"The Great Singular Migration"
Faylin McAlister
Location: Home Planet of Chameloid Race
===============
With some races, the instinct to return home gets to be a grave desire. This is especially true when the singular being knows that their time on this universe is coming to a close. So is the case with Chameloids........
===============
Emergency Room - Inardani Hospital - Inardani
Certain things were possitive throughout the Galaxy. Hospitals had the same universal smell to them. It mattered not if the medical facilities were located on Earth, Betazed, or the home world of the Chameloid. They all smelled like the same sterile environment. It was not possitive if the aroma was meant to induce calm by exhibiting that 'germ free' smell, yet the environment did exhibit healing in some attempt.
Crystal hitting crystal was the closet thing that could describe the shutting of the glass doors to the small er room. A white curtain was pulled to insure privacy from gazing eyes as the newest emergency was brought in. As the gurney wheels squeaked, the patients silver scaled arm flopped downwards. It was only protected by the titanium rail attached to the rolling bed.
Red. It was the only color she could see as her golden eyes rolled all directions. Blinking two sets of eyelids, the crimson fluid flowed from both corners of both eyes. It trailed down her cheek, down her smooth shoulder, down her arm, and down her webbed fingers. There it sat, hovering until it had collected enough of itself again to drop to the floor below.
The manila colored tile cradled the droplets of blood ritualistically. It's main job in this hospital was to provide a smooth, non porous surface for spills of what ever kind deemed necessary from patients or staff. It was doing it's job at the present time.
The usually quiet Chameloids gathered. For it was unusual to see such a case in the ER. Universal precautions would be taken, until they were able to conclude what exactly happened to this fellow being of their own kind. Donned in white gowns, masks, and gloves, the staff were only recognizable by translucent shimmery scales and traditional slanted golden eyes.
As the order was barked, strong light illuminated causing flashing of silver scales as the staff of Inardani General Hospital worked feverishly to attempt to revive the Chameloid that lay now dormant on the table. The main concern was to stabilize this 'Jane Doe'.
Coming around the corner, the main doctor practically slid on the being's blood as he attempted to get to the biobed.
"We've tried everything...nothings working! She's bleeding out from all bodily orifices."
"Circling the drain..." Came another response.
Reaching up, he stroked his hairless head through gloved hands as they continued to attempt to revive her.
"Name?"
"We don't know. She had no identification on her. A transit shuttle pilot found her slouched over in the back corner of the shuttle. She wasn't speaking, rasping for breath, and well......"
He nodded solemnly. It was one of those cases that sent chills down his shape shifting form.
"We lost her....."
Tall as they were, their postures slouched as one young intern's eyes fell to the floor. It always amazed him, even in this time, how much litter one person could accumulate when in the er. Scrapes of paper, gauze, tubes, and other 'medical' junk mixed with her smeared blood rested at his feet. Evidence of just how much they attempted to save her life.
The group gathered around the body of the young Chameloid. A moment of silence occurred before, out of respect, they elongated their necks, looked upwards, and deeply moaned. The sound was completely primitive, yet harmonized and overwhelming for any being not familiar with the ritual. They, at this time, did not know who the woman was, what she died of, or how she lived her life. For if they knew that information, they would leave the room with their backs turned. However, not knowing of the information, the Chameloids assumed that this woman led a good and wholesome life. With voices raised to top volumes, the glittery sound transcended above them and escorted her soul to the afterlife.
The praise ceremony was small, but still extremely important to the race. Silence erupted, until the lead doctor spoke.
"Let's clean her up as best we can. I'm possitive the police will be here in a while to investigate. This is not an everyday thing."
"Sir?"
"Yes?" His eyes shifted to the left as a staff member pulled the curtain back.
"We know who she is. If you look here, she has a number printed on her left forearm. I've seen those before..."
"Where?"
"In med school...specifically, anatomy and physiology. Some of the cadavers are sent from Star Fleet penal colonies. Once a being is incarcerated, they are tattooed with a specific numeric code and placed within the system. Out of curiosity, I ran the number on her arm in our database and linked it with the Starfleet criminal database."
"And?" He wished some young ones would just get to the point.
He handed his boss a padd full of information. Scanning it, the older doctor's forehead raised slightly. Placing the padd down at his side on a steel table, he spoke.
"Welcome home Faylin............"
Bing Bang Bong - Ao Dai! - part 2"
Flight Officer Gryphon "Samurai" Stone
Allison Von Ernst
Pilot Korr Shadin - NPC - Maître d'
Pilot Sanoe Nani - NPC - Waitress
Pilot Min'el Hoj - NPC - Hibachi Chef (wannabe)
Location: Allison Von Ernst Quarters/ Saber Squadron Crew Lounge
=================================================
The Pilot in the Fu Man Chu look escorted the couple to their table. The ever-changeable crew lounge had been rearranged to leave one large kidney bean shaped table in the center of the room. It was low to the floor and no chairs were apparent just two red cushions on the floor on the outside apex of the arch.
The maître d' was looking down at their feet and giving them a scornful look, a veritable ‘tsk tsk,’ on his lips.
"Oh sorry I forgot," Gryphon said as he slipped his shoes off and brushed them to the side with the instep of his right foot.
"Um, as I told you I'm from Japan and thought I'd show you a little of the culture I was raised in, Allison. This style of dining is called Hibachi and well, it's customary, for diners to remove their shoes but well you don't have to if you don't want to. Or if you need help I could? Um, well help," he stated almost in a stammer.
Not about to let a good thing go to waste, Alli turned on the 'helpless female' charm.
"My shoes? Oh Noodle-sticks...could you really help? These old things have such tricky clasps, and I’m afraid I'm all fumble fingered."
Fumble fingered...said the girl who could rip through a pentatonic blues scale in record time with her eyes closed, and all without musing up her nail polish.
She giggled and squeaked appropriately when the ever helpful pilot turned his attention to her dainty ankles helping with the footwear.
~~This is why Momma said. It always pays to paint your toenails.~~ Alli did a dainty little pirouette on her well pedicured tootsies.
Having completed the formalities Gryphon spied Mr. Shadin who was standing near the table with his hand pointing to the two cushions. Gryphon bowed (eyes never leaving the eyes of the maître d’) and then held out his left hand for Alli to take it.
Maintaining the shyness - not entirely faked, Alli placed her silken gloved fingers in Stones own strong hand. Allowing herself to be drawn further into the makeshift dinner for two.
Stone walked them over to the cushions and then moved to a kneeling/ sitting position with his feet tucked beneath him. Then he motioned for Alli to do the same.
Mindful of the long skirt which she was not entirely used to, Allison found out that the long leg slits of the Ao Dai made for easy movement to and from standing positions.
Tucking the cloth underneath her slender knees, she settled in on the pillow a look of bemused expectancy on her face.
A moment after they were both seated they were greeted by an interesting sight. It took Gryphon a moment place a name to the likeness he saw in his wingman Sanoe Nani. He once saw an old yellowed comic book from the late twentieth century about a boy named Richie Rich. Well this peculiar little boy had a robotic maid named Irona. The pilot turned waitress looked like a blonde non metallic Irona.
He couldn't contain his laughter at the realization.
Korr Shadin, gave him a small kick and tried to mumble under his breath, "I told her 'geisha' style waitress not 'French Maid,' but she said the costume closet on the ship didn't have much that would fit her so this was the best she could do.
Then he started snickering.
"I heard that Shadin!!"
He whispered even quieter, "but, she is pretty hot in it?"
"I heard that too! Now, shoo it's my turn."
There was a bit too much company for Alli's tastes, but the bumbling staff made for some amusing watching nonetheless.
Their French-maid-pilot-non-geisha waitress towered above them. She had a small notepad in one hand and a partially chewed on pencil in the other.
"May I take your order?" she said with a huge beaming smile on her bright face.
"We'll have the house special, and a couple of glasses of the house wine" Gryphon replied knowing there was only one thing on the menu anyway.
"Excellent choice! Your chef will be right out to prepare it for you right here on your table, which I might add is a really cool Japane…" she droned on before the maitre d' grabbed her by the arm and led her away.
Allison raised her eyebrow at the mentioning of the alcohol, but taking a deep breath decided to go all in. There was already enough going on that Momma would frown upon, so a little under aged drinking wouldn't blow things worse than they already were.
The door slides open an attractive looking Trill dressed all in white with an enormous hat that looked like a white poofy mushroom. Around her waist was a belt with various knives and cooking utensils stuck into it. She pushed in front of her a small cart with several covered plates. Without speaking the "chef" moved up to their table and executed a small bow, before moving to the inside arc of the 'kidney bean.'
She assumed the seating position opposite of the two diners and proceeded to "turn the table on". While it was heating up she passed out plates and flatware to Gryphon and Alli. She didn't speak and it was clear she was concentrating hard on what she needed to do.
It would be possible to describe her skills with Hibachi style cooking as good, but that would be a lie. She nearly lost a finger on one risqué knife toss. She flipped at least 4 pieces of shrimp onto the floor. Her 'rice volcano' got zapped away because the flame was too high (which was actually a good thing that may have saved all their lives).
Min'el was doing her very best to make everything just right, and though he gave her great credit for trying, he couldn't help but feel Alli wasn't impressed.
In fact, for Alli dinner was a candlelit dream.
Despite the grungy nature of the squadron ready room.
Despite the bumbling amateurish nature of the pilots turned wait staff.
Even despite the slightly undercooked main course and limp veggies??
She was in Alli-heaven.
After all....this was the night!
It was alike unto a night in Paris under the stars for the young awestruck girl in the green dress.
Resting her chin dreamily on her tiny gloved hand, Allison von Ernst watched amused as Gryphon struggled to twirl his pasta onto his fork.
Sighing contentedly as the pilot grumbled under his breath at the flatware, Allison wondered if this was how it was between mom and dad.
The stories she'd heard all her life led her to believe that life was never easy between young Rebecca and her partner in crime James Lionel Corgan, but here watching the dim candlelight dance across the grease streaked bulkheads, Alli had to believe in a more tender fantasy.
Maybe the stories weren't true...maybe there had been love once upon a time, and maybe…just maybe there was hope for a real 'happily ever after'.
She shook her head happily, blond hair dancing at her bare shoulders. Silly girl. That’s the kinda fantasies that got you in this mess. 20 years and half a billion miles from home.
Home.
She thought back to the treeless grasslands and rolling volcanic hills of her youth. Childhood beside the icy waters of Lake Mytavn ' and the crisp snowy mornings on the von Ernst homestead.
She'd been born in the states, but her only memories were of that cold northern paradise.
So far away in time and space - she'd come across the years to find the most unexpected of men.
"Draumar mínir urðu að veruleika" she sighed to herself in her native tongue. "Ef ég hef ekki rangt fyrir mér. . . Mér líkar við hann."
"Easy for you to say. Is that your way of saying that the food sucked?"
Shaking herself out of the past, Alli looked up to have her heart pierced by those emerald green eyes. "Oh, sorry." she blushed prettily. "Ummm… just thinking about home. Mom grew up on English, but Icelandic's really been the first language I learned."
The stories about her mom pulled on his heart strings. "I never really knew my mom. She died during my birth, but she does visit me now and then, and I know she's always with me."
Allison raised an eyebrow at the mentioning of his dead mother visiting on occasion, but decided that everybody needed a little flavoring of kookiness.
After all between Rebecca and James, the psychology wonder-twins, it was a wonder that Alli didn't turn out somewhat unusual.
