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Unofficial LC #6: Gods of lower decks in wintry timelines.
worffan101
Member Posts: 9,518 Arc User
Welcome to the sixth monthly edition of the Unofficial Star Trek Online Literary Challenge!
Prompt #1: "Cold Timeline" ~ submitted by me because vanity.
While fighting a Breen starship in Deferi space, an interaction between your ship's energy weapons and the Breen's torpedoes causes a rip in space-time to open, dumping both ships into the late 19th century, near Luna. With engines offline and suffering from critical damage, your ship is forced to crash-land on Earth, taking with it the survivors of the Breen ship, who you beam on-board just before the Confederacy ship explodes. Where are you, how do you survive and avoid explorers, and how do you get home?
* * *
Prompt #2: "Lower Decks" (inspired by the TNG episode) ~ submitted by starswordc.
The captain and the officers get all the glory, but it's the petty officers, bekks, and uhlanir that make it possible. What's a typical or atypical day like off the bridge of your ship, in the gunnery deck, the lower engine spaces, the science labs, and the enlisted lounges? What do the snipes and squints think of your captain? Do the corpsmen and nurses hate doing all the work while the chief medical officer takes the credit? Are your rank-and-file as rough and ready as you, or are they like that poor TRIBBLE in Chuck Sonnenburg's Star Trek: First Contact review who "just wanted to study quasars!"?
* * *
Prompt #3: "The Pantheon" ~submitted by moonshadowdark.
"In 2267, the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise discovered a world inhabited by a humanoid lifeform claiming to be the ancient Greek god, Apollo. After his temple was destroyed and the affections for his beloved Carolyn Palamas were rejected, he faded away and the Enterprise escaped. They left the planet behind and no one has heard tale of these beings for quite some time.
Until now.
While on a deep space survey mission, your crew has discovered three beings claiming to be the last of the gods. Zeus, Odin and Osiris. These three have taken an away team hostage and are demanding your presence. Upon beam down, you discover that these gods want you to chose one of them as your "deity" and give them the power to rule once more. Each god promises you a different reward for your aid and threaten to destroy you and your ship if you do not choose. What will you do? Who will you side with?"
* * *
Rules are the same as usual. No NSFW stuff, one story per author per prompt.
The discussion thread is here.
Index of previous unofficial challenges:
The Kobayashi Maru
Time After Time
The Next Generation of Tribbles with Darkest Moments
The Return of the Revenge of the Unofficial LC of DOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!
Back from the Dead
Prompt #1: "Cold Timeline" ~ submitted by me because vanity.
While fighting a Breen starship in Deferi space, an interaction between your ship's energy weapons and the Breen's torpedoes causes a rip in space-time to open, dumping both ships into the late 19th century, near Luna. With engines offline and suffering from critical damage, your ship is forced to crash-land on Earth, taking with it the survivors of the Breen ship, who you beam on-board just before the Confederacy ship explodes. Where are you, how do you survive and avoid explorers, and how do you get home?
* * *
Prompt #2: "Lower Decks" (inspired by the TNG episode) ~ submitted by starswordc.
The captain and the officers get all the glory, but it's the petty officers, bekks, and uhlanir that make it possible. What's a typical or atypical day like off the bridge of your ship, in the gunnery deck, the lower engine spaces, the science labs, and the enlisted lounges? What do the snipes and squints think of your captain? Do the corpsmen and nurses hate doing all the work while the chief medical officer takes the credit? Are your rank-and-file as rough and ready as you, or are they like that poor TRIBBLE in Chuck Sonnenburg's Star Trek: First Contact review who "just wanted to study quasars!"?
* * *
Prompt #3: "The Pantheon" ~submitted by moonshadowdark.
"In 2267, the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise discovered a world inhabited by a humanoid lifeform claiming to be the ancient Greek god, Apollo. After his temple was destroyed and the affections for his beloved Carolyn Palamas were rejected, he faded away and the Enterprise escaped. They left the planet behind and no one has heard tale of these beings for quite some time.
Until now.
While on a deep space survey mission, your crew has discovered three beings claiming to be the last of the gods. Zeus, Odin and Osiris. These three have taken an away team hostage and are demanding your presence. Upon beam down, you discover that these gods want you to chose one of them as your "deity" and give them the power to rule once more. Each god promises you a different reward for your aid and threaten to destroy you and your ship if you do not choose. What will you do? Who will you side with?"
* * *
Rules are the same as usual. No NSFW stuff, one story per author per prompt.
The discussion thread is here.
Index of previous unofficial challenges:
The Kobayashi Maru
Time After Time
The Next Generation of Tribbles with Darkest Moments
The Return of the Revenge of the Unofficial LC of DOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!
Back from the Dead
Post edited by Unknown User on
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But hey, f*ck sleep, and the first semester here is pass-fail anyway.
This one's for the second prompt. The bit about the commander's book was inspired in part by this story. I should note that Trenek has a similar book, as does D'trel (although due to the normal crew size of her ship it's a pretty small one).
Cast:
Narrator: Idris Elba.
ch'M'R Ra'khoi lli llhairai, Ha'apax--class cruiser/troop transport. Kobali system.
Senior singularity technician's personal log, ch'M'R Ra'khoi lli llhairai. 1530 mol'Rihan central time, fourth day, second month, Twenty-Third Year of Wrathful Loss.
We gave t'Liun her sendoff today.
First Omek'ti'kallan, the Rahaen'Enriov's ih'hwi'saehne, came to our ship to do the honors himself. He actually wept during his short speech. Something about her death not bringing honor to his god.
Apparently he promised to ensure that her family on mol'Rihan gets through this as best they can. My friend on the flagship Kholhr says that he's been in almost nonstop subspace communication with a couple of Havranssu who work in the administrative division on the homeworld for the past three days.
That's the thing about the Enriov and her crew. They really do care, and they show it.
When I was in the Galae s'shiar Rihan, I had a lot of bad commanders. The sort who'd order you into an unwinnable battle just to buy time and wouldn't shed a tear over your grave. Not D'trel. She won't order any of us to do a thing she wouldn't do herself, and she requires similar conduct from all officers under her command.
Nobody has disobeyed yet. D'trel is a hard, driven woman, and according to rumor just a little mentally unstable. Not the kind of person you want to cross.
Anyway. t'Liun was the head of our Khhiudraao s'Kreh'ddhokh mol'Rihan commandos, a good, brave woman with a young family. She lost her children and husband at Hobus, and had only relatively recently gotten her life back together. She had her life ahead of her, and I can think of no one else on this ship who deserved to die less.
That didn't stop a Vaad electrokinetic round from taking her in the aorta.
Most commanders I've had...hell, most we've all had, wouldn't have even batted an eye, and would have gladly handed her over to the Kobali when they asked. The Enriov pinned that lying sack of hlai dung Q'nel to a wall and stuck a sword in his neck, then threatened to kill him if one more Kobali so much as asked for a Rihan body.
Elements, I'm a bit shaken up by all this. We were honestly pretty lucky over the past few days. The Lloanen'Galae lost a half-dozen ships to the Vaadwaur, and we've all lost men, women, friends...
T'Liun just hit all of us hard.
It's hard to imagine that there won't be any more holocaps of her kids, any more proud stories of their progress and studies relayed from her husband, any more of that smile of hers as she shouts across the mess hall for one of her regular lunch friends...
Elements. I guess I'm just depressed. T'Liun, tr'Annhwi who was my best EPS conduit tech, tr'Nai who ran the ship's betting pool from his weapons station, so many more...
And the Enriov actually cares.
It's more than I've seen from a flag officer in a long, long time. Elements, and when I defected I was told that the coveted jobs were all on the Aen'Rhien...Must be pretty damn good on that ship. I know that if I could serve under D'trel full time, on her ship, I would, possibly crazy or not.
Elements. Thirty years in the Shiar military, twenty as a smuggler based on an independent world, and now the military again...and I finally know where I belong.
I fight for the Republic. I fight in the hopes that the next time an EPS conduit shorts while being repaired, it's an old man like me with no family to miss him rather than a young man like tr'Annhwi with his whole life ahead of him who gets roasted. I fight for the Republic because here, under the Rahaen'Enriov, under Khre'Enriov tr'Kererek, the officers make their crew do nothing they themselves would not. I fight so that people like t'Liun will not die meaningless, painful, wasteful deaths in the future.
I fight because for once in my life, I know it is right.
My CO is Riov t'Jeiai. I've seen the book she keeps, the one bound in hlai leather and with real ink on the pages, every one hand-written. I've seen some of the names, the causes of death, the promises.
We are lucky, here in the Republic.
I've been a lot of things. A soldier of the Empire, crushing rebellious worlds. A coward, deserting his post and escaping on a shuttle as the Empire collapsed after the homeworld's demise. A smuggler, killing people by proxy with illegal drugs.
A warrior. A man who for once in his life, stands for something and believes in it. A man who at last is willing to die for something, and knows why.
We fight for our freedom. We fight for our peace. We fight for our ruling passion. We fight for our future.
Well. There's a memorial for our lost in five minutes, and I've rambled far too long already. I had better go put on my dress robes.
Computer, end log.
That’s the way we do things, lad, we’re making sh*t up as we wish
The Klingons and the Romulans pose no threat to us
‘Cause if we find we’re in a bind we just make some sh*t up
— Voltaire, “The U.S.S. Make Sh*t Up”
Federation Department of Temporal Investigations
Greenwich, England
24 March 2410 Earth Standard
“You have no right to question me, Federation petaQ!” the auburn-haired, leather-clad Klingon snarled at the white-haired human in a black business suit, slamming a fist into the table and knocking over the pitcher of coffee in the middle. “I’m a member of the Klingon High Council and I have full diplomatic immunity!”
“Lady Ba’wov, I’ve been in touch with the Klingon embassy already and they’ve waived your immunity,” Special Agent in Charge Gariff Lucsly answered, steepling his fingers calmly as the orangey-bronze Lethean sitting next to the enraged noblewoman grabbed his wife’s shoulder and pulled her back into her chair. “We could’ve done this in an interrogation room and by rights I probably should’ve done. This conference room is a courtesy.”
“Honey, you’re not helping,” Brokosh muttered to his wife in Chel’tok battle cant. “I’ve dealt with Fed cops before; let me handle this. SAC Lucsly,” he said, switching to English, “if we can’t use our diplomatic immunity we’re using yours. My wife and I are exercising our rights under Article V, Section 3 of the Articles of Federation.”
“The embassy has appointed an attorney for you; he’s on his way. But I have here a message from Ambassador Vagh commanding you to answer my questions.”
“Ambassador Vagh can go f*ck a goose. Lawyer.”
“Look, General, give me a break here,” Lucsly tried in a conciliatory tone. “I’m just doing my job. You were involved in a potentially severe temporal incursion on Federation soil. Now, I think you’re in the clear because of a predestination paradox, but I have to dot all my ‘i’s and cross all my ‘t’s, you follow me?”
“Lawyer!” Brokosh repeated, more forcefully this time.
The human sighed, shut the cover on his PADD, and walked out of the room. Brokosh heard the lock click shut.
“Why do you demand a lawyer? We have done nothing wrong!”
Brokosh spluttered a mouthful of coffee onto the table and started laughing. “Yeah, that’s got nothing to do with it, love. Basic practice with Fed LEOs is always get a lawyer. Guessing you’ve never been arrested before.”
“Obviously not!” she replied with some disdain.
“Well, I have been. Mostly drunk and disorderly but…”
“‘But’?”
“Never mind, it was stupid.”
“Well, now you’ve piqued my interest. And it’ll take my mind off the potential ramifications of that mess that got us here.”
Chel’tok House Fleet Battlecruiser HoSbatlh
Free Haven System, Deferi Sector, Alpha Quadrant
16 March 2410 Earth Standard
“Rezreth-class dreadnought still active!” Norigom announced. “Forward shields holding at 72 percent!”
“Helm! Hard to starboard! Take another pass at them!” the small, heavily armored Orion in the captain’s chair commanded. Captain Meromi Riyal instinctively braced a foot on the floor against the acceleration.
“JorwI’Hegh and MajQa’be’, watch that crossfire,” Brokosh ordered from his seat in the tac dome at the back of the bridge. “Meromi, you got two clutches coming in dead ahead.”
“I see them. Emergency power to weapons! Lieutenant, fire!” The bridge roared with the (simulated) sound of rapid-fire disruptor pulses blasting from the Tor’Kaht-class battlecruiser’s pylon cannons, and sickly green energy packets crashed into the pair of Plesh Breks. One fell out of formation, engine nacelles in flames, the other detonated in a blinding white flash as the wedge-shaped flagship streaked past.
The Sixth Fleet was two weeks into an offensive against the Dok Thak, a faction of Breen commanded by Thot Hark, to break up a possible alliance with the True Way and put a stop to their raids on trade vessels. Starfleet had provided intelligence from a captured dalsh that the Dok Thak were planning to hit the Bajoran colony Free Haven, so Brokosh had prepared an ambush.
“GuiMon Trag, anytime you feel like joining in—”
“Sorry, General, we got held up! Hitting them astern … now!” A squadron of D’Kora-class ships crash-translated from warp, dumping hundreds of missiles into vacuum in the space of seconds.
“Koren! Time to drop the hammer!” Brokosh ordered.
“Heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam!” The Bortasqu’, more than double the size of the fleet flagship, shed its cloak and its spinal disruptor cannon smashed into the enemy dreadnought’s stern, buckling the shields, but only struck a glancing blow to the hull.
Brokosh couldn’t say the same for the Ferengi missile salvo that followed. As the helmsman swerved to miss the expanding debris field that used to be the Rezreth-class, the Lethean commented to nobody in particular, “Actually, looks more like a good day for the other guy to die.”
“Sir, remaining Breen ships are fleeing,” the giant Gorn manning sensors announced.
“Confirmed, Ila’kshath. All units, form up and move to pursue. HoSbatlh to Rule 25, we’ll take it from here. Thanks for the assist.”
“Gotta protect our markets, General. Rule 57, eh?”
“Right, ‘Good customers are almost as rare as latinum. Treasure them,’” the mercenary quoted. “True enough. See you ‘round the galaxy. Lieutenant! Punch it!” The helmsman obediently rammed the lever home and the battlecruiser rocketed past the light barrier. “Time to overhaul?”
“Six minutes. They have a head start but we’re gaining,” Meromi said. “They’re headed for a metreon gas cloud on the edge of the system, but we’ll catch them well short.”
“That’s if that moron Koren gets her act together,” Norigom remarked. “Stupid jil’kresh’d be late for her own funeral.”
“Forget Koren,” Brokosh said. “She who falls behind is left behind, and we’ve got more than enough firepower between us and three Negh’Vars to make short work of what’s left.”
“broQoS Sa’,” the half-Klingon at communications said timidly, “you are aware you said that on an open channel?”
An explosion of angry tlhIngan Hol invective came through the speakers in the tac dome and Brokosh quickly muted it. “Yes, I was, as a matter of fact,” he replied, the tusked corners of his mouth twisting into an unpleasant smile as the hammerhead-bowed dreadnought went to warp and struggled to catch up.
“She really doesn’t like having to work for us mercs, does she?” Norigom commented conversationally.
“You have no honor!” Bekk Tengku roared in a passable imitation of Koren’s voice. “No sh*t, Sherlock!” The human and a Nausicaan next to her both burst out laughing and Brokosh started snickering, but it ground to a halt under Meromi’s glare.
“We may not pay heed to honor as the Klingons define it,” the HoSbatlh’s emerald-skinned captain said in an authoritative voice, “but we will show superior officers the respect due their rank. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a pause. “Yes sir,” Tengku meekly acquiesced.
Brokosh privately messaged Engineering. “How’s it feel to be back in the engine room, love?”
“qu’!” Ba’wov sent back in a happy tone. “A fine vacation from the tlhIngan yejquv! So much more pleasant fixing reactor controls than arguing over spending cuts! I should do this more often!”
“At least you out here can just shoot your enemies, right, cha’paroyli’?”
“Or stab them. Stabbing them is good, too.”
