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96 Days - an attempt at a story
ranbowtrout3
Member Posts: 25 Arc User
I've been playing this game for a while now, even though I'm newly registered on the forums, and came across the LC's (this isn't for any of those, by the way) a few weeks back, which made me consider doing something with the numerous half-finished pieces I had written to pass time in between exams and assignments (essays?) over the last year or so. So, without further ado, I give you the first of these to have a chance of making it all the way to the finish, set to the backdrop of a Federation counter-offensive towards the end of the war with the Klingon Empire......
Deep Space, somewhere on the Klingon-Federation Border.
The first thing that you realise about space is the scale. It's huge, incomprehensibly vast, dotted here and there by bright stars which appear as pins embedded in an enormous fabric of nothing. And if the sheer size of the empty void dwarfs even the largest of stars, how easy must it be for a single ship to hide?
A dark shape slid through the emptiness, a silhouette against the backdrop of stars giving the impression of short, aggressive lines, thick armoured struts running back from a squat, almost arrow-shaped saucer, and rising again to support the classic warp nacelles of a federation starship, sporting a fresh coat of near-black paint and showing no running lights or any illumination from the scant handful of windows located along the rim of the saucer and between the struts. And then, as if embarrassed at showing even this much of itself, the ship seemed to waver for a moment before vanishing altogether.
Primary Bridge, USS Audacious, 0500hrs Ship Time. Day 14.
“All stations report conditions normal on cloak sir”, Ensign. Douglas Barrale reported from the Ops console. “No unexpected power drain from the auxiliary systems this time, and it looks like engineering has fixed that radiation leak from the cloaking device this time.”
“Looks like, Ensign?” The Captain's voice was cold. “You said everything you needed to in your first sentence. Keep the chatter to a minimum when you're on station in future.”
“Yes Sir! Sorry Sir!” Barrale winced. The Captain was known for being hard on his subordinates when on duty, but he hadn't realised quite what that would mean when he'd requested this posting. Although if he was honest, he hadn't expected his request to be granted. The Ensign was a tall, dark-skinned human seemingly barely out of his teens, fresh from his Academy graduation. Most of the other 1st Watch bridge officers, by contrast, were at least 10 years older, all veterans of countless battles against Klingons, numerous operations, on and off the books in Romulan (Imperial and Republic) space, and even a number of encounters with the Borg. His fear of failure was acute, fear that he would fail to live up to his position, fear that he would fail his shipmates when they needed him, and fear that he would never earn the respect of his new Captain or his fellow officers, either the new guys like himself, or, especially, the veterans he now found himself surrounded by.
The Captain sat for some time in silence, contemplating his next decision. The mission he had been given was difficult, dangerous, and would likely end in the destruction of his ship and the deaths most of the crew should he fail. The consequences to the Federation would be somewhat less significant. Political embarrassment was a possibility, but sending ships into enemy territory in times of war for intelligence gathering or targeted destruction was hardly unusual. He also had no idea of the how the Klingons would react. On the one hand, what he intended would appear at first glance to be dishonourable. On the other, they had used similar tactics themselves, and he knew they sometimes interpreted their honour code to allow for an equivalent of the victory first attitude he himself tended to hold to.
“Helm, plot me a least time course to the Klingon side of the border near the Korvat system at Warp 5” the Captain said at last.
“Do we know where the border actually is this time Sir?” Lt. Freeman at the sensor station spoke up. The Captain smiled, recalling the time when his crew and the freighter of medical supplies they had been escorting had been stranded on the wrong side of rather fluid border by an unexpectedly successful Klingon advance.
“It's been fairly static for over a week now Lieutenant, the charted position should be accurate.”
“Course laid in Sir” Lt. J.G. Lief Harger reported from the helm.
“Status of the cloak Ensign?”
“Still running as expected Sir” replied Barale, keeping his opinion on how long that would last to himself with no small amount of difficulty.
“Helm, engage.”
The ship shuddered as the massive warp core came to life, bending space itself around the ship to hurl her across the void at faster than light speeds.
The Captain turned to his XO standing behind his right shoulder. “I'll be in my ready room if anything should occur, Commander Winter. Secure from yellow alert and inform Major Staton and Major Malcolm that I need to speak with them at their earliest possible convenience. You have the ship. ”
“I have the ship Sir” replied the small dark haired and pale skinned woman, saluting and taking the Captain's place in his recently vacated chair.
“One more thing Commander” the Captain half turned on his way to the ready room. “We can't afford to have the Klingons detect our presence until long after we're across the border, if it can be avoided. Maintain Silent Running Protocol, and do not engage any targets of opportunity without first consulting me. Understood?”
“Understood Sir.”
The Captain nodded and strode off the bridge, entering the ready room and sitting at his desk before turning his attention to a stack of PADDs and a larger hard-copy file covered with TOP-SECRET and EYES-ONLY stamps. He sighed, reached for the nearest file, and began to read.
Captains Ready Room, USS Audacious, 0525hrs ship time. Day 14.
He was Captain James Peel, the oldest child of a family with a tradition of naval service dating back to the British Royal Navy before the unification of Earth (on his mother's side at least). At forty-two years old, he was still considered young for an officer of his experience, having already held two independent commands, both ending with his being court-marshalled following their loss, the first to Klingon raiders, and the second in action against the Borg. He had earned a reputation for ferocity and near-suicidal aggression in combat which had gained him his newest command, the USS Audacious, NCC-97502, one of Starfleet's newest Avenger-class warship designs, although he suspected this was over the objections of a good portion of the brass. She was fresh from the shipyard and already refitted for covert operations, painted in dark grey, almost black colours rather than the usual modern Starfleet white, and fitted with the latest, albeit still not entirely perfected cloaking technology which the Federation had begun to develop following the breakdown of the Khitomer Accords and collapse of the Romulan Star Empire, freed by these events from it's previous treaties regarding the technology.
A knock on the ready room door drew his attention from the file in his hands. “Enter.”
The door opened and two figures entered. The first was a man in his mid forties, wearing the red on blue armour of the Federation Military Assault Command Organization's forces. His face was worn, lined from constant frowning and marked by a scar running up the right side of his face from his jaw and disappearing into his hair, the usual fiery red mess trimmed down to a neat, almost regulation cut. Following him was woman in her late twenties, tall and lean, built like a long distance runner with a weathered, sun-tanned face and dark hair shaved almost to the skin. She was also armoured, wearing the white uniform the Audacious' commando team wore to differentiate themselves from the 'regular' MACO's aboard, and her armour showed numerous scratches and dents from countless fights, as well as an image of of a raven's head stencilled on the right shoulder. Both of the newcomers were unfamiliar to Peel, Major Tim Malcolm having come aboard with A Company, MACO 42nd Regiment for this assignment. Major Eliana Staton had come aboard as the replacement for the previous CO of the Commando team assigned to Peel, following her predecessors death in action against a Klingon Vor'Cha class battlecruiser which had ambushed a convoy that the USS Dragon, Peel's previous command, had been escorting. The pair marched to the desk and stood to attention.
“As you were Majors. Take a seat, this may take some time.” The two MACO's did as instructed. “Now, to business. I know the pair of you came aboard from the tender at Xarantine, so you haven't been brought fully up to speed yet. We'll start with the background and work from there. So, tell me, what do the pair of you know regarding the current political situation with the Klingons, disregarding the Great Houses for the moment, I know things there are more complicated, and dealing solely with the Empire as a whole?”
“Business as usual Sir.” Major Staton had a somewhat bizarre accent, the dominant element being a clipped, precise English, but Peel was surprised to note a hint of something he thought might be Romulan, which triggered his curiosity. That went some way to explaining what might be under the black ink in her file. “Open warfare with no sign of it letting up any time soon, with the exception of the truces regarding the Mol'Rihan colonisation and security efforts, and the joint effort against the Borg out in the Cestus sector. There was a major incident earlier this year, an attempted terrorist attack by some joke of a Klingon ambassador, but nothing came of it that I heard of, and that's about it. We've been pushing each other back and forth around the Donatu and Xarantine sectors for what, five years or so now? Neither side seems able to actually strike a decisive blow.”
“That about sums it up, yes. The KDF lacks the warriors and hulls to turn the war in their favour. On the other hand, we have a colossal advantage in that regard on paper, but we're spread too thin stamping out wildfires in Imperial Romulan space and dealing with Cardassian terrorists. Added to that is the rather unique problem that the majority of the Federation is made up of dedicated pacifists. It makes getting the political will for a serious offensive extremely difficult, and even common sense things like building proper warships designed for more than escort duties, ships like this beauty we're sitting in now, have taken far too long. But, I'm rambling, and you aren't here for a lecture. The point of this is that command may finally be gathering the will to take a more, aggressive, posture. You may be aware that the Audacious has a number of modifications that are currently non-standard. We are one of four such starships whose mission is to use these to slip behind enemy lines and spend the next several months gathering intelligence and generally causing as much chaos and mayhem as possible. If we're successful, they'll be building more like this in the future and sending them on similar operations. Our intel may also form the basis for a major offensive aimed at retaking our lost territories, so I don't need to tell you how important our success may prove.” Peel paused for a moment.
“Major Malcolm's company's role in this will be as our ground assault element. Command wasn't keen on the idea, but I raised the possibility of capturing intelligence or maybe hitting Klingon supply depots, and after some of the proof of concept runs we did with the old USS Dragon, some of the smarter Generals on the other side have started digging in, using fortified bunkers as storage facilities. You can expect hard target assaults and the occasional boarding action. Further tasks may come up depending on the conditions in in field. The holodeck has been set aside for yours and Staton's exclusive use for training purposes, and a variety of the scenarios the Starfleet Intelligence boys and girls think you'll be most likely to come up against already programmed. Do you have any questions?”
“None at this time Sir.” Peel was not even remotely surprised by the Company Commander's thick Scottish accent.
“Very good. Major Staton, you're on-board as part of the ships normal complement. Have you already familiarised yourself with your duties and your team?
“I have Sir. We're still a man short, and I guess we won't be correcting that, but I've taken the team through a couple of hot extraction and lost contact simulations, and they seem pretty tight. The twins especially, I don't understand why androids aren't used in combat roles more often.”
“The morality of building sentient people for the purpose of killing other sentients is questionable at best, Major. Besides, those two aren't Federation built. We found them when I was COS on the Hibernia, sitting in a stasis chamber on a dead station in orbit of an irradiated planet. The little information we discovered about their builders painted them as a singularly unpleasant bunch. Among other things, it seemed as though they bred kidnapped humans for use as slave-soldiers, which I suppose accounts for the twin's appearance, but other than that? The little we picked up has been classified, and the bits I can talk about, I don't really want to. Those aren't good memories”
“Well, whatever their origin, their seriously effective sir. They do seem to have gotten into the habit of trying to scare your crew, though. The upper deck ones all seem to be afraid to enter the torpedo room now, it really is quite hilarious watching the ones who have no choice try to brazen it out and not show us. Like they think we're bloodhounds of something, to go mad at the scent of fear.”
“That hasn't been an issue on most of our previous missions, Major. Hopefully the crew will get over it. Deliberately frightening the men won't help though, could you have a word with them about that when you have time? Right, are there any other issues?”
“None, Sir, although some of your crew, the Dragon survivors mostly, have been giving me a lot of funny looks.”
“Ah, I'd hoped not to worry you with that.” Peel paused briefly to consider how to phrase his next words. “Are you particularly superstitious, Major?” He glanced at the raven image on her armour, “actually scratch that last. What I meant to ask was whether you believe in curses.”
“Oh, is that what this is about?” Peel could have sworn she was actually smiling. “Look, I have no problem with this. I know my predecessor took a Bat'leth to the skull on his third day, and his predecessor was assimilated by the Borg. Serving under your command is a dangerous assignment, you do seem to know how to pick a fight, but I've always kind of enjoyed those. So don't worry on that score Sir, I'll be fine.”
“That's good to hear Major. I know a lot of women, or men come to think about it, who would be reluctant to step into a position with that track record.” He sighed slightly and glanced at the file in front of him. “Right, if there are no further questions or issues you're dismissed. A detailed briefing of our first objective will be forthcoming”
As the pair left, Malcolm glanced back to the Captain, who was already engrossed in one of the files. It was hard to be sure, and may have just been a trick of the light, but it looked as though he was smiling.
A few side notes-
'Major' Station is actually a Captain (she's far too young to be likely to have made Major even in a Special Operations outfit.) It seemed to make sense for Peel to keep to or have revived the tradition of 'one captain on the ship', giving any non fleet officers of that rank and honorary promotion for the duration of their time aboard to eliminate any confusion about who 'The Captain' refers to.
I initially included some back-story for Peel, but didn't like it, and it didn't seem relevant to this part anyway. I'll probably try to make any moves in that direction a natural part of the story, if I do manage to bring myself to write more.