~~~Guess the weirdness skipped a generation.~~ she mused twirling her hair with one finger while she took a too big sip of wine with the other...
~~~Whoa…~~~ she stifled a cough. ~~Alcohol sucks!~~~
She took another deep slug anyway.
He realized that last statement wasn't really pleasant dinner conversation, but yet it didn't feel wrong to discuss this with his young dinner guest. Maybe there was more to this lovely young lady then he originally thought.
The subject of parentage killed some of Allison's good mood, bringing her out of the fairly tale and back to the tragedy at hand. "Ummmm… Mom was Starfleet, Dad still is actually, but I never really met him. Uh… that is until recently… sorta." She shook her head. "It’s awfully awfully complicated actually." she stabbed ineffectually at her dinner, casting wary eyes at the attentive serving staff.
He could tell that thoughts of her father brought some odd tension to her. Stone tried to think of something to ease it. "My father was in Starfleet too, and I don't think you'd want to meet him either. He's not? Very personable you might say. Well how are you enjoying it so far?"
Draining her wine and holding out lazily for a refill. Alli felt her cheeks get all rosy~~" Mr. Samurai Stone..." she slurred a bit. "Ahhh'm feeling jus's plain zarky! Hic"
(Much Later after Dinner)
Once again he walked with a slightly wobbly Alli on his arm as they made their way to the Observation Deck for a view of the stars.
The room was an ocean of starlight.
Twinkling jewels of a thousand suns danced in yellows and whites across the floor to ceiling windows casting shimmering shadows across the silent couple.
Twirling stars ran up and down the silken smoothness of Allison's dress, hugging her slim curves with hypnotic light, her eyes aglow with the shine of ageless suns.
She swallowed hard, staring up into his face. His strong jaw and broad shoulders silhouetted against the darkness, the room silent except for the pounding blood in her own ears.
No, this was waaaay different than some sneaked smooch behind the school building at recess.
This was, more real.
~~I wonder...~~ she thought hazily, ~~~I wonder if this was how it was for mom and dad?~~~
Closing her eyes against the twinkling darkness, her gloved hands shakily running up Gryphon's strong arms she stood daintily on her tip-toes chin lifted towards his face, and ruby lips slightly puckered.
This was going to be perfect....
'Adorable' was the only way to describe her pose. He really wished he could give her the kiss she wanted, the one she deserved. But he couldn't lie to her and to grant her heart's desire when it wasn't true. He put a hand on each of her shoulders for just a moment.
"Sweet Allison, a true gentleman doesn't kiss on the first date. I had a spectacular evening with you," he stated as he gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek and a small hug.
Still perched on her toes with lips puckered, Alli opened one curious eye at the peck on the cheek.
~~~The hell?~~~ she thought.
Losing her balance off her toes, Allison stumbled back a bit, and touched her face. ~~~HE kissed me on the cheek?~~~
Geez, he couldn't have insulted her more if he just patted her on the head.
"Ummm...look Stud Muffins..." she regained her balance somewhat drunkenly. "I think you missed the primary target on that strafing run pilot."
Pooching out her lips again she angled herself slightly to put her thin body in better light. "Care to go around for another pass?"
"Allison, I apologize but I can't give what you ask. For one you are at least a little inebriated and I feel I'd be taking advantage of you, which wouldn't be my intent. I want you to know that although I find you extremely intriguing, I just don't feel 'that way' about you. I understand this may anger or confuse you, and for that I am sorry. Believe I or not I seem to have either an angering or confusing effect on nearly everyone."
"Intriguing?" Alli tapped Stone in the chest with a pointy finger. "Bugs under the microscope are intriguing dude."
She poked him again. "Taking advantage of me....What the spuff is that?"
She looked down at herself and did a quick personal inventory.
Boobs: check
Flat tummy: check.
Nice butt: check
Smoking hot legs: check and check.
Looking back up at him, she raised an eyebrow. "Dude...are you gay or something?"
This comment forced a laugh from him, “No I’m not gay or anything like that.”
"Well it’s got to be something." she retorted. "Either I ain’t cute enough for you, or you're batting for the other team."
“There is no doubt you are cute enough. You clearly must be the cutest girl in Starfleet and TRUST ME this bat only swings in one direction. You are really sweet and I am totally flattered you want to share a kiss with me. I bet every single man in Starfleet would die or kill to be able to share one with someone like you Allison, but I cannot be that guy. Not like this, or at least not right now..”
Gryphon felt extremely uncomfortable and wished he was somewhere else. It looked like his screwed up social awkwardness was coming to bear again and once again he would be the only one to blame. He felt, lost, sad and as usual lonely.
He struggled with the question he'd asked himself his whole life - Will I ever be understood?
Alli didn't give him a chance to figure it out. "Whatever... your life issues are not my concern rocket-boy. I can take a hint." waving her arm in a 'whatever' motion she stormed for the exit turning her back on the starlit chamber.
He thought maybe he should go after her and try to explain, but he knew he’d never achieve the result she was looking for. So he just let her go, a completely anti-climatic ending to a pretty good date.
Shuffling his feet, he made his way back to his quarters. Only been on the ship a few days and against all his good intentions, he’d already broke one sweet innocent heart.
Episode 29: The Starfleet Games
Prologue
Rear Admiral Umarin th'Voth
Chairman, Committee for the Starfleet Games
Lieutenant Sera Hendricks
Chief Aide to Admiral th'Voth
*****
Offices of Rear Admiral th'Voth
Starfleet Headquarters
San Francisco, Earth
"We have a problem."
Roused from his idle afternoon musings, Rear Admiral Umarin th'Voth looked up just as his chief aide stepped in, the office door sliding quietly shut behind her. Her round face was screwed up into a severe frown, and a single padd was clasped tightly in her hands.
Ordinarily, the Andorian admiral would have been quite concerned over the current state of his aide (and her omission of both "admiral" and "sir" in her opening statement, something she never did). But, given the most recent assignment he'd given her, th'Voth wasn't the least bit surprised at her reaction.
"So it's been confirmed, then," he replied evenly, gesturing that she should sit.
A flash of surprise crossed her face as she slid into her usual chair. "You...you knew already?" she asked, releasing the padd from her grip and sliding it across the desk toward him.
"I've suspected it for many years, Sera; so have a few others for that matter. I simply needed confirmation, which is where you came in." Reaching for the padd he quickly skimmed its contents. One antennae twitched slightly as his eyes darted back and forth; the only outward indication of any reaction to the news. "Camboro, eh...should have known," he muttered to himself.
"Then...what do we do? Cancel the Games?"
"No," th'Voth replied quickly. The ice in his voice indicated that option was not, nor would it ever be, an option.
"How else can we stop it? The Games are less than a month away."
Leaning back into his chair, th'Voth contemplated the situation for a moment, antennae dancing around as he considered the possibilities. After almost half a minute he looked back at Sera. "We throw them off."
Sera cocked her head to the side, curious.
"Although the makeup of the competitors is different each year, the dominant teams in the Games tend to be fairly constant over time. The easiest solution is introduce a rogue hyperspanner into the system."
"A 'rogue hyperspanner', sir?"
Th'Voth's antennae sank forward in a clear sign of embarrassment. Apparently his understanding of Terran idiom was not as complete as he thought. "An unknown element, Lieutenant Hendricks; something significant enough to change things."
"I see." She nodded slowly. "What did you have in mind...or perhaps I should ask who?"
"I'm not entirely sure," he replied, antennae perking up slightly as he activated the viewscreen on the side wall of his office, "but perhaps you can assist me."
*****
Several hours later, the pair had taken a very long list of ships and narrowed it down to a list of three. Sera looked at the screen, squinting slightly at the small text. Time to schedule another appointment with the optometrist, she mused.
"The Basilisk, the Galaxy, and the Zhukov," she read. "None are medical ships, or transport ships, or on the front lines of the war, or about to be on the front lines, or any of the other criteria we've specified. So which one looks the most promising?"
Th'Voth tapped a fingernail idly on his desk, looking at the names. Basilisk, Galaxy, Zhukov. Galaxy, Basilisk, Zhukov. Zhukov, Basilisk, Galaxy. The names flipped over and over in his mind. "Which would you pick?"
Sera rubbed her chin, then tapped a few keys and called up more detailed information on the three vessels. "Basilisk is running at about half strength, only 75 crew at the moment. Given the average 50 percent crew participation rate in the Games, that gives us less than 40 competitors."
"Not enough to make a difference."
"Right," she acknowledged with a nod. "Galaxy is running at near full capacity, almost one thousand crew aboard. However, she has a new captain that's yet untested, and the ship in general has a reputation as a flying insane asylum for some of the most, erm, "unique" people Starfleet has to offer. On the other hand, Zhukov is running at full capacity, nearly 700 crew, and has a much more moderate reputation." She tapped a few more buttons, calling up a full profile on the ship. "Plus...oh, rats."
"What?" Th'Voth glanced at his aide, then looked back to the screen, immediately noticing what had caused that reaction: Zhukov was currently in drydock for its 10-year refit. "Ah."
"She'll be in drydock for at least another two months, and in the meantime her crew is scattered to the four winds," Sera confirmed, closing the file. "Looks like Galaxy is our ship."
Th'Voth nodded once, the movement of his antennae once more displaying his unhappiness at the situation. But, there was little else he could do. With so many ships dedicated to the war effort, and so many more either undergoing major repairs or being upfitted to take place in future battles with the Triad, pickings were quite slim for so-called "pet projects". And the Starfleet Games were definitely considered a "pet project" by the majority of Starfleet Command.
But Umarin th'Voth would be damned if he let the spirit of the Games be tarnished in such a fashion. During peacetime it may have been just another exhibition of the finest Starfleet had to offer, but during wartime the Games were one of the most effective morale-builders they had. And to th'Voth, who was but the latest in a long line of Voth clanspeople who had won medals since the inception of the Games nearly a century and a half ago, the four weeks of pomp and circumstance, competition and celebration, meant more to him than most. He would be damned if he let the Games-- no, his Games-- be corrupted by a bunch of grelth-licking, scum-sucking pirates.
"Alright then," he responded at last. "I'll extend the invitation."
UNFORGIVEN
"Unleashing the dogs..."
Featuring Admiral John Q Bhrode (former Captain of the USS GALAXY) and Captain Lysander Hawksley (former Chief of Tactical on the USS Galaxy and Bhrode's right hand.)
Also included are Admiral Robert Lee Price (Former Captain of the USS GALAXY himself!) and Dr. Nowland Phall (Director of the K-19 research and development station - who has never set foot on the USS GALAXY!)
Previously: A Bolian freighter came upon a battered escape pod containing three brutalized Federation citizens. Starfleet Intelligence was able to discern that the deceased were being held at what was believed to be a Breen run prison camp on the former Federation colony world of Corvallis. They were also able to identify one of the victims as Admiral Bhrode's son. An emergency meeting of the Security Counsel was called and it was decided that Bhrode would spearhead the rescue efforts.
Admiral Price is currently on his way to inform Bhrode...
******************************************
In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons. - HERODOTUS
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(OOC: Que the Starship Troopers Narrator voice!)
The Borg.
There are perhaps no two other words uttered together that inspire such dread and terror amongst those in the civilized universe.
United Federation of Planets President Nanietta Bacco once said that everyone knows someone who in turn also knows somebody who has suffered a loss at the hands of those soul stealing automatons who shuffle through the universe like the ancient undead leaving carnage, tears and death in their wake.
