Unofficial Literary Challenge #35: "Rhyme Directive"

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  starswordc Member Posts: 10,963 Arc User

  May 2017 edited May 2017

  Shortest War Ever

  So long, Mom,
  I’m off to drop the bomb,
  So don’t wait up for me.
  But while you swelter
  Down there in your shelter,
  You can see me
  On your TV.
  
  While we’re attacking frontally,
  Watch Brinkally and Huntally,
  Describing contrapuntally
  The cities we have lost.
  No need for you to miss a minute
  Of the agonizing holocaust. (Yeah!)
  
  Little Johnny Jones, he was a U.S. pilot,
  And no shrinking vi’let was he.
  He was mighty proud when World War III was declared,
  He wasn’t scared,
  No siree!
  
  And this is what he said on
  His way to Armageddon:
  
  So long, Mom,
  I’m off to drop the bomb,
  So don’t wait up for me.
  But though I may roam,
  I’ll come back to my home,
  Although it may be
  A pile of debris.
  
  Remember, Mommy,
  I’m off to get a commie,
  So send me a salami,
  And try to smile somehow.
  I’ll look for you when the war is over,
  An hour and a half from now!
  — “So Long Mom” by Tom Lehrer (alternate video)

  
  Ibaka, Confederation of Samar, Volante. 6th Day, 9th Month, Year of Tash 2063.
  
  Secretary-General Va’kreht turned from the Major perched on a high bar and flicked his tail to dismiss the younger man. “Thank you. You see, gentlemen, how critical our situation is.”
  
  The Supreme Cabinet of the Confederation of Samar, the twelve most powerful Sabek in the Alliance for Global Unity—a polite term, the Secretary-General thought, for a bunch of puppet states meant to stand between the Gods-fearing Confederation heartland and the numberless hordes of the People’s Syndicalist Dominion in the increasingly likely event of yet another war—hissed their agreement from the low bars around the table. Some of the older and more corpulent members leaned across the secondary supports of the perching bar, but all were sharply dressed as usual and active in the face of the Dominion threat.
  
  “We should strike them now, before they can wipe us out!” General Ter’Graf chattered, tailfeathers flicking wildly. “Those collectivist dogs dare to move missiles to the Occupied Territories of the Kingdom of Valdemar! Into the heart of our homeland!”
  
  “But we are making progress against the Syndicalists,” Secretary Kar’tan whistled from her perch. The Dominion had been all about women’s rights for the past decade, and the disputed states seemed to like that, so Kar’tan had been installed as Secretary of Intelligence Affairs against the wishes of traditionalists like Ter’Graf. Va’kreht didn’t care, she got the job done and hunted Syndie agents with dispassionate efficiency, and his approval ratings were low enough that he didn’t want to rock the boat too much. “Today, my operatives have succeeded in assassinating the dictator of East Kalamar, and have installed a suitable, ah, friend of the Confederation in his place. This gives us a foothold on the Dominion’s border, much more strategically critical than a few rockets in the Republic of Valdemar—I mean, the Occupied Territories.”
  
  Ter’Graf swelled with rage. “You dare? You dare to assume my duties? Listen, girl, I’ve been fighting the Syndie scum since you were an egg! And you even legitimize their unlawful occupation of our ancient allies by using their name for the isle of Valdemar! Sir Secretary-General, how can we trust that the new leader of East Kalamar is a genuine friend of the Alliance, and not some godsless Syndicalist agent when our intelligence secretary doesn’t even follow proper protocol?”
  
  “Oh, please,” scoffed Kar’tan. “The Dominion’s stooges have held Valdemar for fifty years. They’ve had two generations with the population and run it pretty well, for Syndies. I recognize it because they’ve managed to genuinely get legitimate government. Kalamar on the other claw was still unstable after the last war and the dictator—sorry, I mean, ‘Chairman of the People’s Council’—was an idiot. Our man’s just as bad, but he looks better and we have a commando team in his guest room to kill him if he misbehaves too much. Our situation is nowhere near as dire as you portray it, General.”
  
