon as he came aboard.
  
  "Captain Deet." the older Rivory man stepped toward the Captain, "I am Prime Officer Silip of the Rivory Science Vessel Lyviron. On behalf of my crew, sincerest thanks."
  
  "We are happy to be of assistance, Prime Officer."
  
  The Rivory Commander let his guard down a bit, "Captain, I was very surprised to encounter a Federation vessel this far out from your space. Are you lost?"
  
  "You know of the Federation?" Deet was surprised, "I don't believe we have ever made contact with the Rivory."
  
  The alien smiled widely, "Of course, Captain. I'm sure you understand the need to conceal your presence from less developed races. The Rivory are careful not to interfere or intrude on other species throughout the galaxy. The consequences can be disastrous."
  
  "We have a very similar philosophy." Deet answered, "But surely you must have some relationship with neighboring species?"
  
  "We do." the man nodded, "But we try to limit contact with species who are limited to a very small portion of the galaxy. Our ability to evade detection and to localize our presence has served us very well. But in some cases, we do have mishaps."
  
  "It would seem that no level of technological innovation will ever eliminate those." Deet joked.
  
  The Rivory man smiled widely, chuckling, "No, and sometimes it seems that they even become more widespread."
  
  "Well, our ship may not be much compared to Rivory standards, but I hope we can make you and your crew comfortable until we return you to your people."
  
  "I hope you don't think we're looking down on your people, Captain. Few cultures in the galaxy would be as welcoming and kind as you. In that regard- a regard far more important than technological innovation- you are a very advanced species. But I must ask, is this ship limited to warp speeds?"
  
  "At the moment, yes." Aznia answered, "But that's actually why we're out here. We're hoping to establish a network of subspace graviton catapults, allowing our vessels to traverse great distances at transwarp speeds."
  
  "Ah..." a sense of wonder overtook Silip's voice, "Perhaps we can look forward to calling you an ally sooner than we expected!"
  
  "I would like that very much, Silip."
  
  "Unfortunately, our homeworld is a great distance from here. I don't think it would be practical for us to bring you there at this speed." the Prime Officer lamented, "If you would permit one of my officers access to a subspace communications array, we can call for rescue."
  
  "Certainly. If I may ask, why didn't your retrieval ark transmit a rescue beacon? We happened upon you by no more than dumb luck."
  
  "Without getting into too much detail, our Proximity to the Neutron star disrupted several systems. It seemed to drain our power core rapidly and washed out any transmissions we sent. We used a device not until your transporter systems to convert our matter into a data pattern, so that it could be stored in a computer core until help arrived. We're lucky you found us when you did."
  
  "There are stories of Federation officers surviving shipwrecks using a similar technique." Aznia explained, "Though in our case, it's certainly far from standard procedure."
  
  "It's amazing how some minds can jump centuries ahead of their time, when faced with problems of survival Captain."
  
  "Well, Prime Officer, if there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable, my crew is of your avail."
  
  "Thank you, Captain." Silip bowed his head, "Be sure that your graciousness is not going unnoticed."
  
  ...cont

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  azniadeet Member Posts: 1,871 Arc User

  May 2016

  [B]The Cost of Progress (continued)[/b]
  
  Tyle stepped through the doors of engineering accompanied by a security escort. They approached First of Eight who was working at a nearby console.
  
  "Commander," Lieutenant Bohannon interrupted the Borg's work, "The Captain was hoping you could help Tyle send a subspace message to the Rivory homeworld."
  
  First of Eight turned back, addressing the security officer. "Very well, you're dismissed."
  
  Bohannon turned to exit engineering, leaving Tyle with First of Eight.
  
  "I do want to apologize for earlier." Tyle explained, "I was only curious."
  
  "Do not worry about it." the Chief Engineer insisted, turning to the communications access console.
  
  "Our people communicate on a very specific subspace carrier wave, so that we can filter out long range transmissions. May I make a modification here?"
  
  "Very well," she watched closely as he augmented the transmission.
  
  "Ok, this should do it. I've signaled for a Rivory ship to rendezvous with our current position. They should arrive within a few hours."
  
  "Is there anything else we can assist you with?" the Drone inquired.
  
  "No. That should be all." Tyle nodded graciously, "Unless you'd be interested in a quick meal before we part ways."
  
  First of Eight evaded the proposition, "I am afraid not, I need to return to my quarters so I may regenerate."
  
  Tyle raised an eyebrow, "Regenerate? You still need to maintain your Borg technology? I..." he hesitated, "I think I might be able to help you."
  
  ---
  
  Captain Deet sat on the bridge as the gleaming white Rivory vessel dropped out of transwarp nearby.
  
  "They're hailing, Captain." Quallo reported.
  
  "On screen."
  
  Another female Rivory Prime Officer greeted Captain Deet, "I am Prime Officer Velys of the Cruise Raitha. Do I understand you have the crew of the Lyviron aboard?"
  
  "That's right. We're prepared to transfer the personnel immediately." Deet got right to business.
  
  "We would be honored to have you and your senior staff aboard for a meal, Captain." Velys explained, "It's the least we could do to show our appreciation."
  
  "It will be our honor." Deet accepted the invitation.
  
  "We will prepare to receive you after the transfer is complete. Thank you Captain." The viewscreen cut out.
  
  Aznia tapped a panel on the arm of her chair, activating the ship's intercom, "Attention all decks, we are in contact with the Rivory Cruiser Raitha, all Rivory report to transporter rooms for transfer."
  
  Relatively quickly, all Rivory personnel filtered into the Federalist's transporter rooms, until only Silip, Tyle and two other senior officers remained. Aznia met the final group in Transporter Room two, joined by Quallo, Atom and First of Eight.
  
  The mixed group of officers all took their places on the transporter pad. Chief Volor energized the transporter, sending them to the Rivory ship.
  
  "Welcome to the Raitha," Velys greeted the party in the brightly lit, gleaming white-walled, sterile transporter room. "If you'd accompany me, we've prepared our state room with a feast in your honor.
  
  "Thank you Prime Officer." Aznia bowed her head.
  
  "Captain," First of Eight interrupted, "Tyle was going to show me a few tricks with the Rivory transporter systems, if you don't mind?"
  
  Aznia turned to Velys, who nodded approvingly. "Remember to keep specifics to a minimum."
  