The 'twins' mentioned featured in one of the half-finished stories I have knocking around on my hard drive. It's more of an attempt at a horror story than anything else (sort of, anyway. I wasn't really sure what that mess was supposed to be by the time I gave up,) also giving some of Peel's back-story. The direction it was taking, in my opinion, failed to do justice to any of it's characters. I kept the characters, however, and have some ideas for a re-working of the story. I may do that one next if this one works out.
COS = Chief of Security (not sure if there's an actual TLA regularly used for this in Trek)
For anyone who thinks Peel talks too much – In this episode at least, I'm inclined to agree.
The Forward Torpedo Room is where the Commando team bunks. I recall reading a a novel set on a sub a while ago that suggested that this was where they typically put the special forces. The idea seemed appropriate.
96 Days
He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak,
Madman! to chain with chains, and bind with bands
That island queen who sways the floods and lands
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke,
When from her wooden walls,--lit by sure hands,--
With thunders and with lightnings and with smoke,--
Peal after peal, the British battle broke,
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands.
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore
Heard the war moan along the distant sea,
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden fires
Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more
We taught him: late he learned humility
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled with briars.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson, "Buonaparte"
Preparation and Exposition
He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak,
Madman! to chain with chains, and bind with bands
That island queen who sways the floods and lands
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke,
When from her wooden walls,--lit by sure hands,--
With thunders and with lightnings and with smoke,--
Peal after peal, the British battle broke,
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands.
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore
Heard the war moan along the distant sea,
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden fires
Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more
We taught him: late he learned humility
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled with briars.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson, "Buonaparte"
Preparation and Exposition
Deep Space, somewhere on the Klingon-Federation Border.
The first thing that you realise about space is the scale. It's huge, incomprehensibly vast, dotted here and there by bright stars which appear as pins embedded in an enormous fabric of nothing. And if the sheer size of the empty void dwarfs even the largest of stars, how easy must it be for a single ship to hide?
A dark shape slid through the emptiness, a silhouette against the backdrop of stars giving the impression of short, aggressive lines, thick armoured struts running back from a squat, almost arrow-shaped saucer, and rising again to support the classic warp nacelles of a federation starship, sporting a fresh coat of near-black paint and showing no running lights or any illumination from the scant handful of windows located along the rim of the saucer and between the struts. And then, as if embarrassed at showing even this much of itself, the ship seemed to waver for a moment before vanishing altogether.
Primary Bridge, USS Audacious, 0500hrs Ship Time. Day 14.
“All stations report conditions normal on cloak sir”, Ensign. Douglas Barrale reported from the Ops console. “No unexpected power drain from the auxiliary systems this time, and it looks like engineering has fixed that radiation leak from the cloaking device this time.”
“Looks like, Ensign?” The Captain's voice was cold. “You said everything you needed to in your first sentence. Keep the chatter to a minimum when you're on station in future.”
“Yes Sir! Sorry Sir!” Barrale winced. The Captain was known for being hard on his subordinates when on duty, but he hadn't realised quite what that would mean when he'd requested this posting. Although if he was honest, he hadn't expected his request to be granted. The Ensign was a tall, dark-skinned human seemingly barely out of his teens, fresh from his Academy graduation. Most of the other 1st Watch bridge officers, by contrast, were at least 10 years older, all veterans of countless battles against Klingons, numerous operations, on and off the books in Romulan (Imperial and Republic) space, and even a number of encounters with the Borg. His fear of failure was acute, fear that he would fail to live up to his position, fear that he would fail his shipmates when they needed him, and fear that he would never earn the respect of his new Captain or his fellow officers, either the new guys like himself, or, especially, the veterans he now found himself surrounded by.
The Captain sat for some time in silence, contemplating his next decision. The mission he had been given was difficult, dangerous, and would likely end in the destruction of his ship and the deaths most of the crew should he fail. The consequences to the Federation would be somewhat less significant. Political embarrassment was a possibility, but sending ships into enemy territory in times of war for intelligence gathering or targeted destruction was hardly unusual. He also had no idea of the how the Klingons would react. On the one hand, what he intended would appear at first glance to be dishonourable. On the other, they had used similar tactics themselves, and he knew they sometimes interpreted their honour code to allow for an equivalent of the victory first attitude he himself tended to hold to.
“Helm, plot me a least time course to the Klingon side of the border near the Korvat system at Warp 5” the Captain said at last.
“Do we know where the border actually is this time Sir?” Lt. Freeman at the sensor station spoke up. The Captain smiled, recalling the time when his crew and the freighter of medical supplies they had been escorting had been stranded on the wrong side of rather fluid border by an unexpectedly successful Klingon advance.
“It's been fairly static for over a week now Lieutenant, the charted position should be accurate.”
“Course laid in Sir” Lt. J.G. Lief Harger reported from the helm.
“Status of the cloak Ensign?”
“Still running as expected Sir” replied Barale, keeping his opinion on how long that would last to himself with no small amount of difficulty.
“Helm, engage.”
The ship shuddered as the massive warp core came to life, bending space itself around the ship to hurl her across the void at faster than light speeds.
The Captain turned to his XO standing behind his right shoulder. “I'll be in my ready room if anything should occur, Commander Winter. Secure from yellow alert and inform Major Staton and Major Malcolm that I need to speak with them at their earliest possible convenience. You have the ship. ”
“I have the ship Sir” replied the small dark haired and pale skinned woman, saluting and taking the Captain's place in his recently vacated chair.
“One more thing Commander” the Captain half turned on his way to the ready room. “We can't afford to have the Klingons detect our presence until long after we're across the border, if it can be avoided. Maintain Silent Running Protocol, and do not engage any targets of opportunity without first consulting me. Understood?”
“Understood Sir.”
The Captain nodded and strode off the bridge, entering the ready room and sitting at his desk before turning his attention to a stack of PADDs and a larger hard-copy file covered with TOP-SECRET and EYES-ONLY stamps. He sighed, reached for the nearest file, and began to read.
Captains Ready Room, USS Audacious, 0525hrs ship time. Day 14.
He was Captain James Peel, the oldest child of a family with a tradition of naval service dating back to the British Royal Navy before the unification of Earth (on his mother's side at least). At forty-two years old, he was still considered young for an officer of his experience, having already held two independent commands, both ending with his being court-marshalled following their loss, the first to Klingon raiders, and the second in action against the Borg. He had earned a reputation for ferocity and near-suicidal aggression in combat which had gained him his newest command, the USS Audacious, NCC-97502, one of Starfleet's newest Avenger-class warship designs, although he suspected this was over the objections of a good portion of the brass. She was fresh from the shipyard and already refitted for covert operations, painted in dark grey, almost black colours rather than the usual modern Starfleet white, and fitted with the latest, albeit still not entirely perfected cloaking technology which the Federation had begun to develop following the breakdown of the Khitomer Accords and collapse of the Romulan Star Empire, freed by these events from it's previous treaties regarding the technology.
A knock on the ready room door drew his attention from the file in his hands. “Enter.”
The door opened and two figures entered. The first was a man in his mid forties, wearing the red on blue armour of the Federation Military Assault Command Organization's forces. His face was worn, lined from constant frowning and marked by a scar running up the right side of his face from his jaw and disappearing into his hair, the usual fiery red mess trimmed down to a neat, almost regulation cut. Following him was woman in her late twenties, tall and lean, built like a long distance runner with a weathered, sun-tanned face and dark hair shaved almost to the skin. She was also armoured, wearing the white uniform the Audacious' commando team wore to differentiate themselves from the 'regular' MACO's aboard, and her armour showed numerous scratches and dents from countless fights, as well as an image of of a raven's head stencilled on the right shoulder. Both of the newcomers were unfamiliar to Peel, Major Tim Malcolm having come aboard with A Company, MACO 42nd Regiment for this assignment. Major Eliana Staton had come aboard as the replacement for the previous CO of the Commando team assigned to Peel, following her predecessors death in action against a Klingon Vor'Cha class battlecruiser which had ambushed a convoy that the USS Dragon, Peel's previous command, had been escorting. The pair marched to the desk and stood to attention.
“As you were Majors. Take a seat, this may take some time.” The two MACO's did as instructed. “Now, to business. I know the pair of you came aboard from the tender at Xarantine, so you haven't been brought fully up to speed yet. We'll start with the background and work from there. So, tell me, what do the pair of you know regarding the current political situation with the Klingons, disregarding the Great Houses for the moment, I know things there are more complicated, and dealing solely with the Empire as a whole?”
“Business as usual Sir.” Major Staton had a somewhat bizarre accent, the dominant element being a clipped, precise English, but Peel was surprised to note a hint of something he thought might be Romulan, which triggered his curiosity. That went some way to explaining what might be under the black ink in her file. “Open warfare with no sign of it letting up any time soon, with the exception of the truces regarding the Mol'Rihan colonisation and security efforts, and the joint effort against the Borg out in the Cestus sector. There was a major incident earlier this year, an attempted terrorist attack by some joke of a Klingon ambassador, but nothing came of it that I heard of, and that's about it. We've been pushing each other back and forth around the Donatu and Xarantine sectors for what, five years or so now? Neither side seems able to actually strike a decisive blow.”
“That about sums it up, yes. The KDF lacks the warriors and hulls to turn the war in their favour. On the other hand, we have a colossal advantage in that regard on paper, but we're spread too thin stamping out wildfires in Imperial Romulan space and dealing with Cardassian terrorists. Added to that is the rather unique problem that the majority of the Federation is made up of dedicated pacifists. It makes getting the political will for a serious offensive extremely difficult, and even common sense things like building proper warships designed for more than escort duties, ships like this beauty we're sitting in now, have taken far too long. But, I'm rambling, and you aren't here for a lecture. The point of this is that command may finally be gathering the will to take a more, aggressive, posture. You may be aware that the Audacious has a number of modifications that are currently non-standard. We are one of four such starships whose mission is to use these to slip behind enemy lines and spend the next several months gathering intelligence and generally causing as much chaos and mayhem as possible. If we're successful, they'll be building more like this in the future and sending them on similar operations. Our intel may also form the basis for a major offensive aimed at retaking our lost territories, so I don't need to tell you how important our success may prove.” Peel paused for a moment.
“Major Malcolm's company's role in this will be as our ground assault element. Command wasn't keen on the idea, but I raised the possibility of capturing intelligence or maybe hitting Klingon supply depots, and after some of the proof of concept runs we did with the old USS Dragon, some of the smarter Generals on the other side have started digging in, using fortified bunkers as storage facilities. You can expect hard target assaults and the occasional boarding action. Further tasks may come up depending on the conditions in in field. The holodeck has been set aside for yours and Staton's exclusive use for training purposes, and a variety of the scenarios the Starfleet Intelligence boys and girls think you'll be most likely to come up against already programmed. Do you have any questions?”
“None at this time Sir.” Peel was not even remotely surprised by the Company Commander's thick Scottish accent.
“Very good. Major Staton, you're on-board as part of the ships normal complement. Have you already familiarised yourself with your duties and your team?
“I have Sir. We're still a man short, and I guess we won't be correcting that, but I've taken the team through a couple of hot extraction and lost contact simulations, and they seem pretty tight. The twins especially, I don't understand why androids aren't used in combat roles more often.”
“The morality of building sentient people for the purpose of killing other sentients is questionable at best, Major. Besides, those two aren't Federation built. We found them when I was COS on the Hibernia, sitting in a stasis chamber on a dead station in orbit of an irradiated planet. The little information we discovered about their builders painted them as a singularly unpleasant bunch. Among other things, it seemed as though they bred kidnapped humans for use as slave-soldiers, which I suppose accounts for the twin's appearance, but other than that? The little we picked up has been classified, and the bits I can talk about, I don't really want to. Those aren't good memories”
“Well, whatever their origin, their seriously effective sir. They do seem to have gotten into the habit of trying to scare your crew, though. The upper deck ones all seem to be afraid to enter the torpedo room now, it really is quite hilarious watching the ones who have no choice try to brazen it out and not show us. Like they think we're bloodhounds of something, to go mad at the scent of fear.”
“That hasn't been an issue on most of our previous missions, Major. Hopefully the crew will get over it. Deliberately frightening the men won't help though, could you have a word with them about that when you have time? Right, are there any other issues?”
“None, Sir, although some of your crew, the Dragon survivors mostly, have been giving me a lot of funny looks.”
“Ah, I'd hoped not to worry you with that.” Peel paused briefly to consider how to phrase his next words. “Are you particularly superstitious, Major?” He glanced at the raven image on her armour, “actually scratch that last. What I meant to ask was whether you believe in curses.”
“Oh, is that what this is about?” Peel could have sworn she was actually smiling. “Look, I have no problem with this. I know my predecessor took a Bat'leth to the skull on his third day, and his predecessor was assimilated by the Borg. Serving under your command is a dangerous assignment, you do seem to know how to pick a fight, but I've always kind of enjoyed those. So don't worry on that score Sir, I'll be fine.”