  The Secretary-General cut off Ter’graf’s next overheated outburst. “That may be so, Secretary, but the fact remains that there are Dominion missiles within striking distance of the Confederation’s largest cities, and we must make a response. I’d like to hear what Royal Lord Admiral Rek’nar feels on the situation.” He motioned to the Lord Admiral, resplendent in over two dozen medals. Most of which, Va’kreht knew, were exactly as deserved as the medal that the Dominion’s leader had given himself for turning sixty.
  
  The Royal Lord Admiral coughed and pulled himself higher, spreading his feathered arms. “Sir Secretary-General, as you so clearly state a response to the Dominion’s heinous violation of our sovereign airspace with these missile emplacements must be made. Our fleets can blockade the island within the week.”
  
  “Won’t the Dominion respond?”
  
  “Bah!” The Admiral made a dismissive gesture with his arm, feathers laced with gold thread. Not even Va’kreht was that much of a dandy. “I have full confidence in the sailors of the Confederation of Samar. Our men are stronger and more willing to sacrifice for their country than any Syndicalist peasant conscripted into service.”
  
  “Half our armed forces are conscripts or workers trying to get a better life than a factory slum will give them,” the Intelligence Secretary drawled. “We talk a big talk on propaganda, but in this room we all know we’re no better than the Syndies.” The Royal Lord Admiral swelled, air sacks bulging with outrage.
  
  “Our soldiers are driven by the freedom of our system, where every man can be a King if he works hard and saves his money! No oppressed Syndicalist toadies can compete with our faith in the Gods and our Samarian way!”
  
  “Royal Lord Admiral, I must ask you to restrain yourself,” Va’kreht said quickly before the Secretary could snort back at the Admiral and make things worse. “It is clear to me that a missile launch against the Dominion is overreaction at this time. However, a response, as has been clearly noted, must be made. I therefore support the Royal Lord Admiral’s suggestion to blockade the Occupied Territories of Valdemar. Only blockade, Royal Lord Admiral,” he reiterated with a sharp look. “Your forces are not to engage Dominion or Dominion-allied forces unless they attempt to breach the blockade.”
  
  
  Cultural Anthropology Lab, USS Bajor NCC-97238, in orbit of 23 Librae II (local name Volante).
  
  “...our system is thus proven to be stronger and more just than the system of corporatist oppression, which the so-called ‘Alliance for Global Unity’ and its insidious pawns seek to use to infiltrate our great People’s Syndicalist Dominion! They will try to induce the brave patriots of our glorious people’s nation to vote No—do not listen, Comrades! Be strong in your will, and report any Objectivist infiltrators you see to the police! Be sure in your belief in the People’s Party and its successes, and vote Yes to keep our system of freedom, equality, and prosperity for another…”
  
  “Commander, shut that cr*p off,” I mutter annoyedly to the head of the lab. “Prophets, I haven’t seen ham like that since the Iconian War.” The Andorian O-4—sh’Thash, I’ve been trying to remember her name—stifles a laugh as she turns off the ad.
  
  “What did they mean by ‘vote yes’, exactly?” Gaarra asks. “This a referendum, or—”
  
  “Single-list ballot, sir,” Commander sh’Thash explains. “They give you a Party-approved list of candidates and you have to vote yes or no.”
  
  “...What? That doesn’t even make sense,” I complain.
  
  Biri chuckles. “Saw it myself as Chiga Riyannis when I was on an aid trip to Tekel after the earthquake in 2239. Good way of making it look like you’re having an election without actually risking a change in government. It’s a classic, it’s as old as the… Hmmmm...”
  
  “What was that?” I come over to her. She’s scratching at the spots on the side of her head and staring at a translated document.
  
  “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but—Benra, Ragen, come here a minute. You see what I’m seeing?” She hands the PADD to one of a pair of Bynar ensigns, one in blue, one in yellow.
  
  “It appears to be a…” “…rudimentary proof on warp theory, sir,” they answer almost immediately.
  
  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Thank you.”
  
  I stare at her. “How far along do you think they are?”
  
  She shrugs. “It’s pretty basic stuff, just Cochrane’s First Law in base 8, and their computer science is nowhere near up to building a practical FTL navigation system. No way to know for sure but if I had to guess… I’d say forty years at least from a workable prototype.”
  
  “Djävlar skit!” somebody in the corner yells. “Commander, we’ve got trouble!”
  
  Biri bolts out of her chair and runs over to a petty officer; I follow. “Whatcha got, Karlsson?”
  