A young Captain Robert Price and the crew of the USS GALAXY had long ago managed to negotiate an improbable treaty of non aggression with the Borg after first hand witnessing their march of destruction.
Eighteen months ago, that treaty was shattered by a complex plot - fueled by greed and ruthlessness - that resulted in unleashing the darkest force of nature upon the universe once again.
Knowing that this time the Federation needed an edge in the inevitable war with the Borg, the now graying Admiral Price reached across the isle and convinced Star fleet 'hawks' and 'doves' alike of the importance of research and development of new defenses to protect the people.
The controversial Admiral Bhrode was hand picked to act as a security detail to the K-19 research station in a move some in the fleet saw a way of dealing with a chronic "problem child" while pacifying the popular Admiral Price's request.
Seemingly swept aside and forgotten, Admiral Bhrode saw a chance to do the things that he saw fit without the red tape and constant bureaucracy. He took the research station and rebuilt it in his own image drawing upon the science of both his clever staff and the technology stolen from the Borg themselves.
It was that image that Admiral Price and the rest of his party found themselves face to face with....
*****
"Oh my God! He built the Death Star!" Commander Reynolds said, his mouth hanging open as he stared out the view port of the shuttle craft.
Looming ahead of them was the K-19 space station...or what had once been K-19. Now after what appeared to be countless man hours of heavy construction, it was something else entirely.
"That's a ...that's a Borg Tactical Sphere." Price said gazing at the unmistakable construct hanging in space like an ornament of doom.
"ATTENTION K-19, THIS IS THE FEDERATION RUNABOUT SABER REQUESTING PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD. SENDING IFF CODES AND AUTHORIZATION PACKAGE NOW." the pilot radioed holding her position.
Around the sphere, ships glided busily hither and yon seemingly with unknown purpose. Price had the distinct impression that in addition to those he could see, there were others who had the small runabout directly in their cross hairs awaiting the green light to engage should the runabout turn out to be anything more then it was.
=/\= YOU ARE CLEAR FOR BERTH SABER. FOLLOW THE INCOMING FLIGHT PATH TO BAY 6. YOU ARE STRONGLY ADVISED TO NOT DEVIATE FROM THE APPROVED FLIGHT PLAN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. =/\=
"C..Copy that." the pilot said swiveling in her chair and glancing at Price.
"Steady as she goes, Lieutenant." he reassured her. "You're doing fine."
The Admiral couldn't help but marvel at the construction of the cube as the runabout eased towards the station.
It was smaller then the typical Borg tactical spheres that Price had seen ages ago yet still was as big as DS5 and other ports of call he had visited in the past. Try as he might, his trained eye could barely pick up the original structure of K-19 what with all of the modifications and additions that had been made throughout the past months.
He wondered to himself how Bhrode had managed to expand the station like this in such a short period of time without anyone even in Star Fleet knowing what was happening.
K-19 also lost it's spherical shape a little as the runabout closed the distance and Price could see the various torpedo tubes and phaser banks giving the construction a more menacing and thorny appearance then initially.
There were also exotic looking arrays the Admiral had never seen before. He was pondering their purpose as the runabout settled gracefully onto the deck of the shuttle bay.
"Better keep the engine running just in case the Admiral shows up in black robes with a garrison of storm troopers." Commander Reynolds joked as the pilot opened the runabout's doors.
"No worries, mate. I see a familiar face already." Price said maneuvering his hover chair down the small ramp where Captain Lysander Hawksley was waiting, one leg draped casually over the dock master's consol.
"If you have Eliathian, Kent Peterson, Corgan and the rest of the gang in there with you, we're going to have to have us one hell of a reunion party." the Centurion said with a smile shaking the Admiral's hand.
"I'm afraid I'm here on business this time." Price said, then added. "The captain's pips look good on you."
"Thanks. It started out as a brevet rank. You know how the old man is. I think the statute of limitations ran out and they're permanent now." Hawksley said with a shrug. "Speaking of the old man, he's waiting on you in the adjacent bay. You'll get to see his newest toy."
"Should be interesting. This is Commander Reynolds." Price said.
"You're not related to an Allana Reynolds are you?" Lysander asked.
The Commander flushed.
"She's my sister." he said then after a long pause "Just kidding."
Lysander patted his chest feigning a heart attack.
"We better get going. The old man doesn't like to be kept waiting. Besides, I don't think I can take any more of the Commander's jokes."
"I must say I'm impressed by what you have accomplished here." Price said as he and Reynolds followed Hawksley down the hall.
"We've really used the transwarp mirror to learn a lot about the Borg. It gives us a chance to sit on their doorstep and study them without even being detected." he said stopping at the doorway to the second shuttle bay and keying his security code into the panel. "It's kinda scary to be honest. Speaking of which..."
The doors opened to reveal John Q Bhrode laying prone on the deck plates shouldering the largest rifle Price had ever seen not mounted on a vehicle.
".70 caliber sniper's rifle." Commander Reynolds whispered. "Never seen one in real life before."
"There's quite a few things around here that you may have never seen before. Better plug the ears." Lysander advised.
Bhrode gazed through the enormous scope affixed atop the weapon and aimed it out of the shuttle bay at a floating buoy just outside the station. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle's thunderous report echoed throughout the bay.
Outside the station, the buoy exploded into shards of unrecognizable metal.
Admiral Bhrode stood up, removed his earplugs and handed the rifle to Dr. Phall who took the weapon and ejected the spent casing.
"Depleted dilithium rounds. Something new we are working on. Hard enough to penetrate a hull plate from over 2 miles away." he rasped. "I don't suppose you sailed all this way just to talk about the advances in ballistic science though. You know me well enough so lets forgo the pleasantries. Tell me Bob, what shit storm has the Fleet found themselves balls deep in that Murdock sent you to tell me about?"
"Perhaps we should adjourn to your ready room."
"Look around you Price. This whole damn station is my ready room, state room or latrine if I so desire. You can talk here just as well as anywhere."
Price glanced over at Lysander.
"Don't worry about Wonderboy. He may be a pain in the ass most of the time but he's an invaluable member of my staff - more so now with Von Ernst out and about destroying my starships." Bhrode said then turned to Hawksley "Don't praise go to your head, Number Two."
'Wouldn't dream of it, Sir." Lysander.
"Very well, mate. I'll get right to it. Recent intelligence has discovered that the Breen have set up a prison colony."
"That comes as no suprise. War is an ugly thing, Price. I've seen blood running from the wounded, men coughing their gassed lungs out, dead in the mud, cities destroyed. A penal colony wouldn't bring you out here.
Bhrode was handed the rifle once again. He propped it up on his hip and opened the chamber.
"That thing run on the electric primer?" Commander Reynolds asked arching his neck to get a better look at the weapon.
"It's a pulse primer. Guarentees no misfires. And a word of advise son. When in the company of Admirals dancing around a subject, you would do well to speak when spoken to. So are either of you going to tell me what's so special about the prison camp?"
"It's on Corvallis."
Bhrode chuckled.
"I always knew that mess would turn around someday and bite us in the ass." Bhrode said taking a large blue round from Dr. Phall. "I trust you are asking me to draw up a plan to liberate the camp?"
"We're asking you to lead the strike force." Price said.
Bhrode studied his old ally for a very long moment, then carefully placed the bullet into the chamber.
"You're not telling me something, Bob." Bhrode said with an edge in his voice. He worked the bolt loudly.
"I don't really no how to say this John. One of the casualties of the camps..." Price started and drew a deep breath "One of the casualties was your son."
ooc: Many of you knew Jordan through the original Galaxy, the Miranda, or both. For those who didn't, or who don't remember her, I tried to include some background and will include more in the next couple of posts. But if you have any questions, let me know.
---
"Mrs. Elaithin Returns"
Cdre. K Jordan Elaithin
Director of Clandestine Operations
Starfleet Intelligence
---
Flag Officer's Family Quarters
USS Miranda, Flagship, Eighth Fleet
Deep Space
---
All organizations have a certain number of individuals who most others would rather not deal with if it can be helped. In some cases, this is because the person in question is wholly incompetent or wholly arrogant, or even worse -- some combination of the two. Others, the desire to avoid is borne from the fact that the specific entity in question is simply a pain in the ass; a bitch; a bastard of the highest order; a slimy weasel of such a caliber they make even a politician wince at their audacity.
But there are a few who are avoided because of what they represent; their role and position is of such a brand that it is simply better/ easier/more comfortable to convince yourself that they don't actually exist. That they're not actually needed. These are the people who do the dirty work and know where the bodies are buried -- often literally. They fix things that need fixing; they make problems disappear. They do what most people don't even think about being necessary.
Over her long intelligence career, Kit Jordan Elaithin had been fit into every possible category. She'd spent more time than she would have liked being seen as the incompetent who slept her way to the top, or as the pet who was neither talented nor intelligent enough to make it on her own. In a large part, she perpetuated it as all was part of her cover; all allowed her to do her actual job. It was disheartening how willing people were to believe it, but such was life; she could act, that's why she was a successful operative -- she could make people believe what she wanted them to.
The judgments and boxes didn't stop there. Over the years, she had also been seen as the definitive traitor, as someone so power-hungry and scheming that she would do anything to reach an ultimate goal. Some called her an ice queen, or a political opportunist, or a puppet master. Rumors circulated that she ran anything and everything from behind her Black Curtain of Shadows, that she pulled the strings of Intelligence Director Marty Batanides and sometimes even Starfleet Commander-in-Chief Victor Murdock as it suited her. Some said the coming war was on her shoulders, that she had personally orchestrated it so that she would be able to sustain her relevance; they said that she had never truly turned away from Section 31 and some even went so far as to say that she had long carried Ford Serpico's mantle as leader of the most extreme of the extreme.
For her part, Jordan never paid much attention to the rumors, conjecture, and "scuttle" that circulated. It was the nature of the beast. They used her name, but rarely were they able to identify her -- though how that was, it was tough to say. She was the most well-known figure in Starfleet Intelligence, which was uncomfortable given that she was supposed to be the spookiest of all the spooks, a ghost no one could pin down, someone no one could accurately identify. Pictures were all but non existent; few people outside of her own division would be able to accurately point her out in the crowd; but it was getting to the point it was luck more than anything and concerns were starting to get raised about her safety and the safety of her family -- especially as tensions began to increase.
Jordan longed for the days when all involved in clandestine operations were hidden behind a thick curtain of protective smoke and mirrors, but the revelations of Section 31 and their deep reach into Starfleet Intelligence -- and the clandestine division in particular -- had required a certain amount of new transparency. At least, it had required publication of her name and identity, a brief breakdown of where she came from, both the good and the bad and the controversial. She was a child recruit and a working operative by age 15, all but raised in the oh-so-nurturing environment of Ford Serpico's SFI-CO directorate; in such a situation she became an unwitting accomplice to Section 31's operations, but upon realizing this she transformed herself into a key figure in bringing about their downfall. She was intelligent and resourceful, a strong administrator, a solid and able leader. The best choice. The only choice. And as controversial as the appointment had been, it had been reluctantly accepted because Sainted Victor Murdock endorsed it full heartily.
But then there came that small matter of death and resurrection. That hadn't helped with the private, under-the-radar lifestyle.
One part savior, one part demon. To some, she was now a religious icon. To others, it was further proof she would do anything for power -- even fake her own death, even risk destroying her family.
She found the whole situation absurd -- the rumors and the facts alike.