“That's good to hear Major. I know a lot of women, or men come to think about it, who would be reluctant to step into a position with that track record.” He sighed slightly and glanced at the file in front of him. “Right, if there are no further questions or issues you're dismissed. A detailed briefing of our first objective will be forthcoming”
As the pair left, Malcolm glanced back to the Captain, who was already engrossed in one of the files. It was hard to be sure, and may have just been a trick of the light, but it looked as though he was smiling.
End of Part 1
A few side notes-
'Major' Station is actually a Captain (she's far too young to be likely to have made Major even in a Special Operations outfit.) It seemed to make sense for Peel to keep to or have revived the tradition of 'one captain on the ship', giving any non fleet officers of that rank and honorary promotion for the duration of their time aboard to eliminate any confusion about who 'The Captain' refers to.
I initially included some back-story for Peel, but didn't like it, and it didn't seem relevant to this part anyway. I'll probably try to make any moves in that direction a natural part of the story, if I do manage to bring myself to write more.
The 'twins' mentioned featured in one of the half-finished stories I have knocking around on my hard drive. It's more of an attempt at a horror story than anything else (sort of, anyway. I wasn't really sure what that mess was supposed to be by the time I gave up,) also giving some of Peel's back-story. The direction it was taking, in my opinion, failed to do justice to any of it's characters. I kept the characters, however, and have some ideas for a re-working of the story. I may do that one next if this one works out.
COS = Chief of Security (not sure if there's an actual TLA regularly used for this in Trek)
For anyone who thinks Peel talks too much – In this episode at least, I'm inclined to agree.
The Forward Torpedo Room is where the Commando team bunks. I recall reading a a novel set on a sub a while ago that suggested that this was where they typically put the special forces. The idea seemed appropriate.
Post edited by ranbowtrout3 on
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Comments
More action, less chit-chat (hopefully).
“So much courage deserved a better fate.” - Admiral Villeneuve, approx October 21st 1805.
Korvat System outer reaches.
The sheer size of space can often come as a surprise. Even in an area with relatively tightly clustered objects, such as that found around a star and its surrounding worlds, the vast distances involved mean that all that a traveller across the void would see is emptiness. There are times and places, however, where space may not be as empty as it seemed, and in one such seeming void, unseen hounds prowled, searching for the fox that had dared enter their territory.
CIC, USS Audacious. 1532hrs ship time. Day 21.
“Conn, sensors. Update, target Bravo-Two now closing on bearing one-one-zero mark plus-zero-five. Moderate speed, bearing constant.”
“Sensors, conn. Maintain track. Report when Charlie-Two closes to within ten thousand metres.”
“Report target closing within ten thousand metres, aye Sir.”
Captain James Peel, currently 'conning' the ship from the CIC, glanced at the updated tactical display, now showing the Klingon battlecruiser designated as Charlie-Two approaching from just aft and 'above' the Audacious' beam, while one of the smaller Birds-of-Prey serving as its escort, designated Charlie-One, continued to sweep the far edge of the engagement area, where a random patrol had happened to chance on their location just as the ship suffered a power spike in Engineering and momentarily dropped cloak.. The final contact, Charlie-Three, was being more cautious than the others. The Audacious' tracking parties had lost contact an hour ago and had yet to reacquire it, restricted as they were to passive sensors to prevent counter-detection. The mood in the CIC was one of tight focus and anticipation, although reports from the other decks indicated a number of cases of space sickness that had occurred when the artificial gravity was de-activated along with the other 'non-essential' systems to reduce the power signature.
“Conn, sensors. Target Charlie-Two is within ten thousand metres. Speed constant, bearing now one-one-five mark plus-zero-four. Moving forward slow.”
“Sensors, conn, acknowledged.” Peel reached up and flipped the intercom switch marked 'bridge.' “Helm, conn. All stop.”
“All stop, helm aye.” Lt. J.G. Harger's voice carried a noticeable hint of worry. Peel dismissed it as Cmdr. Winter's problem, who was currently overseeing the manoeuvring and positioning of the ship from the bridge in what Peel had been a little alarmed to discover might be her first true test of leadership under fire (her record was good, but she'd mostly served on ships assigned to exploration and diplomatic duties). Peel himself, meanwhile, was directing the engagement from the CIC, where the multitude of sensor inputs, fire control systems, and tactical displays provided a much better 'feel' for the big picture.
Peel turned to the enlisted 'man' in the seat immediately to his front, a Gorn so large the harness holding him in his seat was stretched almost to breaking point. “Tactical, status of forward tubes?”
The Gorn replied with an unintelligible hissing which was audible even over the translator's rendition of his words. “Tubes one through four loaded with quantum torpedoes, all ready. Tubes five through seven loaded with photon torpedoes, all ready. Tube eight is empty, sir.”
“Very good. Standby one through four, half degree spread, target Charlie-Two. Load tube eight with photon torpedo, dial for maximum yield, target Charlie-One.” The tactical station gave the standard acknowledgement. “Sensors, conn. Report all contacts.”
“Conn, sensors. Nearest contact, Charlie-Two, now bearing zero-nine-zero mark plus-zero-one. Closing, bearing decreasing at moderate rate. Charlie-One bearing three-three-five mark minus-zero-two. Closing, bearing constant. Target Charlie-Three not reacquired. No additional targets detected.”
“Conn acknowledges. Tactical, status of aft tubes?”
“Nine and ten loaded with quantum torpedoes, both ready. Tubes eleven and twelve standing by.”
“Reload all aft tubes with photon torpedoes. Maximum yield, set for full spread.”
As the officer acknowledged, Peel reached to the intercom again and set up an open circuit with the bridge. With the standard checks taking up only part of his attention, he returned to focusing on the tactical display. Contact C2 was now just 3000m away, fine on the starboard bow. C1 was still closing, but slowly, having come about on a more oblique course which, crucially, brought the Audacious out of the firing arc of her guns, while the Audacious' own forward cannons were now just a tiny correction from being brought to bear. C3 was still unaccounted for, but given the comparative skill of it's captain he wasn't too surprised. The ease with which track had been kept on the other two, given that they were also cloaked, hinted at where it was.
Peel looked towards the station where Lt. Freeman was sat, the former science officer currently acting as the cloak specialist, and overseer enlisted crew assigned to the sensors. “Cloaking officer, stand by to drop cloak on my command.”
“Cloak standing by Sir.” Peel could hear the anticipation in the veteran officer's voice, the eagerness of a bloodhound scenting prey and knowing it would soon be unleashed.
Contact C2 was now within 1500m, still cloaked. C1 was entering the gunners sights of the cannons. “Standby tubes one through four.” C1 was drifting closer. “Stand by shields.” Closer still. “All hand, prepare for combat manoeuvres.” 1000m. Peel looked at the display once more. Now!
“DROP CLOAK! SHIELDS UP!”
“We have de-cloaked, shields online, powering.”
“ONE THROUGH FOUR, SHOOT!” The ship shuddered as four bright blue streaks leapt away from her, almost immediately impacting with eruptions of pure energy, fountains of debris leaping out from the impact and rattling off Audacious' forward armour. “EIGHT, SHOOT!” The torpedo flew away from Audacious towards apparently empty space before detonating in a blinding flash that completely engulfed the cloaked Bird of Prey at it's centre. “ALL AFT TUBES, SHOOT! HELM, AHEAD FLANK! HARD TO STARBOARD!” Again the shots leapt out, detonating once more in a colossal inferno that caught the Bird of Prey which had been using the distraction of the other ships to sneak into position behind them, but had waited too long trying to align a 'perfect' shot, flying out of control, crippled but largely intact.
“Helm, steer that course. Sensors, damage assessment?”
“Charlie-One destroyed, Sir. Charlie-Three appears disabled. Shields and cloak appear disabled on Charlie-Two, but damage is otherwise non-critical. Charlie-Two is changing course and charging weapons.”
“Very good, sensors. Bridge, CIC. Commander Winter, you have the conn. Engage Charlie-Two and manoeuvre at your discretion.”
“I have the conn, aye Sir. Engaging target now.” There was excitement and an unconstrained ferocity in Winter's voice.
“Tactical, weapons released. You have control.”
“Weapons released, aye.” The scream of phaser fire was almost immediately audible as Winter ordered the ship into a roll and brought the dorsal arrays to bear.
Reports began coming in from all stations, giving Peel cause to thank all the endless drills he'd been running to ensure their circuit discipline and comm protocols were up to standard. “Sir, positive ID on Charlie-Two. Contact is Vor'Cha class battlecruiser. Contact firing, disruptors only.” Audacious shuddered. “Direct hit to port nacelle. Shields holding, minimal damage.” “Contact firing.” “CONTACT! CONTACT! Torpedo incoming bearing two-nine-five mark minus-one-eight. Bearing constant.” Winter's voice over the intercom “ALL HANDS! BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!” Then “DIRECT HIT PORTSIDE!” “Port heavy cannon disabled. Port shields down to seventy-five percent efficiency. Five casualties, none serious.”
Audacious' own weapons were not idle, however. Phaser beams lanced out from her arrays, scoring hit after hit, even as she was hit in turn. The Klingon ship was a mess, pieces of her hull falling from her as they were burned away by the incessant barrage, weapons firing ever less frequently as their power drained, blazing coolant from a severed line trailing behind like a tail, by some strange product of its chemistry still burning even in the vacuum. And still the Klingons fought on, refusing even at the last to give anything less than everything, even to the last.
“Sir, they're trying to ram us.” Young Ensign Barrale at the secondary sensor station, the quaver in his voice betraying the fear.
“Don't worry Ensign. The Commander has this well in hand.”
Sure enough, she had Lt. Hoeger successfully manoeuvre out of the path of the vengeful Klingons, coming about and bringing the remaining forward cannons to bear. With a roar that sounded deafening even in the CIC, they fired again and again, bolts of charged particles tearing up and down the length of the already crippled hull. Then, abruptly, they ceased, and there was silence.
Then the cheering began. A wild, uncontrolled release for the tension and the worry and the thrill of the hunt and the battle, a release for the exhaustion and the weariness of the constant drills, difficult watches, and seemingly endless repairs that the ship seemed to need. The sole exceptions were, of course, the small handful of Vulcan crewmen, and the Captain himself, who sat silent, staring at the tactical display now modified to show a visual of the debris trail.
“E-W, did you pick up a distress signal?” he said once the noise had finally died down.
“Yes Sir. Signal was sent by Charlie-Three immediately following the hit they took. Response was rapid, but is still decoding. Sending vessel estimated to be in relatively close proximity.”
“Probably the patrol one sector over. Okay, sensors, give me the status of all contacts.”
“Charlie-One destroyed, Sir. Barely even any wreckage left.” Freeman consulted briefly with his section. “Charlie-Three disabled. Comms still active, and lifesigns indicate the crew is relatively uninjured. Charlie-Two has suffered catastrophic damage. Hull breaches in almost all compartments, all systems appear offline. Power failing. Contact is losing anti-matter containment. Escape pods launched, estimate eight survivors, three critical. None remaining aboard Charlie-Two.”
“Very well.” The Captain sat for a minute in thought, before once more contacting the bridge. “OOW, resume plotted course, Warp-Five.”
“Sir, we don't know how far away the other Klingon ship is. If we leave now, those criticals won't last long enough to be rescued.” Winter was clearly uncomfortable questioning the order, and Peel felt some respect for her refusing to let that stop her. Besides, he thought, she has a point. And three prisoners are not going to prove any great security risk.
“Very well, Commander, you would seem to be correct in this instance. Make arrangements to have the critically wounded survivors beamed aboard and transferred to sickbay, then resume course at Warp-Five and re-engage cloak.”
“Aye, Sir!”
Korvat System outer reaches.
Where once there had seemed to be only empty space, now there was movement. A ship with a winged form, vaguely reminiscent of a predatory bird, tumbled end over end through the dark, passing the ruined form of a much larger, more menacing ship drifting slowly through the black. It's huge, armoured form was riddled with holes, burned through by terrible energies, metal twisted by explosions, compartments scarred by fires which had now been extinguished by the vacuum, the weak sunlight glinting off four escape pods as they tried desperately to escape the vessel's inevitable annihilation. The debris trail reached back from the ship like a long, fractured tail of shattered and melted plating, and a grimmer sight. An observer who was close enough may have seen amongst these the bodies. Klingon, Gorn, Orion, and half a dozen other races caught in hull breaches or by emergency force-field failure. Among these, the observer would have seen a young warrior, barely an adult by almost any standard, his face frozen in an expression of fear at the recognition of his death. His dead eyes looked out towards his former ship.
The larger vessel exploded, the blast both blinding and enormous, expanding to engulf the debris and bring final rest to the dead lying among it. The blast raced outwards, chasing after the fleeing escape pods, snapping at their heels like dog in the chase, but eventually falling just short.
And a third ship, a dark hulled, aggressive looking shape showing no lights or colours, lightly scarred from the few hits it had suffered, slipped away into the darkness, firing it's guns once in salute to the fallen before twisting subspace around itself like a cloak and vanishing completely.