  “Decrypted comms, military chatter,” the blond man answers, pointing at a political map. “This big blob here, Samar? Just deployed a third of its eastern fleet. They’re headed for this island on the mid-ocean ridge.”
  
  “War?” I ask.
  
  “Not yet, Captain, but they’ve been ordered to cut off all shipping to a missile base on the island. Or maybe it’s the whole island: the direct objects in that language are a little tricky.”
  
  I grab Biri’s shoulder before he finishes and pull her aside. “Tell me they’re not nuclear, Biri.”
  
  “Worse, El: they’ve had at least one nuclear exchange already.” She points at the geographical map. “Computer, display ocean floor.” She highlights a section of ocean, revealing a large underwater crater. “That used to be an island.”
  
  “And you’re sure it wasn’t just a volcano?”
  
  “Positive. Too big for their missiles, though. From the radioisotopes, probably a low megaton-range fusion mine.”
  
  Dammit. “All right, keep monitoring it and run some sims, get me some possible scenarios.” The Trill nods agreement and waves a hand at the Bynars. “And remind me again when the Karelia is supposed to get here?” I add to no one in particular.
  
  “Last I checked, middle of next week, ma’am,” Esplin answers from where she’s working on the universal translator. “They got held up at Deep Space 4 by a computer malfunction.”
  
  I snort. “Those early-run Rhode Islands are a real pain.”
  
  “Hey!” Commander sh’Thash blurts out. I glance at her questioningly and she hangs her head in shame. “I mean…”
  
  She must be new, or else it’s some Andorian authority thing. “Commander, I’m not one to stand on ceremony. What are you thinking?”
  
  “Respectfully, Captain, my first command was a Rhodie.”
  
  “You’ve commanded a ship, sir? What are you doing here?”
  
  “Building a resume, CT2 Karlsson. I want to lead a five-year mission once the fleet’s been rebuilt enough, not just run survey ships. Blueshirt or not, that means I need to be at least section chief on a combatant ship to take the BOT, and Captain Kanril’s the best in the fleet.”
  
  I feel my cheeks burning. “Uh, thank you.”
  
  “It’s the truth, Captain,” she insists. “You know how many officers you’ve trained went on to their own commands? Seven so far.”
  
  “She’s got a point,” Biri comments.
  
  “Well, I never really thought of myself as an instructor. But I’m proud of them.” I yawn and check the clock. “All right, my shift’s up. Gaarra, you want to check out that holoprogram I told you about?”
  
  He kisses me in apology. “Sorry, sha fe, I’m due to requalify at the phaser range.”
  
  I kiss him back. “Okay.”
  
  “Hey, I got something for you, El,” Biri says, dashing back to her desk and tapping a command on her PADD. Mine pings me to accept the transfer.
  
  “More trouble?”
  
  “No, actually, it’s some novels the away team scanned when they broke into a Dominion library. I think you’ll like them.”
  
  I glance at one of the titles. Egg and Excelsior by Va’sheft of Tabriz. I’m almost certain that alliteration is Lieutenant Esplin being creative, though I guess I’ve seen stranger coincidences. “Thanks.”
  

  * * *

  
  I’m in my chair reading when the door slides open. “Hey, El,” Gaarra says. I meet him halfway and kiss him. “You weren’t answering comms, I came to check on you.”
  
  “Sorry, I was…” I pick up the PADD and wave it and he nods. “Who was it?”
  
  “Riyannis. She finished those sims you wanted and it’s not looking good. She just called a staff meeting.”
  
  “Phekk.” I slide the PADD into its belt pouch and follow him out the door.
  
  “Sorry, I know you’ve wanted more reading time,” he comments, reaching out to call the turbolift. “That Sabek stuff must be good if you were that stuck in. So? What do you think?”
  
  “It’s… Whew.” I look up at my husband with this giddy grin on my face. “It’s really damn good. I mean, assuming Lieutenant Esplin’s translation is worth ten cents on the credit of the original… the villain is a brilliant monster, the heroes are flawed but trying, the plot is convoluted but solid, and it’s so funny and violent and… and…”
  
  And it hits me like a ton of bricks. That’s when I decide the Sabeks are worth protecting, whatever the consequences. If just one of their writers could produce a story rivaling Velar Shan’s Reckoning of Dala Kor or those Thrawn novels I read at the Academy, then they’re worth it.
  