  "Of course." Tyle noted.
  
  The officers all left the room, leaving only First of Eight and Tyle behind.
  
  "OK, let me show you the temporal confinement beam." Tyle gestured for the Drone to join him at the control panel. He explained the process displayed on the console. "We have the ability to scan matter at a temporal level. Not only can we establish a lock on your body here and now, we can resequence the matter and energy patterns to virtually any moment in their history."
  
  "Are you saying you can transport someone away from the past?" First of Eight asked.
  
  "No." Tyle explained, "We don't actually have the ability to affect the past, rather we can use the past as a template by which to restructure the matter here and now. For instance, an individual with an advanced terminal illness can be resequenced into a previous version of themselves, where preventative measures can be taken. An elderly person on the brink of death can be resequenced back into a child, or back into the prime of their life."
  
  "Fascinating. So this would allow a Borg drone to be resequenced into a state prior to assimilation?"
  
  "We've used it for that very purpose." Tyle explained. "Unfortunately, there's one critical problem with this process."
  
  "An individual would not remember anything after the resequencer's reference point." First of Eight predicted aloud.
  
  "Right. If a person is resequenced to their childhood, their childhood is all they will remember. If a drone is returned to a point prior to assimilation, she will remember nothing after her assimilation." He warned.
  
  "I am not the person I once was," She pondered aloud, "but I will sacrifice myself to save that person. I will do it."
  
  "Very well. Step up onto the transporter." he hesitated, "Tell me one thing. What is your name?"
  
  "Nikki Rahal." she stepped into position.
  
  "I'm ready here. Farewell First of Eight."
  
  The transporter engaged as First of Eight dematerialized before Tyle's eyes. As she rematerialized, her skin tone brightened, her Borg implants faded away, her eyes brightened and her uniform changed from vivid gold to an older black and gray Starfleet variant.
  
  Nikki Rahal materialized on the transporter pad, stunned to gaze around the gleaming white room. "What vessel is this?" the hopeful young officer inquired.
  
  "Nikki." Tyle calmed her, "What is the last thing you remember?"
  
  "I was aboard the Borg unimatrix vessel. Admiral Deet had just called for the team to beam out. How did I end up aboard this ship?"
  
  "This is going to be hard to accept, Nikki." Tyle calmed the weary young officer, "That was 14 years ago."
  
  "No. I was just on the Borg vessel a moment ago. That can't be true."
  
  "Please try to accept what I am saying." Tyle reassured her, "You were assimilated by the Borg that day. You spent nine years as a Borg drone, and you've struggled for five additional years to reassert your individuality. We've used a temporal transporter device to resequenced your pattern to your current state."
  
  "That's ridiculous. You can't just..."
  
  "Please, Nikki." Tyle interrupted, "Would you like to speak to your Captain?"
  
  Rahal scanned the room quickly, she made a sudden decision to dart for the door. Tyle quickly tapped a button on the control console to seal the room. He turned to a communication panel, "Captain Deet, I'm sorry to interrupt, but can you meet us in the Transporter room?"
  
  In a matter of moments, Aznia arrived in the transporter room. She immediately found a tense standoff between the Rivory Engineer and a long lost friend. "Nikki?" Aznia was stunned to see Rahal standing there as if a day hadn't passed since she was lost to the Borg.
  
  "Who are you?" Rahal recoiled from Deet, unfamiliar with her current host.
  
  "What have you done?" Aznia turned to Tyle, "How is this possible?"
  
  "It's a temporal confinement transporter, Captain." the Rivory explained, "I locked onto her pattern at a moment in the space time continuum shortly before her assimilation. I was able to extract and resequence her pattern to fully restore her to her original form. But that includes her memories."
  
  "So, the last five years?" Aznia shook her head in disbelief, "Just gone?"
  
  "What are you saying?" Rahal interrupted, "I've been transported into the future?"
  
  "Oh, Nikki..." Aznia sighed, "The Unimatrix Vessel... that was fourteen years ago. The vessel unexpectedly retreated to transwarp when they discovered our plan. The transporter was only able to get a lock on two of us. You were left behind."
  
  "You mean I..."
  
  "You were assimilated into the collective. You spent nine years as a Borg drone. And not a day went by that I wasn't haunted by that fact." Aznia explained, "Five years ago, I received word that a Borg Sphere had been disabled in the Typhon sector. Starfleet saw the opportunity to liberate some of the surviving drones, they did genetic tests on each of them to try and find their original identity. You were among them. They brought you to the maximum security Borg rehabilitation center at Port Aux France on Earth, for 7 months your Borg implants were disassembled, and your individuality was reestablished. You weren't the same person you were before, but you fought for the person you became. You took back your life."
  
  Rahal was blown away by the revelation, she didn't really believe it. Her mind raced to find another explanation, but she was pulled back to one question, "Who are you?"
  
  "My name is Aznia." the Captain explained, "Aznia Deet."
  
  "Deet?" Rahal stepped forward, "You mean you're..."
  
  "Three years ago, Edinger was killed in a fire fight with a Sheliak battle cruiser." she explained, "Now I'm the host of the Deet Symbiont."
  
  Rahal just shook her head in disbelief.
  
  "There's too much riding on this mission for us to worry about fear." Aznia quoted. "That's what you told me in the mission briefing before we beamed over. You faced the Borg with poise and bravery."
  
  "Because I never imagined it would turn out this way." She wondered aloud, "Now I'm here and the person I was is just gone?"
  
  "She was willing to sacrifice the person she'd become to bring you back." Tyle explained.
  
  Rahal shook her head, "No. It's not right. Can you restore my pattern to how she was?"
  
  "You'd be Borg again, you'd carry the physical, psychological and technological troubles that have plagued you. You wouldn't be Nikki Rahal, you'd be First of Eight." Tyle advocated for her to stay.
  
  Aznia countered, "You'd be the person you became. I might be looking at this selfishly, but you and I, we've both struggled with change. We've gone through this together, and I am proud of the person you became, Nikki. It was a hard path, it continues to be a life wrought with pain. But with that pain comes immense strength. I miss this Nikki Rahal, but I would also miss First of Eight. I'm not going to force you to make any decision... but I think you've come too far to throw it away."
  