It was even more absurd when she sat in her current situation (or those like it) and reflected upon the greater scheme of her life. Seeing her at the current moment, no one would ever think she was any of the things described. No, at the moment, Jordan Elaithin was very much Mom: her hair up in a messy twist, her clothing a little rumpled, and her face lined with exasperation as she stared down the nearly four-year-old boy who stood in front of her, his t-shirt on backward, one pant leg rolled up, and a shoe stuck on one of his hands (while both his feet remained bare).
"No!" he said again, eyes widening with firm emphasis.
"Connor, this was not a yes or no question," Jordan stated, sighing as she let herself fall from the crouching position and into a full seat on the ground of the children's bedroom. Connor crossed his arms and gave her an expression that -- let's be frank here -- he could only have learned from her. "Do you want green socks or blue socks?"
"Momma! I said no! No socks. No green socks. No blue socks. No socks!"
"I want purple," his twin sister, Aria, piped up from where she sat next to her mother, watching the situation with large grey-blue eyes as she played with a stuffed toy horse.
"Aria, the purple socks are dirty," her mother murmured, closing her eyes and trying to will away the headache that was creeping up from behind them.
It was strange. She could juggle the most highly classified of all classified materials from every sector of the Known Universe, could disseminate the most minute of details without a thought to those who need it. She could discuss with Victor Murdock or Romulan leaders or Breen officials or {insert monster of the week here} as any situation called for it. She could even deal with her fellow intelligence directors involving the rampent misuse of intelligence power onboard and surrounding the USS Galaxy and the SFI staff stationed upon her. But every once in a while, her own children -- these 44-month-old children were able to frazzle her.
"Well…" Aria drew out the word's single syllable, using the faux- thoughtful tone she so often heard her mother use. "Replicate new purples," she stated. "Right? I want purple. I like purple."
Connor was silent a moment, his forehead wrinkling to match the small ridges decorating the bridge of his nose while he studied his sister, and then he nodded as though he'd just solved the great question of Universal Peace.
"Yes," he said. "I do like purple. Purple socks."
Jordan looked over at her daughter. "Thank you, Ari. Thank you for that, really."
The director of Starfleet's clandestine intelligence operations folded the green and blue socks together before she stood and stuffed them in the locker, then moved to the replicator where she pressed for the over-used purple sock program. Two pairs materialized, one for Aria and one for Connor. Aria had been insisting on this for two and a half weeks now, and after day four Jordan had become too tired to argue. This was, however, the first time that Connor decided to join his sister. It boded well, to be honest -- in a couple of days the little girl would decide on something new and a week or so after that the cycle would repeat. Why this latest obsession had been over certain colored socks, Jordan had no ghastly idea. But it was infinitely better than the January skirt fiasco. She honestly thought her husband was going to die and/or murder her when he came home to find his son wearing a skirt (which Jordan quickly had to explain as a kilt, an explanation Jii only vaguely accepted, and that acceptation was more for his own sanity than anything else).
Jordan handed one pair to each of the children, who quickly pulled them in place on their respective feet, Connor having dropped the shoe from his left hand. As they did this, Jordan figured she would nip it in the bud and replicated several additional pairs, folding them and putting them in their rightful storage place.
"I can't guarantee how tolerant your father is going to be about this," she said, "so be prepared to wear whatever socks he picks out for you."
"Not fair," Connor tutted, shaking his head as he stood and wondered to his mother, wrapping his arms around Jordan's leg.
"It's not going to be for long," Jordan said, brushing a hand through her son's unruly dark hair as it stood defiantly in every direction. "I'll be back before you know it."
"But I'll miss you, momma," Connor whimpered.
"I know. I'll miss you guys. But you'll have daddy, here."
"I just don't understand," Aria said with the exaggerated inflection of a precocious child her age.
"I have to go to the Galaxy."
"Why?"
"For work."
"But why?" Aria asked, a slight whine creeping into her tones.
"Aria, no whining," Jordan said. "It's for work. There are some people who need to get in trouble."
"Trouble or DEEP trouble?" Aria inquired.
"Deep trouble," Jordan said, nodding.
"Wow. Just. Wow," Aria said, shaking her head with wide eyes.
"They were really bad, huh?" Connor questioned.
"Very," Jordan stated. "And so I have to go and make sure they don't do it again."
"But… why can't their momma do it?" he questioned, his face screwing up into one of vast irritation as he tried to think it through with a four-year-old's understanding of life, the universe and everything.
"Sometimes, there's a type of trouble that's worse than that," she said. "Like... when you or Aria get into deep trouble, it's because you're doing something that might cause you to get hurt, or that might cause you to hurt each other, right? And I get upset because I love you and I don't want anything to happen to you. Well, this is a little like that, but instead of hurting themselves or hurting their sister? What they're doing can hurt a whole lot of other people, more people than are even on this ship, and what they're doing can even hurt your dad, and me, and the two of you. So it makes me furious -- really, really, really mad. It's something that takes much more than a time-out, or an early bedtime, or no dessert."
"Bigger trouble than no dessert?" Aria asked, her eyes widening even further as the true horror of this dawned.
"Much bigger."
"Wow."
"Wow," Connor mimicked his sister. "Just. Wow."
"Just wow," Aria agreed.
"So you gotta go because they're in deep trouble," Connor said. "Wow. Momma. I don' wanna be them."
"No, honey," she said laughing, "you really don't."
"Research"
Cmdr. Arel Smith, apc
J. Andrus Suder, apc
****
USS Galaxy
Library
It was one of those unspoken agreements - like not telling your lover that their ass looked fat in those pants or never mentioning the great legacy of Captain Jean-Luc Picard within earshot of Captain M'Kantu - namely this, Arel Smith did NOT visit the library.
She had never set foot in the library, she would never set foot in the library - excluding a security threat, of course - and it was entirely possible that the commander didn't even know what a book actually was.
It was total bullshit, of course, but officers - Andrus had been told - had reputations to uphold. If it got out that a certain security officer liked to check out 'Tales of Andor', the multiple volumes of Terran Norse mythology, or 'The Warrior in my Arms', that officer's reputation could be permanently damaged. And then said officer would have no choice but to cut off the librarian's penis with a very dull knife.
Andrus, being very attached to his penis - hardy har har, had decided to follow the advice of the former librarian and had so far managed to ignore Commander Smith whenever she didn't enter the library to not borrow a book.
He was therefore a little startled when the security officer suddenly appeared in front of him, slamming a large book down on his desk.
"Well," She said. "You gonna help me or what?"
Andy blinked and then pointed. "This is a book. You read it."
"Don't be a smartass," Arel snapped. "This book mentioned 'lesser Bajoran prophecies'. I want to read those."
Andrus turned the book around and looked at the cover, the very cleverly titled 'Great Prophecies of Bajor', and then at the section she'd earmarked. "Those look pretty rare. I think they will have to be shipped ... do you care if it's a data file or the actual text?"
She glared at him.
"Data file it is then," Andy said, moving to his computer to start the request process. "If I may ask ..."
"No," Arel said and left.
***
Finding the Commander's prophecies was harder than Andrus had expected.
It seemed that Horran, Trakor, and, naturally, the Emissary was all the rage these days but little known prophecies alluded to in dusty, outdated texts? Not so much.
He therefore confirmed what he had feared from the start. Arel Smith was not a patient person.
"You should use a new threat, Commander," Andrus said after she had threatened to do something horrible to his genitals.
Arel stopped mid-tirade. "Is it starting to sound like hollow threats?"
"I wouldn't say that exactly," The Betazoid said very carefully. "It just dulls the impact somewhat when you stick to one appendage."
Arel considered and Andrus shuddered. The commander, he found, was a visual thinker and a very creative one at that. "Er, perhaps if I knew a little more about what you were looking for?"
"It's vague," She said. He could feel how uncomfortable she was but wasn't sure of any encouragement that wouldn't get him killed. He settled for a barely noticeable nod and she continued. "Something about two brothers saving two worlds."
There was more - something about a dream she'd had - but Andrus decided not to mention how well the commander could project. "Do you know anything about the brothers?"
Arel frowned. "They have the same mother. I got the impression that they might have different fathers."
"And the worlds?"
"Bajor and Qo'nos."
"Interesting."
"That's one way to put it," Arel said blandly. "Think that will help?"
The worlds were specific enough that he thought it would narrow the field a bit. "Yes, Commander. I think it might."
Arel nodded, then smiled sweetly. "What do you think about this one?" She closed her eyes and a truly gruesome image flashed into his mind.
Andy grimaced.
"Just wanted to give you some motivation," She said helpfully.
"Daughter of Rebbise, part 4"
Ens. Relsta
At first, it was just warmth, spreading up her legs.
It shouldn't have been that way—it should have hurt almost instantly, once the fabric of her fatigues caught fire. She should have felt her skin's moisture evaporate, felt her legs char as they themselves touched the flames.
Denobulan skin was tough, thicker than human skin, and considerably less vulnerable to heat. Still, it only postponed the inevitable, a David that bought her scant moments against a 600 degree Celsius Goliath.
So it wasn't her skin, but the two years Relsta had spent on New B'Hala that would determine whether or not she lived through this. With T'Pei her only companion, Relsta had taken immediately to meditating, devoting the long night hours when other species would be sleeping to learning techniques to control her body, to bury certain senses in order to bring clarity to others.
To avoid panic.
Relsta just hoped that she had been a good enough student.
The crackling of the fire roared in her ears as she stared into the Ka'tin's eyes, their inky black her entire world. Doubt flashed cross them, followed by anger. She was bluffing, and he knew it, knew that the fire burnt her as it would any of his people.
Except, even though part of her knew the skin was burning off of her legs, the feeling was muted, as if she was already burnt into cinders, buoyed up by the flames.
Relsta didn't have to ignore the pain—she wasn't allowing herself to feel it in the first place.
How long had she been there? Minutes, hours? Later, Doctor Burton would tell her it could not possibly have been more than a few seconds, and though Relsta knew she was right, she still felt like she had lived lifetimes in the fire, waiting for the approval from the crowd that would guarantee her safety. It had to come soon. Already she knew the damage to her legs might be irreparable. She was walking the thin line between walking out of this place alive and never walking again.
It was only when she felt the frantic pressure of hands, a blanket smothering her, that Relsta realized she must have stepped forward out of the fire. Standing. She was standing. Had she stayed in long enough?
Dimly, Relsta knew she couldn't allow the focus of the meditation to slip. She held onto the Ka'tin's eyes like a lifeline, only allowing fragments to slip in, like a dancer twirling in circles, holding on spot on the wall constant. The crowd cheered her name—or was it their name for her? Relsta allowed herself a cold smile, mocking the man who wanted to kill her. He was powerless, because she was Rebbise-da, and they would do whatever she asked.
As if he knew, the Ka'tin's eyes slid to the left, slipping from hers, and Relsta lost her tenuous hold on her meditative state.
Pain slammed into her like a torpedo.
Relsta staggered, Kranas' grip the only thing holding her upright. Her head lolled forward, and the Denobulan woman found herself face to face with the reality of what she had just done to her body.
Panic fought to rise in her chest, as images of her charred skin flashed before her now closed eyes. The smoke was choking her—she needed to do something, to let the air in, or she'd suffocate.