  * * *

  
  “Planetary Sciences ran the numbers a dozen times,” Biri explains, finishing her presentation in the wardroom and going back to her seat. “We’re looking at a one-in-six chance of an extinction event inside of forty-eight standard hours.”
  
  “One in six?” Tess echoes.
  
  “Give or take a few decimal points.”
  
  “All right. Worst-case scenario, people, what can we do?” The table goes silent and everybody looks at me in surprise. “What? Did I grow a second head and not notice?”
  
  “The Prime Directive?” Biri gently suggests. “Ma’am?”
  
  “That’s not the question I asked, Commander. I asked what we could do.”
  
  “Militarily, sir?” Tess prompts, picking up her PADD.
  
  “Anything! Guys, give me some ideas!”
  
  “Insert antiwar propaganda into their networks?” Gaarra suggests.
  
  “This isn’t an Information Age species, sir,” COB Kinlo points out. “It’s not like we can just insert memes and propaganda into social networking: they barely have personal computers even in major cities. They’re dependent on corporate and state media to get any information out; they’d notice the intrusion.”
  
  “Can’t we, I dunno, hypnotize them through the radio or something? I think I saw that once. Something involving human kids and tripods.”
  
  Everybody gives me a bemused look. “This isn’t science fiction, Captain,” Biri finally says, sounding like she’s trying not to laugh.
  
  Tess lays her PADD back down. “Worst-case scenario, Planetary Sciences calls it CASE NIGHTMARE RED, where they use everything, we have the resources on this ship to stymie the war. It won’t be pretty, it won’t be perfect, but we can save better than ninety-nine percent of the population and make any further nuclear exchanges impossible. And it’ll rip the Prime Directive right the frak in half,” she adds, glancing at Biri.
  
  “Yeah, that’s…” The Trill stops, letting a breath out of her nose.
  
  I gesture for her to go on. “No, I think know what you’re going to say, but let’s hear it anyway.”
  
  “All right. Should we interfere, at all? It’s not a Federation planet, it’s not our planet! I mean… Look, Riyannis was born in 2230, but I know older symbionts who lived through a couple nuclear exchanges on Trill during the Unification Wars. It was horrible, but we learned lessons from it, came out better.”
  
  Then Dul’krah speaks up. “How many of your world-clan died for those lessons?”
  
  “About ten million, all told.”
  
  “Ten million?” His nictitating membranes click across his eyes briefly. “That is all?”
  
  “A major city in Dalaran was destroyed, the Moashi and Vella alliances threw around a few battlefield warheads—”
  
  “Compare your dead to twelve billion.” Biri makes a choking sound and we all look at the big horned alien, wide-eyed. “That is how many my world-clan numbered before the Great Clan War according to surviving records. There were sixty million left alive when the last bombs fell. When the Ferengi arrived, when we bartered our planet for our lives, we numbered a mere five hundred thousand.” He pauses and looks around the table at each of us. “Do you know why the Council of Clans, the Pe’khdar Nation, refused for over a century to join the Federation? Because when we read your historical records, we saw that the Federation had classed us as an ‘immature’ species, because our only warp-ship was an unmanned probe launched to our nearest star before the Great Clan War. Your principles, your Prime Directive, cost the lives of innocent children who could have been saved!” he snarls. “What good are lessons if none remain to learn them? Eleya, Clan Kanril?”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “Would your father not have taken any aid to expel the Cardassians? And yet the Federation did nothing, though it even served their interest to act.”
  
  I grit my teeth. “Dul’krah, I happen to agree with you; you don’t need to bring the Occupation into it.” He leans back in his chair, looking mildly surprised, as I look around the table. “I want to help, but unless the Prophets are hiding in your back pockets we don’t know what’s going to happen yet! Maybe the Sabeks will get some sense in their heads and cool off! And in any case, even if we do go in, I’d like to at least have a formal order suspending the Prime Directive so we’re acting within the rules.”
  
  “Don’t think Starfleet Command is likely to go for that,” Tess remarks in a dry tone, sipping her coffee.
  