Notes-
Although I know it doesn't work that way in Trek canon, the word 'Fire', in the British maritime community at least, is almost used exclusively to refer to a fire on-board the vessel. I went with this usage, given that I'm fond of reducing opportunities for confusion among the characters. This is why Peel uses 'Shoot' instead. The manner in which orders are given (“engage”, “punch it”, “go...that way” etc) seems to vary enough between Captains that I felt I could get away with it.
The CIC – bridge relationship is born of a pet peeve of mine regarding Starfleet ships. Putting the C&C and senior officers in one place, and making that place a glass dome outside the armour and hull plating is barely forgiveable on an 'exploration' ship like a Galaxy, given that any starship is instrument driven. On ships like the Avenger-class, it makes no sense whatsoever. What appears to be the bridge on the model may be referred to as a decoy later on.
As with everything else I write, the spellings are British, and I will admit that this particular piece is developing a certain, shall we say, 'flavour'. Cultural diversity will likely increase as I feel my writing becomes capable of doing justice to other cultures, although there is already some variety developing in later episodes-in-progress. Racial diversity (the majority of the crew being human) aboard Audacious at this stage is a plot point, and should come up at some later part of the story. If it doesn't, I'll give an explanation in a later version of these notes.
'Conn' refers in this case to the officer who gives 'Conning Orders' (courses, speeds, etc) to the Helmsman, not the Helmsman him/herself. Usually the OOW, NO, CO or Pilot (in it's nautical meaning, nothing to do with flying). From what I recall of TOS, there are plenty canon occurrences of the term being used in this way, but in later series this sometimes seems to be used to refer to the helmsman instead.
Deep raiders are certainly a thing that would be taking place in as fluid an environment of space combat (I've heard a good rule of thumb that in a space war, to find the 'border' find your patrol group and the enemy's, and pick a spot halfway in between) even with the Federation's reluctance for combat.
If it helps any lingering doubts, I think 'conn' has been used for both the flight controller station and the sense of having command of the watch into the TNG era.
It's an interesting potentially high stress situation, especially as the Klingons react to losses and start sweeping for the raider in their back territory.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service.
- William Shakespeare, The Tempest.
Excerpt from Ship's Log, USS Audacious, NCC-97502.
0545: RED ALERT.
0554: All hands report closed up at battle stations.
0558: Cloak disengaged.
0600: Scheduled subspace burst transmitted to STARFLEET COMMAND, EARTH.
0615: At battle stations.
0630: Secure from RED ALERT.
0630: 1st Watch relieved by 2nd Watch. 3rd Watch stood down.
0635: 1st Watch dismissed to general duties.
Wardroom, USS Audacious. 0648hrs ship time. Day 31.
“So do you think every assignment is going to be like this?” Ensign Douglas Barrale asked Isiah Ulseth as they sat at the wardroom table waiting for the meal to be served.
“Like what?” Ulseth, like Barrale, was another of the small handful of newly graduated Ensigns aboard the Audacious, although currently assigned to the 1st Engineering Watch rather than the bridge. Like most of the other officers, he had come straight to the wardroom on being relieved and was still wearing his grease-smeared coveralls, although he had at least taken the time to wash out whatever horrible substance it was that always seemed to coat his sandy-blonde hair when he went crawling around the Jeffreys' Tubes. “The on-board chef and fresh food rather than the replicated stuff nearly every other ship gets?”
“Well, that too.” Barrale grinned. “I could come to like that now that you mention it. That wasn't what I meant though.”
“The trained killers wandering all over the ship then? Not that I have anything against the MACO's mind. I even talked with one of the ones in blue for a bit the other day. 'Seemed, I dunno, normal. Well, as normal as something six foot four with claws and spikes on its head can seem. What is that species anyway?” He paused for a bit, and looked thoughtful. “Mind, most of those ones bunking in the forward torpedo room are something else! Have you seen them?”
Barrale had indeed seen them, but the impression he had gotten was something quite different. “Listen, mon ami, don't go there. You remember Ensign Rickey, the graduate who got the medical assignment here?” Ulseth nodded. “Well, I was walking down the access corridor to crew quarters a couple of days ago. Rickey's ahead of me, and coming the other way is a pair of Ravens, one of the twins with the funny names. 'Delta', or something, I think, and the short pointy eared one with the funny nose.”
“Ravens?”
“That's what some of the other new guys on the upper decks crews have taken to calling the MACOs in white armour, on account of the raven's head their leader has painted on her armour. Anyway, you know what Rickey was like at the Academy. Guy seems to think he's the next Kirk or something. So he tries on the moves with the twin, she just looks at him, you seen the look I'm talking about? Like they're trying to work out how many different ways they could kill you before you could blink. Anyway, she says 'You appear to be blocking the corridor. Perhaps you should move.' Just completely flat, if it weren't for the ears I'd swear she was Vulcan. Anyway, Rickey isn't put off by the stare, he isn't put off by this. He clearly hasn't read the ships Regs, cause the Captain made it pretty clear there what he thinks of that sort of thing happening aboard the ship. Anyway, Rickey, he leans in closer, and, je ne sais, I think his hand may have brushed her arm or something, but I didn't have time to see it, 'cause before I can blink he's up against the wall, she has one hand at his throat and the other holding one of those knives they all carry barely a centimetre from his eye.”
“S**t” swore Ulseth, leaning forward and obviously completely engrossed in the story. “What happened then?”
“Well, I was just getting to that” Barrale was also getting wrapped up in his storytelling now, neither of them noticing the figure standing behind them, “the other one's just been standing there the entire the entire time, she leans against the bulkhead and starts cleaning dirt from under her fingernails, then says offhandedly ' t'would be best to let him go Delta. You know how upset the Captain gets when we kill his crew without orders.'”
“What, you mean they actually have?”
“Well, I don't think so. It looked like they were just messing with him. Anyway, this Delta just keeps standing there like a statue, replies with something like 'true, he had me scrubbing the blood off the bulkheads for a week afterwards' with this evil grin, then follows it with 'that was a joke' and lets Rickey down. The other smiles at him sweetly and suggests he find a clean uniform. We all look, there was quite a crowd by now, and sure enough, he has, well...” Barrale paused once more.
“So what happened next?”
“Well, while all this was going on, Lieutenant Freeman has managed to walk up behind me without anyone noticing, First I know of it is when I hear 'What's going on here?' from not three feet away. I turn, and the L-T's just standing there, no idea how long he'd been there for, glaring at the lot of us. Finally, Rickey comes out with 'just a misunderstanding Sir. Won't happen again, ah swear.' Freeman looks at him for a few seconds, then looks to us all and says, 'show's over ladies and gents. You all have places to be, and none of those are here. Get to it.' There's a chorus of 'Aye Aye, Sir's', then he looks back at Rickey and I swear I can see him grinning slightly when he says 'Oh, and Ensign, for the sake of what remains of your dignity, take a few minutes to clean yourself up and find a fresh pair of pants first.'”
“I wish I'd seen it” laughed Ulseth. “But what was the point of that story again?”
“The point, mon ami, is keep away from the Ravens. They're all pretty psychopathe, but I'd especially try to avoid the twins. I admit that they look pretty striking, but I'm not sure what they are, they're clearly crazy, and I don't know how tight the Captain keeps their leash. And even if they didn't kill you, the Captain probably would when he found out.”
“What leash?” Said a female voice not two feet behind them. The two Ensigns jumped nearly three feet in the air, turning in shock to find one of the aforementioned twins standing immediately behind them. She looked at them for a few moments, before turning and walking towards one of the senior engineers with a slight hint of an amused expression on her face. The Major was correct, she thought, scaring the Starfleet crew does certainly seem to produce feelings of amusement. Although she did wonder what the Captain would make of the commando team's betting pool on the subject when he inevitably found out.
Excerpt from Ship's Log, USS Audacious, NCC-97502.
0800: Conditions normal.
0815: Conditions normal.
0830: Transmission received from STARFLEET COMMAND, EARTH.
0840: Cloaking device engaged. All stations report conditions normal on cloak.
0845: Course set for Rura Penthe. Speed; Warp 6. ETA 74hrs.
Captain's Ready Room, USS Audacious. 0850hrs ship time. Day 31.
Peel looked up from the freshly decrypted orders he was reading when he heard the knock on the door. So, he thought to himself, the first of today's troubles have arrived. Aloud, he simply said “enter.”
The door opened, and the identical white armoured forms of the Mark 2 Advanced Infantry Combat Units (models D-17 and E-06), commonly referred to by the phonetic pronunciation of their model designation (or simply collectively as 'The Twins') walked in, standing to attention in front of his desk. Or trying to, anyway. As usual, 'Delta' was parade perfect, standing with a complete stillness Peel still found slightly unsettling. 'Echo' on the other hand, was constantly twitching, 'her' movements jerky and unnaturally fast.
“Do the pair of you understand why I've called this meeting?”
“We are unaware of the precise circumstances Sir.” Delta responded with the unwavering formality Peel had become familiar with over the last decade or so. “However, there are a number of incidents logged in my memory which have the potential to be your reason.”
“Well, if I don't already know them, don't tell me. In your case, Delta, you're here because of the events of three days ago regarding Ensign Richard DeWitt. I assume you recall the incident to which I am referring.”
“I have the incident in my memory banks, Sir. The Ensign's action triggered an automated threat response routine, but I was able to override it before any permanent damage was caused to your crew member.”
“That's just the problem, Delta. Outside of your squad, there are only a handful of officers and crew aboard who know just how close you came to killing him. That sense of humour of yours kicking in afterwards hardly helped matters. Now, they mostly see it as some dark joke, and lets be honest, his actions there hardly helped matters. I've already had him confined to a short stay in the brig for breaching fraternisation regs. Still, I can't afford an incident like that on board, not on this mission, not ever. Before, I've always had small crews. They've gotten to know you two, worked out what's dangerous and what isn't. That won't happen on Audacious, the crew is just too big. This mission is going to have everyone on a knife edge as it is, anything like that happens again, and it could have consequences out of all proportion to the actual incident. So, I'm going to ask you straight up, can you control yourself better in the future if a similar incident were to occur?”
Delta appeared to pause for a fraction of a second. “To make such an assumption would not be a wise action, Sir.”
“Very well then. Until you can tell me you feel otherwise, you are confined to quarters when not on duty or acting under the orders of a superior officer. Is that understood?”
“Sir, I understand, Sir!”
“Good. Now, the other matter. I know about the betting pool your squad has going. I know that sort if thing fits right in with your fellow commandos, but that won't match up to what most people think of as funny. Scaring the crew was amusing while we were still in Fed space, it's less so now. So, it ends here. I'm particularly looking at you here Echo. I know that sort of thing makes your emotion chips kick in properly, but you're starting to cause damage to moral. That stops now. And yes, that is a direct order.”
“Aye aye, Sir!”
“I will put an end to it, Captain.” Despite having exactly the same voice as the other android, Echo always seemed to sound less formal. Peel put it down to their differing service background. From what they had told him and the records he had uncovered on the mission where he first encountered the pair, the production run in which they had been produced had been a limited, 'proof of concept' operation to show how much more effective manufacturing rather than breeding soldiers would be. They had been embedded in units of the human slaves they were intended to replace, Delta with a heavy, highly disciplined line infantry regiment, Echo with what passed for a special forces outfit, and they had both adopted some of the mannerisms of the other soldiers around them.
“Very well. Dismissed.”
As the pair turned and left, Peel resumed studying the new orders received in the last transmission. A raid on Rura Penthe was nothing new. He though he could recall something about the crews of two separate Enterprise's pulling off a just such an operation in order to rescue imprisoned officers (including the great Kirk himself in the more recent of the two). These days, though, it was a very different prospect. The planet was a major source of dilithium, the POW's used as slaves to fuel the Klingon war effort. It was therefore well defended. Given this, the fact that the orders specified the rescue of only a single prisoner with all other aspects left to his discretion was surprising. More so was the fact that his would not be the only ship involved in the operation. There had only been four modified Avengers dispatched to Klingon space, and one of those, the Agamemnon had been lost with all hands attempting to evade the escorts of a task force flagship she had engaged and crippled. For two of the remaining ships to be directed to a single system seemed extreme for the rescue of one man. Then of course, there was the fact that the other vessel happened to be that ship. If he was honest with himself, it was this which disturbed him most. A memory rose unbidden in his mind:
A younger Peel stands at the top of a windswept cliff, waves crashing against the rocks below, gulls crying as they circle overhead. A few sheep huddle out of the wind behind stunted bushes or the crumbling brick ruins of long abandoned industry. He is wearing a command pattern 'sierra' uniform, the Commander's bars shining in their newness. Beside him stands a woman, about the same age, wearing MACO whites with an equally new Major's insignia. She smiles, dark eyes dancing merrily.
“I should have known you'd want to come back here.”
“And why shouldn't I. This place means a lot to me.” He looks at her a moment. “To both of us, I think.”