Brokosh’s exploits in the past year had been good for the House of Chel’tok. They still weren’t the richest of Houses, but they had expanded their holdings and improved their income, and unaligned warriors and mercs had flocked to join the house fleet, bringing ships, manpower, and money. And with the deaths of Kidu and Chel’tok at the hands of the Undine and the Iconian, Brokosh and Ba’wov were now the seniormost members.
Brokosh still wasn’t comfortable having his wife with him on missions, especially now that she sat on the High Council, but like his duties managing house operations, she couldn’t do the politicking all the time without losing her mind. Compared to Klingon internecine squabbles, heading up the Sixth Fleet was child’s play.
Meromi’s deceptively girlish soprano broke him out of his thoughts. “Sir, we will be at extreme firing range in one min—”
“Missile separation!” Ila’kshath called from his console.
“Full shields forward!” Meromi ordered. “Target the weapon and destroy it!” The sound of cannon fire rumbled through the hull once again as the Breen Sarr Theln-class continued firing torpedoes from its chase launcher. Two of the Chel Gretts began to reshape their warp fields and slowly flipped backwards, slowing as they did so, and brought their bows to bear.
Full marks for courage, Brokosh thought as the enemy cruisers rapidly closed. He’d always admired the ethos of Breen soldiers, their willingness to sacrifice for the mission, not glory. Not unlike Starfleet, come to think of it. But Starfleet didn’t share the Breens’ sheer bloody-minded military pragmatism and cold calculation.
He checked the plot again. Meromi’s defensive fire was having some effect but by now the Sarr Theln had thirty torpedoes loose. “Network our ECM and point-defense with the Begh’poQ and the QartaDSa.”
The two K’Tanco-class cruisers, the closest ships to the HoSbatlh, opened fire. Seventeen torpedoes vanished well short. ECM diverted eight more. Another four exploded mostly harmlessly against the forward shields, the force blunted by the warp field.
One got through. Transphasic mines erupted into space ahead of the HoSbatlh as Meromi screamed, “All hands, brace for impact!”
The bridge shook violently as the armor plate fought to hold off the force of multiple explosions. Bekk Tengku’s console exploded, throwing her from her chair screaming. The main viewscreen cracked and went down, and Brokosh could faintly hear the sound of air rushing through the corridor behind him as the blast doors slammed closed, trapping a Klingon crewman on the other side. “Damage report!” Brokosh thundered.
“Hull breaches on command deck and decks three, five, six, and eleven!” Norigom rattled off. “Disruptor Four out! Forward thruster bank out! Forward shields at 32 percent! Cloaking device out! Casualties reported in all sections!”
“Enemy reinforcements detected.”
“Goddess,” Brokosh said to himself with some admiration, brushing broken glass off his lap. “They suckered me. Pulled the same trick on me I pulled on them.” The odds were now close to even.
“Enemy Sarr Theln still fleeing! They have ceased fire and are dropping to sublight! Escorts are reversing course!”
“Koren to brokoS Sa’, get the honorless petaQpu’ on that carrier! We can handle the escorts!”
“Godspeed, Captain Koren,” Brokosh acknowledged. “Meromi?”
“Yes, sir. Norigom, take the turrets offline; they’ll do us no good. Divert their power to the engines. And pull power from life support and put it to the shields.”
“You got it, boss!”
“QarchetvI’, MajQa’be’, and Satlh’QaH, we’re going after the flagship. Km’prala and Sshamath, cover fire. 202 Wing and C’Risasse, stay on our wing. Crash translate, now!”
“Confirmed, Flag,” the Ferasan commanding the Satlh’QaH hissed. Four birds-of-prey and a Negh’Var-class battlecruiser swung in behind the HoSbatlh, while the rest of the fleet opened fire as their warp fields fell away. Disruptor bolts and torpedoes sleeted into the oncoming Breen cruisers; return fire skittered across the shields.
“Forward shields at twenty-five percent!” Norigom reported. “Sir, we can’t keep this up! We’ve gotta fall out!”
“Divert damage control teams to the cloaking device!” Brokosh ordered.
“What?”
On the screen two pips indicating Breen cruisers went dark. “Get the cloak online! See if we can sneak past.”
“Captain,” Ila’kshath said suddenly, “there’s something wrong. The odds are still against the Breen; they should’ve kept fleeing.”
“They are courageous foes!” the Klingon engineer trying to fix the viewscreen said with glee as the ship jolted again. “Their defeat will bring us much honor!”
“No, there’s something else going on, Sergeant. I’m reading a disturbance in subspace on the edge of this micronebula. I think they dropped out of warp because it was more dangerous than—Egg-Bringer!”
Brokosh saw it on his screen. It was like a rip opening in space. “Meromi, get us out of here! Ila’kshath, what the hell is that?”
“I don’t know! It resembles Tyken’s Rift but these readings are—”
“Engineering to Bridge!” Ba’wov’s voice came through the intercom. “Reading a destabilization in the warp core! We’re about to lose containment—I’m shutting it down!”
Then there was a sudden flash behind Brokosh’s eyes. The light faded but something felt wrong.
Then he realized what was wrong. The star Sanelar at the center of the Free Haven System was far closer than it had been before, a mere 30 million klicks away, and the rest of his fleet was someplace else. “What just happened? Did we just teleport?”
The Gorn answered, “Still working on it—Egg-Bringer! Breen battleship and cruiser, closing and firing!”
“Take evasive action! Head for the sun—maybe we can lose ‘em!”
The battlecruiser wheeled and burned hard for the blindingly bright orb of flame, a pair of crescent-shaped Breen warships in hot pursuit, firing as they went. Disruptor fire streamed from the aft turrets but the enemy cannons were far more powerful. “We’re losing rear shields,” Norigom grimly announced. “Another minute or so and we’re dead.” There was a shrieking crack. “And there go the main disruptors.”
“Shut down the weapons generators and divert all power to engines,” Meromi ordered. “Helm, head for that sunspot formation, the one that looks like a yorel root. And charge up the tractor beam.”
“Meromi, what are you doing?” Brokosh asked.
“I’m going to trigger a solar flare. We can’t shoot them down, so we’ll burn them down.”
“Ballsy,” the Lethean commented. “And if you get us, too?”
“It’s a risk, sir. I believe it’s an acceptable one.”
Brokosh thought for a moment but then the bridge shook and another red damage indicator on his HUD decided for him. “All right, go for it. Damn. I wanted that targ-f*cker alive.”
“Norigom,” Meromi said. “Reconfigure the forward and ventral shields for thermal protection. Things are about to get hot.”
The huge star filled the sky, washing out Brokosh’s viewscreen even though the external cameras had automatically dimmed it. “Warning,” the ship’s computer intoned. “Exterior temperature at unsafe levels. Warning. Exterior temperature at unsafe levels.”
“Turn that blasted thing off!” Brokosh yelled.
“Tractor beam available,” the gunner stated.
“Target the sunspots and activate tractor beam.”
As the battlecruiser careened across the star’s surface, hull beginning to glow cherry-red, a blue glow brushed out from its underside and stroked across the blazing clouds of plasma. There was a bright flash hundreds of kilometers below and an enormous volume of unbelievably hot gas began to rise. “Helm, get us the f*ck out of here! NOW!” The helmsman frantically hammered his board and the star began to fall away.
“This one’s gonna be close!”
Behind them there was a pair of flashes, barely visible against the light of the star, and the two Breen capital ships vanished from the plot. The HoSbatlh screamed through space as millions of tons of ionized hydrogen exploded off the surface and blasted into space.
As the star receded into the distance behind them, Meromi ordered, “Put us into a stable orbit. Stop engines.” The roar of the exhausted impulse drives quieted and then all that was left was the hum of the life support system.
Brokosh pulled off his HUD visor and stalked into the main bridge. “All right. Somebody tell me what the hell happened back there. That is not Sanelar—it’s the wrong color. Sanelar was class K, this thing’s a G2V. We’ve gone at least a dozen light-years.”
Ila’kshath waved Brokosh over. “This is what happened. Our weapons fire mixed with the Breens’ transphasic weapons, plus with the theta-verteron particles in the vicinity of that micronebula, produced a subspace distortion. A class four quantum singularity.”
Brokosh stared blankly up at the Gorn. “Okay, Ila’kshath, remember what I said about technobabble?”
“We accidentally made a wormhole, General.”
Brokosh stood there trying to process it. Finally he said, “Targ-sh*t.”
“Sir, I don’t make the news, I just report it.”
“All right, then where the hell are we?”
“Nonessential computer memory’s scrambled all to hell,” Norigom reported. “I’m starting to restore from backup but it’ll take several hours or so. Sensors are showing eight major planets, four of them gas giants, plus one Class M in the habitable zone, plus an assortment of dwarf planets and an asteroid belt between planets four and five.”
“All right, set course for the Class M,” Meromi ordered. “Any sign of any advanced technology?”
The Gorn shook his head. “Not even any artificial EM signals.”
“Landing gear? Can we survive a reentry?”
“Probably,” Norigom answered. “Send some guys outside to patch the hull breaches on the underside, no problem.”
Brokosh nodded, then his mouth tightened grimly. “Have Vornigar make up a casualty list.”
Ba’wov was on the bridge taking a breather with her husband as the blue speck in the distance began to enlarge. The noblewoman’s face was streaked with sweat and grease, her leathers tattered and blackened in places, and her green eyes were reddened from the smoke of burnt plastic. “qeylIs batlh,” she breathed in astonishment as the viewscreen, newly replaced, began to resolve the image of the system’s third planet. The shapes of the green-brown continents were unmistakable, known throughout the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, because of the influence of the government that should have been based there.
“Goddess,” Brokosh agreed with his wife. “That’s Earth. But no Federation. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sir,” the giant lizard-man interjected as the helmsman brought them into a high orbit, “I think I know what happened. Some wormholes, they don’t just travel through space, they travel through time. The Harry Kim Wormhole, for example—the Delta Quadrant terminus is twenty years into the future.”
“Are you saying we went back in time?” Brokosh was dumbfounded. “How far?”
“Well, I’m detecting primitive factories and coal-fueled industry, but no sign of electrical activity or radio communications. Sometime in the mid-19th century Earth Standard, perhaps?”
Ba’wov changed the subject. “loDnal, we have another problem. The primary dilithium crystals were damaged by the passage. They’re decrystallizing. Without them, we can’t generate enough power for the warp drive so we can slingshot back to the present.”
“So replace them with the spares.” He looked at his wife’s face, and noticed a worried, sad look on her face. He took her chin in one leathery hand and tilted her head back. “What’s wrong, bang?”
Ba’wov’s mouth was tight as she shook him off. “That cargo bay was breached. They went into space at some point.”
“F*CK!” Brokosh screamed, putting a fist through the nearest screen and sending a bekk diving for cover. “F*CKING F*CKED UP F*CK!”
“Hey! Don’t break my ship!” Meromi shouted angrily.
Brokosh struggled to get control of himself and his breathing slowed. He grimly adjusted the collar of his sweater and turned to face his command crew. “Okay. Options.”
“I think we can repair the crystals, sir,” Ila’kshath offered. “There’s a trick a Federation engineer developed in the 2280s involving radiation collected from a wet-navy warship’s fission pile.”
“Uh, one problem with that, Lizard-Breath,” Norigom pointed out, raising a finger. “If I’m right about roughly when we are, I don’t think humans even discover radioactivity until decades from now.” Everybody turned and stared at the armored yellow-skinned Nausicaan. “What? I’m allowed to read, ain’t I?”
Ila’kshath bared her teeth at the Nausicaan and he shied back. “Not a problem. There’s uranium and thorium ores all over Earth and they haven’t been tapped yet. We can mine it, refine it, and get home in a week.”
“Sooner is better,” Meromi said. “The longer we stay down there, the more likely we’re detected, even if we get the cloak back up.”
Brokosh scratched at his chin with one taloned finger, deep in thought. “All right. Ila’kshath, find us a good deposit of radioactives, close to the surface, few people around. Use your discretion. Ba’wov, see if you and Norigom can’t get the history files back up, then get cleaned up and replicate yourself some native clothes once we know where we’re going.”
“Why me?”
“Because we need people who can pass for human without too much trouble.”
“Well, why not Meromi?”
“She’s green,” Norigom pointed out.
Author’s Notes: Cribbing stuff from all over the franchise for this. Tractoring the sun to cause a coronal mass ejection is from DS9: “Shadows and Symbols”, while the idea to fix the dilithium crystals with radiation is from Star Trek IV, obviously.
And yes, Ila’kshath is a girl Gorn. Like most reptiles, the females are distinguished by being just plain bigger.
— Sabaton, "Great War"
Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/
Near Williamsport, Pennsylvania
Earth
2 September 1859
That deer had been through here within the last ten minutes, John Hauser knew. The fifteen-year-old jogged along a game trail through the woods of northern Pennsylvania, tracking dinner. A broken twig here, a footprint in the mud there, the odd pile of scat.
The woods were oddly quiet for a clear September day as he came up on the deer, a yearling buck fifty or so yards away, just getting his first set of antlers, grazing quietly on a patch of clover under an oak tree. Quietly as he could, he unslung the much-loved flintlock longrifle his great-grandfather had fought with in the Revolution and loaded it, tearing the cartridge open and pouring the powder down, followed by the paper and the bullet with the ramrod. Then he added the priming powder to the pan, which was when the dinosaur dropped out of the oak tree.
The deer never knew what hit it.
John Hauser stared uncomprehending as the eight-foot-tall dinosaur, green and scaly with a pale front and a wedge-shaped head, dressed in leather, took the carcass, tore a leg off the deer with little apparent effort, and stuck it in its crocodilian mouth, ripping a strip of meat off. On some strange reptilian instinct, Hauser later supposed, the dinosaur happened to glance up, and saw him. Those big, wide-set yellow eyes fixed on him.
Then the dinosaur gulped back the meat, wiped its mouth on the back of its hand, and in a voice underlaid with hisses and growls said, Blink, boy. Your eyes are stuck!
Hauser fainted.
Ilakshath shrugged and went back to her lunch. Mammals, she muttered under her breath.
That was damn reckless, Ilakshath, Brokosh growled when the Gorn reported back to the ship.
Im not a telepath, sir. He was downwind of me so I couldnt smell him, and I didnt see him until hed already seen me.
I believe the general meant you speaking to him, Meromi pointed out.
Oh, that. Captain, speaking frankly? The girlish-looking Orion, barely half her science officers height, waved her on. Whod believe it? Seriously, think about ita giant reptile that talks? Hed be laughed out of the room before he got three words out.
Lizard-Breaths got a point, Norigom commented. Then noisily fell over when a huge reptilian paw knocked into the back of his head. What was that for!?
For calling me Lizard-Breath again.
Brokosh looked on, bemused, as the two left the bridge arguing. Why dont those two get a room already, he murmured to Meromi, who snorted in spite of herself. How are we doing on the thorium?
Lady Bawovs team finished building a makeshift refinery a couple hours ago and the digging is going well. Well be out of here in a day or so.
Any sign weve been detected?
No, sir.
All right. Speaking of Her Ladyship, have you seen her today?
She went into town with Sergeant Major KGan.
Ah, good. Hopefully she finds me a newspaper so we can see how much damage that solar flare of yours did.
It was a coronal mass ejection, sir.
Same difference. Last I looked, auroras werent supposed to be visible at this latitude.
Bartender! Whiskey! KGan bellowed, slamming a fist into the counter. Bawov groaned. The QaS DevwI of the HoSbatlh had apparently decided that the best way to remain inconspicuous was to be as conspicuous as possible.
Although, granted, it was easier to be inconspicuous when you werent two meters tall, wearing an eyepatch, and built like a tank. At least he was wearing native clothes and had a rag on his head.
The barman rather nervously handed the Klingon NCO a glass of bourbon and asked, Will your wife be having anything?
Coffee, Bawov answered. And hes not my husband, she added.