  “Yeah, well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

  "Great War! / And I cannot take more! / Great tour! / I keep on marching on / I play the great score / There will be no encore / Great War! / The War to End All Wars"
  — Sabaton, "Great War"
  

  

  
  Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/

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  starswordc Member Posts: 10,963 Arc User

  May 2017

  Shortest War Ever (part 2)

  
  “Admiral, for the third time, I am not planning a phekk’ta preemptive strike, I’m talking about contingencies. The planetary governments are on a hair-trigger here, they could kill off the whole species inside of a day.”
  
  “You don’t know that.”
  
  I press a palm to my forehead. “No, sir, I don’t. It’s all probabilities and numbers, and frankly I don’t have the maths to know if it’s accurate. But in the event of, that’s all I’m asking.”
  
  Admiral Eric Velasquez shakes his head and slouches back in his chair. “You’re asking me for permission to go against the highest single principle of Federation governance. They’re pre-warp, they’ve barely even got a civilian space program—”
  
  “Yeah, I know, ninety percent of their space research is devoted to finding new ways to blow each other up,” I finish with some disgust. “But look at some of the other stuff we’ve found.” I rummage around the pile of data solids on my desk. “We’ve got newspaper clippings, scientific papers, literature. A lot of it is censored or slanted but, reading between the lines, the two major blocs don’t have the support of the common citizens, especially in their client states, and that’s borne out by the fact there’s been at least sixteen popular uprisings just in the last five years, over half of them completely peaceful and two of them successful. I just… I don’t want billions of people with no stake in it to die because their leaders were idiots.”
  
  “How did you—”
  
  “Don’t worry, sir, we followed standard procedure, sent away teams with holo-cloaks to raid libraries and museums. And we’ve been running full ECM, they think we’re a GPS satellite.”
  
  “All right, good.”
  
  I gape at him. “Did you really think I—Gah!” I spin around and glare at the worthless plastic citations on my wall. “Sir, I may not agree with the Prime Directive, but it’s the law! I’ll follow it unless there’s no alternative!”
  
  “Are you sure about that?”
  
  I don’t dignify that with a response. “All right, look, sir, please, just take it to Starfleet Command and the Science Council and—”
  
  That’s when the intercom chirps on my desk. “Sorry, sir.” I hit the ‘Receive’ key. “Go, Gaarra.”
  
  “Eleya, Master Chief Wiggin just detected an anomalous heat signature on the eastern continent—oh, phekk. Missile launch! Missile launch!”
  
  “How many?!” I shout back.
  
  “Six, ten, thirty, two hundred—west coast is responding… It’s the real thing, Captain, CASE NIGHTMARE RED! Bombers are launching, submarines are ascending—”
  
  “Battle stations! Admiral, do I have permission to attack or not?”
  
  “I have to speak to Starfleet Command—” he begins as the red alert klaxons begin to howl.
  
  “Phekk, sir, it’s not theoretical anymore; we don’t have time to discuss this in committee!”
  
  “I can’t authorize you to—”
  
  “Sher hahr kosst!” I blurt out in frustration. Before he can answer I jam my finger on the ‘Disconnect’ button, vault my desk and rush onto the bridge. “Tess, initiate Plan Theta! Go now!”
  
  “Do we have authorization?”
  
  “I’ll take full responsibility, Commander; right now we’ve got lives to save.”
  
  She purses her lips, then nods. “Yes, ma’am,” she assents, and hits a key on her console. “Tactical Officer to Flight Control, you are instructed to launch immediately. Targeting instructions to follow.”
  
  “Captain,” Esplin shouts, “Admiral Velasquez is demanding to speak with you!”
  
  “Take a message, Lieutenant!”
  
  “I have multiple weapons locks, ma’am!”
  
  I take a deep breath, eyeing the missile tracks crossing the ocean between Volante’s continents, then: “Fire at will, Commander.”
  

  * * *

  
  Decades later, a Sabek historian would say that day was as if the ancient gods had emerged from their slumber to rebuke the peoples of Volante for endangering their creation.
  
  A Confederate ballistic missile submarine opening its launch bay doors was struck by what an approaching Dominion frigate described as ball lightning from a clear sky, and vanished from sonar in a thunderous non-nuclear explosion that deafened the sonar technician and sent seawater a kilometer into the air.
  