  Rahal nodded, tears of fear welling in her eyes about the future she was accepting. "Bring her back."
  
  Aznia sighed in relief and sadness all at once looking up at Rahal one last time as she re-took her place on the transporter platform, "Nikki, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry we didn't save you."
  
  Rahal sadly smiled, "Don't do that. The mission was a success, no matter what the result, it was worth it. I would never dream of blaming anyone for that."
  
  Aznia nodded as Tyle energized the temporal confinement beam again, First of Eight reemerged as if she'd never gone. "Was there a problem." she immediately addressed Tyle, wondering why she was still there.
  
  "Nikki didn't feel it was right." Aznia informed the Engineer, "She believed the woman she'd become was worth saving. She was ready to face the challenges in front of her. Are you?"
  
  ---
  
  The Federalist crew returned home, and the Rivory vessel prepared to bring their colleagues home. The Rivory Prime Officer hailed the Federalist one last time before leaving.
  
  "Captain, I want to apologize again for the situation with your Chief Engineer. Tyle had no right to..."
  
  Aznia waved her hand, "He was only trying to help. It may have been misguided, but his intentions were honorable. I consider the matter closed."
  
  The Rivory commander smiled, "Aznia Deet, you and your culture are enlightened beyond your years. Believe me, we've taken notice. We look forward to our next encounter. Raitha out."
  
  The Rivory vessel vanished in a sudden flash, leaving the Federalist to rejoin its convoy.
  
  First of Eight reported from the engineering station, "I believe the next best candidate for a staging area is the Pictor Iota system. We can be there in 14 hours."
  
  Aznia turned back looking the Chief Engineer in the eye, "Let's keep moving forward. Make it so."

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  antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User

  May 2016 edited May 2016

  Renewal
  
  By tremor3258
  
  Set sometime before “Dust to Dust”, after “Takedown”. Also after a ‘Better Angels of our Nature’ prompt, where D’ellian had to take out a Klingon pirate in the Delta quadrant, but discretely.
  
  *
  
  It was a party and a sales pitch, but the Kobali were all about redundancy. It was a pity, the Orion, sipping something oddly fruit but reassuringly alcoholic, reflected, that they knew so little about marketing. They’d arrayed a vast, multi-tiered dining hall for the reception; but pointed the Samsar straight at it like a dagger. The engines not being installed yet even gave the ship, pronged with communications gear and redundant shield generators, a hilt.
  
  Nervously, most of the Delta representatives, already leery of the Kobali, were not seeing it so much as the ship sailing into the future, as ready to plunge out of its gantry-work and into the room. Then, naturally, they would all have their corpses scooped up and turned to Kobali.
  
  As a result, the rainbow of races was crammed into the area near the serving area (and the airlocks) on the highest platforms in the room, leaving the floor conspicuously empty except for a few desperate Federation diplomats struggling to mingle with locals.
  
  In the opinion of General D’ellian, shipmaster of the battlecruiser Demonslayer, it wasn’t the worse result if the Kobali’s new shipyard meant the only buyer’s they could find for their cruiser were local governments looking for a cheap modern flag-cruiser for their local defense forces. Kobali was in a good position for a trade nexus. If trade flowed because the Orion Syndicate, and hence the Empire, was moving ships to elsewhere, higher dependence on the Empire would result, and having the revenants ‘leashed’ by the Alliance could only help improve public opinion on this side of the Sphere.
  
  And that was vital. Tuvok’s meeting before this one was much less diplomatic: the Iconians were still moving, and their interventions were becoming steadily less subtle. There was a real feeling open war may break out, and the more allies secured, the better their chances back in the Beta Quadrant.
  
  So she was here, scarred Orion, but in KDF uniform, clearing a Klingon. Promising the openness of the new Imperialism, though she regretted full dress. Several of the awards she didn’t remembered; apparently granted through political maneuvering onto her service jacket. Some were retroactively worthwhile and honorable, but, she felt like a tinsel grenade had gone off.
  
  And all over the people she was talking with as well. Excepting Admiral Tuvok, Director Vek from the Hierarchy, and General Q’Nel, the rest of the flag officers meeting for the tour of the Samsar were in her age range. The attrition worked by the Borg, and a dozen other threats had knocked the Federation’s officer corps back a far ways, and the deaths of B’vat’s faction had opened up plenty of younger Klingons to high command.
  
  The few Romulans talking, now that they had finished scuttling earlier, were seemingly fresh-faced… and they’d clearly earned it, or D’ellian was ready to go back for kinesthetic training – no one was quite used to their full dress uniforms, and from their service jackets, they’d gotten this far by getting their hands dirty.
  
  “I’d love to get my hands dirty and really poke around,” one was saying, startling D’ellian off conversational autopilot. The short one – pink, lizardy. The name came to her, Revka.
  
  *
  
  Antonine sipped something and hoped the Ferengi would get synthehols out here soon, throat dry as the fierce looking Orion suddenly stared at her. General Dellian had previously adopted that vapid open-look she’d seen on Orions at trade meetings before, and wondered what it was she said. Her main focus was trying not to jingle when she moved. Ambassador Suighara had insisted on full medals, and that meant everything down to the Vega ribbon.
  
  Temporarily not rattling like a loose plasma conduit, the Sivkan continued, “It certainly looks fierce there,” she explained, “But it’s not exactly Utopia Planitia. Any of the follow-on ships will certainly be built differently.”
  
  “Indeed,” Tuvok agreed, “Even if the specifications do not change in the reality of construction, the original methodology will certainly change. The Kobali have built few ships to this scale, and mass-production is their goal for the export market. Building a ship to live up to their reputation to resilience will certainly require adjustments to procedure.”
  
  General Q’Nel shifted uneasily. There’d been other discussions about adjustment to Kobali procedure. Antonine added quickly, “The Samsar’s specifications make it a magnificent new flagship for the Kobali, General. It took years for modular construction methodologies to really pay off for Starfleet.”
  
  “And you set the bar quite high with the ship,” D’ellian said, soothingly. “Integrating the main engines into the frame will greatly improve durability.”
  
  A voice spoke at her elbow and Antonine half-jumped, medals ringing. The voice was precise and well-modulated; and one she’d met before briefly, from the Republic Navy. “Yes, General – a perfect example of changes in production. The original blueprints did not take advantage of the redundant framing to be able to support inboard warp engines,” said Admiral seh’Virinat.
  