“True. Remember back in the old days. We'd come up here, camp out right over there, sit watching the stars, talk about..everything. You, following your mother into Starfleet, me following my dad into the MACO.” She looks up at the sky briefly. “How many of those strange new worlds have you visited, anyway? How many have I?”
“Not enough, I'll guess.”
“Spot on. And now we're at war again. I'm off with the 3rd Brigade to the border colonies, taking on the Klingon occupation forces. You get a shiny new ship and assignment to the 7th Fleet. Neither of us will be doing much exploring for a while.” She looks down for a moment. When she raises her head, the look she gives him is deadly serious. “We won't be seeing much of each other for a while, either. James...”
He looks her in the eye. The earlier playfulness is gone. They've known each other for most of their lives. He understands the reason. “I know. We're not serving together any more. We can say it now.”
She looks at him a moment longer, then leans slowly forward, eyes half lidded. They kiss, softly, breaking apart after a few moments. The amused expression is back on her face. “Don't tell me that surprised you, Squid.”
“That it happened, no. I just expected a Shark to have more bite, is all.”
Impossibly, her smile seems to widen. “Oh, I have more bite all-right. Make it back in one piece and you may even find out just how much for yourself.” She becomes serious again. “I mean it, James. I don't have to tell you the 7th Fleet's reputation. You come back alive or I'm chasing you down into hell myself, do you hear me?”
“I'll make it through this, don't worry. I'll probably mostly be getting escort duties anyway. It's you I'll worry for. I know what it can be like dirtside, and Klingons are nasty to fight up close.”
“Good thing I'm a sniper, then. I'll make it, I promise. Tell you what, meet back here when we have our next leave, if we can arrange it?”
“Deal.” James' badge beeps. “D**n, I thought we had more time.” They kiss once more, ferociously, but with no small trace of sadness. Then James' badge beeps again, and he breaks the kiss. He taps the badge.“Peel to Daring. One to beam up.”
Captain Peel ruthlessly suppressed the additional memories threatening to rise up, knowing where this line of thought would take him, back to Vega and the nightmare of the Federation's failed counter-attack against the invading Borg forces, the loss of the Daring with nearly all hands, everything else from that disaster of an unplanned mission. He had no desire to face it again, instead turning back to the pile of paperwork, PADDs and files, throwing himself into the preparations for an assault on the Klingon prison planet with a vengeance.
Notes (I really should stop doing this) -
I honestly wasn't too sure about this one. It's something of a break (I didn't want two action scenes in a row) between the last chapter and the currently partly formed (but so far much more action heavy) chapter 4, going into some detail regarding events on the lower decks, before the high stress and danger of the mission has truly sunk in for most of the crew (after all, the one fight they've been in so far, they won easily), as well as expanding on some of the secondary characters and setting up the secondary storyline I intended to run later (part 4 as it's currently taking shape seemed ideal for it's introduction, however).
Anyone who's read the Romulan War novels will already be familiar with this, but “Squids” (Starfleet) and “Sharks” (MACOs) used in those books by members of each service describing the other struck me as the same sort of semi-derogatory but broadly friendly terms that such organisations would be expected to use (something along the lines of the “zoomies” (fast jet pilots) and “the blunt end” (ground crew) of the British RAF a few years back).
For anyone who hasn't seen DS9 or doesn't remember that bit, the 7th Fleet's canon mention in Trek is a brief conversation in early Season 6 IIRC, noting how they lost 99 of 112? ships in what should have been a decisive win against Dominion forces at the start of the war. A reputation like that would certainly stick.
A word of warning first, however. This chapter contains an extended action scene (a boarding action aboard a Klingon ship). While I don't go in for anything particularly gratuitous or overly explicit, I didn't want to 'tone it down' into some sort of heroic action c**p either. So, while I don't believe that anything here is particularly explicit, it still has a lot of combat, and mostly light references to several of the direct consequences thereof. Some may consider that to be unpleasant, and it was certainly never intended to be nice.
I realise this isn't really very 'Trek' either, but still, this is largely an action story set on and around the front lines of the Federation-Klingon war, so that is, I suppose, only to be expected (to some extent anyway).
the valiant never taste death but once.”
- William Shakespeare (in Julius Caesar)
Excerpt from Ships Log, USS Audacious, NCC-97502
1043: Drop to impulse. Engines All Stop.
1045: Conditions normal.
1050: RED ALERT.
1059: All hands report closed up at battle stations.
1100: Cloak disengaged.
1107: Unidentified contact de-cloaking at close range.
1108: Contact identified as USS Ambush, NCC-97508.
1115: At battle stations.
1115: Secure from RED ALERT.
1125: CO (Ambush), CTO (Ambush), Maj. Evans (A Coy. 4 Cmdo. MACO), Maj. Velus (B Coy. 10th Rgt. MACO) beam aboard to Transporter Room 2.
1130: Conditions normal.
1135: Change of Charge. Capt. Peel relieved. Cmdr. Winter has the conn.
Rura Penthe system, on approach to the prison world.
The freighter slid through the black, one of the 'stars' ahead steadily growing brighter as it approached, reflecting the weak light from its distant sun, although it was still not close enough for it to be clearly identified as a planet. Once again, however, this vast emptiness was not sparsely occupied as it appeared. A void within the void moved close behind, hidden within the wake of the freighter itself, while another held station some distance 'above' and to starboard of the freighter, standing ready to unleash its considerable power at the first hint of trouble, and a third trailed this one, seeming to be waiting for it to try.
Bridge, USS Audacious. 0052hrs ship time, day 36.
The mood on the bridge was tight with anticipation. Once again, all non-essential systems were offline, including the artificial gravity. The bridge crew, this time led by the Captain, were secured to their seats by their harnesses, while the MACO guards were clamped to the deck by the magnetised boots of their sealed 'hardsuits'. Both the bridge and the comm circuit to the CIC were silent, all stations waiting for the word to be given, and the toughest operation of their mission so far to begin.
Peel checked the bridge tactical display for the hundredth time. There was no sign of the Ambush, which he considered to be a good thing. If Audacious could see them, there was a good chance the Klingons would too, despite their more primitive sensors. Still, part of him was worried that they weren't there at all, but his impression of its Captain and crew didn't suggest they were the type who would mess up that badly. Like his own crew, they were majority human, although the balance was held by officers and enlisted crew from Alpha Centauri and Magna Roma, rather than the 'Earth-born' humans who held most of the officer positions aboard Audacious. Likewise, their ground forces were made up of 'Legio' from the Magna Roman regional defence forces who'd been absorbed into the Federation MACO. They had an outstanding reputation, both from their legacy (the 10th Regiment was descended from a number of legions, including the legendary Legio X Gemina), and from the honours earned in dozens of engagements throughout the war. Major Malcolm and the 42nd had indicated that they were looking forward to seeing them in action. But their Commando team had him worried, or more specifically, its leader did.
She hadn't been angry about having to work with him again. That had bothered him from the moment the Ambush's senior officers had walked into the briefing room. She had briefly glanced at him, then looked away quickly, giving a hint of something he could almost have sworn was fear. Throughout the briefing, she had flinched whenever he had addressed her directly (almost imperceptibly, he thought he was the only one who noticed). And then there was the report from Major Staton following one of their joint training exercises that while Major Jennifer Evans was clearly skilled, she hadn't lived up to her reputation. She was more aggressive and less concerned with casualties than Peel remembered, and although he couldn't pin it down, there was something about her face that bothered him considerably.
He shoved these thoughts aside. It was nearly zero-hour for the operation, distractions such as this were unaffordable now. The chronometer slowly ticked forwards towards 0100.
Transporter room 3, USS Ambush. 0058hrs ship time. Day 36.
Major Evans ran through one more last minute check. TR-116 rifle; loaded, round in chamber, safety off. Suit; all seals functioning, personal shield fully powered and online, HUD online. Team; briefed, armed, and weapons checked, ready covering assigned sectors. One minute to go. Check the Section; odd numbers with her and ready. Lt. Valerius reporting from transporter room 2; even numbers ready. Ten seconds. Weapon in ready position. Take aim. Five seconds. Stand by. GO!
Bridge, Klingon Bird-of-Prey on escort duty for dilithium freighters en route to Rura Penthe. 0100hrs
by Audacious' chronometer.
The whine of Starfleet transporters punctured the quiet of the ship's night. The third officer, on duty through the night while the Captain slept, fell immediately, three tritanium-alloy rounds puncturing his chest, tearing through the crude targ-hide armour he wore. The others fared little better, the comm officer, helmsman, and science officer were killed before the transporter whine had even faded. The security officer and the Bekk on duty put up a short fight, the Bekk drawing his disruptor and unleashing a handful of shots which flared uselessly against the Commandos shields. The security officer drew his d'k Tahg, swinging at Evans, who slipped to one side and smashed the stock of her rifle into his throat before drawing her own knife and driving it in just below his ear. There were several more quick shots as the Federation force confirmed the bridge crew's deaths, and then silence fell once more, interrupted by a panicked call from the freighter, where the team from Audacious had struck.
“Do you think that'll be a problem, Sir?” Sgt. Aetius gestured to the console, where the increasingly desperate call had just been cut off. Evans held up a hand indicating for him to wait, her head cocked slightly to the right, a habit that indicated she was in communication with someone over comms.
She switched back to the team's frequency. “I doubt it, Aetius. Audacious should have jammed anything long range, and it sounds like Staton's lot dealt with it anyway.” She paused briefly as more transports heralded the arrival of the follow on team from the 10th. “We have other concerns, anyway. Valerius' team took Engineering, but the crew there were a bit more on their toes. Hayasi got hit, so Team Two are effectively two men down. Worse, something hit the warp core - the technobabbling squids say that it's messing with their transporters somehow, and they can't beam the reinforcements in. The tenth will cordon off the crew quarters and try to keep these savages penned up there, as well as hold the bridge. We're going to link up with Team Two and do a little seek and destroy on the lower decks to clear out any opposition they miss. Any questions?” She looked around the team. Nothing. Good. “tr'Ehhelih, you have point.” The Romulan exchange officer nodded. “Lets see how well these pathetic excuses for warriors dance, shall we?”
This mission had so far been something of a disappointment. She had no shortage of experience fighting Klingons, and although she considered them to be, on the whole, a bunch of swaggering, drunken braggarts, thugs who constantly mouthed off about a foolish concept of honour they had no real understanding of, a race who thought themselves held to a high standard to which the reality fell so very far short, she still conceded that many of those she had faced on the front lines since her current assignment had begun were at least good fighters. The ones on this ship were scraping the bottom of the barrel, but she supposed that was to be expected. Every Klingon worthy of the name would be out pillaging and enslaving, leaving only the dregs of their society, the old, the feeble, the cowardly, and the openly dishonourable for escort and prison guard duties.
A perfect example. As they passed the Captain's Quarters, she had Aetius and Northcote (the only other human on the team to have actually come from Earth) cover the corridor while she and tr'Ehhelih stacked up, the Romulan setting a charge on the wall next to the door. The charge detonated. Evans tossed a photon grenade in through the new hole, and the pair stormed in after it, finding...nothing. The Captain hadn't been on the bridge or in his (her?) ready room. Evans made a mental note to make the escape pods a priority once she had the rest of her team.
Outside Engineering, Klingon Bird-of-Prey, name unknown. 0112hrs by Audacious' chronometer.
A small number of warriors had rallied following the loss of Engineering, rapidly regrouping under the leadership of the young second officer. They had fortified a position with cover shields and a handful of automated turrets and were exchanging frequent fire with the MACO team holding the compartment. These were the young who had yet to earn a more worthy task, or the very old who believed their chance to earn passage into Sto'Vo'Kor had long since passed them by. Forced back from the doors by heavy resistance and a withering barrage of projectile weapons fire, their communications jammed, they had sent a runner back to crew quarters and fortified their position, intent on holding until reinforcements arrived and allowed them to close with the attackers and defeat them in glorious battle.
Corridor near Engineering, Klingon Bird-of-Prey, name unknown. 0113hrs by Audacious' chronometer.
The runner rounded the corner to find Evans' knife coming the other way at eye level. The young Orion woman died before she even had time to see it. Evans quickly pulled her back around the corner, worried that the defenders outside Engineering might spot her. She risked another look. Twelve of them, more than a full fifth of the crew. Mixed species, something far more common in the KDF than she'd initially suspected, but still mostly Klingon, and no Letheans, fortunately. She wouldn't have to worry about psychic attack, and the hard-sealed armour suits they all wore would protect the male team members from any pheromone attack the remaining Orion might try.