  Orange thunderbolts rippled out from a point above the clouds, spitting ballistic missiles amidships over the water, swatting them from the sky in bright fireballs of exploding petroleum fuel. More warheads fell from the sky to crash in the sea, overwhelmed by electronic interference and viral attacks coming from no planetary source. Others simply vanished into thin air in haloes of blue light, or were hurled thousands of kilometers off-course or rocketed into the sky, as if gravity itself had been suspended.
  
  A flight of Dominion heavy bombers screamed out an aerial attack warning, and just as suddenly went silent. Seconds later AGU airbases and missile silos that had yet to expend their deadly contents began to go dark, obliterated by columns of light from the sky, while PSD bases across the Central Sea sounded their own air-raid sirens as boxy white aircraft came out of nowhere, destroying countless planes on the runway with incomprehensible weapons, burying silos in debris or collapsing their bombproof control bunkers. The few anti-aircraft batteries able to respond before being destroyed proved next-to-useless.
  
  A wall of glimmering force hundreds of kilometers tall simply blocked all approaches across the northern half of the ocean; missiles and warplanes struck it going both directions and smashed themselves to pieces.
  
  Thirty minutes after it began, the Third Alliance-Dominion War ceased with a whimper, not a cataclysm, as generals, statesmen, merchants, and laborers raised bleary, shellshocked eyes to the perfect, impassive blue sky over their lands, collectively wondering what the bloody hell just happened?
  

  * * *

  
  The bridge is deadly silent as reports stream in from our taps on planetary communications. “How many got through?” I ask Tess.
  
  “I count twenty-two low-triple-digit kiloton-range nuclear detonations, fifteen on the west continent, seven on the east,” she reads off tonelessly. “Planetary Sciences has a preliminary estimate of sixty million dead, likely to rise. We destroyed over five thousand aircraft, about thirteen hundred silo clusters, seven missile subs, and almost twelve thousand missiles in flight.”
  
  “And our shuttles, the runabout?”
  
  “The Al-Birjandi and the Vell-os were caught in detonations and crashed. The Hubble was shot down by ground fire. No survivors in either case. All other craft report no significant damage and are returning home.”
  
  “Six dead, for seven billion?” I smile humorlessly. “I’ll take that trade.”
  
  “Captain, we’re being pinged by multiple high-energy radio sources,” Wiggin announces. “I’d say military search radars.”
  
  “Drop countermeasures and let them see us. Esplin, open channels on all discovered communications frequencies.”
  
  “Ready for you, ma’am.”
  
  I stand up, straighten my uniform jacket, and take a moment to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Citizens of Volante, this is Captain Kanril Eleya of the United Federation of Planets. Your war is over.”
  

  * * *

  
  “Who fired first?”
  
  “Does it really matter, sir?”
  
  “In the scheme of things, I suppose not.” Admiral Velasquez takes a drag on what looks like a glass of tequila.
  
  I decide to humor him. “Near as we can tell, the Republic of Valdemar—that’s a Dominion member, one of the bigger islands in the Central Sea—they reported what they thought was a Confederacy of Samar missile attack. I dunno, might have been a computer glitch, or maybe their radar picked up a flock of birds or something. What I know for certain, we didn’t detect any launches until the Dominion opened fire and the Alliance responded. That’s when I intervened.”
  
  “On what grounds? It was an internal matter. The Prime Directive—”
  
  “General Order 24, sir.”
  
  The admiral sprays his mouthful of tequila. “What!?”
  
  “As of Revision 114 to the Starfleet Code of Regulations, 2271, for Starfleet personnel or assets to execute General Order 24, the deliberate depopulation of an inhabited planet, they are required to receive an authenticated order from the President of the United Federation of Planets or next competent person in presidential succession, ratified by the Federation Council.”
  
  “So?”
  
  “So, my inaction would have resulted in the depopulation of an inhabited planet!”
  
  “You don’t know that!”
  
  “Sir, you are free to review our computer models again. Under CASE NIGHTMARE RED, Planetary Sciences calculated a ninety-five percent chance that three billion people would be dead within four hours of the first launch, five billion within the week, another billion and a half within the year, and in ten years there’s not a thing left alive on the entire planet bigger than a Cardassian vole! So yes, I broke General Order One, and I’d do it again!”
  