  She irritably swept her cape back, and Antonine felt briefly guilty – the Romulan had scared up a Heirarchy officer somewhere, at least she was mingling.
  
  *
  
  An’riel sipped at her drink; it was certainly alcoholic, but weak enough it was hard to distinguish otherwise. One of the advantages of Rihannsu. It didn’t hurt to cheat a little now and then, by appearing to put down more. And appearance wasn’t hurt by dragging Det around. A brief diplomatic discussion between Hierarchy staff officer and Republic admiral was a good cover for sweeping for listening devices.
  
  The Kobali had certainly made it easy – they’d presented the least interesting aspect of the Samsar. Even an experienced eye would have trouble spotting the difference between a weapon emitter and a probe launcher straight bow-on by the naked eye, so everyone had gathered by the food – less space to check for bugs and the heating elements let them do some active scans to check everyone was being ‘polite’.
  
  And some diplomats would have to get some gentle reminders about following protocol as far as that went, later. The Republic needed an absolutely ironclad reputation of integrity to make up for their people’s history out here. Unfortunately, they also had to deal with the Kobali, which wasn’t helping matters. Soothing that over with her reputation as fighting Gaul was helping some, but Duty demanded she represent with the other flag officers in her tour group of the Samsar, which would begin shortly.
  
  Whether the Vaadwaur were done yet was a real concern, but the Kobali, in spite of their enemies, were already acting like peace had held. There’d been four major battles fought in Kobali space and constant skirmishing to maintain orbital superiority during the war, and they’d left blueprints of their flagship unsecured on the network.
  
  Old ones, admittedly, but An’riel could tell it was close enough; the shield and deflector arrangement were basically the same except the withdrawn engines. It’d be criminal negligence if the ship ended up in Republic service, but the Empire’s military buildup was still serving the Republic well, there. Fortunately, the Republic’s interest was in letting the Kobali absorb the initial construction problems of the new frame and repair system technology before it was integrated in the command battlecruiser designs.
  
  General Q’Nel didn’t appear to notice her snub. “Yes, combined with its redundant structural members, and the integrity field/weapon tuning, this will make an excellent command platform for any system defense force. We’re very excited about the Samsar.”
  
  He would be, that. General Q’Nel probably had the least combat experience of anyone amongst the military group; in spite of being possibly older than Admiral Tuvok. The Samsar certainly looked impressive from a data readout – though she wish they’d make the gantries more visible so it looked less ready to drift through the window.
  
  “It’s a shame it’s not ready to fly,” General D’ellian said, “The Alliance is very interested in seeing if the advanced tactical command coordination operates as well in practice as the laboratory.” The Orion had switched from soothing to grim, eager for battle. Even her scar was flushing a little. An’riel started taking a mental note – she wasn’t bad, but the Syndicate still ruled supreme for switching personas.
  
  The annunciator chimed – An’riel had been expecting it, and so come to stand where expected. Captain Kim’s group had finished its tour – the individual captains who’d broken the line at the Vaadwaur, at least the survivors anyway. Now it was time for the overanked and the planners.
  
  
  *
  
  D’ellian gave polite interest during the tour. It was a heavy cruiser, non-Imperial. She’d seen the specs, and knew how those would translate in the field if they were true – somewhat of a concern with the Kobali, but one for the Inspector’s office.
  
  As always compared to equipment, the reaction of those who moved through it were more useful. She’d done her share of inspections, on both sides of the white glove, and knew most of the tricks. Fortunately, the Kobali were mainly trying the ‘divert gently from corridors where there hadn’t been time to polish’ method and not the ‘please don’t check the meat lockers’ technique of diversion.
  
  A bunch of colony worlds would buy useful ships to stiffen their defense, and leave the Empire’s shipyards free to build the sort of high-end ships for nodal defense that might do something against the Iconians. She wasn’t sure the thought admiral’s projections weren’t horribly optimistic, actual intelligence on their forces was nonexistent.
  
  The little red-headed Romulan miracle-worker was bubbling, but then – she was, according to her (somewhat sketchy) file information, simply a gifted amateur as a commander. “The tight-beam command interlink and dedicated processors offer some fascinating possibilities,” she said as they studied the bridge. “The operational equivalent of a flag staff in real time.”
  
  D’ellian ignored it – improved coordination and precision maneuvering was well taught at the Academy. Admiral seh’Virinat’s reliance on mechanical ends over a long-tradition showed the Republic’s still-gaping weaknesses in training and body of knowledge after the chaos of Hobus.
  
  Also, the way she watched Tuvok proved a note for her Intelligence’s version of the files: she really hadn’t ever worked with a fresh crew; relying on the flame of dedication and vengeance that always drove Romulans. True, the Republic was doing its best to be friendly, but if there was a lesson she hadn’t know the Academy for, it was any vulnerability was potentially lucrative, or at least useful.
  
  Tuvok replied, “Indeed – the second-by-second coordination offers many possibilities beyond those of allowing multiple ships to attack as a single entity. The operational capabilities that develop from tactics will take Starfleet’s Advanced Tactical Force to develop fully.” An’riel nodded obediently. D’ellian made a note of that, and eyed the Romulan. Maybe she was wide-eyed, but wide-eyed Feddie-loving Romulans were apparently still sneaky.
  
  *
  
  Antonine was regretting the needs to come to this – she was more in operations than being able to judge the quality of the fitting-out, but a starship without warp engines was an attractive asteroid, nothing more. Bringing in the engines might improve the durability, but it was impossible to say how they balanced the field effects of generating the subspace stressors without the ship as a hole being in a normal space bubble.
  
  She’d seen the Defiant project, there were real vulnerabilities to that sort of design. Everything looked impressive, but the changes the Kobali made were yet unproven. Typical, sadly. Getting them to actually talk to even allies was coming across some very deep-seated concerns, which were only partly suspicion at the Kobali’s reproduction methodology. This quadrant was just hostile, sometimes. Antonine was hopeful they would eventually make a breakthrough, though.
  