She relayed this information to her team, following it with “on my command, fan out across the corridor, hit the deck, and stand by for rapid fire. Any questions? Good.” She readied a plasma grenade and hurled it into the middle of the KDF crew. “Fan out.” The team spread across the corridor and hit the deck. “MAKE! READY!” They swiftly steadied their weapons on the Klingon team, now engulfed in burning plasma and taking renewed fire from Engineering. “RAPID! FIRE!” Their four TR-116's opened up on full automatic, a loud hammering that sent a wall of tritanium-alloy pellets screaming down the corridor to tear into the KDF defenders, continuing for just a few seconds before Evans yelled “WEAPONS TIGHT!” at the top of her lungs and the firing stopped. “Northcote, tr'Ehhelih, confirm the kills. Aetius, with me.” She advanced down the corridor slowly, stopping before nearing the door to shout “FEDERATION FRIENDLIES, COMING THROUGH THE DOOR” just in case their IFF wasn't working (it wouldn't be the first time her own men had shot at her, although at least if that happened here it would probably be an accident).
Engineering was a mess. The Commando team had been using the pit in the centre for cover, Lt. Valerius and Sgt. Marius standing watch near the edge, rifles aimed at the door. The area around them was pitted and burned by countless disruptor blasts and at least one plasma grenade, their armour was charred and battered from near misses and not a few hits. In the pit behind them, Sgt. Sirica, the team's designated medic, worked to change the field dressing on the remains of Sgt. Hayasi's left arm, the current dressing, the area surrounding the pair, and a good part of Sirica's armour already covered in red blood.
“Ave, Major” Valerius acknowledged Evans. “Nice timing. Turn up at the last minute and take all the credit for the victory. Very good.” There was a certain hint of grim humour in his voice, and she responded in kind.
“Well, it looks like you guys needed a hand.” She gestured at Hayasi. “What happened there, anyway?”
Valerius simply pointed at the body of one of the crew, a massive Gorn. The meaning seemed rather clear. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by two shots from outside, followed quickly by “all clear, Sir” from Northcote. Evans quickly signalled the platoon commander of the 10th who was leading the reserve units, and a section was diverted from the assault on crew quarters to hold Engineering and provide medical assistance. Valerius and Marius were brought up to speed while waiting for their arrival, with tr'Ehhelih and Northcote remaining on sentry duty.
Deck 3, Klingon Bird-of-Prey, name unknown. 0124hrs by Audacious' chronometer.
The 'all clear' signal came from the 1st Platoon troops assaulting the crew quarters, signalling the end of the Klingon resistance. The Orion first officer had surrendered what little remained of the crew. The few survivors were secured, and the dead had been counted. The only one still unaccounted for was the Captain.
The Commando team, minus one member, advanced into the lower deck in a 'walking stack', a tight-packed column with its members covering all sectors, the rear man walking backwards in order to do so. As they reached an opening, they separated, moving like a well coordinated troop performing a bizarre exotic dance. Sweeping across the visible areas with their weapons before throwing in a stun grenade and sweeping rapidly into the room, weapons aimed at every hiding place, looking for any movement, then re-forming the stack and moving to the next one. There was a brief volley of fire when they burst into a room full of live targs (Klingons liked their food very fresh), but otherwise they were met with nothing. The number of remaining compartments gradually diminished, until only one remained.
Evans gestured to her team. They calmly stacked to the right of the door, Valerius and Marius taking positions on the opposite side of the corridor. tr'Ehhelih pointed towards the section of wall between himself and the door. At Evans' nod, he placed a charge there. Another nod, and it detonated, tr'Ehhelih and Northcote following the stun grenade in, Evans coming in third, the others filing in after. The Captain was cowering in the far corner if the small room, blinded by the flash of the grenade, shaking uncontrollably. Evans took aim, her finger curling on the trigger, before remembering the Federation soldiers to either side of her and instead switching the speaker in her helmet to address mode. “Sir, do you surrender?” No response. Once more, louder. “SIR! DO YOU SURRENDER?” The cowering Captain looked up, his sight seeming to return. She was rapidly losing patience with such a pathetic creature, the worst kind of scum, a man who had left those with whose lives he had been trusted to die while he attempted to save himself. A memory of Peel briefly rose, younger, unscarred, less self-assured, but cocky and arrogant. The way he'd taken his men and run, leaving her and the injured and half-dead remnants of her crew to fight alone and die on Vega. Other, worse memories threatened to return. “SECTION, TAKE AIM!” The rifles rose, steady and unwavering. The soldiers of Rome and the Romulan seemed to share her feelings. The Klingon opened his mouth to speak. “FIRE!” Seven shots rang out. Silence fell. The memories were banished.
One final task remained. She opened a comm channel to Audacious. “Torc, Serpent, respond, over.”
“Serpent, Torc copies, over.” It was Commander Winter's voice, Evans noted with some relief. The Captain of the Audacious wasn't the man she remembered, of course, but still...
“Torc, Serpent. Inform the Commodore that the ship is ours. Out.”
Bridge, USS Audacious. 0134hrs ship time, day 36.
“Bridge, CIC. Serpent and Raven report all decks cleared.” Peel smiled. Winter had proven a capable coordinator, and the assault teams had performed excellently, although he had to admit that it had been the Ambush's people who had taken on the worst of the fighting. There had only been two casualties among the platoon Major Malcolm had dispatched to help Staton's section secure the freighter, while the heavy resistance organised by the more competent officers aboard the KDF ship had resulted in more than a dozen casualties, including one from the Commando team, two of them fatal and three more likely to prove so.
Still, this was a victory. It also marked the final line of departure. If he pressed on, the cost of aborting the mission would become huge. The worst case was the possible total loss of all ground forces committed, and even the best estimates projected substantial losses. No, if he went ahead now, it would be all or nothing. The memory of Vega came to him. Evans, wounded, half her left leg burned off by plasma, her left arm nearly useless. The five other survivors from her company, and twelve from his crew and assigned MACO team. Four hours to cover the twenty miles to the nearest evac site where pattern enhancers were burning through the Borg jamming, the 'fit' members of his party already close to exhaustion. He never wanted to make that choice again.
But then, since when does what we want ever matter. He opened a communication channel. “All stations, all stations, this is Torc, this is Torc. Commence Snowstorm-Two, I say again, commence Snowstorm-Two.”
Notes –
Magna Roma appears in the TOS episode Bread and Circuses, and again in the novel The Captain's Honour (which I found an old copy of in my local bookshop for about £1 (I would have difficulty passing up any book for that) shortly before writing this), by which time the population has advanced and reformed significantly and joined the Federation. Having read this, I couldn't really help myself. Please forgive my inability to pass up the chance to use Space Romans in this setting.
IIRC Magna Roman history diverges from Earth's sometime towards the beginning of the decline of the Roman Empire, with them still being in the equivalent of the mid-late 20th Century at first contact (nice Prime Directive keeping there Kirk:)). As such, Gaius Julius Caesar and the legion he personally commanded would probably be equally legendary there.
Since Peel is now a senior Captain in charge of multiple hulls, the use of Commodore to refer to him is, in the old, traditional sense of that title, correct to the best of my knowledge.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
As for Peel's iteration of Vega, it will be coming up, but for him it was an enormously traumatic experience rather than the 'magic career cannon' it is in the STO storyline, and I want to be sure I can have that come across appropriately before I write that.
You have done your duty in pointing out to me the danger; now lay me alongside the enemy's flagship.
- Admiral Hawke to the pilot of HMS Royal George at the battle of Quiberon Bay, 1759.
Bridge, USS Audacious. 0220hrs ship time. Day 36.
“Conn, sensors. Alpha-one and Alpha-two have cleared the detection grid. Alpha-two has decloaked.” Freeman's voice came over the intercom from the CIC, where he was once again overseeing the sensor teams and tracking parties.
“Sensors, conn. Maintain commentary on their progress.” This was the most delicate stage of the operation, relying as it did on masked life-signs, holographic trickery, and codes supplied by Starfleet Intelligence. Alpha-one and Alpha-two were the dilithium freighter and Bird-of-Prey captured in the opening moves, the freighter now filled with a sizeable portion of the 42nd and 10th units available to the Federation ships, approximately three out of the four platoons from each, while the remaining Commandos were aboard its former KDF escort, one man down. Sgt. Hayasi from the Ambush was still in sickbay having suffered severe blood-loss, and was unlikely to regain the use of her arm.
“Sensors aye. Contacts are now separating. EW reports Alpha-two has been hailed by the orbital defence coordination centre. Responding. Looks all clear. ODC has lowered shields, no change detected in contact Bravo-one's behaviour.” Bravo-one was the biggest concern to Peel. The mighty Negh'Var-class warships were the 'flagship vessels' of the previous generation, and were still among the most powerful ships in the Klingon Empire's fleet. They would only be commanded by skilled officers who had considerable experience in battle, and while they were precisely the type of ship the Avenger-class had been designed to counter, they would certainly put up a considerable fight. They also rarely travelled without escort, and the lack of additional contacts was making Peel somewhat concerned.
“Alpha-two has been given clearance to dock at the station. Alpha-one is approaching the co-ordinates and standing by.” Freeman's commentary continued.
“Helm, right three-zero, up one-zero. Steer course three-four-zero mark plus two-five.” Peel checked his calculation on the console beside his chair. The new course was intended to bring them 'up' to a position slightly below and to aft of the Klingon battleship, away from the firing arcs of most of their weapons and where their sensors might be rendered less effective by their engine output.
“Steer three-four-zero mark plus two-five, helm aye.” Harger was back at the helm, looking tense but focused, the product of their earlier battle and frequent combat drills.
The chronometer ticked onwards as the various ships slowly manoeuvred into position. “Tactical, conn. Load all forward tubes with quantum torpedoes, and target the warp core of Bravo-one, zero spread.”
“Conn, tactical. All foreward tubesss loaded. Weaponsss ready for lock on Bravo-one.” Peel grimaced slightly. It was a nasty tactic, but he couldn't afford to take chances with a ship like that.
The chronometer reached 0227. “All hands, all hands. Standby for combat manoeuvres.” 0228. “Cloaking, conn. Stand by to disengage cloak.” 0230.
“Conn, sensors. Transporter signatures detected from contacts Alpha-one and Alpha-two.”
That was the signal. Aboard the orbital defence station, fighting broke out as Federation Commando teams beamed in from a 'friendly' ship, assaulting the command centre and Engineering in much the same way as they had earlier that morning against said ship. On the surface, the guards and staff of the prison which the Federation forces had designated 'SL-3' (for Stalag Luft 3, the intelligence officer who had named it obviously having had a fondness for 20th century human war films) were surprised by a force of nearly 30 enemy infantry instead of the small crew they were expecting to coordinate the loading of the freighter with a substantial portion of the mines dilithium supply, with more following them in by the minute.
In orbit, Peel wasn't quite quick enough to deliver the crippling strike he had hoped for. “Conn, CIC. We are de-cloaked and shields raised.”
“Tactical, tubes one through eight, SHOOT!”
The blue streaks leapt from Audacious towards the Klingon vessel, but even as they closed, Freeman's voice reported “conn, sensors. Contact Bravo-one has raised shields.” The torpedoes flared uselessly against the battleship's powerful shielding, and the sky lit up as the Klingon's aft turrets began to return fire.
“Helm, match their manoeuvres. Tactical, engage Bravo-one with the forward battery, in your own time, go on.” Acknowledgement came from both stations, the inertial dampeners beginning to struggle to keep up with the increasingly intricate manoeuvres Harger was using to hold station of the Negh'Var's stern. The space between was stitched with orange and green fire as the turrets of the Klingon warship and the Federation battlecruiser's heavy cannons traded shots, the shields of both ships flaring as they absorbed the assault.
“Conn, sensors. I have a new contact de-cloaking, green one-one-five mark plus six-three, range two-hundred kilometres. They've locked weapons on us. Wait one... MULTIPLE TORPEDOES INCOMING, SAME BEARING.”
Peel reached for the 'all stations' function of the intercom. “All hands, BRACE, BRACE, BRACE.” The torpedoes flared against the Audacious' dorsal shields, fortunately with no direct hits, although they were followed by a barrage of disruptor fire from the main guns of the Klingon escort. “Tactical, all weapons released.”
“All weaponsss releasssed, aye sssir.” The hissing tones audible even over the translator made the excitement in the Gorn's voice sound all the more sinister. The dorsal phaser arrays opened fire, to be replaced by the ventral arrays as Peel ordered the ship rolled to preserve the dorsal shielding, orange fire lancing out to strike against the new contact.
“Torc, conn. Status of the ground teams?”
“Conn, Torc. Raven and Serpent report objectives secure. Charges are set, and they request evac. Claymore and Gladius are advancing into the mine, no sighting on the HVI at this time.” Commander Winter was sitting in the CIC acting as the coordinator for the MACO units. Peel noted the calm, professional tone of her voice with approval. It would be getting rather busy back there by now.
Another Raptor Escort de-cloaked, opening fire on the captured Bird-of-Prey. Ambush swept in in hot pursuit, appearing in a twist of distorted subspace and unleashing her powerful weaponry against the would-be attacker. An additional escort and a Bird-of-Prey joined the first, the battle rapidly escalating as the Ambush struggled to simultaneously avoid being flanked and keep the original target in the narrow firing arc of her cannons.