The coffee was terrible, and weak compared to the raktajino she usually drank. Bawov sipped it grudgingly and looked around the tavern, sizing up the clientele. Mix of workers, but one oddity caught her eye. A pair of men by the unlit fireplace munching on sandwiches, blond, looked like they could be brothers, each with a reddish-brown mammal that looked something like a targ, except sleeker, curled up at his feet, and each with a strange gun attached to his hip.
A noise from KGan distracted her. The NCO knocked back his glass of booze and started to order another, but Bawov grabbed him and dragged him out of the tavern before he could make any more noise, throwing a coin to the barman.
They emerged onto a boardwalk by a dirt road and Bawov irritatedly adjusted her floral bonnet and scratched at the rubber prosthetic on her nose. Remember what were here for, KGan.
Im not allowed to have a little fun?
Youre not allowed to pollute the timeline any more than you have to. Thats an order. The larger Klingon growled something unintelligible deep in his throat and Bawov spun, grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked, dragging him down into her face. You want to repeat that, petaQ?
No, milady, he meekly replied.
Good. Now, lets see about a newsp BANG! What in the name of qeylIS batlh was that?
It came from down the street! The two started running, Bawov grabbing up her skirts and swearing continuously as she struggled to keep up. Which morons idea was it to make women dress like this? Because when I find out, Ill rip his spleen out.
They came around the corner to see somebody dragging a man with badly burned hands out of a building marked Western Union Telegraph Company. KGan quickly ran up and took the mans other arm. What happened?
F*cking telegraph coil exploded! the burned man wheezed.
Here, lay him down on the boardwalk, Bawov said, pressing fingers to the mans wrist to take his pulse. Somebody get, um, ice and a couple of rags! She heard a thrum from up above and looked up to see sparks flying from the telegraph poles. Qlyah!
Whatd you say? a freckle-faced kid next to her asked.
Something I shouldnt have, she muttered.
Yeah, my papa tells me not to swear all the time.
Somebody, a slim dark-skinned man, handed her a rag and a couple chunks of ice and she thanked him, knowing refrigeration was something precious and rare in this time. She wrapped the ice in the rags and pressed it to the telegraph operators right hand. Can you get
The dark man knelt across from her and started tying the impromptu ice pack to the opposite hand. Sho can, Miss, uh
Bowie, she offered her pseudonym. Thats my husbands man Keegan.
Benjamin Smith, he returned, shaking her free hand.
Bawov looked at the telegraph operator. You ever seen a telegraph do that?
No, maam, the operator wheezed. Its been actin strange for two days. Boston said he and Portland were running with their batteries disconnected. Somebody whistled in disbelief.
Lets get you inside.
Youre not from around here, are you, Missus Bowie? Smith asked as they helped the operator into a house. I ask cause I know most of the nee-groes round here and you aint familiar.
Um, no, were, uh, passing through. He took her wrist, gently, and led her aside. What are you doing?
You need any help? he asked quietly. I know a few guys.
Take your hands off her, KGan growled.
Mistah Keegan, I knows where you are. Yous tryna get to Canada. Bawov looked at him incredulously, then burst out laughing. What?
I get it, you think were, uhshe looked aroundescaped slaves, she added in a whisper.
You aint?
No!
Oh. Well, good for you.
You got a newspaper?
I got a copy of The Williamsport Press here somewhere.
Is the telegraph operator all right? Brokosh asked.
First-degree burns on his hands, broqoS Sa, KGan answered. At most hell be out of work for a couple days.
Well, this newspaper you found, and that thing you mentioned about the Western Union guy in Boston running without his battery, basically confirms what weve been suspecting. Coronal mass ejections interfering with whatever electrical tech theyve got right now. Aurora borealis way further south than it should be, telegraph interference all over. Our fault.
Maybe not something we couldve avoided, sir, Ilakshath said. Norigom got the computers fixed, finally, and theres records of a major solar storm in early September 1859. The humans called it the Carrington Event after one of the astronomers who analyzed it.
Why were we carrying human historical records, anyway? Bawov asked.
It seems Bekk Tengku is something of a history buff, bawov joH, KGan explained.
Wait, back up, Brokosh said, waving a hand. Are you saying we went back in time and caused a historical event that was going to happen anyway? Had already happened?
The technical term, sir, is a predestination paradox, the Gorn confirmed.
The Lethean stood there looking something like a stuffed fish with his mouth hanging partway open for a moment. KGan, is that tavern you and Bawov found still open? I think I need a drink.
Probably, sir, the QaS DevwI answered with a smile. But, uh, how are you going to
explain how I look? Ill tell them Im a Pacific Islander and I got burned in a fire, or something. He turned to go, then stopped. Wheres Meromi?
The woods were dark, and quiet but for the crickets as the barely 147 centimeter emerald-skinned Orion ran through them. Shed eschewed her customary Imperial Honor Guard armor and furs in favor of a simple dark blue synthcloth tank top and cargo pants, practical and functional. Slung across her back, a stripped-down disruptor rifle of Nyberrite manufacture, simple iron sights and manual safety, matte black and unadorned, and enough stopping power to bring down a charging Voth dino.
Tree, veer left. Jump a fallen log and use another as a bridge across a creek bed. Duck a low-hanging holly branch.
Hear a twig snap. Freeze.
Meromi Riyal pulled her tricorder and checked ahead. Six humans, three of them children, making their way north by northwest. Strange. She knew why she was out in the woods late at night: she needed some fresh air and exercise. Hardly a concern for people of this tech level, she knew, having used at least one primitive world as a hidey-hole in her arms dealer days.
That left people doing things that couldnt be done in the light of day. Illegal things.
Her kind of things.
But children, that put a twist on it. Not likely drugs or guns. Why, then?
All this passed through her mind in the space of half a second. Her curiosity piqued, she changed course and clambered up a thick conifer ahead of the group.
They came into view a couple moments later. Two men, one woman, three kids probably aged seven, eleven, and fourteen, all but one dressed in much-patched clothing, all dark-skinned.
Keep moving, keep moving, the man in the lead, with better clothes, whispered to the group.
Were gonna make it, right, Mister Smith?
Well be fine, just a few more miles. Just gotta Meromi heard a sound to the south. It sounded like a targ yelping, but that couldnt be rightwrong planet. Whatever it was, the man named Smith clearly didnt like the sound of it. Run!
Meromi panned her tricorder in the direction of the noises. Two humans, two smaller mammals, heading this direction at a fast jog.
Meromis mind clicked over. 1859. Earth. Dark-skinned humans. Tracking animals.
Slaves, and their hunters.
Her lips twisted into an angry, wordless snarl as she reached for the gun on her back.
The escaped slaves passed under her tree as she spotted lights panning through the underbrush. There they are! After them! a mans voice shouted. Two men and two targ-like animals came barreling out of the woods at a full run and Meromi dropped to the ground. The disruptor barked once and the reddish-brown animal in the lead violently exploded. The other leaped at her and she shoved the gun forward and slammed it into the animals head. Its momentum bore her to the ground and she instinctively squeezed the trigger and it blew apart amidships. The jolt tore the weapon from her hand as one infuriated human reached for her.
A blast of pheromones confused him long enough for her to grab him around the neck with both ankles. She rolled for leverage and threw him hard sideways into his companion; something fell from the latters hand. The Orion jumped to her feet, spun, and kicked, the durasteel toe of her boot connecting with the top of the second mans head as he scrabbled for his gun; she heard a wet slap like a hammer hitting a side of meat as his skull caved in. One down.
She heard a deafening bang and the sound of air ripping as the other man apparently pulled his gun and fired, but the shot was nowhere near her; she oriented on the noise and punched. Her small fist connected with flesh and bone and the mans head snapped sideways. Sidestep, grab gun arm, pull gun past, hammer-chop to the wrist and the revolver fell from her opponents nerveless hand. A sharp kick to the groin and the man folded in half. As he fell against a tree she stomped his upper arm for good measure and as he shrieked in pain she reached around her back for her holdout and leveled a small Romulan-made pistol at his face. What are you? he wheezed.
Im complicated, she answered in her usual girlish voice, and shot him between the eyes.
The Lethean lifted the tiny Orion clear off her feet and slammed her into the bulkhead, holding her there with one forearm. What part of dont pollute the timeline is so targ-f*cking hard for you to understand, Captain? Brokosh spat into her face, the horns on his nasal opening a hairsbreadth from her nose. Meromi kicked him in the shin and he grimaced but held on. Dont try that again; youre not getting out of this one by fighting me.
Let me down.
Do you have any idea of the kind of damage killing those men could do to history? Brokosh didnt, either, but he wasnt letting on.
Do you have any idea what its like to be a slave, sir?
He stared at her face. It was carefully expressionless, almost like a Vulcan as was his flag captains custom, but he could see naked rage blazing in her hazel eyes. He drew back and she dropped off the wall onto her feet, carefully straightened her tank top, and adjusted her jet-black ponytail. You may not think it, General, but subconsciously you think were all alike. All us Orions, were all about controlling people with our pheromones. I was fifteen when the Queen B*tch of the Syndicate took me and gave me to that disgusting Klingon as a housewarming gift.
Who do you think youre talking to? I know all about that, Meromi. You think I didnt do my research before I brought you onto the MupwI?
You know it up hereshe tapped the side of her headbut you dont grok it unless youve lived it. No true will of your own, no future, no nothing! Im still a slave! I may not be in danger of getting f*cked to death anymore but I cant leave the House of Cheltok without a death mark from the Imperial Security Service! I dont care what I did to the timeline because thats a family that wont have to live the life anymore, at least for a little while longer, and thats a win in my book.
You want out? Youre out. Youve been out since Old Man Cheltok diedI put the paperwork through myself.
Youre missing the point, sir.
Yeah, maybe I am. But what I know is, you just caused me one hell of a headache when we get back to the future. The present. Whatever the f*ck noun Im supposed to use.
In spite of herself, Meromi giggled a bit at her generals confusion. How long before we can lift, sir?
Eight hours.
The air ripped and distorted as the cloaked TorKaht-class battlecruiser clawed its way skyward the next morning, aiming for the sun. Reactor crystals? Brokosh asked.
Check, Bawov answered through the intercom.
Disruptors?
Number Four needs a shipyard but the rest are up, Lieutenant Brax, the tactical officer, answered from his console.
Torpedoes?
Rear is usable but the targeting sensors are fragged. Forward tubes a wreck.
Damn. Shields?
Eighty percent capacity, Norigom answered.
Hull integrity?
Spaceworthy but I wouldnt get into another firefight if I had my druthers.
Cloaking device?
Leaky.
Brokosh groaned at the thought of the repair bills. Just when theyd finally gotten the House finances in the black again.
Then again, he could probably bill it to the Empire, given the source of the damage. Are we at least in good enough shape to pull a warp slingshot?
I think Then the ship shook. Ilakshath, what
Chel Grett, forty klicks out and closing!
Brokosh grumbled, Mother ofHelm! Full impulse! Get us to minimum safe distance and on course for the Sun! How can they see us? Were cloaked!
I clearly said it was leaky, General! Norigom shot back.
Rear guns! Meromi barked.
Turrets locked and firing! Brax confirmed. The bridge shook again and the lights dimmed. We cant take them out with just the turrets!
Theyre in pursuit! Ilakshath cried. We can warp at anytime!
Set rear launcher for proximity detonation and fire a full spread! Engage!
A salvo of torpedoes belched from the aft launcher as the HoSbatlh swiveled on its axis and leapt into the distance, breaching the light barrier with more effort than it usually seemed to take. Approaching maximum warp, sir, Meromi said to Brokosh.
He following?
Yes, sir, Ilakshath confirmed.
Good, Brokosh said with a nasty grin. Keep our speed just low enough that he can keep up, and get us onto course for a slingshot back to 2410.
Here we go! Faster than any mortal eye could ever hope to follow, two starships, trading blows, rocketed around the sun. Comms! Open a channel! The bekk at communications waved him on. Any Starfleet vessel in the vicinity, this is IKS HoSbatlh, requesting assistance immediately!
IKS HoSbatlh, a Caitian-sounding voice answered, this is the USS Cathain. Where the hell did you come from?
Ill explain later! Get this targ-f*cker off our asses!
Change vector to two-oh-two by zero-five and drop to sublight. One Avenger-class battlecruiser, coming right up! As the two combatants dropped out of their breakneck gallop a hailstorm of phaser fire and torpedoes blasted into the sickle-shaped Breen ship and tore it to fragments. The warp core blew a fraction of a second later, washing out all the screens.
Damage report? Meromi requested.
Sir, I think itd be easier for me to list what isnt damaged, Norigom deadpanned.
Well?
The Nausicaan got up and went to the back of the bridge. Two raktajinos. He inspected the output. Well, the command deck food replicator works.
Brokosh cracked up.
Authors Notes: So the solar storm of 1859 was a predestination paradox.
I did a lot of research on the time period but I honestly don't know if the Underground Railroad really ran through Williamsport, PA.
While I was researching the events of 1859 for this story, I downloaded the PDF of a book on solar storms, Storms from the Sun: The Emerging Science of Space Weather, from the National Academy Press website. The website asked me why I was downloading the book, and I replied, Research for a Star Trek fanfic involving time travel to Pennsylvania at the time of the 1859 solar storm.
I hope theyll understand.
— Sabaton, "Great War"
Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/
Shout-outs: Spot'em. One big one to starswordc's last Eleya piece, the one with the Breen and Tess.
Cast:
Thot Gor: Kevin Michael Richardson.
D'trel: Linda Hamilton circa Terminator 2.
Min'tak'allan: Wil Wheaton.
Zel: Kevin Michael Richardson.
Omek'ti'kallan: Chiwetel Ejiofor.
Jak: John Barrowman.
Joh'Kghan: Jim Cummings.
Roxton: Tom Ward.
Achille: Tamati Rice.
"Alright, people," said D'trel. "Let's just get these supplies to the colony and get back to doing something useful."
"Yes sir," said Zel. "Course laid in."
"Hit it."
"Sir," said Science Bekk Min'tak'allan. "Detecting Breen starships, dead ahead. They are moving to intercept."
"Damn it. Drop out of warp and hail them."
"Already being hailed," said Zel, as the Kholhr dropped out of warp with three Breen frigates on the viewscreen, weapons powered up.
"Put it on."
"Hello, Admiral," said a helmeted Breen. "I'm Thot Gor."
"Wait...Thot Gor? The Dominion War commander?"
"No, that was Thot Gor. I'm Thot Gor. This is my flag officer, Dalsh Gor, and xir first officer, Vel'sh Trel. And before you ask, no relation to Thot Trel or Thot Trel or Thot Trel. Who weren't and aren't related to each other anyway."
"Oh, great," muttered Zel. "Thot Gor?"
"Hello, Zel," said Thot Gor menacingly. "Thot Kol sends xir regards, and says that nobody steals from xir, parent-f*cker."
"Hey, Gor," wheedled Zel. "We're buddies, gender undefined. Can't we just settle this over drinks, like uncertain gender adults?"
"Never thought I'd see the day you begged for mercy, Zel," said Thot Gor. "And you shouldn't have flipped off Thot Kol, buddy."
"Oh, irrelevant gender, I'm not begging for mercy. I'm giving you the chance to surrender. And you and I both know that Kol's s dumb, fat f*ck who deserves to be stolen from."
"Xe still pays me, and paid you before you stole a month's worth of profits. And you've got gonads, for sure, but we outnumber you three to one."
"You clearly haven't fought Admiral D'trel before, gender undefined. But thanks, I do have truly massive gonads."
"Heh. I'm actually sorry about this, you know? You've always been a good person."
"Thanks. No offense, but we aren't going to pull any punches."
"None taken. Full throttle! Open fire!"
"Take them down!" snapped D'trel. "Fire at will!"
The Breen frigate leaped forwards, its two fellows trailing behind. Romulan plasma fire ripped open its forward shields, and...
One of the Kholhr's plasma torpedoes impacted with a Breen torpedo that had been launched from its tube mere nanoseconds before. The blast radius caught a polaron pulse, and...
A hole in space, expanding far faster than Zel could react, D'trrel yelling something inarticulate, and...