  They beamed back over from the hulk, and Antonine straightened slightly. Another hour of this, and she could leave it to Suighara’s team, and Admiral Tuvok’s team of specialists. Poor guys. Though her night would be busy – raiding was already reporting up against Talaxian settlements on the frontier, and even if the main Vaadwaur government was down, the rest of the aggression-poisioned captains with high-warp, stealthy, jacked-up barges would start doing the math without a serious patrol pattern.
  
  “General D’ellian, may I see you?” General Q’nel said. “You have the most recent experience on the Vaadwaur after the heroic attack on their homeworld, and I’d like your input.” The Orion merely nodded briefly, and the two broke as the rest continued back from the transporters to the banquet hall.
  
  “Fascinating,” the Doctor said, “My hypothesis had been that the Kobali brain structure changed their pheromone receptors to not experience that level of reaction to Orion stimuli.”
  
  “I am sure your hypothesis still has merit, Doctor,” Admiral seh’Virinat said, “The KDF is, ah, looser than Starfleet but the General’s reputation and varied service jacket would indicate she lacks the sort of direct patron that sort of habit would imply, even beyond her career stalling far below flag.” She folded her arms briefly, and simply said, “Do not look surprised, the Star Empire had a tragic tendency to such behavior in the House system.”
  
  Antonine nodded. The Klingons’ House fleets were riven with patronage, but General D’ellian had operated primarily in the KDF itself. That did raise some questions – if Vulcans needed control, Orions’ reputation for hedonism came from a need for stimulus – the General wasn’t the only Orion at high rank, but somewhat high-profile from past success. What stimulus drove those like her? And ignoring the Orion reputation when one was led to dark corners, what did the General want?
  
  Antonine coughed slightly and looked at the Romulan. Admiral seh’Virinat said, “Oh, I am sure I could find out, but I am more curious what the General will say when she returns. Her civilian role may have simply come up over some embarrassing matter of logistics.”
  
  *
  
  D’ellian followed General Q’Nel away from the group and considered the options. Some portion of the Syndicate could be pursuing vendetta on the Kobali for all sorts of reasons, but she doubted that applied. The other option, when one saw the green skin and got ideas, was ludicrous. Not that she didn’t enjoy such opportunities when they came up – but she either liked them a bit dumber or much sharper.
  
  The Kobali finally stopped in a small conference room – D’ellian actually recognized it, she and several ‘merchant’ representatives from the Klingon Houses who bothered with such had been arranging some corpse shipping there before her last patrol. That was a worry. The Kobali had a cultural tendency towards symmetry.
  
  If the Kobali had somehow come across information about how the Empire was ultimately responsible for the death of several hundred innocent Talaxians as well as avenging them, this could be very bad. Her face, of course, gave nothing away.
  
  Which made it more surprising when General Q’Nel pointed at her face. “General, I wanted to thank you for your support to the capabilities of the Samsar. We know the export versions may differ, but your confidence in the ship-building and industry we are developing on our homeworld is a strong indicator of support of your governments towards out humble little world. I wanted to convey my thanks and offer a personal token, in lieu of your culture.”
  
  “I will pass along such to my commercial backers, and include a note to the High Council. I serve at the Chancellor’s pleasure; many seek his ear – I hear and relay his voice far more than he advises me,” D’ellian said, practically by rote. She wondered what he could offer.
  
  “Kobali medicine and reconstruction are at the heart of our technology,” Q’Nel said. “The virus is very famous, of course, but the second life is only the beginning. I would like to offer our services to you – I… have been led to understand the Orion emphasis on aesthetics.”
  
  Her scar, on the cheek – she didn’t think of it much. It was a useful card, sometimes. A legacy of the Academy – an artful display to end in blood without permanent damage, to mark away from the smooth polished perfection of being merely a Syndicate toy – a comfortable life as a bargaining chip, but an unwanted one.
  
  She didn’t laugh. It was a near thing, but her face only twitched a little. Q’Nel ignored it, thinking nerve damage, perhaps. “General, thank you for your kind offer,” she said, as gently as she could when control was fully reasserted. “But this injury has a legacy; and does not impede at this time.”
  
  Some dissuasion, though, may be called for. She stood as strongly as she could, and channeled K’Gan with an especially dimwitted new recruit. “You are misinformed, General – the Klingon culture understands, even in the age of medical technology, that scars are an important separation of those who merely know how to fight, and those who have sacrificed for their honor.”
  
  “I see,” General Q’Nel said, who didn’t. Time to balance it out and bring him into camp.
  
  “But your reaching out was a brave gesture,” she assured him. “I know how it is here – species determines government. The Orion as a species are not one entity, and while the larger culture understands the virtues of the undamaged, in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, there are hundreds of cultures to choose from not of one’s birth.” Even if one’s birth culture urged and honed that flawlessness. Valued it, even, very precisely, in auctions on a hundred worlds. A legacy of her ancestors mercantile culture and an attempt, to, ah, upsell the genome.
  
  General Q’Nel was a bit mollified. “I’m still not sure how your empires manage it,” he said. “The Talaxians came close, it was fragile, and the Borg are the sledgehammer, of course.”
  
  “The Borg have no culture,” D’ellian said assuredly. “Perhaps the Cooperative will, we will see, as we are watching.” She traced the scar, “But everyone with a culture sees something different on imperfection. Your response is also encouraging.” The General looked puzzled.
  
  “Others see you taking, mere leeches or corpse-robbers. But your first thought of a gift was to reconstruct as mending. The Federation may mutter about the Syndicate’s history of labor contracts – but we have been in space as long as the Vulcans. No culture survives on mere taking. This too, is a building of some kind.”
  
  D’ellian brushed her hands briefly. “But, now, General, we should return – there is much good yet to tell of the Samsar and to celebrate our glorious victory.” She smiled briefly, “Though before you bring the next group, General – you may wish to talk to the dockyard – the Samsar’s lines are much more glorious to the side.”
  
  The General nodded, gently, and moved to leave the room. D’ellian sighed inwardly. Ones could see spy, marauder, merchant, bat’leth swinging warrior or proud captain. Let them. D’ellian always saw a trailblazer
  
  in the mirror.
  

  Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
  
  Member Access Denied Armada!
  
  My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!

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  wombat140 Member Posts: 971 Arc User

  June 2016

  Prompt #2
  
  
  

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  aten66 Member Posts: 654 Arc User

  June 2016 edited June 2016

  Duie to Length, I decided to link this story here: The Tholian Lynchpin. Enjoy!