  “You inserted yourself into an internal political matter that did not affect the Federation. You flouted the single highest principle of our entire society in the most flagrant manner possible!”
  
  I hang my head and press my palm to my forehead. “Oh, for Prophets’ sake, sir, I did the only phekk’ta thing that was going to let me sleep at night!”
  
  Velasquez purses his lips and takes a few deep breaths. “Captain Kanril, you are suspended from command pending review of your actions by a board of inquiry, effective upon arrival of additional forces. Will you comply, or do I have to send a MACO unit to pick you up?”
  
  I take a deep breath of my own. “Sir, I’ll come quietly. But please do send additional ships. We stopped most of the missiles but the fallout is another story. We’ll need terraformers to solve that one. And, uh, given we’ve basically dropped our pants here—”
  
  “Diplomatic Corps negotiations team?” I nod. “I’ll make the arrangements. Captain?”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “It’s up to the board to decide whether you acted appropriately. But, off the record, your tactics were militarily solid and within the standard rules of engagement. So, good job on that at least. And… I honestly can’t say for sure that I wouldn’t have made the same choice.”
  
  “Off the record, sir, thank you.” My PADD pings and I glance at the display. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, the leaders of the Alliance and the Dominion have responded to my peace offer: they’re asking to meet in neutral territory.”
  
  “You’ve got a pair, Kanril, I’ll give you that,” he comments.
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “You blast half a planet back to the Stone Age and then expect to lead the first contact team?”
  
  “Sir,” I counter, “I fired on military targets only. But yes, sir: I helped make the mess; the least I can do is start cleaning it up.”
  
  “Very well. You should have backup under Rear Admiral Pekera Rader arriving within the week.”
  
  Betazoid, good choice. “Understood, sir. Bajor out.”
  
  I change into full dress uniform with a ballistic mesh vest underneath, ensure that we’re ready to swamp the airwaves with the recording of the meeting, and beam down to the planet with Gantumur and K’lak. Two helicopters await in a clearing on an isolated northern island. Two Sabeks, one resplendent in green and gray plumage, the other in blue and yellow, glare across the clearing at one another before turning their glares on me.
  
  I clear my throat and open my hands to them as I approach, having waved back my guards. “Secretary-General Va’kreht of the Alliance for Global Unity, Sibling High Minister Tro’draht of the People’s Syndicalist Dominion, my name is Kanril Eleya. I represent the United Federation of Planets and am here to welcome you to a new era.”
  
  The yelling starts immediately.

  "Great War! / And I cannot take more! / Great tour! / I keep on marching on / I play the great score / There will be no encore / Great War! / The War to End All Wars"
  — Sabaton, "Great War"
  

  

  
  Check out https://unitedfederationofpla.net/s/

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  cmdrscarlet Member Posts: 5,137 Arc User

  January 2018

  “Prime Directive, bah,” grumbled the senior Klingon. Grannon Trex took a swig from the flagon directly. His mood soured as he placed the container back on the table to look at Admiral Tracy Kent and then pointed a finger at her. “You know, there are still circles within the Empire that believes the Federation should be conquering planets. Starfleet is a formidable navy, I should know.” His aging, yet clean, beard dangled from his frown.
  
  The Admiral smirked before taking a sip from her wine glass. The flickering light from the torches on the outside deck reflected from her long, straight dark black hair. “Maybe so … to be fair, there are circles within Starfleet that believe the same.”
  
  Opposite the Admiral sat Commodore Matthew Calgar. His barrel-chested build was betrayed by the sudden uneasiness of the conversation. Matthew reached for his own glass and poured some of Grannon’s effective drink. “Come now, let’s not change the mood of the evening.”
  
  Kathryn dodged Calgar’s verbal negotiation and glared across the table to the venerable warrior. “I’m curious General, what would you do if you stumbled upon a pre-warp civilization? Are they ripe for submission or destruction in the name of glory?”
  
  Tension at the table suddenly became thick, the surrounding patrons of the restaurant unaware of the discussions from the veterans in the corner. Tracy looked between Grannon and Kathryn with a growing smile and then placed her glass quietly on the table. Calgar’s discomfort continued and he placed both hands to either side of his plate, as if ready to separate the Klingon and Human from conflict.
  