The aft shields of the Negh'Var collapsed under the bombardment, the Audacious' cannons now biting into the hull, tearing apart the engines and turning the armour plating into a twisted, melted mess. Another eight quantum torpedoes tore into the ship, blasting the stern apart, the collosal energies unleashed tearing huge pieces from the vast warship. Her energy signature dropped considerably as main power went offline, the little that remained diverted to keep the matter and anti-matter of her torpedoes and warp core from mixing and annihilating her utterly. She flew ahead, following a ballistic course, trailing debris and warp coolant.
A second Bird-of-Prey de-cloaked 'above' Audacious, a volley from her heavy cannons impacting on the already weakened dorsal shielding.
“TORPEDO INCOMING, BEARING ZERO-ONE-THREE MARK PLUS NINE-ZERO, BEARING CONSTANT! ONE MORE, SAME BEARING!”
“HARD TO PORT! ROLL LEFT ONE-EIGHT-ZERO! ALL HANDS, BRACE! BRACE! BRACE!”
Audacious came about, rolling to bring the still intact starboard shields to bear. Too late. The first torpedo struck almost dead-centre on the 'saucer',the other near the outer edge on the starboard side.
“Damage control, conn. Report.” The other bridge crew looked shocked at the absence of emotion in the Captain's voice.
“Conn, DC. There are multiple hull breaches, decks one through four. Emergency forcefields have failed on deck two. Fires throughout the starboard sections, and starboard cannons and forward dorsal array are offline. Significant casualties, but no precise count is available at this time.” Peel was suddenly glad the damage control officer was Vulcan. The emotional trauma dealing with this would cause most other 'green' officers would be considerable.
“Torc, conn. Status update.”
“Conn, Torc. Raven and Serpent report all objectives complete, requesting extraction. Claymore reports HVI acquired, but Gladius is facing heavy resistance. They've begun beaming prisoners to the freighter, but Major Malcolm believes they will need another half-hour to recover them all.”
“Very good, Commander. Alert me when they are reporting ready. Comms, make to Ambush, execute attack pattern Zulu, effective immediately.”
The two Federation ships steered towards each other, both manoeuvring furiously to avoid their attackers strikes. The ships linked targeting computers as they neared each other, selecting an escort that was moving into a steep 'climb' to begin a diving attack on Audacious' weak side. Overcharged phasers from both ships lanced out, tearing through the shields and striking deep into the hull. The core breached, triggering a colossal blaze which engulfed the cloaked Bird-of-Prey which had flown a little too close. The odds now swinging into the Federation's favour, the remaining Bird-of-Prey engaged it's cloak and slipped away. Ambush and Audacious came into formation, focussing their fire on the nearer of the two escorts, the vessel rapidly losing shields, to be finished off by another torpedo volley from Ambush. They took the last in a crossfire from their cannons, the focused fire once more quickly tearing the smaller ship apart as the sheer number of hits overwhelmed her shields.
As the sensors cleared, Peel had Audacious manoeuvre to present her dorsal hull to the orbital defence station, taking advantage of the lost shielding to beam the strike team back aboard without lowering the others. As the transport was taking place, however, there was one final unpleasant surprise.
“Conn, sensors. Re-acquisition of Bravo-six, on collision course with Alpha-one.”
Before Peel could react, Ambush came running in, guns silent, all available power diverted to her forward shields. She stuck the Klingon vessel with tremendous force, tearing through the smaller vessel and throwing the remains off course, sending them away from the freighter and into a long fall towards the surface.
Rura Penthe system oustskirts.
From out of the black emerged a group of three ships, two squat and aggressive, painted in dark grey, almost black colours, battered, bruised, one of them still trailing a burning stream of coolant, upper hull melted, plating fused and torn open by colossal energies, the second's bow a mess of crumpled plating and armour, her forward weapons reduced to twisted, useless metal. The third, a large, ungainly freighter, showed no damage. It was packed to the brim with souls newly freed from slavery and certain, eventual death, feeling nothing but disbelief and gratitude that they would finally be going home.
Captain's Quarters, USS Audacious. 1931hrs ship time. Day 36.
Peel was woken by the door alert. He quickly lifted his face from the pile of PADDs his head had fallen onto when he had passed out while reviewing the casualty figures from the earlier battle. 42 officers and crewmen from Audacious had died when the torpedoes had struck, killed in the impact, or as breached compartments vented their atmosphere into space. A further 63 had suffered severe injury, and with the ships doctor amongst them, the odds of many of these surviving were slim. Ensign DeWitt was now the senior medical officer fit for duty, although he was being assisted by the combat medics from the 42nd, as well as Sgt. Sirica, the Ambush's Commando team having been re-assigned to Audacious while their former ship returned to Federation space escorting the rescued prisoners.
In addition to these, there were a further 19 dead and another 21 injured among the beings of the 42nd, with the 10th having lost an additional 16. Sgt. Bach from the Audacious' Commando section was dead, Major Staton was severely wounded, and Echo was stuck in Engineering, having taken a high powered disruptor bolt to the head that had knocked 'her' motor functions offline. Another 26 had been lost from the Ambush's crew, both throughout the battle, and when they rammed the Bird-of-Prey, but the shields had held, and the ship remained in fighting condition. Captain Saena of the Ambush had agreed with Peel's plan for her vessel to escort the freighter back to friendly space, the Audacious acting as a diversion while continuing her patrol into Klingon territory, once the dead were buried and field repairs effected.
The identity of the man they had been sent to rescue had come as no surprise. The human man with short, light hair shaved close to the scalp, a distinctive scar marking the right side of his face, was an acquaintance that it was difficult to forget. Still, everything regarding him was classified, so it was unlikely that Peel would ever get the chance to find out exactly why this rescue had been so urgent.
Overall, they had taken losses, but crippled an enemy warship and destroyed several others, suffering only moderate damage to their own. In addition to the target of the mission, a further 300 POW's being used for slave labour in the mine had been rescued. Peel considered the mission to have been a success.
“Enter.” He couldn't keep the tiredness out of his voice. Major Evans walked in. She'd changed out of her armour into normal 'duty greys', only slightly different to the standard Starfleet 'tactical uniform', but they were still grubby and sweat stained, covered here and there by splashes of blood of various shades. She looked normal enough at first glance, but he'd figured out what had bothered him earlier, and intended to deal with it. She looked tired, which was normal enough, and the hint of fear he though he'd detected at the briefing seemed to have gone, or at least changed. If he had to guess, he would have said that whatever she was worried about now, it was not him, although he was involved in some way. He thought he had a fairly good idea of what the problem was.
“You wanted to see me, Captain.” That was part of it. The voice was slightly different, not the sound, but the tone. Just a little off, but nothing that couldn't bee explained by the events since Vega.
“Yes, I did. Not as the Captain though. Now that we have a little time I wanted to clear the air a little. Since I found out you survived...”
Outside the Captain's Quarters, USS Audacious. 1930hrs ship time.
She wasn't entirely certain why she had agreed to his request. She'd just come from an exhausting session in sickbay, helping the small medical team deal with the overwhelming numbers of wounded, and when she was done with that, she and a number of the crew had turned to the unpleasant task of processing the dead, moving them into an empty storage bay which was then made vacuum to preserve them either until they could be returned to their homeworlds in accordance with their wishes, or for the others, until sufficient torpedo casings could be replicated for a 'Starfleet Funeral'. Blood samples were taken from the Andorian crew members for preservation and return to the 'Wall of Heroes' on Andoria, and a half-dozen other rites were held, according to the various cultural traditions of those on board. It felt odd, the dignity with which many of the crew treated the dead. The MACO units had even gone to considerable risk to recover their fallen on the ground, regardless of the species. Seeing a human risk their life merely to recover the body of someone from a 'lesser' race was still a novel experience. She would once have considered it foolish, but after nearly nine months serving with them such an attitude seemed wrong somehow.
She supposed she was curious. From the reports of she'd heard, he certainly wasn't the manipulative self-serving coward of her memory. And she supposed now that she was aboard his ship (not that Saena had given her much choice in the matter) she would have to deal with him on a regular basis.
“Enter.” Even the voice was different, although that could have just been the obvious tiredness in it.
She walked through the door, and had to work hard to conceal her surprise. Instead of the expected gaudy, tasteless, decoration, the room was sparse. The most striking of the two decorations was a painting, depicting an ancient ship under sail in a storm, spitting fire at another such vessel as massive waves washed over even the highest decks, the scene illuminated by the last light of the setting sun piercing through a gap in the thick black clouds above them. The other was what she presumed to be an antique naval officer's sword held firmly in brackets above the desk. The man himself sat at the desk, surrounded by PADDs. She snuck a glance at the nearest. Someone's personnel file, she couldn't make out the name. He looked grim and exhausted. Not the same as she remembered, the short, black hair was shot through with grey, the scar that she'd noticed at the briefing running up into the hairline from just above his left eye, and the eyes themselves looked somehow older and wearier.
“You wanted to see me, Captain.”
“Yes, I did. Now that we have a little time I wanted to clear the air a little. Since I found out you survived...well, part of me has been wishing things could have been different back then, that I'd figured out a way to save everyone. If you survived anyway, after all, it was proof that I made the wrong call, that leaving you behind wasn't necessary, and if that was the case I'd do almost anything to be able to go back and undo that choice.” He paused for a moment. The door opened again, and two of the Audacious' Commando section entered, still armed and armoured. “Except it wasn't you I left on Vega, was it? There are too many little changes” he gestured at her face “the Jenny I knew had a scar just under the eye there, got it back when we were kids and never had it removed,” he pointed at her leg “when I last saw her, that leg was almost gone, burned off. Even people with the best prosthetics rarely walk as naturally as you do.” The face hadn't changed, but the growing anger in his voice was clear. “And she would never execute a prisoner. She was utterly committed to the ideals of the Federation, far more so than I ever was, even. I don't know whether you're a Founder or Species-8472, but either way, I would have expected better than to try to get away with this disguise around someone who knew her as long as I did.” He addressed one of the MACOs behind her. “Delta, please escort her to the brig. I'll deal with this later. Right now, I have services to organise.”
She didn't bother protesting. If she was honest, she'd expected something like this to happen almost from the start of her mission. She accompanied the guards without protest.
Wondering what's going on with Evans - the two certainly has different views of what's going on.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devils sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
- 2nd Lt. Wilfred Owen, MC. Dulce et Decorum Est (written sometime between mid 1917 and October 1918)
Undisclosed Deep Space Position, within the Klingon Empire.
Within the blackness, something moved. A squat, aggressive form, scarred and battered, parts of the hull covered by patches, a mismatched white against the near-black of the structure.
Outwards from this flew the torpedoes, eight at a time, not aimed anywhere in particular, beginning their long, endless journey through the black, the final voyage that their occupants would ever undertake.
Bow Torpedo Room, USS Audacious. 1026hrs ship time. Day 41.
...Chief Petty Officer Johnathan Witham, Ensign Jules Barnes, Ensign Chell Ilret, Lieutenant Junior Grade Forty-Five of Forty-Seven, Lieutenant Fourteen of Nineteen, and Lieutenant Commander Erett. We hearby commit their bodies to the void, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the bodies when the void shall give up her dead. Peel closed the book in his hands and stood to attention. Tubes one through eight, make ready and shoot.
The crewmembers present, as many as could be fitted into the room, with most of the others present on the higher observation decks, the armoured shutters for once open, remained at attention as the final torpedoes were loaded into the tubes. The crew were silent as the tubes closed. They remained motionless as the screech of the launch rails heralded the dead being sent out into the black.
Peel turned to address the assembled crew. Gentlemen, I know this isn't easy. Some of those who have begun their final voyage here today will have been friends, others unfamiliar, but comrades all the same. We have been damaged, and we've suffered losses. But our patrol is far from over. This ship is still fit for action, and I know her crew will not shirk their task, will not allow our comrades to have sacrificed their lives in vain. General duties are now restricted to maintenance only. Take the time to visit the counsellor, read a book, or maybe join the holodeck rugby tournament Major Malcolm has been organising. But I need you at your best. The Federation expects that everyone who wears this uniform will do their duty, no matter the danger or hardship. We will be making way for Qo'noS within the hour, intent on finding one of the Empire's newest battlecruisers and gathering as much information on it as we are able. I intend to avoid combat wherever possible for the next three days, after which we will once again be engaging any target of opportunity we come across. They know we're here now. They will be searching for us. But Admiral Quinn has released the restriction on targets. We're going to hit their shipping in the same way they've been striking at ours, and we are going to show them exactly how sharp Starfleet's teeth truly are! I know I can count on each of you to give your all. Officers, dismiss your sections!
The crew remained silent as they were dismissed, falling out in perfect order. Peel and Winter stayed behind, moving away from the crew now preparing to resume the loading drills which had been postponed for the funeral and the Commandos returning to their berths and checking their equipment.
How do you think they'll handle this, Commander? Peel asked quietly.