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  code743 Member Posts: 14 Arc User

  June 2016 edited June 2016

  Note: Super late with this, I know. Due to the divergence from The STO storyline, I may need to explain some of this when/if I remember.
  
  Prompt 2
  
  

  USS Flauros, Task Force Omega mustering point, Noro Sector, Beta Quadrant
  
  Stardate 92858.8
  
  November 10th, 2415

  
  
  Senior Captain Emeria Neves stood, stone-faced, in a starboard corridor in the chevron section of the USS Flauros. A few meters in front of her, the way was blocked by the flickering, not quite fully transparent veil of an emergency force field. Beyond that was a mess of twisted plating and bulkheads torn like tissue paper. Beyond that was open space.
  
  Close by, the rest of the Seventh Fleet were visible. Some ships, like the Flauros, were licking their own wounds, but the big Odyssey-class had taken a ‘king hit’. A significant chunk of the starboard side of the chevron had been sliced off by a Borg cube’s cutting beam following a full-strength tachyon beam from a flanking sphere.The Flauros had never had chevron separation ability, so they had been forced to limp back to their rally point in this state.
  
  
  Beside Emeria stood her second officer and HoD science, Lashawn Heany. On her other side, her chief engineer. It was the latter who spoke first.
  
  “Well Captain, it’s quite early to be making sweeping statements, but I’m going out on a limb and guess that this might be a little beyond my immediate capabilities.”
  
  Emeria ignored the apparent flippancy of the remark. “How many people were in this part of the ship?”
  
  “At this point, we have 31 crew unaccounted for. Commander Heany replied. “It could’ve been worse though. Had we not been at red alert at the time, there could have been up to a hundred people here.”
  
  
  Further off, Task Force Omega was mobilising a task group to head to the Calbriden system. The 7th fleet had just returned from there after what could only be described as a victory in a strictly technical sense. Somehow, the Collective had been successful in rebuilding and reactivating the subspace generator that Delta flight had taken out during the Iconian War. Facing an inability to easily access the installation through the wreckage of Calbriden III and a steady flow of incoming Borg reinforcement, a portion of the fleet had been nearly overwhelmed before the intervention of a Herald fleet led by the Iconian, L’Miren.
  
  
  L’Miren, aware of the role of Iconian tech in the situation, had ordered her fleet to clear a path through the remains of the shattered planet to the Installation (having summarily dealt with the Borg of course), before allowing Wings 71 and 74 to accomplish their mission. By this time, however, the damage had been done to the Flauros, but this was only the latest of a string of problems for the ship…
  
  
  Commissioned as one of the very first “Block I’ Odysseys in early 2412, The Flauros had seen little action in an exploratory role for the first year of her existence, but the pressures of ongoing wars with the Klingons, Borg, True Way and Tal Shiar/Romulan Star Empire had forced Starfleet’s hand. During the middle of that year, she had been converted to the more recent ‘Block I/T’ variant.
  
  
  And it was there that the problems had started.
  
  
  Upgrades to phaser arrays carried by the tactical variant had not been matched with proper upgrades to the EPS systems, causing conduits to overheat and fail under heavy load. Extra armour had been ill-fitting and frequently came loose from the underlying hull, RCS thrusters on the starboard side (many of which the Borg had been kind enough to remove) often failed despite repair efforts and the port impulse engine had developed a nagging vibration that no one had been able to pin down.
  
  
  When, in 2414, Emeria had been assigned command on the back of an engineering background and seemingly endless reserves of patience, the atmosphere among the Flauros’ existing crew had been less than warm with regards to their ship. Emeria had slowly turned this around over the two years since, but the ship continued to be high-maintenance.
  
  
  Suddenly, Emeria’s combadge chirped. “Neves here.”
  
  The voice of the first officer, Odelia Heany, identical to that of her twin standing to Emeria’s right, though slightly distorted by the speaker within the badge, began to speak.
  
  “Captain, can you go to your ready room? You have a visitor.”
  
  “Not great timing, Commander. You couldn’t have told them to come back later?”
  
  A slight pause. “Denying an admiral permission to board might have been somewhat career-limiting.”
  
  Emeria frowned. “Mauris?”
  
  “Affirmative” Odelia replied.
  
  “Tell him I’m on my way.”
  
  
  Emeria walked into her ready room to find Rear Admiral Mauris standing at the porthole, seemingly surveying the Wing of ships he commanded. He turned as the door swished open and Emeria strode through it, before moving to sit at in a guest chair opposite her workstation. Emeria took her own chair, still internally guessing as to the reason for a personal visit.
  
  “Admiral, an unexpected pleasure. What news from up on high?” Emeria inquired
  
  Mauris’ dark face and iris-and-pupil-less eyes gave nothing away.”I just got out of a conference with Admirals Desyox, Rezkii and Blackmoore. There’s good news and bad news.”
  
  Emeria frowned again, that ‘good news, bad news’ thing. Another human habit Mauris had picked up on. Emeria decided to play along.
  
  “Okay… what’s the bad news then?” Emeria asked
  
  “You remember what L’Miren said about the terminus to that Borg portal being in the Delta Quadrant?”
  
  “I do not like where this is going.”
  
  “I don’t think anyone is exactly jumping for joy over this, but our job is to go where they point us.’ Mauris said, perhaps in a more curt tone than he had intended.
  
  Softening his voice slightly, he added “Besides, we’ll basically only be functioning as babysitter to Delta Alliance exploratory ships. We won’t be engaging anyone unless it’s to defend ourselves, but we need to find out just how these Borg were so much more damned powerful than anything we’ve faced in the last decade.”
  
  “The DA can’t supply their own escort?”
  
  “Not at this point. After what happened with the Vaadwaur, they ended up with even less time to prepare for the Iconians than what we did. And don’t overlook that they came to the defence of Earth as well.”
  
  “Fair point” Emeria conceded. “But I can’t go prancing off to the Delta Quadrant with my ship looking like this and 31 letters of condolence to write.”
  
  “I know you feel bad about that, but think of the 200 people on board the ch’Thev who would most likely have lost their lives if you hadn’t put the Flauros in the way. And you saw what they did to the Azov.”
  