  Grannon leaned forward, the leather of his ceremonial jacket creaking as he moved. “Admiral Beringer, you assume too much.”
  
  An eyebrow rose on Kathryn’s forehead and she leaned forward as well. “You have not answered the question.”
  
  After a few seconds, the Klingon burst into laughter and slapped the table, capturing the other patron’s attention. “Well done, Admiral!” He gulped from his cup as he sat back into the chair. “I accept your challenge.” With that comment, everyone else returned to their hushed conversations.
  
  Wiping his mouth, Grannon explained, “In the older days, before the Cardassian War, Captains were left to their own discretions unless ordered by the Council. The Empire would not be what it is without expansion, and sometimes there are … growing pains. You should know this?”
  
  Matthew sighed with relief and Tracy calmly reached for her glass. Kathryn continued, “That’s what history would say, but have you faced the decision?”
  
  Grannon shook his head. “Should I consider myself fortunate? I’ve read some examples of when Starfleet handled pre-warp cultures and not all of those instances had a merry outcome. So, is it flawed?”
  
  Kathryn glanced at Tracy, who was inspecting her nails on one hand, clearly not interested in the conversation. Looking to Matthew, the Commodore was drinking from his cup and did so for a few seconds. She returned to the Klingon and shrugged. “It’s relative. Count yourself lucky.”
  
  “Oh, really,” Grannon looked surprised. “This night has been filled with tales of days long past. Please, regale us with another story.”
  
  Looking down at her plate, the half-eaten steak beckoned. Kathryn cut a slice and chewed it quickly.
  
  “Back in 2410, my ship was in the Delta Quadrant conducting chart work near the Outward Fringes. We captured subspace distortions emanating from a nearby system and we bounced to the source: two planets seemed to be engaged in a planetary war. Long-range scans suggested the cultures did not use warp-drives, at least not by Federation metrics.”
  
  The others started eating while she spoke. “We did discover they we able to harness nuclear power and their ships were fueled with it.”
  
  Kathryn paused and then sawed into her steak. “Several areas on both planets were scarred from nuclear detonations. Clearly, they were at war against each other.”
  
  Tracy lifted her glass to drink. “If I had to guess, you logged the tragedy and moved on.”
  
  Matthew sat straight still chewing on pasta. “Is that what you would have done, Admiral Kent?”
  
  Smiling from the question, Tracy nodded. “There is an idea that Captains have a moral obligation to countermand the Prime Directive if a species faces extinction. War is not a cause to go against the Directive, although it is terrible to witness, I suppose.”
  
  Grannon growled. “I prefer to let the dear Admiral finish her saga.”
  
  Tracy lifted her glass to salute and acknowledge the Klingon General’s request.
  
  Kathryn finished chewing. “Tracy is technically correct. We had no idea how much further the war was to continue, yet we noticed a flotilla in the heliosphere with nuclear-tipped projectiles inbound to a planet. I decided to use a tight-band subnucleonic beam to the projectiles in an attempt to neutralize the atomic matrix of the cores and to remain hidden. From long-range the effect was mostly successful.
  
  Matthew raised eyebrows. “Mostly?”
  
  “Yes.” Kathryn became somber. “A few made planetfall.” She looked into her lap and after a small sniffle looked up. “It seems the waiter is a little late with refills? I’ll go see the maiter d.” Standing, she pushed a strand of grey and burgundy hair, and excused herself from the table.
  
  Tracy shook her head and loudly landed her glass on the table with some impatience. “My queue to drop the conversation must have been too subtle, gentlemen.”
  
  Grannon was startled. “What do you mean?”
  
  Looking to the General, Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “Kathryn followed the Prime Directive by leaving the system after she failed to stop the missile wave from destroying several cities. Several more cities were still intact from her subtle action. There are always winners and losers in war and someone was going to win. It’s not Starfleet’s place to interfere in that tragedy because there was going to be a winner.”
  
  She paused for some effect before continuing. “So when I ‘guessed’ what Kathryn would do, it is because that is what happened. Looking at options, the only proper course of action was to index the system, document readings, and catalogue actions taken … then leave. “
  
  Matthew looked around and then leaned forward to loudly whisper. “You mean she just left the system without further investigation?!”
  
  Tracy nodded, “in order to follow the Directive, yes.”
  

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

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