Zel's guidance computer went insane.
"Breen ship is losing core containment!" barked First Omek'ti'kallan.
"Beam as many of them as possible onboard!" shouted D'trel. "Now!"
The Breen ship exploded.
"I have them!" shouted Omek'ti'kallan.
"Good reflexes! Zel, where the hell are we going?"
"No idea, sir! Impulse drive is inoperative, warp drive is inactive...what the hell is that?"
"Ariennye," whispered D'trel, looking out the viewscreen at the looming and rapidly-approaching planet. "That's Earth. The Human homeworld."
"Impossible!" said Min'tak'allan. "I'm reading no space stations, satellites..."
"I have thrusters!" interrupted Zel. "Trying to slow our descent!"
"Entering the atmosphere! Quark!" swore Omek'ti'kallan.
"Jak! Daysnur! I need my singularity core back online yesterday!"
"I can't work miracles, sir!" shouted the Nausicaan engineer over shipboard coms. "We had to lock down the core and close the armor--the other option was a black hole eating half the system! Korath, get that plasma fire out, now!"
"All hands, secure yourselves! Brace for impact!" barked D'trel. "Computer, harness!"
The bridge crew's seatbelts locked into place.
The crash was most impressive.
***
"Well," said a soaking-wet D'trel. "We have a problem."
"Ksaof aosi asodinf oasindnew oinoxckjiul koijgnf," said Zel.
"Got some water in your translation circuits there," said Thot Gor. Zel fiddled with something on the side of xir helmet.
"Better?"
"Better."
"Great. Uh. Sorry about trying to kill you, and all."
"No problem, Zel. Sorry about trying to kill you."
"Hey, that's just business. Anyway, sir, what were you saying?"
"Breen," muttered D'trel with a roll of her eyes. "The ship's at the bottom of that lake, the only thing we CAN operate on it is the airlock, and Engineering needs us to find replacement parts. We've got no energy weapons because they got shorted out for some reason along with half the systems and run now, right now, don't look around, follow me, come on!"
All four random sentients turned around, because even though Omek and Zel were used to obeying D'trel's orders implicitly that was just too strange of a statement to not wonder about.
"Does Earth have animals like that, normally?" asked Thot Gor.
"No," said Zel. "At least not anymore."
The allosaur opened its mouth and roared.
"It would be wise to begin running," said First Omek'ti'kallan.
"Yes," snarled Joh'Kghan.
"I agree," said both Breen at the same time. All four sentients turned and ran.
The animal roared a few times but did not pursue, instead walking towards the lake for a drink. The sentients gathered a few hundred meters down the lakeshore.
"Well, that complicates things," said D'trel.
"Indeed," said Omek'ti'kallan.
"At least it doesn't have freaking lazer beams on its head," muttered Zel.
It was about ten minutes before the animal left, heading off towards an open area on higher ground.
"Alright," said D'trel. "We set up camp and figure out where the hell to get those minerals Jak and Daysnur need. Gor, you still up for helping us, or do I need to take you back to the Brig?"
"This is a hell of a lot more fun than working for that dumb f*ck Kol. I'm with you, at least until we get back home. Then I need to see how much more that old miser's willing to pay me."
"Excellent," said D'trel. "I'll take first watch. Omek, second watch. Joh'Kghan, third."
***
"So," said D'trel to the Breen she was reasonably sure was Gor. "Why, exactly, are you after my helmsperson?"
"Money," said Gor shortly. "Thot Kol put a massive price on xir head. See, Zel used to work for Kol. They had a falling out, not sure why. Zel stole a big case full of pure latinum, worth half a moon according to most estimates, jumped out a window while flipping a rude gesture at Kol, and landed in a waiting aircar. As xe drove off, Kol saw that the aircar's plates said "KOL SUX". Kol wasn't happy. I needed some cash, so...y'know, just business." The Breen shrugged. "Not like I wanted to kill Zel particularly badly, we've run a few jobs before and xe's a decent person, but latinum's latinum, y'know?"
"Breen," muttered D'trel. "I swear, your species will be the death of me someday."
"We do strive for professional detachment, in the Confederacy fleet."
The two sentients were walking along the lakeshore, the others scouting ahead in the forest.
"Anyway," said Gor. "No offense meant, trying to kill you and all. Just business. Kol pays well, see."
"Just as long as you don't try your luck now."
"You kidding?" snorted the Breen. "I've seen your record, no f*cking way I'd insult you by trying to beat you in hand-to-hand. I mean, even with an ambush I don't have much of a chance against someone who beat First Kar'Ukan with nothing but a sword."
'Smart gender indeterminate. Hey--do you hear that?"
"Yeah, like some ape hollering...that wasn't an ape."
"That was Omek. Guard my back!"
The Rihanha charged for the trees and the sounds of a fight, sword out and Breen close behind.
D'trel TRIBBLE through a dangling vine, jumped a log, ducked under a half-collapsed tree, and skipped over a protruding root, then shoved through a thicket into the middle of a battle.
"You will fall!" shouted First Omek'ti'kallan, slamming a hairy, burly humanoid--one of about a dozen and a half in the clearing--in the chest with his kar'takin. "Admiral! These creatures have taken Zel and Joh'Kghan!"
"Not on my watch!" snarled Gor, stabbing a hairy thing in the eye with xir knife as D'trel impaled another elegantly, spinning to decapitate a third. "No self-respecting Breen lets his squadmates get killed by some primitive savages..."
"Shut up and fight!" snarled D'trel, snapping one creature's neck with a twist of her arm and slicing another's carotid artery.
"Reinforcements are coming!" warned Omek'ti'kallan, moments before painted shapes exploded from the underbrush behind him.
"Roxton, guard the grey one!" shouted a tall, strong Human man, orange and yellow paint over tawny skin. Roxton, a paler man with red paint on his chest, leaped forwards with a spear.
"Yes, chief! I don't know who or what you are, lizard man, but back to back with me, now!"
"A sound strategy," agreed First Omek'ti'kallan. "I am First Omek'ti'kallan, and I am honored to fight by your side."
"Roxton. You speak English? Or, wait, is that Tribe tongue?"
"Universal translator!" yelled D'trel. The hairy creatures were falling back with the arrival of the half-dozen Humans. "Explain later, follow those things now; they have two of my men!"
"After them!" snapped the man with the orange and yellow paint. "Achille, chief of the Tribe. I am honored to meet you."
"Rahaen'Enriov D'trel, Romulan Republic. It's a pleasure." D'trel leaped a four-foot log with ease, something that was easy for a Rihanha like herself in this gravity but received shocked murmurs from the Humans--four men, including the chief and the pale man, and two women, in small, utilitarian leather garments--as they ran alongside.
"I'm Thot Gor," said Thot Gor. "And you've met Omek'ti'kallan."
"Pleasure, I'm sure," said Roxton, the pale one. "I'm Roxton, used to be a lord and such but that's not important here, what's important is that I'm the Chief's second."
"And my sister's husband. We're one big happy family in the Tribe."
"Most of the time," said Roxton. "Ants in my bedroll?"
"It is an ancient rite of passage," said Achille with a straight face.
"Right," said Thot Gor. "You born somewhere else?"
"England," said Roxton.
"That around here?"
"Uh...other side of the world?"
"Ah," said Thot Gor, somehow managing to nod sagely at a dead run. "Cultural immigrant. Why, I remember when this very nice Human wanted to join the Confederacy. Xe was a Dalsh in the Dok Thak last I checked. Nice gender indeterminate, very professional. Name of Ruul. When xe joined up, we made so many jokes about xir Human gender..."
"I...do not understand that at all," admitted Roxton. "Mother of god that woman's fast!"
"She's Romulan," said Thot Gor. "They're stronger and faster than most humanoids. Omek's the only one who can keep up with her in a sprint."
"They're getting close to their lair," said Achille. "Let's hope we're not too late."
"Too late?"
"They sacrifice people by crushing their skulls, then eat the bodies," said Roxton.
"Oh," said Thot Gor. "Well, Joh'Kghan won't mind that terribly much, but Zel probably will."
"Less talking, more chasing!" barked D'trel, as two of the Humans threw their spears at the hairy creatures; one hit a tree, but the other took the hairy creature in the back. D'trel finished the job with a leaping cut.
From ahead came the the sounds of many creatures hooting and barking; Roxton and Achille swore at almost the same time.
Joh'Kghan was not, in fact, happy with the prospect of having her head crushed. Her massive jaws were locked with her fangs in the throat of a weakly-struggling creature and she wasn't letting go; her tail was repeatedly bashing another humanoid against the rocky ground in this large clearing.
Zel was just punching things as best xe could.
With six armed Humans, another Breen, a Jem'Hadar warrior and a seriously annoyed Romulan, the battle was short and violent.
***
Four days later
"Pleasure to meet you," said D'trel, shaking the Humans' hands one by one. "I wish you good luck."
"Come back anytime," said Achille. "How's that Gor man?"
"Indeterminately-gendered person. And xe's fine."
"Good. And the fang animal person?"
"Joh'Kghan? She's good. Says you are fine ongb
Fernando James Daddio. Maintenance Engineer.
Nulhor. Technician First Class.
Neal Dewayne Igtanioc. Diagnostic Engineer.
Joe Sammie Kemble. Damage Control.
Rea Ria Randol. Diagnostic Engineer.
Terrell Isiah Worlds. Fabrication Engineer.
And they were just those of the Night Shift of the Engineering crew. Talaina looked at the profile of each one. Each face stared back at her, people who had trusted her, who had relied upon her to get them home. People she had come to know well over the past year since taking command. Sure, it seemed like she only ever spoke to the same main crewmembers, such was the nature of a command structure. But on a ship this small, Talaina had wanted to know everyone. Rea had been playing the harp for two years. She often put on concerts in the mess hall with David Tolvsky, a Lt junior grade astrophysist, on violin. Terrell had been building small, intricate models with fully working clockwork parts out of what scrap he could find. He was making them for his son when they got back. Nulhor was the only Trill on the team, but was amazed as she gradually realised just how many human mannerisms she had picked up by being around so many for so long. Fernando was a stickler for precision. His uniform was always clean, always pressed. Even when such concerns had been made lax, Fernando always turned up in a clean uniform. He'd been using part of his replicator rations to keep up appearances.
Talaina's vision blurred as tears welled up. Her fingers tightened around the back of the PADD, almost bending the case. Almost everyone had been killed in a matter of seconds. There was no warning. No provacation. They didn't die with honour. They died for no reason. All because she failed them. And not for the first time. She heard movement by the door. Sat behind the desk in her quarters, Talaina just kept squeezing the PADD as Ttorkkinn appeared in the doorway. "Captain. Life support has been stabilised enough to give us a few more hours. Dotson and Zhong believe they can use what we salvaged to get the core online. But it's still going to take them hours. And with the exposed coils in the nacelles, we won't be going above warp three. To say nothing of the lack of structural integrity right now." He stared at his Captain as she remained motionless. "Captain?" He took a step into the room, careful to avoid the collapsed girder from the ceiling. "Blaming yourself won't bring them back. Focus on those of us still alive. That's how you get past this." He held himself rigid as Talaina launched the PADD across the room, only wincing when the device splintered against the wall, sending a shard across his cheek. He lightly pressed a finger against the wound and checked. A light smear of his blood. But nothing that would cause harm.
"How can you be so calm and detached about it Ttorkkinn? Even a Vulcan would be affected."
"I'm not calm. This is one of the worst things to have happened. But I came up through the ranks by MACO training. That's a higher standard of soldier than what you took. We were trained in Vulcan disciplines to keep our heads during crisis, to not let our feelings show. It's techniques I've been training the rest of the TRT since I was first assigned to the Sentinel. But believe me Captain, I'm feeling it." He moved forward and righted a chair, sitting across the desk from her. "And as Captain, you need to show strength. Most of us are soldiers and survivors. We can still function. But I'm worried about Jenna. She's still young, doesn't have any of the training and with her background, I'm not confident she can keep it together." Talaina rubbed her eyes with a finger and thumb, blinking a few times before focusing on Ttorkkinn. "Go on."
"Karry is doing her best, but she needs a strong Captain to draw from. She needs to see you taking charge."
"My taking charge is what got everyone killed." Talaina clasped her hands together on the desk and leaned forward, lacing her fingers between each other. "I thought I was ready for the big chair. We fought battles and we made diplomatic negotiations. But they were all short missions. Always with a repaired ship and a rested crew. I'm not ready for this. None of us are."
"Given the circumstances, I think you've been doing an outstanding job."
"I've been making mistakes. Easy, simple mistakes that should be easy to avoid. I cloaked the ship when we detected that Planet Killer, instead of raising shields and running. I let Myncroft and her mercenaries get aboard to talk instead of shutting them down. I've let guilty killers remain as part of the crew. I kept us running from that Cybertronian War instead of allying with one side to help get safe passage out of their space, leading to them hunting us. I can't do this anymore."
She rested her face in a hand, before sliding it up and through her hair. Her antenna folded flat as the hand passed over them, remaining flush against her skull. Talaina sighed, bags under her eyes betraying just how tired she was. "It's hopeless. I've let everyone down."
Ttorkkinn placed his hands over Talaina's. "Emony said the exact same thing right before the Sentinel went down. And she's probably right back in the command structure of another ship now. A crew doesn't ask for their Captain to be a larger than life hero that makes no mistakes. They ask for their Captain to be someone they know will do everything she can to save them. They know mistakes will be made, but they trust her to learn from those mistakes. I've been right by your side the entire time. I've agreed with every decision you made. You are not alone here Talaina. And you never will be."
Talaina smiled ever so slightly, her antenna rising an inch as she patted his hand in appreciation.
In Engineering, Claire frowned. Part of the floor was missing, exposing the room to space so all actions had to be taken with an EV suit. And it made the fine adjustments of the tools awkward. The emergency forcefields had sealed around the doors rather than the hole, so Claire had set up a barricade to stop people and objects falling through the hole. Claire tapped some commands into the console and the room started to come alive. A very slow throb in the warp core told the Engineer the systems were repaired. Power was flowing. It wasn't much power, but it was a start. Suddenly the power started fluctuating. The core cut out, then back on. This cycle started to repeat on a regular basis. Beside her, Xui Li tapped the side of her tricorder. "Readings suggest, ah, it isn't working."
"Of course it isn't working. It's a bunch of Prentary equipment. It doesn't even have the same basic concepts in common with our technology. The Captain is asking the impossible." Claire smashed the wrench against the corner of the console in frustration and shut down the entire system. Salvaged devices littered Engineering, some of them held together in unusual ways, propped up on boxes, with cables, tape and the odd random tool jammed in to hold the contraption together. "Even if our guesses are right about what all this stuff is, there's no guarantee it'll hold the reaction chamber together. I don't even know what most of this stuff was designed for."
"Many engineering elements are, ah, the same, due to laws of the universe being, ah, constant. Prentary technology may appear completely different, but, ah, look past the alien to find the common."
Claire looked over to Xui Li and glared. "Spoken like a true non-engineer. Our systems run on Electro-Plasma and a matter/antimatter reaction. This stuff.... well, that part runs on water, that part is some kind of electrical and I don't even want to think what that thing is powered by." She furtively glanced at the last piece that was pulsing with a thick black ooze, small chunks swirling around inside. "We've got it rigged up based on how we think it can fit together, but we need someone who specialises in putting a round peg in a square hole. We need someone like Terrell. And that's the problem." Claire sighed and made her way outside Engineering. Passing through the containment field, she shut down her suit's oxygen and took the helmet off, leaning against the wall. "We need our crew."
Karry approached the door to the quarters and knocked on the wall. Alot of the bulkhead was missing, so she could see Jenna in the room, sat on the side of the bunk. She was hugging something close to her chest. "Come in." Karry stepped in and carefully made her way around the collapsed roof to the bed. Sitting down beside the young Ensign, she put an arm around her. "How you doing?"
"Terrible. I can't help thinking if I hadn't pushed for that stupid celebration, more would have survived."