Then, in a desperate fight to retain control, the shutters of Relsta's window onto reality slammed shut. The sounds of the crowd faded, the pain no longer mattered, the haze returned. This was not the focused clarity of meditation, however. With no tether to reality, Relsta drifted. Her eyes saw the Ka'tin gesture to her, his glance shifting from Kranas to somewhere outside of the circle, but she made no attempt to interpret his actions.
'I don't have any shoes,' she thought. 'They're burnt up. I can't go back to the ship without shoes.'
Kranas was tugging on her arm, pulling her away from the fire.
"But—" Relsta tried to explain to him that she had no shoes, but it took too much energy. The circle parted for the large man, but hands pawed at her from the makeshift corridor until the pair emerged into the darkness beyond. No one followed them. Their chanting had begun again, and this time it wasn't her name. Relsta didn't know what it was, and didn't care. Kranas led her through the encampment, half dragging her, half supporting her, and Relsta succumbed to the cloud.
*****
"Wake wake." Kranas' voice was hushed. Relsta heard it, but he was so far away, she didn't know how to respond. She was sitting on a rock, now. It was solid, and cold. Relsta remembered the rain going through her skin and how cold it had been. She started to giggle.
**thwack**
"Rebbise-da!"
For the second time, Relsta found herself jerked back to the present, this time by the stinging slap across her face. The difference was that this time she had Kranas to focus on, something to temper the pain, and keep away her panic.
"Rebbise-da?" He leaned forward, his face mere inches from Relsta's.
"Mus wake wake now. Run go." He tugged on her arm. "Ka'tin say Kranas mus kill Rebbise-da. Kranas not kill. Rebbise-da mus run go."
Relsta felt like she must still be dreaming. Was he letting her go?
"Kranas, why?" she asked quietly.
"Ka'tin not believe, but Kranas knows ees real Rebbise-da. Not kill." The man's face was creased with worry as he answered, and Relsta realized what how gravely he was endangering himself by crossing the Ka'tin.
He shoved a bundle of leaves into her hands. "Eets dis. Ees for help." He pointed to her legs, and Relsta realized that the leaves must be natural painkillers. Unless they were poisonous. She supposed it didn't much matter anymore.
There was a ripping sound, and Relsta choked back a bitter laugh as she looked down. Kranas was making her shoes.
"Mus run go now," he repeated urgently as he gently bound the rags around her blistered, bloody feet. "Kranas make falts, say Rebbise-da hurt Kranas. But soon, Ka'tin make all Kahru look find."
He pointed to the sky. It was getting light. Soon the sun would rise, and she would have to be as far away as possible. She could walk now, but Relsta wondered how far and fast her legs could carry her, even with the dulling effect of the leaves.
Unsteadily, she stood and took a couple of steps. The leaves were beginning to blunt the pain, make it manageable. If she never looked down, she could pretend that her skin was still there. The tiniest seed of hope took root in Relsta's breast. She had done the impossible and somehow she was still alive. 'I can get out of this.'
She looked at the man who was risking his life for her, and realized there was one last thing she had to do.
"Kranas." Relsta lifted her hand and pointed to herself. "Relsta." She tapped her collarbone, and then her shoulder, and finally her head, repeating her name each time. "Rebbise-da ees Relsta." She held her breath, hoping he would understand.
"Rellssta," he repeated slowly, as comprehension dawned on him. "Relsta..." He smiled, but it was a warm smile, not the lecherous smile of before. "Mus run-go now, Relsta."
Relsta nodded, suddenly unable to smile back at him, and turned into the woods, moving as fast as her mangled legs would allow.
~How Thyago Finally Gets a Job, Part III~
Thyago Carneiro
T'Vara
Thyago fidgeted impatiently as T'Vara worked at her computer. He felt awkward just sitting there, waiting. He had nothing to do but stare at her, and occasionally interrupt that by staring at the accoutrements of her office. Were she anything but Vulcan, she would have undoubtedly felt equally as awkward because of his staring and would have kicked him out by this point, but she was Vulcan, and so, said nothing. Which made Thyago feel even more awkward, because he thought he was making her feel awkward.
He was feeling awkward for two. He was pregnant with awkwardness.
Suddenly, the clickity-clack of type keys ceased and T'Vara pulled her hands away from the keyboard. Thyago perked up, "Am I alive?"
T'Vara blinked, momentarily speechless as she tried to remember if she'd ever before been asked that question. Realizing that she hadn't, she then contemplated the level of pointlessness of the question, and then wondered if, despite centuries of insistences to the contrary, there were in fact some stupid questions in this universe.
"Without a tricorder I cannot conclusively verify that you are in fact alive at this moment," she began, "however, according to Federation records you are now classified as 'living'."
"Yes! Score!" he shouted, jumping from his chair. "So, I'm back? Everything is back to normal?"
"It is," she confirmed with a nod.
"I have all my bank acounts again? All my money?" he asked, leaning forward over her desk in an attempt to peek at the screen.
"You do," she continued, blanking the screen without looking away from him.
"Awesome!" he sighed. But, then he paused, a thought crossing his mind. "What about my credit score?"
"It has been restored as well."
"Oh. Could, uh, could we wipe that one clean, maybe?"
"No." She shook her head once, the single word carrying an air of finality with it.
"Awww, man! Caralho," he cursed, falling dejectedly back into his chair. "You would think getting resurrected would wipe the debt clean, sacau?"
"Financial records are maintained within the United Federation of Planets for a period of one hundred years past a person's date of death," T'Vara told him. "The only way to improve one's credit score is to actually take steps to improve it."
"The hard way," the Brazilian grumped, folding his arms.
T'Vara settled back into her chair, settling her hands into her lap. "Now that you are...alive, Lieutenant Carneiro, you will be returning to active duty shortly. As you have been here for several months already, until such time as you are reassigned, you are free to remain on this vessel if you so choose."
"That's good to know," he said, a look of confusion hung across his face, "Where else would I go? We're in the middle of nowhere."
"You could make your departure when we next dock at a starbase," she clarified, without a hint of a sigh.
"Oh, right, that makes sense, I guess," he replied sheepishly. Then, "Do you know where they're going to reassign me?"
"I do not. As you have only recently been...resurrected, it may take some days before a suitable assignment is found." She paused, then added, "However, should you have a preference for the ship you would like to serve on, either a specific vessel or class of vessel, that may accelerate the reassignment process."
Thyago shrugged. "Here's cool."
"You wish to remain here?" she repeated, one eyebrow creeping slightly skyward. "Why?"
"'Cause I'm already here," he said. "It's easier, sabe? Also, I know people here, like Tex and Smitty and Sparky and nao sei o quem, and I got a decently sized little black Galaxy book, ta me entendendo? Oh, and I just found a new dance partner, e flexival p'ra caraca. Really nice!"
T'Vara studied him for a moment. "I see," she said, then fell silent as she turned her attention once more to her desktop console. As he was not a member of her crew the captain had yet to familiarize herself with Lieutenant Carneiro's service record, and now she found herself a bit curious as to what it contained. After all, if he was even half as talented as his uncle, he could possibly be a valuable asset to this ship and her crew.
Of course, it was equally possible he could be a giant fount of frustration.
Her eyes narrowed as she skimmed through the document, which read much like what she imagined his uncle Dominic Carneiro's service jacket would have at the same point in his career. Immensely talented, following his own unconventional form of "discipline", yet overall somewhat wild. But, as over four decades in Starfleet had taught her, a lack of ability was nearly always a more crippling deficiency than a lack of discipline. In most cases talent was something that was either present or absent in a person and ordinarily could not be greatly improved upon, while discipline was something that could always be taught.
Closing his file she returned her attention to Carneiro, trying to ignore his barely repressed fidgeting; it too could be controlled and repressed with the right amount of training. "Very well," she concluded at last.
"Very well what?" he asked, but then immediately answered his own question. "Oh! You gonna hire me?"
She nodded, albeit after a brief moment of hesitation. "The position of Assistant Chief Engineer has gone unfilled for some time aboard this ship. If you believe this is a suitable fit for your talents and abilities, I shall effect the transfer immediately."
"Well, you know, I was *Chief* Engineer on the Miranda," he offered. "I was the Young Buck to their Jii-Unit."
"I see. Status within the 'Jii-Unit' notwithstanding," she continued, pausing only slightly as a brief look of confusion crossed her face, "I would not have offered you the position if I believed the pairing was an unsuitable one," she explained.
"Dude, I'll totally take it. Deputy Chief is the best job ever. You can pipe all the paperwork up to the Chief, and delegate all the work out to the underlings. You don't have to do nothin'! It's the second best thing to being mistakenly assigned to a ship that does exist!"
"Indeed. In that case, allow me to officially welcome you aboard, Lieutenant Carneiro."
His eyes shifted around the room awkwardly. It was bizarre to be welcomed aboard a ship he'd been living on for the past few months. "Okay," he replied. "I'm glad you went with me on that best job ever bit. We're gonna work well together, Tivo," he said, rising from his chair.
Deciding to ignore the latest mangling of her name at his hands, T'Vara continued, "Lieutenant? For the near future, the Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Eshe, is off ship. Therefore, the position of Acting Chief-- and all the paperwork it involves-- falls to you. Please report to Main Engineering immediately to assume command; Petty Officer Iona will assist you with the transition process."
"What?! Pilantra! You totally just conned me!"
"I did no such thing," she replied evenly.
Thyago's mouth danced in a frustrated frown, trying to decide whether or not they would speak. Eventually, he relented, "Fine. I'm going down to Engineering."
Were she anything but Vulcan, T'Vara might have grinned. But, her visage remained as placid as ever as she concluded, "A wise plan of action, Lieutenant. I have no doubt that your service aboard this vessel will be...exemplary."
"Sons of Capella" Pt. 6
Lieutenant Man'darr Maivia
Various NPCs....
The space around New Texas was littered with the broken hulls of Federation and Hydran Vessels. Some giving off light from exposed cores still giving off the last pulse of power. To any observer, it seemed as the ship's heart had been exposed and was slowly dying with each beat. On board the badly damaged USS Constitution, Captain Van Osterlich paced across the bridge with his hands clasped behind his back...they had held the New Texas System, but at a heavy price. Search and Rescue crews now combed over New Texas as well as the scattered debris field for the remote chance that someone was alive.
***
Man'darr stood in the midst of a white fog in his torn and bloodied uniform. The fog was thick...soon he saw a humanoid shape begin to appear through the fog. The shape was slowly moving towards him and soon he recognized the figure as that of his deceased sister still wearing her Starfleet Flight Uniform. A smile came to him as he approached her.
His sister returned his smile. "Hey big bro," she greeted.
"Wh...where am I, Jill?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Somewhere between life and death, I suppose."
"So...I am dead?" he asked with a confused look.
"I'm...not sure. Its up to you, I think. You have want to live. To have the will to live."
"I've missed you very much, my sister."
Jill's eyes seemed to moisten as she fought back the tears and sadness, which Man'darr felt--perhaps it was this...place which cause Man'darr to feel her sadness. "Yeah, I've missed you too, bro. But, you should go back. Do not join me, father, or mother just yet. You have a wife and you're a damn good fighter."
"A wife who has betrayed me and insulted me."
Jill sighed. "Bro, look at your life. We may be Capellans, but we weren't raised on Capella Four. Didn't undergo Capellan training or anything. Therefore, go back to your wife and have a life...a good life Your wife is human...you cannot expect her to understand Capellan Ways. You have to stop being so head strong. Make compromises. Now, you must go.
The image of Jill slowly began to fade within the surrounding mist.
"Jill, wait!"