Can't be sure, sir. Most of them ain't been on combat ships for that long. Losing even a couple guys on an away mission is pretty unusual for us.
And now we just lost ten percent of the crew and nearly half of the ground troops. From my perspective, we actually got off lightly. Projected casualties for the ground assault were closer to two thirds. Hard target assaults like that are a horrible business even for MACO-Delta units or Commando squadrons, never mind regular infantry. And for us, even surviving an engagement with that many ships takes a healthy dose of luck.
Yeah...it's going to be a reality check for some. I mean, I had some idea, my old captain managed to get into a few fights, but even then the situations were mostly defused with few if any casualties on either side. This is...have you been to see what it's like in sickbay yet, sir? She paused briefly, seemingly working herself up to ask something.
Speak your mind, Commander. What is it?
Well, it's just...do you actually give a s**t, sir? Up until the service, I would have said you don't seem to care, but then, all of their names...by heart? I think you won most of them over, even if the speech wasn't particularly great. Was it real?
Of course it was. I do care, Commander. This many lives, most of them just out of their teens or whatever the equivalent is, how could I not? Especially in this case. But I can't let that affect my performance. And neither can you. You shouldn't make a secret of how you feel, though. The XO should be the one they identify with. It's the Captain's job to be the heartless one. He looked around the room, noting the crew were beginning to conduct manual loading drills under the supervision of a frightening looking Lieutenant J.G., a bald human with unnaturally pale skin and half his face covered by Borg implants. Peel thought for a moment, before moving the conversation into one of the corners away from the crewmen, occupying the space recently vacated by the two Commando sections, who were now making their way to the holodeck for an exercise.
Winter changed the subject. You were wrong about Evans, by the way sir. The blood test came back negative, and she hasn't had access to any of her gear for long enough now that an 8472 would have reverted to their normal shape. Her section all vouched for her, said that Klingon she had shot was armed and refusing to surrender. We don't have any grounds to be holding her. Are you sure you're right?
Something's off about her, Winter. D**ned if I know what any more, though. Was there anything else?
Well, I questioned her. She more or less gave the silent treatment, aside from telling me to tell you that she said 'the hawk flies in silence, eye fixed on the oblivious prey below.' A code-phrase of some sort? It make any sense to you, sir?
He sighed, quietly. Yes, it does.
And?
Above your clearance level. I'll have to go and let her out. Think up some minor infraction we can claim she committed and enter it into the log. Then head up to the bridge and get us back under cloak, and make a low warp run towards Qo'noS. I already programmed the exact route in. Make sure Second Watch understands the updates to my Standing Orders, and then go get some sleep. You look like you need it.
We have other matters to attend to now, however. See to your duties, Commander, then hit the rack. Consider that an order.
Aye aye, Sir!
The pair left, Winter headed for the bridge, Peel for the brig. At least there was one problem he might be able to sort out.
Cell 4, Brig, USS Audacious. 1108hrs ship time. Day 41.
Evans wasn't surprised when the door opened and the Captain entered the cell.
The cell's monitoring systems have been deactivated, Major. I'm sorry about this, but I have to know what the...
What the f*** is going on? She didn't put any hostility into it, merely finishing his question for him.
As good a way of saying it as any, but I think I have it figured out. Will you tell me if I'm right? She nodded. You're not the woman I remember, that's not in doubt. You know a code-phrase used by, shall we say a certain...branch of Starfleet Security to identify yourself to assets. Your first assignment after Vega was to the DS9 Ops Area, and I read up on your file and cross-referenced. An unusually large number of officers died or were murdered in whichever theatres you were assigned to, and by some strange co-incidence those theatres also suffered from the fewest attacks by Terran sleepers when their Federation tried to invade a short while back. Can you see where this is going?
She just sat for a moment. Then... You're right. Sort of. I ended up here by accident, though, not on orders.
And the other you. Replaced?
Not to my knowledge. Missing, I guess. Like I said, I came here by accident and got mistaken for your universe's version of me. I was in the right area, after all, and their mistake was not something I intended to correct. He gave her a curious look. Listen, in my universe, and forgetting for the moment that this is you sitting next to me, because there are some things I just won't do, we'd have locked the door, and you'd have had me right there, probably not even bothering with the cot. Then you'd have let me out on the condition I started sharing your bunk, I'd hatch a plot to push the First Officer into killing you, and there'd be a long, complicated web of sex, murder, and betrayal, and if I was very lucky I might still be alive at the end of it. Here, I give you a code-phrase, we sit down and try and sort out our differences in a civil manner, and then we both go back to work.
He moved further into the room, sitting on the opposite end of the cell's small cot and leaning back against the bulkhead. That's one way this could go, I suppose. And I can understand not defecting openly, in your case. It sounds like you've done the Federation a lot of good with the way you went about it, although most Starfleet officers wouldn't approve of the method. Shame you weren't assigned to the station itself while you were out there, though. I'm not sure Captain Kurland is going to recover from all that s**t that got dumped on his head.
She smiled slightly. I was pretty good at spotting them for some reason. But I doubt that would have made a difference to Kurland, Captain. Between the Terran Feds, an 8472 infiltration, and losing the station to the Dominion? The man's clearly a Jonah.
Hard to argue with that. Still, he's reasonably competent. It just doesn't seem to mean much with his luck. He sighed, leaning back and looking up at the deckhead. You will be released, by the way. Hardly anyone in this universe knows that The Section exists, and I would be surprised if the Terrans don't even believe in the possibility of an organisation like that being part of the 'weak and peace-loving' UFP, so if you know the code phrase you're probably genuine. Besides, you've seen the rest of the group in the torpedo room. We've got a group of Romans now, as well as a pair of near-Soong type androids and a Romulan, plus a humanoid whose species we haven't actually identified who speaks a dialect of Welsh that's apparently straight from the Dark Ages. She's Section though, so I haven't asked the obvious question. A Terran should fit right into that mess. He looked down again, seeming to take a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. You seemed to have a problem with me when you came aboard, Evans. That doesn't have anything to do with how you ended up here, does it?
I did. I do. And it does. It's not as big a problem now I've seen you in action, but...
Vega?
Your report said you left the other me behind there, on the surface. Ran for safety while she...was left to die. Easy to believe that, knowing the other you. I'm not so sure you would do that any more, though. Not without reason.
I did, though. It wasn't a call I made lightly, but I know what I should have done back there, and it was the worst option of them all. I couldn't do it, Major, and none of the others would without my order. He had steadily slumped forward, eyes fixed to the deck.
She shuffled a little close to him, although still just out of reach. The other you is an incompetent coward who gained his rank by being a manipulative psychopath, Captain. He got us in over our heads at Vega, trying to take an Alliance Bird-of-Prey a'prize. Left me and my section on board and ran at the first sign of a real Klingon warship coming after him. We managed to get the cloak up, and a short burst from the impulse engines put us on a ballistic course before they could counter-board us. Then the engines overloaded. Most of the lower decks, including where most of the food supplies were stored, were irradiated. She moved a little closer, reaching out and grabbing his chin, pulling his face around so that she could look him in the eye. We don't have replicators over there, unless you happen to be very rich or very powerful so as to get one of the handful stolen from this side of the glass. They certainly won't be found on a Klingon ship. We'd been four weeks without food and were trying to weather an ion storm when the warp core started to lose containment.
She took few seconds break, then the radiation kept anyone from getting to the escape pods. Not that sitting through a storm in one of those would be survivable, but we'd have a better chance that we would with a warp core breach. So, someone came up with the idea of using the transporters. We were barely functional by that point, but I just about managed to set it up. Except instead of materialising in Klingon escape pods, we were in a Starfleet shuttlecraft that had a load of ugly looking black tech plastered all over it, bits of it glowing green. Well, three of us were in the shuttle, anyway. The others materialised in empty space. She broke off again for a moment.
What happened next? Peel was listening intently, the expression on his face carefully neutral, although the eyes were less guarded.
One of your Starfleet ships found us. I was barely conscious, and the other two had both slipped into a coma. Apparently it was just luck that they ran a scan first rather than just vaping the shuttle, but in all honesty, I doubt I would have noticed by then. The other two didn't make it back to Earth. And that's it. I was questioned, of course, but the doctors put my inability to answer anything down to the extended starvation. They had me 'back' on duty as soon as I was physically fit enough, although I think that might have been down to my saying yes when Drake showed up, dismissed the nurses, deactivated the monitors, and offered me a job.
Didn't your gear give you away? And does the Section know about this?
There wasn't enough of it left to by then, so no. But whether the Section knows? It's a fair bet, isn't it? I assume they did a quantum scan thingy or something similar, maybe got some of that aforementioned gear that was salvageable. But making something like that public when they could use it instead? Why else was I offered the job.
I know, not their style. Still, the speed they allegedly scooped you up with is worrying. He sighed. Thank you for trusting me with that...Jen. He looked back down at the deck. You know, this sounds like a trans-dimensional swap.
How so?
This has happened before. Last time was a 'swap', counterparts from each universe swapping places. Captain Kirk and his officers. You should know about that one, I gather it was quite significant on the other side.
Emperor Spock's reforms? The fall of the Empire?
Yes, that's the one. I had a...'run in'...with my counterpart a while ago he needed someone with experience fighting the Borg to help re-capture a Terran research facility. There was now an obvious sadness in his voice. We blew the whole lot to hell, and him with it. If that's what happened, it's a far better way for her to have gone than I thought. A brief pause as he checked his chronometer. We're out of time, Jen. Get out of here and head down to the holodeck. You're to take command of both sections and put them through the toughest scenario you can come up with, something that would make fighting demons look easy. Understood?
Are we going to have to fight demons, Jim? There was a small hesitation before the name, but the question itself was serious.
Only our own, I think. And it's James, by the way. I stopped using Jim when I was sixteen and living on Romulus while Dad was doing a stint assigned to the embassy there. The hint of humour that had appeared with those words disappeared again. We're wasting time here.
She gave him the barest hint of a smile. It vanished at his next words.
And Jen. I ever get proof you've breached ROE again, and you'll be looking at the inside of a cell for most of your life. Stick to the regs from here onwards unless we're on an Article Mission which calls for it. She nodded.
They stood, Peel taking a moment to re-activate the cell monitors while she left the brig, alone. He stayed for a minute, thinking over what had just happened, before making for his quarters, intent on snatching at least a few hours sleep.
Somewhere on the lower decks, USS Audacious. 2106hrs ship time. Day 41.
Are ya sure it's safe
Of course. Ah spoofed the internal sensors. They're showing al' of us in our bunks right now.
I hope you're right.
Of course ah am. Now, we just gonna sit here or get on with what we came for.
We get on with it, of course. You all noticed the same things I have, right?
Yeah. He won't tell us a thing about what that last fight was for. Didn't shed so much as a tear at the funeral. Has armed thugs walking all over the ship, and stuck you in the brig when one of those creepy b*tches from up forward attacked you. And you heard where he's taking us. D**n that speech! I'm not getting killed because of his inflated ego.
We're headed for Risa, ain't we mate? Tropical vacation paradise, yeah?
Very funny. This is Qo'noS, guys. You know, the Klingon homeworld, full of crazy aliens who want to kill us.
That sort of thing is why we're out here, mon ami.
Is it? We only have the Captain's word for that. He won't let anyone else see all of his orders. And even if that is what we're supposed to be doing, the ships damaged and a tenth of the crew are dead. And all he puts in the log is minor damage and light casualties.
Oui, that's what they are to him. He's like Les Anglaise in the old stories grand-mere used to tell me, about the really old days, back when ships used sails. Doesn't know when to stop fighting. From where he's sitting, the last fight went well for us.
You backing out, Ensign?
No, of course not. We need to get him out of that chair before he gets us all killed. This feels too much like the stories I heard about the Valiant back in the last war. But I can almost understand him, still.
Ya think Winter would take us back home?
Probably. She's a real Command officer, after all, not a jumped up security guy. But she ain't gonna push him, an' she's not going to take the chair while he's still in it. So, it's up to us. I haven't got anything I could use to declare him medically unfit, not that would stand up when we get home, anyway. Ya see anything we could use?
Non, he's pretty clean. He did spend an while in Evans' cell before releasing her, and the monitors all conveniently failed.
You don't think...?
No. That would be out of character for him, and we would have to prove an accusation like that, anyway. Unless she came forward, and I don't see that happening. She might help us get rid of him, though. You saw what they were like with each other.
Ah thought she were part of the problem? Tha' whole lot of 'em.
They are, but that don't mean we can't make use of them. An' Evans ain't made no secret o' how she feels 'bout the Captain, but that was before their little heart-to-heart. Things might have changed. Still, if he were to have an accident now...
That is not an appropriate action to even be considering. And things may improve, or he will display incompetence of a variety about which he can be challenged. We should not resort to such drastic measures. Particularly at such an early stage.
Do y'all think so? There was a pause. 'kay, I'll go with it for now. Now lets get back where we're 'sposed t' be 'fore one o' his pet sharks finds us not in our beds.