"Hey. You can't keep thinking like that. Most of the ship is gone. It doesn't matter where people would have been. This tragedy still would have happened." She gently stroked Jenna's arm and looked around. "These aren't your quarters."
Jenna sniffed hard before replying. "Mine were lost. These belonged to Carl Burkins."
"The Lieutenant?"
"Yeah. We were becoming good friends over the past year. We would give each other back rubs and talk about our day. It... it wasn't much more than that, but it was nice." Karry looked over to the shelf and saw a photo of Burkins stood in a forest. Sun filtered through the trees around him, a huge grin on his face as he mocked whoever had taken the photo. "Did you take that?" Jenna looked up, momentarily confused. "Oh. No. That was his wife who took that. It was on Archer IV about three months before we got stuck out here. He was going to be a dad for the first time. He was so excited. When we got home, he was going to give his son this." Jenna lowered her arms, revealling an old teddy bear. Its fur was long since worn out and most of the stuffing had been cuddled into it's head, giving it a square shape. "He had this bear ever since he was four weeks old. His parents put it in his cot to keep him warm at night and make him feel like there was someone there with him at all times. He took it everywhere with him." She smiled as she stared into the bear's eyes. "He'd kill me if he knew I showed you it. He was very embarrased to tell others about it. But he loved it. I intend to give it to his son if we get back."
Karry held Jenna slightly tighter. "I'm sure Carl would appreciate that." Jenna smiled and hugged the bear tightly.
Claire was back in Engineering. "Ok Captain. I think I've figured out the trouble. This should work this time."
"I hope so." Came the reply over the comm. "We only have a few hours of life support left."
"Fingers crossed, no pressure." She muttered to herself. The core came to life, the bodged modifications working. But just as before, it shut down and sprang back to life in an endless cycle. Claire started banging her head against the console. "Dammit dammit DAMMIT!" Stopping before she cracked her helmet, she snatched Xui Li's tricorder and started running scans on the core. She set her jaw and frowned. "According to this, there is no problem. Everything is connected up properly. There's no gaps in the circuits. The damage has been bypassed by materials that are conductive. So where the hell is the problem?" Claire started walking along the room, manually scanning the power systems. "There. Whatever the problem is, it has to be in that Jeffreys Tube."
Claire left Engineering and stripped out of her EV suit. Determined to find the cause, she pried open the hatch into the Jeffreys Tube network and began crawling towards the intersection. After a few minutes of crawling, she turned the corner and stopped. "Well I never. Have you been what's causing the problem?"
Lying in the tube was Ensign Willie Wurz, Tactical Officer. She had a tool lodged into the power relays and was using it to sever and restore the power flow at regular intervals. Hearing the voice, she stopped what she was doing and looked down past her feet, smiling when she saw Claire. "YES! THANK YOU! I've been trying to get someone's attention for hours."
"What are you doing here? How did you survive?"
"I was calibrating the targeting sensors before I went to the party. I got trapped in here when whatever happened.... happened. I saw the entire power grid go out, and figured I could send a message when the power was back online."
"Why didn't you use the comm?"
"Comm badge was destroyed when a piece of wreckage hit it. Saved my life, or it would have gone through my heart. And all computer responses have been down in this section."
"Well it's great to see you survived. Come on, let's get you out of here."
Claire shifted around and gingerly put Willie's arm around her. She could see the Ensign was badly hurt, probably why she hadn't just crawled out by herself. "So does this mean my bodge actually worked?"
On the Bridge, Talaina stood over the Engineering console with Ttorkkinn and T'Fon. She watched as the console came to life and lights flickered around her. "Does that mean it's worked?"
"I believe so Captain." T'Fon raised an eyebrow. "We now have sustainable life support in the remaining sections of the ship and structural integrity is once again active." Talaina let out a sigh of relief as she took a step back. That was something at least. She then heard the door open. Turning, she saw Claire enter the Bridge with Willie Wurz. She was assumed to have been one of the dead. Talaina didn't say anything. She just walked across the Bridge and embraced Willie tightly.
A Romulan Strike Team, Missing Farmers and an ancient base on a Klingon Border world. But what connects them? Find out in my First Foundary mission: 'The Jeroan Farmer Escapade'
The ship rocked to one side and Anslow Dorvin was thrown against a wall of the Jefferies Tube. He didnt have far to go from his previous crawling position, but the pain in his shoulder felt like he fell down the entire saucer turbolift shaft of Solaris. He rubbed his shoulder then wiped sweat from his brow. Looking around he found his repair kit. Anslow cursed under his breath and began crawling again toward his destination: deck four, section eight-alpha, plating four-seven-five-bravo, conduit seven, panel one. As a maintenance engineer, that made sense to him.
His combadge chirped. Anslow tapped it as he crawled. "Dorvin here." The gruff and stern voice of the Chief Engineer responded. "Dorvin, we need those circuits rerouted. How much further?"
Anslow sighed as his hand slipped from another jolt from the ship. "At this rate, another two minutes. Any chance to keep the ship from moving?"
"No."
Raising his eyebrows at the simple response to his joke, Anslow nodded and kept crawling.
Three turns and he was under the panel. Feeling the warmth of a fire nearby, he wiped his hands on his uniform to dry them. He pulled the kit open and began unscrewing the plate to access the conduit from below. Once the circuitry was revealed he whistled at the complexity. He tapped his badge.
"This is Dorvin, I'm at the conduit. What now?"
"Standby."
Anslow chuckled. He had spent the previous ten minutes burrowing his way through the guts of the ship because none of the Engineering Team could be spared. Now he was faced with rerouting the ship's nervous system and the doctor just told him to wait. "Damn it, I'm a maintenance engineer, not a -"
The combadge chirped again. "Dorvin here."
The ship rocked again and his head bumped against the frame of the hallway flooring. He held his head as if to keep his brains from oozing out and grimaced from the pain.
"- did you get that?"
Anslow was surprised by the female voice. "I'm sorry, I was interrupted by pain."
"Not funny crewman."
The engineer frowned as he looked up at the multi-colored entrails of technology. The female continued, "Remove the second gel-pack from the right and splice the blue cable to the red cable. Got that?"
Anslow saw what the officer was suggesting and started getting out tools from the kit. "Confirmed. I'll need thirty seconds." There was no reply. He shrugged and dropped the spanner to free one hand. Grabbing the fuser, the two cables melted together.
Extinguishers activated above him and the heat diminished perceptibly.
"Well done, crewman. Brace yourself."
"What?"
Anslow was thrown against a wall of the Jefferies Tube as Solaris launched into Transwarp and his world went dark.
Bravok smiled as he leapt to his feet and pulled out his dk'tagh, deploying the side blades. Larlusss took his black coat off and tossed it onto his computer station, curling his claws into fists. The two combatants circled the Bridge, each one testing the other to make the first move. "Come on Captain. Make me hurt you." Bravok yelled out a battle cry and lunged forward. Larlusss swiped him in an upwards striked and flipped him over onto the central chair. Bravok rolled off instantly and dove out into the corridor as Larlusss ripped the chair from it's mountings and hurled it after him.
To the side of the Bridge, Tallara sighed and leaned over to N'Nesh. "How many times this week is that?" The Orion just shrugged. "I stopped counting. Still, keeps the Captain occupied and Larluss from getting depressed on us all." Tallara grimaced as she looked where the two had gone, her antennae curling in annoyance. "I just wish they didn't have to wreck everything while they did." The Andorian looked back to her console as it beeped. "Approaching the Romulus System. Sensors are picking up two vessels."
Bravok and Larlusss came back onto the Bridge, a little bruised but in good spirits. As Larlusss put his coat back on, Bravok stood in the centre of the Bridge where his chair used to be. "Identify."
"One is a Romulan Warbird, badly damaged and heavily assimilated, one Romulan lifesign onboard. The other is a Breen vessel."
"Any sign of our contact?"
"Negative."
"Cloak still engaged?"
"Yes Sir." N'Nesh then turned to her Captain. "There's evidence of debris by the two ships. It looks like our Yiridian buyer."
Bravok let out a string of curses. "Great! Now what are we to do with a cargo hold full of Kemocite?"
"Sell it the the Breen?" Bravok looked at Larlusss, unimpressed. But before he could reply, Tallara announced the Breen ship was hailing them. "How did they see through our cloak?"
"Unknown."
"On screen."
The Breen Captain appeared on screen. "Cloaked vessel. We know you are there. Decloak and remain in a non hostile position and you will not be fired upon." Bravok stepped to the edge of the raised platform, ensuring he held the Breen's attention. "I am Captain Bravok. You're a long way from the Confederacy. What brings you to this system?"
"Tracking a criminal. What brings you here?"
"We are on a scientific expidition to study the remains of this system's star."
"Under cloak? And with a cargo hold full of Kemocite? I doubt that Klingon. Decloak and stand down. Five seconds to comply."
Bravok looked to Tallara and nodded. The B'rel decloaked and maintained a neutral stance. "Tell me Breen, how did you detect us?"
"We picked up a radiation signature entering the system. Further analysis indicated a Kemocite signature. Consider yourself under arrest for the transport of dangerous cargo." Bravok smiled, knowing he would not win this round. With the element of surprise, they might have had a chance against the Chel Gret out there. But not in this position. "Well Captain. Looks like you've got me. Before you arrest us, at least tell us who has the honour of destroying this lowly crew of scum and villainy."
The Breen laughed. "My name is Thot Gren. Any attempt to resist our arresting officers will be met with your immediate destruction."
The viewscreen shut off. Bravok quickly ordered shields to raise and evasive manouvers. A tractor beam locked onto the ship and held it in place. The M'Char rocked as weapons fire splashed across it's shields. Bravok went into full battle mode as the alert klaxon started ringing. "Target their tractor port and fire disruptors. Ready torpedos to fire and divert emergency power to the engines. We need to break free."
The ship rocked again. On the viewscreen, the Breen fired some transphasic torpedoes. But the Romulan Warbird had also started to come around. A glow was eminating from it's deflector dish that burst forth a singularity. The projection flew towards the two ships. Everyone on the Bridge started cursing in their native tongue. N'Nesh was the one to voice the obvious. "They've fired a Black Hole at us! How in the Rings of Nectar can they do that?!" Bravok had no reply, he just ordered all hands to brace for impact. The Transphasic torpedoes were enveloped by the singularity and detonated, tearing apart space. As if a great lightning storm in space had breached the area, arcs of transphasic energy lashed out, striking the Breen ship. The Black Hole grew larger, drawing the ships in. Larlusss punched his console. "Shields are offline! Weaponssss, engines, sensorssss. We've lost it all!"
The ship started spinning, casting everyone to the floor. Bravok looked up to see the Chel Gret breaking apart and the whine of transporters moments before something hard struck the back of his head. The rest of dark.
As the world came back into focus, Bravok knew he was still on the floor. He tried to pick himself up but his hands couldn't move. He was bound! Grunting as he shook away the cobwebs, he looked over to see the rest of his Bridge crew also incapacitated. There were four Breen on the Bridge. One of them with damaged armour came over and knelt beside him, though he had no idea who. They all looked identical. "Captain Bravok. Good to see you're awake."
"Ql'yaH! I'll gut you for taking my ship!"
"Your insults are meaningless. And we have more important problems. The Kemocite destabilised in the Transphasic energies. It seems we've been thrown somewhere."
"Hab SoSlI' Quch"
The Breen simply backhanded Bravok and turned his attention towards the only other Klingon present; Laska. "Tell me woman. How do we land?" She simply spat at his helmet. "I still have my honour."
"No. You don't. I called up your records when you identified yourself. You are all disgraced in the eys of the Empire." The Breen stood up and spoke to them all. "This ship has been thrown somewhere. We can't identify it and engines are failing. If you don't tell us how to land, we will burn up in the atmosphere." The Breen pointed to the viewscreen, showing them plummeting rapidly towards a Class M world. "I have no desire to see us all killed pointlessly."
"Ok." N'Nesh struggled against her bonds. "I'll tell you." The Orion told the Breen how to initiate the landing procedures for the ship. They touched down in the middle of a jungle. The Breen issued commands, obviouslly revealling himself to be Thot Gren. "Ak'ched Gtrun, make what repairs are needed. H'ren Gomta, identify where we are. I'm checking outside."
Bravok struggled against his bonds, but they were too secure. He would have to bide his time and wait. Thot Gren made swift progress outside and looked at the savage jungle they were in. "What a miserable world." The Breen saw a small animal nearby. Dark green in colour, it was a tiny four legged creature with big ears that hopped around. The Breen walked towards it and knelt, holding out a finger. "I recognise you. You're an Epoh. Which means we're in Romulan space. Logically, this must be Romulus itself. A looong time before it was colonised." Footsteps nearby snapped Thot Gren's attention to the trees. Some Romulans had emerged and were staring at the Breen. One of them came forwards, nervously. He was dressed in old clothing and carried some packs. Obviously they were on some kind of exploration mission. He started talking in Ancient Romulan, but Thot Gren's translator was not configured. Gren stood up and replied. "I'm Thot Gren. I mean you no harm." Obviously the Romulan didn't understand, but Gren just held both arms open in a show of peace. If they were back in time, this situation would have to be handled very carefully. Gren had no intention of letting the Romulans get their hands on advanced tech and becoming a major power in the galaxy. The Romulan cautiously approached. Gren slowly turned a hand towards him, indicating for him to stop. The Romulan did, and raised an eyebrow. Gren couldn't help but chuckle at the very Vulcan-esque manner in which he did that, considering Romulan history at this time. The Romulan didn't take too kindly at that, and quickly lunged forward, knife in his hand. The small blade slipped through a gap in the damaged armour and penetrated Thot Gren's torso in the rib area. Thot Gren grunted and grabbed the wrist of the Romulan, staggering back. The Breen headbutted the aggressor, the helmet completely shattering his face. Green blood poured from his nose as he flailed, grabbing the face part of the helmet and yanking it off. Thot Gren knew at this point this creature must die. For he had now seen the face of a Breen, and one of the highest commands in the Confederacy was to maintain full anonymity at all costs. The other Romulans hadn't waited to see the outcome. Obviously terrified, they had fled back into the forest when the fight first broke out. Gren swung another punch at the Romulan who fell to one knee, the facemask bouncing down into a shallow stream. Gren grabbed the Romulan by his face and forced his head back, pulling the knife from it's place lodged in the ribs and held it against the Romulan's neck. Knowing he wouldn't understand anything said, Gren simply slashed his throat, keeping hold until he stopped moving. Dropping the knife beside the body, Gren raised an arm to cover the exposed face and hurried to the river. Kneeling down, the Breen picked up the facemask and paused, catching a reflection in the water. Brown scales held within the helmet betrayed Gren's true nature. Once a Xyrillian, Gren had abandoned that life a long time ago, along with the rest of her past when she joined the Confederacy. They had given Gren the name. They had allowed Gren to live as one should. Free from persocution because of sex, race or social attitudes. Each Breen was a Breen. There was nothing more to it. Gren put the facemask back on and struggled back to an upright position. Looking back at the Bird of Prey, Gren sighed.
"Should probably get this looked at. At least the Doctor survived." There were obvious issues with having the Breen made up of component species with aninomity. Such as needing to know at least the species for treating wounds. Every Breen Doctor had taken an oath never to disclose to anyone the kind of patient they were treating, and only designated Doctors were permitted to provide any kind of medical aid to others. As Gren approached the landing ramp, the sound of disruptor fire from inside cause the Breen to pause.