Suddenly pain coarsed through Man'darr's body, causing him to collapse to the ground. When he opened his eyes again, the mist was gone--replaced by a darkness filled with different voices. Pain pulsed throughout his body as a beacon of light penetrated the darkness.
"We have a live one! He needs medical attention at a sickbay now!" a voice announced.
"Is he stable enough for transport?"
"Barely..."
"Do it," came the order.
***
Aboard the USS Constitution, Man'darr materialized on a surgical bed. The surgeon assistants wasted no time as instinct and training took over in preparing Man'darr for surgery. The head surgeon sighed at the bio readouts on the nearby monitor. "Multiple lacerations all over the body.Several broken ribs, one collapsed lung, massive wound in the right leg. Left and right Femurs are broken in several places, as well as several other fractures, and a severe concussion. Lets move it people," the doctor ordered as he picked up an exoscalpel to begin work on Man'darr's collapsed lung.
***
Captain Van Osterlich stood in the ready room looking at the monitor, which contained the image of dark haired male known as Admiral Ross. "Whats the status, captain?"
"We've sustained heavy damage in the battle as did the Crazy Horse and the Chesapeake. The Geronimo was destroyed, ramming a Hydran Battleship...all hands were lost. The colonists were suscessfully evacuated just as the Hydran Fleet arrived in system. As for survivors of the ground conflict...we've only found six Marines. The Capellan Contingent was wiped out. No Hydran survivors have been located as of this time, admiral."
Ross was silent for a moment before speaking. He was growing to hate war...the thousands of lives lost in that terrible battle...yet they had held, despite the odds... "Estimated dead, captain?"
Captain Osterlich cleared his throat. "At this time, the count is unknown but we're estimating nearly three-thousand dead, not including the Hydrans."
"Reinforcements, led by the Enterprise are enroute, and should arrive within the hour."
"Understood, Admiral."
"Everyone at New Texas did a good job, captain."
Though he did not feel like he had done a good enough job he replied, "thank you, admiral."
"Admiral Ross, out."
'What good is a victory if it doesn't feel like one,' Captain Osterlich thought to himself in the now solice of his Ready Room.
***
A day later, Man'darr woke to find himself in a much larger medical bay than what would be found aboard a starship. He grunted through the pain of his recently mended ribs as he sat up on the bio bed.
A nearby nurse quickly strided over. "Hold it there, lieutenant. You were badly wounded. You need to take it easy."
Man'darr glanced at the young nurse. "Never tell a Capellan to, 'take it easy.' Where am I?"
"You're in the main Infirmary aboard Starbase 57. The USS Constitution dropped off the survivors of the Battle of New Texas here."
"I see. I should get up and see what my orders are," Man'darr replied as he stood up from the bio-bed. Feeling his legs give out on him, he immediately grabbed the side of the bio-bed, holding his weight up.
The nurse immediately rushed to his side. "You're still weak and recovering from your wounds." She helped Man'darr back onto the bio-bed in a sitting position. Your right leg in particular was severely injured and may require some physical therapy."
Man'darr let out a long sigh--he hated being in this weakened state. "Then lets get started, shall we?"
***
A week later, Man'darr still walked with a slight limp, but felt better than he had the week before. He looked at his reflection in the mirror in his temporary quarters aboard the starbase. It had been a long time since he had worn the uniform of Starfleet Security. It had been the department he started his Starfleet Career in...and somehow it felt at home to him...as if he belonged in Security. He hefted a nearby Starfleet issued duffel bag and headed out of the quarters, grabbing a PADD containing his next assignment on it. He was returning to the USS Galaxy....
"The green light"
Lt. Branwen London
Captain Karyn Dallas
Lt. Cmdr. Marcelo de Souza (NPC - Kat)
Nurse Azeni Aria (NPC - Kat)
Branwen was sitting in the nursery holding her son in her arms. Although the loss of little Ivor still hurt like hell, she was beginning to feel grateful for the two who had survived. They were so tiny and so perfect. When she had been pregnant, Bran had not been sure if she would be able to love the baby, given the way they had been conceived. But all those concerns had fallen away after they were born.
Late last night she had decided on names for her children. First she had named Ivor. The little one deserved to be buried with a name: Ivor Jonathan London. Then she had decided for the other ones. Naming was important for her. The little boy in her arms was called Daffyd Victor London. And the girl resting in the crib Rowena Dhanishta London. She would make sure that they would both have normal lives, as normal as was possible.
After what the young woman had been through, Aria felt bad about interrupting Branwen's first peaceful moments with her remaining children. These early moments shared between mother and child were so important, especially after the difficult pregnancy, hurried births, and then the unfortunate loss of one of the babies.
But, as much as she wanted the young Marine to finally have a little peace and quiet, the Bajoran nurse had a job to do. Thankfully it wasn't hugely invasive like some of the tests they'd been performing in the past few weeks, but there was no way for Aria to get the information she needed without interrupting the moment.
Sliding quietly into the nursery, Aria activated her medical tricorder and slowly began to move towards the trio, the soft beeping of the device heralding her approach.
Branwen looked up and smiled. She had finally figured out that the nurses were not the enemy. "Hello, Aria. Look at how beautiful they are. Aren't they little angels, and they are doing so well."
Aria smiled softly as she waved the tricorder over mother and son before moving towards the occupied crib. So far all the test results had been perfectly within tolerances. "They are doing remarkably well, Branwen," she confirmed, bending over the crib and waving down at little Rowena. "Truly miracle babies."
"Any news on what they are going to do with us and if they can fix me?"
"Yes and no," the nurse responded, turning to face Branwen. Commander Aewyn and several of his subordinates have been behind closed doors for some time now; on my way I passed 'Commander de Souza, who I believe was on his way to meet with them. So whatever they are discussing, hopefully we will know something soon."
Aria paused, shifting gears slightly. "As for fixing the genetic tampering and returning you to normal...Doctors Frost and Khatroweena are working through some scenarios at the moment, but so far everything looks positive."
During the delivery, Karyn had not been allowed to be in the OR. She didn't like that, but she understood. Dallas was not part of the medical team, so news of Branwen's son's death reached her in the waiting area. Karyn was saddened for London, and certainly felt closer to this loss because she had been with Branwen since she learned of the forced relocation, but her years of service as a counselor had prepared her to deal with grief and loss. It was by no means easy, but it was a situation she had faced many times before.
Her resolve lasted for as long as it took her to enter the NICU and face the isolettes and beeping monitors. Seeing Branwen holding her tiny son in her arms, hardly bigger than the tubes and monitors he sported, and beyond her, the tiny girl in the second isolette fighting to become stronger, Karyn flashed instantly to images of her own NICU isolette, images shared with her by her older sister Katie. Only five at the time, Katie was too young to understand the challenges that faced the two pound Karyn, but years later, they talked frankly of how little they had actually known with any certainty. With one word from a doctor, Karyn's life could have been ended, based on the words of a man who would never foresee that she would serve in Starfleet and rise to the rank of Captain, becoming one of the first Starfleet Counselors to do so.
Assurances about an infant's future quality of life, or lack thereof, understandably, made her squirm.
She approached quietly. "Hi mom."
Branwen looked up and smiled. "Hello ma' am. They tell me that my son and daughter are going to make it. Aren't they beautiful?"
Karyn took a moment to peer down at the little one in Branwen's arms. Despite the clear differences in appearance from a strictly human child, Dallas could see features that reminded her of Branwen. Seeing the familiar in a being so helpless and small, it was hard to imagine such a fuss had been made about these little ones and their threat to Federation security. Smiling down at the little boy, she moved over to the second isolette where the little girl had both tiny fists in the air, seemingly waving them in fury. Dallas turned back with a grin. "They certainly are!"
"Do you want to hold one, ma'am?"
The flash of apprehension and then longing was obvious. Despite all her accomplishments, all of the times she had done things other people had said publicly and privately to her face she *should* never do, because it wasn't safe or it wasn't practical for a woman with her disability, becoming a mother was one line she had never dared to cross. And yet, it was the one thing she wanted more than anything else, and the most painful thing to be confronted with.
She looked to the nurse and Branwen. "Are you sure it's okay?"
'Yes ma'am. It is." Bran said gently. "They are not as fragile as they seem and they love to be held. Why don't you take Rowena? She is definately displeased whenever I am holding her brother and not her. She has already got a mind of her own." The welsh woman watched them both affectionately. "Just let the nurse show you how to hold them."
"It's not as hard as it looks, ma'am," Aria told her, picking up on the nervousness evident on the counselor's face. Bending down she picked up the baby, carefully shifting the tiny tubes still attached to her tiny form as she turned back towards Karyn.
"Here we go," she continued, lowering Rowena into Karyn's waiting arms. "Just keep her head supported and her back in a neutral position...just like you're doing right now." Aria stepped back and smiled broadly. "You're a natural."
Karyn smiled her thanks to the nurse, but from that moment on, her eyes were trained on Rowena. The two women had misinterpreted her apprehension to hold the child. It wasn't that she was unsure of her technique, she was simply afraid she would be unable to let the little girl go.
Placing her lips against the little girl's tiny ear, she whispered, "I don't know what the future holds for you, my love. You could end up like me, confined to this chair, or perhaps struggling to communicate your ideas in the ways most people deem socially acceptable. You miight find yourself dependent on others for everyday things that other people take for granted. Gods forbid, some people might even refer to you and your brothers as abominations. If that happens, some people are going to tell you you can't do what you want to do. Some righteous SOBs might even tell you you shouldn't do what you want to do. It's gonna sting, my lovely, I won't lie, but your job is to give them hell and do what you want. Scr--Forget everyone else." With that, she kissed the little girl, and in her best baby talk, she added, "and if anyone give you one eensy bit of trouble, Auntie Karyn will be happy to run their ass-er, butts, over. Yes, she will."
The trio fell into silence then, Branwen and Karyn each rocking one of the children as Aria stood by, running her scans and making sure neither mother or children started showing signs of any problems. The quiet of the room was interrupted only occasionally by the soft cooing sounds of one of the children.
After some time had passed, the doors to the nursery slid open once more. Putting on as friendly of a face as he could manage, Marcelo de Souza slipped into the room and moved toward the women.
It was Aria who noticed his presence first, as a sixth set of life signs popped up automatically on her console, the room's internal sensors filling in his name at the top of the screen. "Sir," she began automatically, standing and facing the 'Commander as he approached.
"At ease, Nurse," he responded with a wave of his hand before turning to address Branwen. "Lieutenant London, please allow me to express my condolences...and congratulations. And...I have a bit of news for you."
"Thank you." Branwen said a little bit on her guard now. "What? Good news I hope." She managed a slight smile.
Pulling up a chair Marcelo sat, propping his elbows on his knees so he could face Branwen eye to eye. "Commander Aewyn and his Intelligence team are set to leave within the hour. From what they've told me, it seems they were able to gather all the information they needed after the children were born, and won't be assuming custody of them after all," he told her. "What this means is that, once you've recovered and have been pronounced healthy, you and your children are free to leave."
"Just like that? You are going to let me leave?" It was so unexpected that she really didn't know what to say. "We are free and we can leave soon? They can live with me." Bran wiped away a tear. "Thank you, sir. I really don't know what to say."
Karyn went from pure and utter shock to livid in three nanoseconds. "After all the *shit* they put her through..." Dallas took a full five beats to reign her emotions in. It would do no good to get this upset right now. "Well good, tell the Commander we're through with his ass too," she muttered.