  “Well, yes, I’ve lost plenty more crew than that in a single engagement before, but I’m not sure I’m comfortable with leading Group 742 as well as playing the shield role like I used to with 743. It’s a lot going on.” Emeria explained.
  
  “I’m looking into that.” Mauris said. “Things being the way they are, getting the ships and captains for best squadron balance is a challenge. It could take as much as a decade to get back to turn of the century levels. Which leads into my next point.”
  
  He leaned over and plugged a datachip into Emeria’s terminal. A holo-image of an Odyssey and three other similar but unfamiliar ships flickered into view above it.
  
  “We had a guest over subspace at our meeting” Mauris began. “It seems Fleet Admiral Yanishev has his eye on you.”
  
  Emeria could hardly contain her amazement.”Yanishev, as in Head of Starfleet Tactical, Grigory Yanishev?”
  
  “The very same. When I mentioned that you’d been hit, he personally bumped the Flauros up the priority list for an ‘endeavour spec’ retrofit.” Mauris indicated the other three ships on the holo. “The Block II capital cruisers we’ve been hearing about have finished their testing and gone into production. VA Desyox is getting the Ops variant, I’m getting the Multi-role one. The Flauros will be up-specced into the Tactical one, but retain the original Odyssey shape.”
  
  Emeria opened her mouth, but Mauris cut her off.
  
  “I know what you’re going to say, but retrofitting Oddys has come on in leaps and bounds since 2413. This time, it’ll be done properly. If it isn’t, I’ll find you another command. Plus you’ll be able to get back to Trill for a week or so to see that new husband of yours.”
  Emeria gave a wry smile and tilted her head towards a scale model of a Venture-class cruiser on her desk.. “Where’s the Nybbas assigned to these days? Has she been upgraded?”
  
  Mauris remained deadpan. “Careful, keep cracking funnies like that and people will think your sense of humor is coming back. I'd like to have her back as much as you, but SFC has this bizarre idea that exploration cruisers should be used for, erm... exploration.”
  
  “Fine, fine. So, if Desyox is getting one of these er…” -Emeria glanced at the holo- “Sojourner class ships, what’s happening to the Yerzna?”
  
  “Blackmoore.”
  
  Emeria whistled. “Are they sure that’s wise?”
  
  “He’ll be stuck on the saucer during combat. SFC has decreed that any Wing or Fleet flagship needs to have separation ability. That way the saucer or chevron can function as a mobile command centre while the stardrive goes into combat, under the flag captain. In Blackmoore’s case that means the galaxy can continue to sleep at night. He’s a flag officer now. He needs to start acting like one.”
  
  Emeria chuckled. It was the closest she had come to laughing in days.
  

  Post edited by code743 on June 2016

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  cmdrscarlet Member Posts: 5,137 Arc User

  September 2016 edited September 2016

  Just Right - Prompt 1
  
  Kathryn walked to the display screen within the wall and tapped at the corner. Images appeared revealing a star chart, some text within a report and a few images of persons from various races in profile. Turning toward the conference table, she cleared her throat briefly.
  
  “On Stardate 91347.5, USS Solaris intercepted a cargo ship in the Mempa Sector, fourteen AU outside the Vor System. The vessel was adrift and all systems non-functional. Passive scans did not reveal other vessels nearby, no life signs on board and all escape pods were used. Registry searches returned null results. Starfleet was promptly notified and a boarding party was beamed onto the ship, with me leading the team.”
  
  Although looking to each of the three people at the table throughout her introduction, Kathryn stopped her roving glances onto one, a female Vulcan. Counselor A’Mand raised an eyebrow in response. A second passed before Kathryn continued.
  
  “Once aboard we quickly determined the vessel’s cargo were animate in nature.” Kathryn instantly regretted the choice or words and was interrupted before she could correct herself.
  
  “Animate? Do you mean livestock?” The male Rigelian leaned forward as he spoke, clearly his attention was captured.
  
  “Pardon me, Admiral Doss, the cargo were sentient beings.” She turned and tapped the screen to highlight a cargo manifest. “15 different species from the Beta Quadrant: the vessel was transporting people. It was a slave trading ship.”
  
  “Captain Beringer, please forgive my interruption, how did Solaris find this vessel if it was just a floating hulk in deep space.” The human male reclined the chair and looked to the Counselor. His trimmed beard and mustache conveyed a relaxed appearance. Hazel eyes and muscular build through the Admiral’s cloak made him almost dashing even though he was at least twenty years older than Kathryn.
  
  She smiled. “Of course, Admiral Snord. Solaris was on a diplomatic ferry mission to Qo’Nos for Commandant Decker of the Dawn Patrol Task Force. Once in the Pi Canis Block, per standard procedures, our maximum travel speed is Warp 2, with forward-path tight beam sensor scan at timed intervals. The Bramtlok was simply in our path.”
  
  Admiral Snord smiled and was still for a few seconds, enough time for both Doss and A’Mand to look at him questioningly. “Would you say this was a fated moment?”
  
  Kathryn looked down as if embarrassed with her response. “Yes, sir.”
  
  “How did you know the ship was carrying slaves,” asked Admiral Doss.
  
  Sadness overcame Kathryn‘s demeanor. “They were still in the freight hold.” She recalled pulling the manual lever to unlock the cargo doors. It took four of the team to pry open the massive doors. When dead fingers poked through the small opening from their efforts, the team jumped in their space suits. Shining lights into the room revealed the grisly scene.
  
  Bringing herself back to the present, Kathryn continued. “Investigating the computer core yielded flight plan and path as well as the ship’s registry, but not for the abandoned condition of the vessel. Technical teams did not discern a mechanical or electrical reason for the abandoned condition of the vessel or for why the inhabitants to be spaced within the ship. All personnel logs were wiped. The OSS Bramtlok was Orion manufactured and owned by Gratol Kiaf, also known as ‘Gratol the Grave” within the Syndicate. SFI reports sum him up as sadistic, among other color descriptions.”
  
  She turned back to the viewscreen and selected a star chart showing various symbols with corresponding colors. A line connected two points: one in a blank area of space, the other at a named star system. “There was a discrepancy between the number of persons listed in the manifest and those on the ship. Once Doctor Kalmar matched records to deceased, Solaris made for the Vor system to investigate the ship’s last point of origin. In transit, we detected faint subspace echoes emanating from the asteroid belt between the fifth and sixth planets. Passive sensor readings strongly suggested an intra-core artificial structure was located within the belt.”
  