"Done it!" H'ren Gomta looked up triumphantly. "Ak'ched Gtrun, I've located where and when we are. Romulus, during the time when the first Romulan ships would be arriving from their Vulcan exodus." Ak'ched Gtrun walked over to Gomta and looked at the results. "Excellent work. When Thot Gren comes back, we can plot a way to get back to our time." A hissing from the prisoners caused the three Breen on the Bridge to turn. Larlusss was hissing loudly, straining against his bonds. With a mighty snap, the Gorn broke free, swiping his claw at the legs of the nearest Breen. Gomta grabbed the fallen crewmember while Gtrun withdrew a pistol and fired. Larlusss took the hits but kept advancing. "BACK! MOVE BACK!" Gtrun covered the other Breen as they backed out of the Bridge. Larlusss moved into the hallway after them, picking up the discared Captain's chair from earlier and launched it. Loud clangs echoed with each bounce as the Breen took cover in the turbolift, but Larlusss had already gone back into the Bridge where he started freeing the others. Bravok jumped to his feet, rubbing his wrists. "Free the others. I'll grab the weapons." Carefully peering around the corner, he saw the three Breen trying to get from under the chair. He ran into his office and took some old disruptors from their display, making sure to holster his own favourite dual pistols and some bladed weapons. Moving back to the door, he unleashed a hail of fire to cover himself diving back into the Bridge. Tallara snatched one of the disruptors and checked it's charge. "Let's get our ship back." Moving to a section of vented grating under her station, she popped it off and removed a pack of grenades. This really didn't surprise Bravok, given her military upbringing. Always have some spare weapons stashed away somewhere. Tallara moved to the edge of the Bridge and launched a grenade towards the Turbolift. One of the Breen managed to hit the panel, closing the door just as the grenade detonated. N'Nesh checked the internal sensors.
"They've moved to the bottom of the ship. I'm only picking up five Breen lifesigns. The others must have beamed straight into Engineering to capture it there." Bravok narrowed his eye. "The cowards attack like serpents, silently in the night. Not an honourable tactic."
"Sssssounds like our tacticssssss, when we raid civillian freighters."
"Must you hiss your syllables?"
"No. I just like to. Sssssssssss."
"Shut up and move you two!" Tallara ran into the corridor and called the turbolift.
The firefight was brief. The Breen were forced off the ship by the superior numbers and firepower. As Bravok ran to the ramp controls, he looked out to see Thot Gren just watching. He'd been stabbed by something, but Bravok didn't intend to just let him get away with this. He ordered the ship airborne. By the time he reached the Bridge, they were already in the sky. "Bring us about and charge disruptors. Target the Breen on the ground." Laska frowned. "Captain. Attacking people on foot with a shipmounted weapon? Isn't that.... cowardly?"
"Dishounarable dogs deserve a dishonourable death. Fire." The Klingon ship flew overhead, razing the ground with disruptor fire. Checking the scanners himself, he saw all but one of the Breen was dead, and that was fading. Good enough. "Get us into orbit and engage cloak. Any ideas how we get back to our time?"
There was silence on the Bridge until Laska spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Federation records have shown there is a method of time travel. A slingshot trajectory around a star at high warp should propel us into a time warp. But the calculations are extremely tricky, and a ship like this would suffer heavy damage."
"How much damage?"
"Serious hull stress, potentially failure. There is also the matter of going to the completely wrong time. I need a while to make these correct."
"Take your time and ensure they're right. N'Nesh, help her. Everyone else, help reinforce the hull."
Two hours later, Bravok paced the Bridge. They had done all they could for structural integrity. Now they just needed the calculations. The Romulus star blazed on the viewscreen, taunting them. Finally, Laska approached Bravok. "Captain. We've finished and the course has been fed to the helm. We're ready on your command."
Bravok sat in his repaired chair and looked at the viewscreen. Why did he always get stuck with time travel troubles?
"Mahk-cha!"
A Romulan Strike Team, Missing Farmers and an ancient base on a Klingon Border world. But what connects them? Find out in my First Foundary mission: 'The Jeroan Farmer Escapade'
Shameless sea
Aimlessly, so blue
Midnight
Moon shines for you
Still
Marooned
Silence drifting through
Nowhere to choose
Just blue
Ceaselessly
Star-crossed, you and me
Save our souls, we'll be
Forever blue
Waves roll
Lift us in blue
Drift us
Seep right through
And colour us blue
Wait for me
Shameless you, the sea
Soon, the blue
So soon
Soon
The Blue
So soon...
David Gilmour - "The Blue"
S I L E N C E . D R I F T I N G . T H R O U G H
( T h e . O t h e r . D e c k s )
USS Tiburon, Beta Ursae Sector Block, en route to Earth via Starbase Deep Space 9
Stardate 89524.86 (2412.07.11.1347, Federation Standard Time)
The ship moved through the darkness, pulling and pushing at the fabric of spacetime and somehow leaving scarcely a ripple. She was as black as the permanent night through which she moved, and just as silent and deadly. A spaceborne predator, she'd had her fill of violence for now, and so she was bound for her home.
She was an old ship, despite her new skin. Originally she'd been designed to fight Cardassians, to confound their agile cruisers with swarms of fighters and torpedoes. Now she'd fought to defend Cardassia from enemies few could imagine. And as she had in countless battles before, she'd emerged bloodied, but triumphant.
She was a lucky ship, and as her first Captain, Greg Sander had observed, "luck is the strongest armor of all."
For her crew - four hundred and twenty-seven men, women, beings of indeterminate gender and artificial lifeforms - life aboard her had returned to something of a routine. Though a few still reflected upon how lucky they were to be aboard this lucky ship, or how unlucky they were to be thrust into endless battles for the galaxy's survival. Routine is of course a relative term, whether serving aboard the Tiburon or under the command of Vice Admiral Jesu LaRoca. Still, this was a time to find a semblance of normalcy, even as they counted and mourned their losses, and a few prepared for battles to come.
Deck A, upper weapons pod
"I'm telling you, the inventory is off," Lt. Mitiani Zain insisted. She slapped down the PADD. "We filled our photon torpedo magazines at Starbase One-Two-Nine before we entered the Cardassian theater. That's five hundred and seventy-six torpedoes. I counted - and Hooper confirmed - that we fired two hundred and sixty-four. There can't be only one hundred and sixty-eight remaining."
"But that's what we have in the inventory, ma'am," declared Sub-Lt. Oinan.
"I want you to conduct a visual check. Somebody's miscounted and I suspect it's the computer."
"I did perform a visual count." The Romulan sublieutenant prided himself on being thorough. "Twice. And I had Weapons Chief Sh'aokka count the weapons with her eyes as well." He indicated the Caitian CPO standing behind him. "Our count is correct. I do not have an explanation for your discrepancy."
"I do," Hooper spoke up, materializing next to Mitiani. "During a lull in the battle, while you three were all getting some much-needed rest, the Admiral ordered material to be transferred to the IKS Severed Angel, including one hundred and forty-four photon torpedoes. It didn't get recorded in the inventory with all the commotion, but that's where they went." He looked back and forth between the surprised and suspicious junior officers. "That is the number we're missing, isn't it?"
Deck B-Port, aft corridor
"This is as high up and as far back in the ship as we can go, unfortunately," Kenny Cameron told his charge. "We're not allowed to go into the weapons pod, which is just through there... are we, Lieutenant?" He looked to their security escort.
"I'm afraid not," Lountu Zetaz told them with a patient tone, covering his amusement.
"That's a shame," said the Denobulan ambassador who was following Kenny on this tour. She was travelling between Arawath and Vulcan for various diplomatic conferences. She was highly interested in platforms of destruction, however. "I understand this ship has an impressive arsenal!"
"Oh yeah," Kenny grinned. "Four main torpedo tubes, eight tubes for the torpedo point defense system, Romulan plasma cannons, turrets-"
"Why don't we show the Ambassador the ship instead of just talking about her?" Zetaz suggested.
"Right, sorry." Kenny started walking but couldn't stop talking. "Um, as you probably know, the Tiburon is an Akira-class, originally launched in 2373, just after the second Borg incursion. The Akira's design has main engineering and the deflector at the bottom of the saucer, and the main flight deck and hangar running through the middle. But this ship underwent a major refit in 2409, which moved the deflector to the front and the hangar deck to the bottom, and got two warp cores, one at the root of each of these secondary hull booms. Naturally, this led to a total reconfiguration of the interior of the ship. This deck, for instance, used to be officer's country. Now it's all engineering relays and lab spaces."
The Denobulan woman bemusedly followed the eleven-year-old boy as he went on, repeating everything he'd learned on the tour he'd gotten from Cmdr. Sander, and everything he'd read about the Akira-class in general and this ship in particular.
"The Tib got refit again last year, rebuilding the hull booms and the weapons pods and adding all those cool Romulan weapons I was telling you about. The booms are a lot bigger now, so they have extra space for labs and storage and a bigger main warp core. The secondary core is the same size as before but it's tied into some secret Romulan auxiliary power system... We're not allowed to see that either."
"Nope," Zetaz confirmed.
"So really, this is a whole new ship," the Ambassador figured. "If the saucer was changed three years ago, and the rest of the ship was changed last year, then there's nothing original left!"
"Um, I think they kept some of the furniture?" Kenny said uncertainly. He reached the turbolift. "Astrometrics is just ahead, if you want to see that, or we can go down to the next deck." He added excitedly, "C-deck's where the plasma turrets are. They're mounted out on pylons so they can shoot in all directions..."
Deck C-Starboard, no. 3 turret control
"...The gimbal's cooked," Senior Technician Ten announced. She crawled out of the access space and brushed grime and ash from her fur. "We can't repair it. The component must be replaced."
"I don't understand how that's possible," Sub-Lt. Bi'el stated. "Romulan weapons components are tested and rated to exceed standard Starfleet specifications by at least a factor of two."
Petty Officer Mickey Vasquez shrugged with his arms crossed. "Well, this ship is hardly standard Starfleet spec," he told the Romulan Republic exchange officer. "And we were firing all guns almost continuously for the better part of two-and-a-half days with our weapons power overcapped..."
The veteran maintenance engineer turned to the former Borg drone, who looked like a normal Caitian except for the neurocranial implant still in place over her left eyebrow. "We should check the portside and upper turrets as well. If this one's slag, then the other two mounts will be in bad shape."
"Agreed..." The senior specialist was distracted for a moment by a blinking light on her tricorder, but she came back quickly. "Agreed. However, replacing the turret gimbals will require a full spacedock facility, and obviously they will need to be redesigned to be much more resilient to damage from overheating."
Mickey noticed the Romulan's glum expression. "Hey, don't feel bad, Sub. At one point or another, this ship breaks or burns out every bit of 'latest and greatest' equipment we try to strap to her. Now you know how the boys at STS feel."
Deck D-Port, impulse control
"I don't care if you can't sssee anything wrong with the impulssse manifold. Commander Stikvaa says 'the port engine feelss sluggishhh,' sso there must be a problem."
Ens. Ernie Stangel gulped as he looked up at the hulking Gorn CPO. He (or she? He still couldn't tell) loomed over him, staring down at him with cold, reptilian eyes... and even with his (or her) mouth closed, huge, pointy teeth jutted out every which-way like a crocodile. He licked his lips and said "I'll check it again, Chief, but I don't think my tricorder's going to tell me anything different. Did you check the injector assembly for faults?"
"Of courssse," CPO Tann'rr hissed. "I found none, and ssso I came here."
Stangel hesitated, and became aware of the flop sweat building up on his forehead. One of the first things he'd been told about when he joined this crew two months ago, was the large number of Gorn defectors. A bunch of them, apparently, had come over together after the Admiral himself rescued them in some action three years ago. And they were fiercely loyal to the Admiral first, and each other second. Everyone else came a distant third.
He also knew, from his cultural relations class he took freshmen year, that if a Gorn had his (or her) mind set on something, you best either help them or get the hell out of the way. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go - he was in the aftermost compartment on the entire ship, and the Gorn was blocking the only exit forward.
"I'm sorry, Chief," he said at last, hoping his expression would be read as apologetic rather than terrified. "We'll have to run an efficiency test with the engines running, but I don't think the Admiral will let us slow to impulse speed until we dock at Dee-Ess-Nine."
The Gorn engineer loomed closer, looked over his scan results, grunted, and then - very unexpectedly - turned around and left the compartment, as though he (she?) had thought of something better to do than terrorize an ensign.
Ernie Stangel heaved a sigh of relief and made a mental note to himself. Figure out the Gorn, and figure out how to tell the males from females, ASAP.
Deck E-Starboard, Main Engineering
"Okay, shut it down!" LCdr. Yumi ordered.
The shrieking noise coming from the warp core dropped a couple of octaves in pitch as it was relieved of the strain of trying to push the ship through slipspace.
Yumi frowned at her readouts and tapped the intercom. "Navigation..."
"Twelve-point-four-seven-one lightyears, ma'am," Ens. Lanan reported from the bridge. "Slipstream was active for one hundred and twenty-one-point-six seconds."
"Damn..." Her simulation told her they should have gone half a lightyear further. And the efficiency ratios were even further off. She checked the calculations again and again, running through it step by step, even double-checking the conversion formulas. The result came out the same. Wrong.
She slumped over her console and massaged her lobes. "Hooper..." She hated asking the computer for help, but there was no one else to go to. "Check my math. What am I missing?"
The AI manifested his holographic avatar and leaned over her station to study the problem. Of course, he could see what was on the screen just as easily from the other side, but he wanted to be thought of as a colleague, not as a computer program.
"There's nothing wrong with your math," he told her. He stood up straight and removed his glasses to clean them on his sweater. "The numbers check out, but they don't match what the new modular slipdrive is actually doing."
"I know. It's driving me buggy." She tapped the display panel as if she could get it to change its mind. "We're faster, but not as fast as the math says we should be. But what really bothers me is the efficiency factor; we should have a fifteen-percent gain, but we have a loss of nearly twenty percent instead."
Hooper inspected his spectacles and put them back on. "There must be a loss in the system somewhere."
"Where?" she looked up and asked him. "Where are we losing power from? How do we fix it?"
"How should I know?"
"How..." Yumi stared at him a moment. "You're the ship's brains. Don't you just... know these sorts of things?"
Hooper glanced toward the ceiling for a moment and simulated an annoyed sigh. "If you were having internal bleeding, would you 'just know' where it was and how to fix it?"
"Um, well, no."
"Of course not. You'd have to go to Dr. Espinoza or Dr. Borrumik, and get scanned and treated by someone who knows a lot more about your vascular system than you do."
"So, what you're saying is... you're the patient."
"And you're the doctor." Hooper picked up a tricorder and handed it to her. "Scan me, and fix me."
Deck F-Starboard, Multi-Purpose Lab 2 (Biology/Botany)
"Ruined. All ruined." Ens. Sorbin Zain tossed his samples in a biowaste bin. "Doesn't anyone know the difference between stasis and cryostorage?"
SSpc. Lanalutan chortled amusedly. "Could be worse," the Paradan offered. "They could have just locked them in a dark closet somewhere and let them grow and consume the ship!"
"I don't think there'd be much risk of that," Zain muttered. "Those marines would have to be pretty brick-stupid not to notice a colony of nucleic bacteria eating everything made of tritanium around here."
The scientists were still converting their lab space back into a lab; the Moab Marines had taken it over and used it as an armory. Sorbin Zain didn't mind being left out of the action. He didn't even mind being dumped on 75-Tau while the marines took over his lab. He wasn't a soldier; the marines were. And where they were going, his bacterial growth studies were not needed.
And he wouldn't dare admit it to his sister, but it felt good to be among his own people for a while. He'd gotten to eat real zabu meat, and drink real kanar, and be among real Cardassians again. He and his sister had both wanted to serve something bigger than Cardassian politics, and so they left their home and joined Starfleet under the dual-citizenship program. He knew Mitiani didn't miss home much. But he was starting to realize that he did.
He sighed as he loaded the bin of flash-frozen petri dishes into the replicator and hit Recycle. He sat down at his desk and composed a brief report for Commander K'Jetsk, and waited for his next assignment. He knew Mitiani was doing exactly what she wanted to be doing, and he tried to be supportive of his little sister, but...
The simple fact was the Tiburon was not a vessel of exploration. She was a warship, first and foremost. Her scientific facilities were almost wasted on her. There was no opportunity to conduct any real research, no mission that called for a top-flite botanist like Lanalutan. Just occasional samples to examine, or survey data to analyze - data and samples being collected by other ships.
If it wasn't for Mitiani, he would have put in for a transfer years ago. But she was happy...