Taking a deep breath and staring into the beautiful eyes of the little girl, she then looked at Branwen, "Nothing has to be decided right now, Branwen. I want to make sure you hear that above all. Do you?" She wanted to make sure London believed her and realized she was not trying to pressure her before Dallas continued.
"I hear that I can go home soon and the babies can go with me." She said honestly.
Marcelo nodded, already shifting his weight in preparation to leave. "Take your time; I can imagine how demanding the life of a Marine must be, especially during wartime, so take all the time you need here until you feel you are ready to leave. I know it's not much given what you've been put through already, but this facility will continue to operate until you tell us you're ready to go."
Pushing himself to his feet, he looked down at Branwen before adding, "If you'll excuse me, I must attend to a few other matters."
Aria watched him leave; once the doors had swished shut she turned back to Branwen and Karyn, a determined yet happy look on her face. "Well. Let's concentrate on getting you well, then!"
"Reunion"
Lt. JG Man'darr Maivia
1st Lt. Branwen London
Branwen was sitting in the waiting room waiting for her suttle back to the galaxy. She was more or less back to normal, but after all the months in seclusion she had a hard time getting her life back. Also she really missed her son and daughter but had to agree that she could not give them the attention that they needed and keeping them would end her marriage. Still she as not sure she had made the right decision sending them to her sister on the Resolution.
Man'darr now wore a different uniform--one of a Starfleet Security Officer. He still walked with a slight limp left over from his injuries from the Battle of New Texas. For once in his life, he felt tired. He could not explain it. Was it age? No, he was not an old man. Was the war taking a toll on his body? Yet he was a Capellan...Capellans thrived on war. Or perhaps it was stress or any combination of the previous stessors. He sat down at a lone table in the corner.
His wife noticed him and her heart lept thinking Dar was here for her but he didn't seem to notice her and sat down at a different table. Uncertain she came to her feet and walked over to her. They had not parted on the best of terms so she wasn't sure if he would want her back. "Dar?" She said softly.
The familar voice cut throught his train of thought. Looking up at Branwen--his wife caused mixed emotions to stir within him. "I am sorry Branwen. I hadn't noticed you when I entered," he said as he stood. Something within him drew him towards her as he took her into his arms. Her warmth was comforting--he had missed her.
She made a small sound and then nestled safely within his arms. "Dar! I wasn't sure that you would want me.' She whisperd against his chest.
Man'darr was silent for a moment. It was true that several months ago he would have nothing to do with her. But something within him had changed and at the moment, he was unsure if he liked it or not. He didn't see any infants with her so she must have given up the babies, he concluded as he looked down at her. "That was long ago," he said simply as he gestured for her to sit at the table.
"Is that all?" She said. "You said some horrible things to me." She swallowed. 'Said that I should have killed myself to save your honor."
Man'darr let out a sigh. He was not in the mood to argue. "You are human. It was...wrong, for me to have believed that you could act as a Capellan female would."
She held him close. "Did you seek help? You seem changed, softer somehow." She looked up into his eyes. "I have missed you very much."
"I did not need help then and I do not need it now," he said simply. "Time often changes people, Branwen...war changes people. I have missed you as well."
"Still not seeing a shrink." She chuckled. "That has not changed. Dar, two of the kids survived."
Man'darr instantly pushed back the wave of anger that flashed within him. Did she say kids? To him they would always be abominations. "Where are those...things?" Man'darr asked, his eye narrowing
"Man'darr." She said seriously. "If we have any chance of saving our marriage we both have to compromise. I love my children wherever they come from. One died in my arms and that was… tough. But because I know you cannot live with them I have sent them to live with my sister. But you will refer to them as my children and use their names Daffydd and Rowena. And you will allow me to see them occasionally on leave when I want to."
"You may see them, but I do not have to refer to their...names, and they are not to be in my presence when they visit." He still could not see those...things as living, breathing sentient lifeforms. He doubt he ever would.
She looked into his eyes and then nodded. "Fair enough for now. It might become easier. But I understand it is not easy for you either. And I know this is a big step for you." She embraced him again. "Thank you, Dar."
Man'darr simply nodded, hoping such visits would be few and far between. He wanted a life together with Branwen without anymore interference from anyone or any things. "It is good to see you are back to noraml physically."
"Almost. I still have a bit of a green tinge to my skin, especially when I get tired. But I am nearly back to normal and I want my life back again. But I have changed Dar. I should warn you, I think I have become colder, less naïve. It is much harder for me to trust people right now."
"I see...do you trust me?" he asked looking down into her eyes.
"I think so. We had a touchy time but you never lied to me. So…. Yes, I trust you." Bran said honestly. "That doesn't mean there won't be tough times getting back together."
"As long as your friends stay off my back and your CO's mouth shut, there will be little problems with us."
"I can't control my friends, but I am sure that when they see that we are working things out they will calm down. You still haven't worked things out with the colonel?"
"The man insulted me. So until he apologizes, I will consider him nothing more than an officer aboard the Galaxy. In any other situation, I would consider him an enemy. That is why I have been transferred back to Starfleet Security.
"Dar." She leaned against his chest. "He was your boss, you liked being a marine. Running away is not the way to solve things. We will talk about this later, I don't want to fight today."
"I am not running away from anything or anyone. You know me better than that," Man'darr retaliated. "The transfer was ordered at my hearing. I do not have a choice in the matter."
"I am sorry, Dar." She said softly. "I hope you will get your job back soon, I know you are a marine to the core. You and I will rebuild what we have lost, together."
"Yes, we will," he agreed. "How have you been?" he asked. He had truely missed her presence the past few months.
"Don't ask." She said. "It was awfull, very awfull. But I want to make a new start now, I want to forget all that happened the past 7 months, can you help me do that?"
"Of course I will," he replied.
"Magic: The Galaxy"
Flight Officer Gryphon “Samurai” Stone
Starfighter
The Saber Crew: – and card #24/302
Saber 6 - Sanoe Nani – NPC
Saber 7 - Min’el Hoj - NPC
Saber 8 - Korr Shadin – NPC
Flight Chief - Marie Ainesly - NPC
Flight Tech - Ooteed Utra – NPC
Flight Tech - Kalra San – NPC
Flight Bay – Deck 5
======================
Flight Officer Stone paced back in forth in front of the Saber Two Flight team. He had requested they all show up for duty on a Saturday morning in full gear, and from the looks in their questioning faces, they weren’t amused with the request.
He tasted the air and attempted to maintain a grim seriousness on his face as he prepared to give them the mission assignment.
“I know you are all wondering why I called you down here today, on what is normally your day off.”
His words were greeted with some grumbling most noticeably from Korr Shadin, who had rolled into his quarters only 3 hours ago, and still felt a little drunk. Stone noticed though that through his grumpy visage he was wearing a crooked grin, which the Saber XO surmised came from the fact that, the pilot of Saber 8, was the only other male in all of Two Flight.
“As you all know, I’m pretty new around here and most of you don’t know too much about me, or what I did before here, and in time I’d like to see that changed. Today is one of those days where *elements* from my past are entering my present.” He paused and scanned their eyes to see the effects his words held with them.
Standing at Parade Rest from Left to right:
[Sanoe]: Smiling (was she ever not doing thus)
[Min’el]: Smirking (probably wondering if she’d get extra pay for this)
[Korr]: Yawning (and possibly trying to cop a feel on Ooteed)
[Marie]: Intently listening (mentally databasing rules about this)
[Ooteed]: Radiantly Aware (a glowing source of energy for those around her)
[Kalra]: Barely awake (playing with something small and shiny in her right hand)
Samurai was glad the deck was nearly deserted this morning. The fewer eyes the better he thought. He wasn’t sure how it would be received if others in the SFFC (or outside the SFFC for that matter) knew what this *event* was really about.
“Several years ago, back at the SFFC academy actually, I got *involved* with a *group* and as fate would have it, this *group* had contacted me recently regarding a *suggestion* I submitted.” He wondered if that sounded as vague and nebulous as was intended. The cold blank stares (well except for Sanoe who as was still smiling) told him it had been.
“As such I’m going to ask some hard demands of you all for the next couple hours, but for those that comply and those able to keep this completely radio silent, I’ll find some way to *compensate* each of you.
A more alert Parade Rest – from left to right.
[Sanoe]: ~‘Oh Cookies!’~
[Min’el]: ~‘Money, Money, MONEY!’~
[Korr]: ~‘Free booze!’~
[Marie]: ~‘A promotion?!’~
[Ooteed]: ~‘Something Beautiful!’~
[Kalra]: ~‘Shiny Things!’~
“I’m going to need 2 hours of ship prep on Sabers 5 and 6. I want these birds shiny enough to see my pretty face in,” this comment exacted a giggle sounding groan from the flight techs and a smirk from the other Saber Two Flight, male.
“Sir, are you going to need loadmaster support with munitions?”
“Negative Ainesly, we’ll Photoshop that in later if we need it.”
“Photo what sir?”
“Nevermind Chief just make sure Utra and San make my birds shiny.”
“Affirmative sir, well ladies you heard the man and you know the drill, Assholes and Elbows let’s move it!”
Stone, smirked at her aggressiveness. She really would make a wonderful Crew Chief one day, and well if he ever made CAG he’d see to just that, but that was a mission for another day.
“Now for you three, I want you to police the entire area around Saber 5 and 6. I want every surface clean enough for me to eat Hibachi style on,” he said with a wink to Min’el his new *favorite* Hibachi chef.
“But sir, we’re pilots not *techs*”, Shadin said with a whine.
His comment made Flight Technician Kalra San turn and give him a look dirty enough to make him squirm.
“No Offense,” he offered in weak response.
“Some taken,” she whispered under her breath with a slightly evil grin as she reached in her pocket and felt Korr’s former cigar lighter mingled in with some other odds and ends.
“Stow it Shadin and just do it, and since this little… get together was not cleared by the CO’s lets keep it down please.”
Everything was going as expected, actually better then he had thought. Marie was not only doing a bang up job supervising the technicians ship prep detail, she’d actually rolled up her sleeves and joined in. Leadership by example, what a great thing he realized as he grabbed mop and a bucket of degreaser fluid and joined in the fun.
About an hour and a half later they crew was reassembled as before and standing at attention waiting for inspection.
“I have one word for you miserable bunch of fighter pukes,” he said trying to sound disappointed. “OUTSTANDING!”
“But what I can’t figure out is why you are all aren’t in your full combat outfits like I told you to be, we got a mission to do.”
“Sir, but…” Ainesly started to say, upset that she didn’t remember hearing that order.
“As you were Chief, I was only kidding… Now you all got 30 minutes to get back here on the ready line for the next phase of this covert op, emphasis on the word covert – DISMISSED!”
True to form they were all back in combat ready gear in 21.25 minutes.
From left to right now at the position of Attention:
[Pilot Sanoe Nani]: Smiling (Surprised?)
[Pilot Min’el Hoj]: Expecting Payment (Surprised?)
[Pilot Korr Shadin]: Hair Still Messy and Smelling of Beer (Surprised?)
[Staff Tech Marie Ainesly]: 5 Minutes Impeccably Early (Surprised?)
[Technician Ooteed Utra]: Angelic (Surprised?)
[Technician Kalran San]: Eyeing Something Shiny on the Ground (Surprised?)
Flight Officer Stone didn’t acknowledge them at first; he was talking to a small group of people for a few minutes as they stood awaiting further instructions.