  The Rigelian raised an orange-highlighted hand. “Did Commandant Decker approve of the deviation from mission parameters?”
  
  “Yes, only because we were near two hours ahead of schedule.”
  
  Admiral Doss nodded his head approvingly.
  
  Kathryn continued, “Solaris orbited Vor VII and started geological scans of the planet as a means to divert attention away from the covert operation conducted via shuttle. The goal was to learn more about the facility directly before taking further action, time permitting.”
  
  A tactical display showed the Vor system, with images pointing to locations around the seventh planet and the asteroid belt. A simple dotted line connected pictures. “A Type-9 shuttle was used for the sortie, piloted by myself.” Both Admirals quickly looked to Counselor A’Mand, who remained composed, as if expecting the comment.
  
  Admiral Snord leaned forward and laced his fingers together on the table. A sly smirk was glued to his face. “Captain, why did you take a shuttle by yourself to the facility?”
  
  Kathryn placed both hands behind her back and gathered her thoughts. “To minimize risk to ship personnel, and considering the limited timeframe, the less staff directly involved the easier to accommodate resources to research the anomalous event.”
  
  The three officers at the table sat quiet and unmoving. Kathryn perceived her answer was sufficient enough to continue the report.
  
  “At four hundred thousand kilometers, passive scans revealed a massive structure built within an S-Type asteroid. Interestingly, only twenty humanoid inhabitants could be detected. Closer inspection revealed the facility to be a mining station. The majority composition of the asteroid was Bicarbonate Silica, a very benign substance, yet used in the manufacture of medical equipment within the Klingon Empire.”
  
  Clearing her throat, Kathryn tapped on the viewscreen to enlarge a schematic of the mining facility shown in three dimensions revealed a basic sphere shaped structure with about ten percent being above the surface of the irregular shaped asteroid. “I teleported onto Level Two; this was the main docking level to the station and the least inhabited.”
  
  Seeing Admiral Doss’ eyes widen, Kathryn quickly attempted to preempt his question. “My goal was get eyes-on surveillance of the facility to verify its legality, keeping in mind a derelict slave ship’s last port of call was this station.” Doss became mollified by the explanation.
  
  Tapping the screen again, the second level schematic was cut out and presented as a tactical display with words appearing in various rooms. Pointing to the ‘control room’, Kathryn explained, “I was able to subdue a lone operator without raising alarms and accessed the computer core.” She tapped another area of the screen and a large manifest record appeared over the level map. “I was able to determine the station was indeed a mining facility operated by a cartel within the Orion Syndicate and that the Bramtlok had picked up the last of the slave workers for transport to another facility. The destination is still unknown, unfortunately.”
  
  Counselor A’Mand’s eyebrow rose at the editorial. “Captain, pardon me for interrupting, what do you mean ‘unfortunately’?”
  
  Kathryn turned to face the Vulcan. “The Bramtlok’s destination could have revealed further slave activity by the Syndicate and dealt with by proper authorities.”
  
  Admiral Snord, still smirking added, “Your authority?”
  
  “That was not my intent. The time window was shrinking in order to get Commandant Decker to his appointment on Qo’Nos. My report would have been sent to Starfleet Command to be routed.”
  
  Kathryn waited for more questioning. After a couple of seconds of silence, she continued. “Recalling a discrepancy between the Bramtlok’s manifest and those found in cargo bay, I hedged on the cartel having mediocre attention to detail.” She tapped onto the screen and the second level schematic slid back into the sphere of the station and the sixth level pulled away. Enlarged, the words on rooms read ‘holding cell’. Tapping onto the area within a particular cell, a photo image appeared. The three officers at the table gasped.
  
  “What is … is that a humanoid?” Admiral Doss was pointing at the image of a butchered mass of meat on the screen.
  
  Without emotion Kathryn replied, “My readings suggested a Human female.” She turned and closed the image, and then tapped on another cell. A second image opened to show another mutilated corpse, its internal organs strewn about the small room. Kathryn paused for effect and then closed the image. She was about to tap another cell when someone’s hoarse coughing stopped her.
  
  “Thank you, Captain. How many bodies did you find?” Admiral Snord wore a frown when Kathryn looked over her shoulder.
  
  “The difference between the Bramtlok manifest and its cargo hold … except one.”
  
  Kathryn opened a file showing a Bolian youth. “This is Bried. I found him using a tricorder scan for lifeforms and filtering out chronological age parameters. He had been hiding in a mine shaft on level eight. At that point, my time had almost expired. To get back to a safe transporter location to the shuttle, Bried and I had to use more obvious pathways that risked discovery. There was a firefight on level three. The incapacitated Orion in the control room must have been discovered. I was able to escape with Bried, but not before injuring three captors.”
  
  “I evaded minimal aggression by egress above the orbital elliptic of the asteroid belt. Once aboard Solaris, I ordered the facility be destroyed.”
  
  Counselor A’Mand looked to the Admirals. Admiral Snord’s smirk returned as he sat back into his chair and placing hands behind his head, looking relaxed. Admiral Doss seemed tense by comparison. “On what grounds?” A’Mand looked back to Kathryn stoically.
  
  “The station was highly probable to have been a slave labor mining camp organized and run by the Orion Syndicate or its affiliates. Mining registrations for the Vor system only listed holding on planetary bodies, not the asteroid belt. With the unexplained deaths of the beings in Bramtlok’s cargo, the crew’s inexplicable departure from a technically functional spacecraft, and the condition of the bodies found on the facility, I concluded it a matter of injustice to leave the area with only a report being sent to Starfleet. Ultimately, the facility was not legally sanctioned and my orders prevented its continued use.”
  
  The three officers looked to one another until the Admirals looked at A’Mand and nodded. The Vulcan Counselor turned to Kathryn and asked, “is this a matter of ‘might makes right’, Captain?”
  
  Kathryn quickly responded, “to the contrary. Respectfully Counselor, right guides might.”
  

  Kathryn S. Beringer - Endless Excelsior - Veritatum Liquido Cernerne - a proud off-meta build
  
  

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