He sighed again, and steepled his fingers, and waited. He didn't wait for long. Oh, well. At least it's something to do.
Deck G-Port, Cargo Bay 5
"I still don't understand why Loeffler's suit faulted." CPO K'Ihluyr had the MA1A1 power-armor in pieces all over the cargo bay. "It just doesn't add up."
Lt. Jhrys th'Keph, Commander LaRoca's second deputy in charge of the armories, crossed his arms and looked over the mess. "I talked to Captain Pantano about it at the time. They had a batch of bad chipsets that went into the medpack controllers. It faulted while he was testing new power settings."
"But the malfunction doesn't make sense," the Klingon Chief Armorer insisted. "I had Kigago pull up the datalogger. The medpack faulted, and pumped him full of stimmies, triggering cardiac arrest. And then the defib unit overloaded."
"Yeah, so?"
K'Ihluyr looked over the parts she'd laid out and picked up the onboard defibrillator. "There's no connection between this unit, and the medpack. They're independent; they take their own biometric readings and their little computer brains make their own decisions, independently."
She looked up at the Andorian officer. "There's no way a fault in the medpack could overload the defibber, El-Tee. And two components faulting at the same time in just the right way to kill him... there's no way that's a coincidence."
"So what are you thinking?" Lt. Keph asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew.
"I'm thinking Loeffler was murdered," K'Ihluyr told him in a hoarse whisper that sounded like a growl. "And the petaQ behind it got away with it. I know what he did. But I can't figure out how."
th'Keph's antennae were in motion as he thought this over. "Crate it back up," he ordered, "but leave those two parts out. We've got a few Marines on board still. I want you to talk to them about this."
"They weren't in the same unit," the Klingon pointed out.
"No, but I'll bet they're more familiar with these suits than we are. If they can rule out a bizarre accident, then I'll take this to the Commander to pass up to the Admiral."
Deck 2, Room 201 (Admiral's quarters)
Alejandro Cruz was glad to be back at work. Glad to be away from that Cardassian space station he'd been stuck on for the last four weeks.
True, 75-Tau was a Starfleet installation, at least in name and design. But as far as he could tell, it was run by Cardies. They were everywhere, in the same damned uniforms they'd worn in his war. The ubiquitous emblem kept popping up; the one that was supposed to resemble a freshwater ray but always made Cruz think of a menacing cobra, hood raised and ready to strike. It wasn't just on official bulletins and shipping labels, but on telescreens and HV monitors. Their sports were broadcast in the entertainment lounge, preempting baseball broadcasts and even football. Their appalling foods stank up the dining commons even if you could give their restaurants a wide enough berth.
Alejandro released some of his tension with a sigh and checked the pork shoulder he was braising. His best friend's son, the Admiral he cooked for, had insisted on having wardroom meals prepared in his quarters, filling the rooms with the smells of home cooking. Alejandro Cruz was happy to oblige him.
The LaRocas weren't typical Starfleet officers; Jesu and Rusty, and certainly not Carlos. And even typical Starfleet people were usually likeable enough. But those payasos in the 77th fleet... He shook his head. It wasn't their fault, really. It was just those damn Cardies and their insidious paranoia and attitudes of assumed superiority. It spread everywhere.
The dozen or so Cardassians he served with here, on the Tiburon, weren't like that at all. Of course, they were almost all younger, and Starfleet-trained. But they were all so likeable, so open and humble, it was almost enough to make him forget their scaly gray skin.
Almost enough to make him forget the things their elders had done to him...
He pulled the carnitas apart with a meat fork, picked up a bit of the shredded pork and popped it into his mouth. Without a tongue, he couldn't taste it, but he could feel the texture and gauge the tenderness of the meat. It was perfect.
Deck 3, Shuttlebay 2
"Of course we'll be getting a replacement," Lt. jg. Jacob Wald told the crew chief. "You know how the Admiral is. I'd be surprised if there weren't a shiny new Type-Twelve waiting for us at Dee-Ess-Nine. Or at Starbase One for sure."
CPO C'Rtiw didn't speak, or give any indication that he'd even heard the pilot of the Peter Benchley. He just stood there - almost like a statue, apart from his tail swaying back and forth - and stared at the spot on the deck where the Steve Alten should have been parked.
But it was gone.
And so were Ensign Atringa, and Chief Warrant Kwim Lo, and a dozen MACOs and a dozen Marines whose names he didn't even know.
"Any ideas what he'll name the new one?" Lt. jg. M'mnar asked her fellow pilot.
WO1 Satep, her Fizzo on the Jim Toomey spoke up. "So far all of the shuttles have been named for Earth writers - specifically fiction authors who are noted for writing about sharks. It seems logical to assume the Admiral will continue that pattern."
"Well, obviously, but..."
"It'll be the Valdyr," Ens. Ekaterina Chowalski declared.
"Who's that?" Wald teased the PinC of the Kristy St. Germaine. "Another cartoonist or children's author?"
"A Klingon poet and loresinger," Chowalski explained. "She told tales of the dangers of the sea, of creatures such as the norgh, and is ascribed with popularizing the myth of norgh'a'Qun - the god that Kortar and Lunob did not dare to kill - the god of the sea and the eater of all life."
"A Klingon name, to honor Atringa?" Jacob Wald turned serious as he thought it over. "Yeah, I can see the Admiral doing that."
"It fits," M'mnar agreed.
C'Rtiw still said nothing, but for the first time in weeks, he smiled a little.
Deck 4, portside dorsal plasma beam array maintenance access
"...melted components made of tetraburnium carbide, and that was in the turrets," Lt. Diorek explained to the engineers. "The hyperflux circuits route about fifty times that amount of power to the beam arrays. So we need to inspect every component that had hot plasma running through it - or near it - for thermal damage."
"That is..." Acting CPO Aijen looked over the work order on his PADD. "Sir, there are thousands of meters of weapons plasma channels on this ship..."
"Nine thousand, four hundred and forty-seven point-six-eight, to be precise," Jirius Diorek told him. "I know. I oversaw their installation personally."
The Suliban engineer made a put-upon sighing noise. "We'd better get to work then."
"Indeed," the Romulan tactical officer told him. "I do plan to be using these weapons again."
Deck 5, sick bay
"Well, your DNSS appears to be in total remission."
"What does that mean, egzzackly?" Georgia Nguyen wanted to know.
"It means the genetic restructuring of your stem cells appears to have worked. I have samples here of new nerve cells you just grew since your injury. Your DNA is replicating without the gene mutation that expresses as degenerative nervous sheath syndrome."
"Really?"
"See for yourself." Maria Espinoza handed her patient a viewer. "The slide on the left shows the gene pair from one of your older cells. On the right, the same gene pair, from one of the new cells I just sampled. You see the difference?"
"Yeah..." Georgia had, by necessity, learned some basic genetic medicine in the last year and could spot the change to her DNA. "Now, we'd seen this before, in mah blood, skin, and hair cells..."
"Yes but this is the first time we've seen the alteration affect your deep tissues. If this holds, then as your old cells continue to die off - naturally or through injury - they'll be replaced by cells with healthy DNA."
"And how long will that take?"
"Well, some of your cells can live for thirty years, but we can use radiation therapy to accelerate that process. And the way the syndrome seems to work, it relies on your cellular replication to advance the disease through its stages."
"So ah could still experience Stage One of the Syndrome," Georgia realized with a shudder.
"If we do nothing further, then yes. But that would be the end of it. And like I said, we have options to accelerate the replacement of your nerve cells in advance of the Syndrome's progression. A careful regimen of targeted radiation therapy, over the course of the next six years or so, would eliminate all the affected cells before you'd experience the first symptoms."
"That's wonderful news, doctor. Thank you." Georgia smiled warmly.
Maria smiled back, but then looked uncomfortable. "Now, there are some cells which unfortunately cannot be replaced..."
"Egg cells," Georgia shrugged. "Ah figgered as much. Any children ah have would be afflicted with the Syndrome same as me." She gave a little lopsided smile. "That's prob'ly why ah'm not so much attracted t' humanoids."
"Well, if you change your mind, we can use the same resequencing technique in the embryonic stage, so they'd be born completely healthy." Dr. Espinoza started to put away her equipment. "Something for you to think about, anyway."
"Thanks, doctor." Georgia handed back the viewer PADD. "But ah'm happy bein' with Rusty and not havin' to worry 'bout that."
Deck 6, portside mess/multipurpose room (Deck Six crew lounge)
Andre Bjishkian looked at the flop, recalled his hold cards and ran the probabilities as Lt. Barrister announced what he'd dealt.
"Queen of diamonds, eight of hearts, three of diamonds. Bet's to the Security Officer." The Android looked to his left expectantly.
Even without his residual Borg "enhancements," PO2 Bjishkian would have known he had a little less than a 38.3% chance of hitting a flush, with his ace and ten of diamonds. Cybernetic implants helped him calculate his 0.181% chance of making a straight, or his exceedingly remote 1 in 2209 odds of turning a royal flush.
He glanced around at his opponents, aware that they were all gauging him and looking for an involuntary organic reaction. Master Chief Compy had raised from the big blind before seeing the flop, so he knew she had decent hold cards; either a pocket pair or two face cards. At any rate, he knew the odds of him winding up with the best hand were suboptimal (28.7%) at this point. He opted to check.
Barrister turned his gaze across the table. "Master Chief?"
"Bet two hundred," the Exocomp announced, using 'her' force field projector to flick two blue chips into the pot. Of course, Exocomps are not built to have any gender, and unlike Soong-type Androids or photonic life forms, her chassis had no visual cues to identify her as female. But that was how she thought of herself.
"Call," Hooper said, pushing in a small portion of his massive chip stack. "And raise five hundred."
"Dealer's out," Barrister said hastily, mucking his cards.
A crowd had started to gather, drawn by the action at the table and the "ooohs" of a few spectators that were watching already. Andre riffled his chips while Five of Six - his residual Borg personality - recalculated his odds, based on two players at least pairing the board. The numbers were definitely not in his favor, but he had a hunch... "Call."
Compy silently called as well, moving five more blue chips out of her dwindling stack. Barrister burned the next card out of the shoe and dealt the Turn. "Ace of clubs. Security Officer?"
Andre let Five co-opt part of his nervous system and help keep him stone-faced. His odds of making the flush had just been cut in half, but he now had top pair. He decided to check again, and see what the others did with the card.
Compy also decided to play it safe. "Check."
"Bet five hundred." The ship's AI looked... a bit smug as he said that.
Andre and Compy both called without hesitation.
Barrister again mucked the top card off the deck and turned over the next one, the River, the final card dealt in Texas hold 'em poker. "Eight of diamonds. Pair on the board."
Andre ignored the number when he saw the suit. He'd made his flush. But he decided to slow-play his opponents, and checked, letting them bet their way into his pocket.
"All-in," Compy announced, pushing her entire stack forward.
"I'll see you..." Hooper declared, matching her chip count, "and raise you... how much you got left over there, Andre?"
Petty Officer Bjishkian just stared impassively at the hologram, and let the AI count the chips himself.
"...Nine hundred and eighty," Hooper determined, setting the chips in a side-pot.
Andre Bjishkian let a smile show as he pushed all of his chips forward, and then he produced his hold cards. "Ace-high flush."
"That's nice." Compy flipped over her cards. "Four eights."
"Damn," Hooper muttered, as he revealed his pocket queens. "What a waste of a full house."
Compy chuckled as she extended a force field around her chips to pull them back to her stack, leaving only 1960 in the side-pot.
"Congratulations, Master Chief," Barrister said, sounding like he meant it.
Andre just sat there, stunned.
"Oh well..." Hooper shrugged and scooped up the remaining chips. "At least I got to clean out the Organic."
Deck 7, main armory
"I don't f*cking care who started it, who impinged who's f*cking honor, or who f*cking deserves to be sliced in two with a f*cking bat'leth," Ensign Zeth snarled. "You two f*ckers are noncommissioned officers on a f*cking Starfleet flag vessel and you will bloody f*cking well conduct yourselves accordingly!"
The Nausicaan junior officer had just turned thirteen years old, but he was tall for his age - tall enough to be able to stare down adult male Klingons and Orions. PO1 Sur and PO1 Vukarno maintained eye contact with him, but out of respect, not defiance. And they both wore chagrined expressions on their faces.
Both petty officers were ex-KDF, each with their own reasons for defecting. Sur was tired of his house being a pawn for Duras. Vukarno simply wanted to be free, to be his own man.
Zeth had still been a boy of five when his father decided they would separate from their clan and become citizens of the Federation rather than citizens of the Klingon Empire. At ten standard years, Zeth had passed the Rite of Manhood, and applied to Starfleet Academy. Almost immediately, he got a rejection notice for being under the minimum enrollment age. He tried again and again, each time adding more cultural and medical documentation that explained that he was developmentally an adult, and each time getting the same response.
Then after a few weeks, he finally received an appointment to report for the Academy Entrance Exam at the University of Queensland (not too far from his father's home in Toowoomba, which means something rather different in Nausicaan.) It turned out that his application bids had reached the attention of one Captain Jesu LaRoca, who knew something of Nausicaan maturation rates and the desirable qualities of the species beyond the stereotypes. LaRoca had sponsored young Zeth to an accelerated Academy program at the Brisbane campus. Once there, he attacked his studies with all the ferocity inherent to his race, graduating in just two and a half years. He knew as he walked with his classmates and received his Starfleet commission that he'd made his father the proudest Nausicaan alive.
He worked every day for the pride of his father and his sponsor. And Commander LaRoca had taken him to his side and trained him in ways beyond the Academy's teaching. Knowing both the LaRocas had confidence in him gave him the confidence he needed to enforce discipline among his junior NCOs.
"There are two ways you can handle your differences," he told Sur and Vukarno, dropping the constant profanity, which signaled that he was gravely serious. "The Starfleet way, or the Klingon way. But I will be handling the outcome in the Starfleet way." He picked up Sur's bat'leth and held it out. "So which will it be?"
Deck 8, holodeck 2
Brandon stared down the batter at the plate. It was the top of the ninth, game seven of the Galactic Championship Series. His team was up by a run; it was up to him to save the game. With two outs already on the board, Manny Rodriguez, the most feared and hated slugger in the Majors, was up to bat.
Brandon checked with his catcher. Sticks showed him the signal for a fastball, down and in. The pitcher nodded, rolled the ball into a two-seam grip behind his back, wound up and delivered. He stepped into the pitch and whipped his arm forward around his body, hurling the fastball sinker at Manny's knees and daring him to hit it.
Rodriguez balked, taking half a step back as the ball crossed the inside corner of the plate.
"HeeRRIIIIGH!!" The ump shouted.
Rodriguez flashed a glare back at the umpire who'd called the strike, then aimed it up the mound at the nine-year-old boy who threw it. Brandon just grinned back at him.
Manny's hologram set himself for the next pitch. Brandon took the sign from his Gorn catcher, and released a changeup pitch that curved low and outside. Rodriguez checked his swing and let it go for a ball.
Sticks called for another fastball, up and in. Brandon delivered the pitch. Manny held his bat and leaned away as the pitch caught the corner of the strike zone for another called strike. The capacity crowd erupted in applause.
Rodriguez angrily stepped out of the batter's box to take a few more practice swings. Sticks called for a time out and jogged up to the mound to talk things over with his young pitcher. "Nice work, kid. You've got 'im scared."
"Another inside fastball to finish him?" Brandon asked the catcher.
Before the Klingons invaded his homeworld, Stikvaa had played catcher and first base for his war college team. He had planned to differ his military commission and enter the Gorn League baseball draft. But his life so far had taken more unexpected turns than most. Little Brandon's life was starting out on a similarly curvy path. Sticks fervently hoped that the turns for the worse were behind them both.
"Show 'im your slider first," the Gorn advised. "If he doesn't go for it, hit 'im upstairs again."
"Got it." The players tapped their gloves together and Sticks jogged back behind the plate, replacing his facemask.
Brandon scraped the dirt on the mound with his cleats, waiting for the batter to be ready. It didn't matter that he was only nine years old and barely came up to his catcher's midsection - in this holodeck, he was an all-star.
Manny stepped back into the batter's box and set himself, waggling the bat a little as he tried to stare the pitcher down. Brandon flashed him a smile as he wound up, but his face became a concentrated grimace as he released the pitch off his index finger.
The hologram that thought it was Manny Rodriguez saw the white 'dot' formed by the ball's rotation and recognized the hard slider. He tried to adjust his swing but the pitch got more late movement than he anticipated, and he just grazed the top of the ball as it swept by at mid-thigh-level. But a foul-tip with two strikes added nothing to the count. Rodriguez was still in it.
Sticks signaled the pitcher, confirming what they'd planned on the mound. Brandon's second 1-2 pitch was another fastball up by Manny's shoulders. But the four-seam pitch got away from the youngster, and Manny let it go as it was called high.
The crowd booed Manny and the ump. Sticks threw the ball back to the pitcher and gave him the sign for a cut fastball, low and away. Brandon nodded assent. After three fastballs inside, Rodriguez would not be expecting that.
He held the ball behind his back in an off-center four-seam grip and started his wind-up. He stepped through and threw it so hard he almost fell off the mound, sending the pitch even faster than his last two straight fastballs.
Manny swung his bat to hit the ball square, just as it started to cut away from him. It zipped by the end of the bat with barely half a millimeter to spare, and landed in Stikvaa's leather mitt with a hard *smack!* Manny Rodriguez looked stunned after he whiffed on the swing and the scoreboard showed him three strikes, and three outs.
The crowd exploded in thunderous applause and cheers, as the home-team dugout emptied to join the players on the field in riotous celebration. Sticks shed his facemask as he ran forward and scooped up the little ace to hold him aloft over his teammates, now champions of the galaxy.
Brandon laughed, almost delirious with the elation of triumph. After seeing his new big brother recovered from life-saving surgery, and finding out that he'd been adopted by Kenny's grandparents, this was the third-greatest moment of his life.
Deck 9, counselors' lounge
"Miss K still refuses to open up about her past before joining the Marines," Cran Deeroy told her fellow counselors. "She'll talk all day about her experience in the Marine Corps if I let her, but it's like her history only goes back to early 2410 and just stops."
"She's fifteen now," Sebok stated, checking the notes, "that means she was only thirteen when she enlisted... how did they... Nobody told her 'Sorry, little girl, you're too young for this'?"
"The Moab Marines emerged from the military branch of the Independence movement," Reader told him. "Before they declared independence from the Federation, and aligned with the Klingon Empire, they were... Are you familiar with the Human expression 'One man's Freedom Fighter is another man's Terrorist'?"
"No, but it sounds like something a Human would say," the Vulcan grumbled.
"Anyway, the point is the movement was not at that time in a position to be picky about its recruits. And I can guarantee you that the military structure and discipline she entered there was healthier than whatever environment she was in previously."
"Have you read anything from her?" Nequi, the Deltan asked.
"She has not opened her mind, and I don't think the time is right to pry," Reader told her. "But I have felt... scars. Deep scars."
"Yes, I have felt those as well."
"Based on her medical records, we know that she was most likely a victim of child prostitution," Cran went on. The senior counselor had been involved in the Bajoran Resistance, so she was deemed the best fit to take the lead in Miss K's case. "Given what we know of inner-city gang activity on Moab III, it seems likely that she was involved in other illegal activities as well..."
"Maybe a records search with Colonial Security?" Reader suggested.
"It's a long shot, but it may be worthwhile." Cran turned to Zelanai. The Orion counselor was not directly involved in Miss K's treatment, for obvious reasons, but she still advised. "Zee, who's the senior staff counselor at Ramius House?"
"Moira Slochin," Zelanai answered. "I did my practicum with her, and she... helped me, as well. She's very good. El-Aurian, you know. If anyone can draw Miss K out, it would be her."
"Well, I would like to at least give her a full set of records to start with." Cran Deeroy looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, Hooper, I have a search request for you..."
Deck 10, junior officer's quarters
Lt. jg. Suleda Jutan held the buzzer down at the door to Ensign ch'Intiliph's quarters.
The door opened for the glaring young Andorian. "Took you long enough, pinkskin."
"Sorry, Thy. I-"
Thyril ch'Intiliph pulled Jutan inside and kissed him on the mouth as soon as the door hissed closed.
Jutan pulled their lips and tongues apart after a while so he could speak. "I missed you."
"Not half as much as I missed you." The chan smiled and his cheeks blushed a deeper blue. "What are we going to do when we get to Earth?"
"I don't know." Jutan let himself be led into the bedroom. "We need to figure that out."
ch'Intiliph perked his antennae. "Does your girlfriend suspect anything?" he asked seriously.
Suleda shook his head and sat on the bed. "No, she's clueless."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm Betazoid," Jutan reminded his lover. "Trust me, I'd know."
"Well, it might not hurt to let her find out before the shore leave schedule gets posted."
"Heh, might not hurt you," Jutan quipped ruefully. "But she's a Klingon. I can guarantee she'll hurt me."
Deck 11, transporter room 6
PO3 Yamin Orin stood at his console and thought I must have the most boring job on this ship.
And that suited him just fine.
Deck 12, variable-gravity gymnasium
"Kian!" Dinky dripped and shouted, "I'm gonna get you for that!"
Kian laughed and ran and ducked amongst the gym equipment
"What are they doing?" Lt. jg. Tosk wondered. He'd been living among Humans for six years now, and still they kept finding new ways to bewilder him.
"Playing." Cheron replied, "Looks like a mix of waterballoons and tag."
"Spot me, Cheron?" Lees asked.
"What, you're not playing?" Cheron asked, setting the weight on the lift.
"Nope." Lees told her, "Kian cheats."
Kian bounded off one of the walls, landing behind Crewman Kunicki, who was still testing his new leg. "Hide me!"
"No hiding!" Acting Petty Officer Dinkins shouted, and let loose with a balloon in a pitch that curved - right into Chief Kurinka, who'd just finished a pass through fourth-form Mok'bara.
"Arrrgh. LEGAL OFFICER DINKINS!!" the drenched Klingon woman yelled.
"Ooops... sorry?"
As S-3 for the ship's MACO Delta company, Tosk was always looking for new exercises. "This game seems to have high potential for collateral damage," he remarked, sounding unimpressed.
"Well, yeah," Cheron told him. "That's part of the fun."
Kurinka straightened with great feigned dignity, and held out a hand. "Balloon," the MACO demanded. "Hand it over."
Dinky handed her one of his balloons, and flinched slightly.
"You throw it like this." She spun on one foot, and snapped a fastball that passed under Bobby Kunicki's left arm, hitting Kian full in the face and prompting an indignant squeal. "Learn to throw like a girl, Dinkins."
Deck 13, brig
"Mail call," Lt. Amraam announced, as he dropped the force fields containing Thansa R'Gamo in her cell. He held out the docuPADD he was carrying. "Good news. The Federation Foreign Ministry has decided to grant your request for political asylum."
"That is good news," the Orion said, as she rose from her bed to accept the PADD.
"They have a few provisions, of course. The details are spelled out there in that doc, but basically, by signing that, you agree to cooperate fully with the Foreign Ministry, Consular Operations and Starfleet Intelligence. You'll need to make yourself available for debriefing at their discretion, at times and places of their choosing. Upon our arrival at Earth, you'll be restricted to the planet's surface or to suborbital flights around the planet. There's a few other dos and don'ts, and obviously you'll be agreeing to waive all rights you had as an Orion citizen, especially including any ownership claim to any slaves you had..."
"Sadly, I think they're all dead," she told him, without looking up from the PADD, "or they soon will be. The KDF treats deserters rather harshly. Where do I sign?"
"Well, if you want a lawyer to look it over with you, you'll have to wait a few days 'til we get to Dee-Ess-Nine."
"If I sign it now you'll let me out of this cell, though, right?" She glanced up. "I am familiar with Federation law."
"Yes, I have someone standing by to escort you to guest quarters." He handed her a stylus and signaled one of the security officers who'd followed him and were standing just out of sight. "Scroll to the bottom of the doc; there's a place there for your signature and thumbprint. And then Chief Nataget will take you to your room."
Former Mistress R'Gamo read for another minute, reached the end of the document, and signed it. "No offense, but I hope your hospitality improves for political exiles." She handed the PADD back to Amraam.
"I don't think you'll be disappointed, madam."
R'Gamo followed the Saurian CPO out, and Amraam moved on to his next guest, passing the isolation cell that housed Dr. Schrodinger. He waited for Master Chief Raastz and Acting Lieutenant Dorred to signal that they were ready before lowering the interphasic shielding and the sound dampeners.
"Hello, Lieutenant," the Undine inside the cell greeted him. She glanced at the Lethean and the Gorn behind him. "Lieutenant. Master Chief."
"I have the data files you asked for, Rolkee," Amraam said, pronouncing the alien name as best he could, as Raastz opened a small square hole in the force field. The Ferengi deputy chief of security passed another PADD - this one a Starfleet standard iPADD - through the gap.
"Thank you very much." RolQ' took the PADD and bobbed her head and pulsed a shimmer of purple across her skin to express her appreciation. "There is much I must learn of your Federation. This will aid me to that end."
"Are you comfortable, otherwise?" Amraam asked. "Environment alright for you? Anything else you need replicated?"
RolQ' nodded, as she'd observed humanoids do. "I could use another... Oh, what is the word. One of these..." she picked up a pillow that was sitting on her bed.
"A pillow."
"Yes! Only larger, more... do you mind if I just show you?"
Amraam shrugged. "Go ahead." He'd allowed RolQ' to project telepathically to him several times already with no ill effects. And his Lethean assistant stood ready to interfere if need be. He saw in his mind a large, ovoid cushion, shaped like a bowl. "Got it. About one-point-five by one meters?" he pantomimed the size.
"Yes, please. It would be more comfortable for me to sit upon."
"No problem. I'll go down to fabrication and get that made for you."
"Thank you. That is very kind." She flushed purple again.
"Anything else?"
"No..." she hesitated. "It's just... my thoughts are still very lonely. Commander K'Jetsk and Reader-Commander visit me from time to time, but the silence between is troubling."
Amraam frowned. "I'm sorry about that, Rolkee. But you understand why we need to take precautions."
"Of course." She tucked her head and flushed reddish, expressing... shame? Or guilt? One of those sorts of emotions, anyway. "Has Admiral LaRoca decided what will happen to me when we reach Earth?"
The Ferengi shrugged. "Unfortunately, it's not up to him. Most likely you'll be turned over to Starfleet Intelligence."
"Not up to... your Federation hierarchy is terribly confusing. Admiral LaRoca Ghoststalker is the Strongest. Among my people, Admiral LaRoca would be the unquestioned Leader, and Commander LaRoca Demonhunter would be his Second. I cannot understand why it is not this way."
"Well, hopefully what's on that PADD should help you start to figure us out."
Deck 14, upper Main Hangar Bay, Stinger Squadron CO's office
"N'Kkitt, don't play with that!"
"Why?" the three-year-old cub asked. "What is it?" It was a brown and blue ball, stuck inside a polymer housing, with a crystal window in one of the narrow ends. The window had lines and numbers etched in it, and the ball rolled around when he tilted it.
"It's very old and delicate, is what it is," LCdr. Liow'an told his newly-adopted son. "Give it here."
N'Kkitt handed it over, and Liow'an put it back on his desk amongst some other odd dials and gauges in similar housings.
"What are those things?" the curious little cub asked.
"They're old-fashioned analog flight instruments," Liow'an explained. "They told pilots of early space- and air-crafts where they were going and how fast."
"Oh." N'Kkitt's whiskers twitched with confusion. "Couldn't they just ask the computer?"
"Back then, computers weren't smart enough to tell them things like that."
"Not smart enuff?" It was difficult for N'Kkitt to imagine. All the computers he'd met had been very smart.
Lt. K'mukkel entered the room. "Okay, now I have freetime," the new mom in the impromptu family announced. "N'Kkitt, do you want to go up to Deck Six and play games and eat pizza with Brandon and Uncle Sticks?"
"Yeah!" She had him at "eat pizza."
Deck 15, Main Hangar Bay, rigging room
"You wanted to see me, Master Chief?"
"Yes, Commander Sander, thank you for coming down." Master Chief Rigger Booker Duhn got up and came around his workbench. "Commander Blake told me you were taking care of the... arrangements for the ones we lost?"
"That's right," Marq Sander affirmed. "What is this about?"
"We found some more personal effects belonging to Ensign Abdal-Eisa, sir." Master Chief Duhn opened an unmarked crate and laid out a variety of swords and knives that were tucked between layers of protective foam, mostly in decorated sheaths and scabbards, and mostly of Levantine or Arabian origin.
"You're sure they're his?" Marq asked, picking up a Janbiya with a fancy hilt.
"Pretty sure. Danny collected these sorts of things. No one else is claiming them. And then there's this..." Booker Mohammed Duhn picked up a scimitar and drew it partway from its scabbard, and pointed to the Arabic engraving on the Damascus steel blade.
Daniel ben Filib Abdal-Eisa
Upon his Commission
21-05-2412
May the Stars Light your Way
"This, at least, is definitely his. And that's genuine saifani, by the way."
Marq blinked for a moment, confused. "What is? ...Saifani?"
"The hilt of that dagger you're holding. Rhinoceros horn. I had it tested. Don't worry, it's old enough he couldn't get in trouble for it. Must've cost him a lot of real money, though."
Sander silently replaced the knife in the crate.
"But, um..." MCPO Duhn shifted uncomfortably. "...all of these were technically unregistered weapons, which... technically should be confiscated, so... What do you want to do with it all?"
"Pack it back up," Sander told him. "Pack it up, seal it up, and put it with the rest of the Ensign's things. I can see a space on that crate for a label that says 'Ensign Daniel Abdal-Eisa's Personal Effects' or 'Danny's Stuff' or something. Who knows what's actually in it. It will all be returned to his family."
Duhn smiled at the Commander. "I know Filib Abdal-Eisa will appreciate that, sir."
Deck 16, Main Hangar Bay, flight deck
It was the largest open area on the ship. Three decks high, one hundred and eighty-one meters by sixty. Lined on both sides with locker rooms and briefing rooms and supply rooms and ordnance and fuel bunkers. With doors and force fields at both ends that could open the whole bay out to space. But as big as it was, it always felt crowded.
At any given time, there could be over a quarter of the ship's active personnel working on this deck, around and among up to thirty fighters or smaller numbers of larger craft. At the moment, there were only twenty-three fighters; seven having been lost in action at Goralis. But their absence was hard to notice with all of the activity to repair the surviving Scorpions and to assemble replacements.
Here, the full diversity of the Tiburon's crew was on display. Remans working with Romulans. Romulans working with Klingons and Vulcans. Vulcans working with Andorians. Klingons working with Humans. Caitians with Ferasans. Bajorans with Cardassians. Gorn with Saurians. Tellarites with... everyone. It all seemed so natural, it was easy to miss just how extraordinary it all was.
Hooper, naturally, noticed everything. He knew the names of each of the one hundred and eighteen pilots, flight systems officers and support and maintenance crew on the deck at this moment. He knew their Starfleet personnel records back to front. He could walk up to any one of a dozen idle hands and engage them in conversation, if he could only project himself there. There weren't any holoemitters in the hangar bay itself.
He was there, though, all around them. And he made his presence felt. Easing power to a section of gravity plating to help a maintenance team pull an impulse engine from a fighter. Adjusting the overhead lighting to help a welder see a crack in a spaceframe. Fine-tuning the environmental controls in the huge space, to keep smoke, dust and heat generated by machinists working in one area from interfering with the FSO calibrating his instruments in a fighter nearby. Occasionally, someone would look up and say "Thanks, Hoop."
You're welcome, he silently said to the four hundred and twenty-seven beings he shared his home with. You're all welcome.
...Oh, baby, you know, I've really got to leave you / Oh, I can hear it callin 'me / I said don't you hear it callin' me the way it used to do?...
- Anne Bredon