Korr thought the group looked like a bunch of, well for lack of a better term, nerds. One of the “nerds” had a big fancy tripod and camera. Not the TV crew kind, but more like the photo shoot kind. One of the group was wearing a shirt that said: “Are you untapping or are you just happy to see me?” – ‘Whatever that means,’ he thought to himself already feeling his attention span wavering.
“Okay everyone; I know you’re wondering what this is all about and why I have a camera crew here. As I said before I submitted, um something to a group a long time ago and well now t they’re here to take a picture of our crew. I am sure you are all want to know what the picture is for and perhaps someday I will tell you.” He paused for a little moment, looked at the camera crew and continued, “Now you understand the covert nature of this operation, if there are no further questions,” he said and before they could voice any inquiries he spoke to the unknown camera crew, “Okay, I think we’re ready.”
He didn’t know for sure what they crew was thinking as he moved over to stand among them, but he surmised it went something like this:
[Nani]: “Pictures for GQ: Galaxy Quarterly?”
[Hoj]: “Pictures for Starfighters for Hire Magazine?”
[Shadin]: “Pictures for Playgirl?”
[Ainesley]: “Pictures for an SFFC Training Manual?”
[Utra]: “Ooooooo Pictures!!!”
[San]: “Pictures for SF Cops: The Real Bad Boys!”
...
“Places everyone… Don’t move… (snap)… yeah (snap)… show me some attitude (snap)… come on work with me people (snap)… That the best you got (snap)…(snap)… (snap)… (snap)”
They say be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. Even if it was a wish or a silly submission entered by an unknown SFFC Cadet after winning a regional Collectible Card Game Tournament against a forgotten opponent, in a forgettable place.
Many years ago.
"Abandoned"
Part I of the 'Breakable' Saga
Starring :
Allison von Ernst
(Right after her date ends with Gryphon Stone)
"Excuse me miss….but I think you drop something here."
"Oh….<sniff> Thank you….its just a piece of my heart that fell on the floor."
Half running…..half stumbling….half screaming with outrage at the unfairness of the universe, young Allison von Ernst (recent heart breakee') made her way erratically down the rats maze of corridors that was the USS Galaxy.
Blinded by her own running mascara, and forever tripping over pieces of her own broken heart, she crashed through the door of the nearest public restroom and threw up.
The green silk Ao Dai, once pristine and shimmering, was wrinkled and ruined by the stained tile floor as she knelt by the porcelain throne, throwing up much of the dinner her backstabbing beau' had prepared for her.
Whether it was the undercooked food (prepared by amateur chefs) ....or the overindulgence of alcohol( for which she was much too young).....it was a fact that the 16 year old girl from Iceland had never felt sicker.
Heartache......the illness you cant just flush down the toilet.
Rising again, her hair stringy and wet she ripped off her silk arm length gloves and shoved them into the trash bin.
Leaning heavily on the restroom counter, Allison buried her hands under the water faucet scrubbing away at the hurt that wouldn't stop.
The view in the mirror was a frightful sight. A blond haired hussy with streaked makeup and puffy blood red eyes. Hardly the vision of beauty and grace she was not so long ago.
What a difference a crushed hope could make in your fashion sense.
Alli'd grown up listening to heavy metal music....screaming about pain and darkness and rejection.....now for the first time she understood what it was all about.
The restroom door squeaked open behind her.
"Excuse me Miss." a shy friendly voice interrupted from behind. "I....I think you left something in the stall when you flushed. "Was this your heart?"
Alli stared hard at the other woman….barely understanding her words. "Yeah.....that's my heart.....just give it another flush.....I don't need it."
She walked again without direction or purpose. She had expected to be out all night. Expected the date to last for hours.....but it was barely nine thirty.
Nine freaking thirty......the night was an endless eternity of pain waiting to be explored.
Another 100 meters down the corridor, a stumbling Alli passed a public Comm booth and a thought struck her. Sniffling slightly, her first inclination was to call somebody who cared.....Mom....Grandma.....Auntie Widdlestein.....to realize that there was no such number.
Those she loved were 20 years away, their young clones in the present were uncaring strangers who had no clue as to her identity.
Settling quietly into the seat and sliding the soundproof door behind her she choked again on a new flood of tears, banging her tiny fist angrily at the wall.
Solitude was just as good.
>>PLEASE MAKE A CALLING SELECTION<< Flashed the neon screen, reflecting off the wet rivers running down her cheeks.
Fumbling desperately with a wild idea, Allison realized there was a person in the present who knew of her identity.
How stupid....he was the whole reason she'd come back in the first place....the whole centerpiece of her grand adventure across time.
Her Father.
Desperately she punched in the numbers of her only hope. COMMANDER JAMES L CORGAN....CURRENT LOCATION. JAHARTHA PLATEAU MONASTARY…. VULCAN.
He'd left her of course. Not just abandoning her at birth, but also more recently with his sudden disappearance from the USS Galaxy.
He'd taken leave of absence in order to care for T'lan, his stricken Vulcan comrade. A point eared hussy who went and got her high-flouting brain all scrambled and thus needed care and recovery at a proper Vulcan retreat.
All of this apparently was more important to him than his own flesh and blood daughter.
A theory she was about to test.
>beep<
>beep<
>beep<
"C'mon c'mon....." Alli clenched her fists as the Comm line buzzed its wa yacross half a billion miles of interstellar space.
She never even stopped to wonder what time it was on Vulcan....
>beep....CLICK<
"Dad?" she interrupted her thoughts as the bleary eyed face of James Corgan appeared on screen. "Dad....I ....I need...." she broke down before completing the sentence. The actual act of talking to someone tearing a new piece form her heart.
"No Dad I....."
"No I don't know what time it is there....."
"No...I'm sorry but it was important.."
"The ship....Jeez Dad....the ship is fine...I'm the one who's in trouble."
"NO I'm not Pregnant!! Jeeeeez."
"Dad Please."
"Oh.....ummmm Victor...they had Uncle Vic replace you......can we talk about me for a second?"
"No dad....."
"No."
"Are you kidding me? Some Vulcan lady.....Uncle M'kantu had his neck broken....."
"No....he's better now."
"yeah....sure....I'll tell him....."
"Dad?"
"Arent you gonna ask about me?"
"Me....I said me....Allison...."
"Your daughter."
"......."
"......"
"Yeah.....I guess....I'm...I'm sorry to bug you."
"No....no messages....."
"okay."
"Okay."
"Bye then....sorry."
The handset didn't even make up back up to the cradle, instead clattering to the floor along with the final soft squish of Allions heart falling out.
There were no more tears as she slid the booth back open and emerged back into the bright corridor lights.
No more pieces of heart fell out as she made her way back to her room, stopping to wonder briefly at the single sock taped to the door along with a note.
===Room's all yours dearie.....left you a sock in case you needed it for recreational purposes....good luck with the mating ritual.====
Mary's doing no doubt.
Keying the entrance Allison let the darkness of the room wrap around her like a cloak as she shed the tattered green silk, allowing it to fall to the floor in a pool.
Stepping out of the rag, she embraced the feel of nothingness on her pale Nordic skin.
Nothing touches me….nothing touches me she crossed her arms over her bare skin, repeating the mantra.
Alli crossed the room in the dark before sitting and Keying the single lamp over her desk. Strange shadows danced over her bare skin....bloodshot eyes staring unblinkingly into the mirrored reflection, lipstick a smear of pain across her face.
"Garbage." she muttered. "No wonder he woundt kiss me....so damn ugly."
Eyeing the stringy blonde hair she wanted to vomit again. So cheerful and bright.
Her desk was a wasteland of beauty products.....lipstick....mascara....eyeshadows of every hue. Glitter speckled blush and dainty hair ribbons.....peppermint lip gloss and a mini grinder for her aluminum nails.
She swept them all of the desk and onto the floor with a clatter.
What was the use.
Untold amounts of money spent on making her pretty......for what?
So Good old Mr. Gryphon Stone could pat her on the head and tell her to run along like a good little girl?
Noting her still perky blond hair, Alli reached down into the pile and pulled out a single instrument.
Checking the dye-level on her (H)air-brush she selected the darkest color on the electronic handle and aimed it at herself.
With a sputtering hiss of black dye the (H)air-brush drew out long black streaks of oily hate across her blonde tresses.
Biting her bottom lip so hard as to induce blood to flow, Allison guided the tiny instrument in to making horrible gothic stains across what her mother once called her little 'sunshine top'
No sunshine here......only blackness.
Only ugliness.
Abandoned by men....
Hated by her Father....
Alone in the past aboard a shipfull of fools.....
It was time to leave.
Staring at her ruined hair in the mirror Alli considered the brush for a moment before drawing a new stain across her eyes. Blackness.
Better to be unseen.
Opening her eyes again on her unprettiness, Allison noted a small flyer in the corner of her mirror.
GALAXY: END OF MISSION TALENT SHOW
TEN FORWARD
ALL MUSICAL ACTS WELCOME.
Perfect.
She turned to her purple glitter guitar humming quietly to itself in the corner.
She understood at last the music that had been screaming in her soul for so many years.
Finally understood the pain
Welcome to the Jungle Alli.
You're Gonna die.....
"Killer Thine"
PART II of the BREAKABLE SAGA.
Captain Rebecca von Ernst
USS Zeus.
(Three days after the clash with Prince Thufi over KS-128--see "Damnation Alley")
Rebecca von Ernst woke with a start, brown eye still moist from her father's funeral…more than 20 years ago.
~~Daddy.~~~~ her first thought as always until she placed herself in her current surroundings.
Sickbay….Trauma center aboard the USS Zeus.
"Noodles." she whispered to herself. "I'm still on the Zeus."
"Good Morning Captain." came the chilled greeting from the tall woman at the foot of her Diagnostic bed. "Feeling better I trust?"
Panic…..always Panic.
Rebecca's tiny hand flew to her cheek, the sudden memory of recent pain causing the tiny redhead to gasp aloud.
"My face." she breathed.
"Intact Ma'am." Panic gave a grim smile. "Touch of a scar, but that'll be faded by tomorrow if the regens work the way Doctor Ahuja claims."
The Executive officer glanced around the crowded med bay, the dead and the dying from the recent confrontation with Prince Thufi's Grand fleet still littered the room. Blood stains and burns touching walls and beds alike.
"Console exploded…during that last salvo from the Hydran Flagship. Severed some nerve cluster or some such." she shrugged. "Doc says you're lucky you're not drinking you meals out of a straw for the rest of your life."
Rebecca continued to probe the tiny line creasing her cheek. Faded by tomorrow? Gone as if it never were?
Would that all scars were so easy to heal.
Without wanting to…..without even caring….she asked. "S….status report?"
She winced, why couldn't she give up? Let it go. Let it all die like all the others?
The pounding in her head wouldnt allow it.
Brown eyes hardened when Panic didn't respond. "I said REPORT Commander!" she hissed.
Panic almost smiled. ~~That's my girl.~~
"Tactical Draw Captain." she said aloud. "After we ….um…rammed the Hydran Dreadnought, the remainder of the fleet withdrew beyond lunar orbit to observe. We likewise pulled back and until our relief maintained our own watch."
"Relief?" Rebecca felt the vibrations of the deck plates for the first time. "We're at Warp? Where? What happened?"
Panic idly picked up a stray medical tricorder, examining it lazily as she spoke. "The Ground campaign was nearly over. Prince Thufi withdrew the bulk of his forces 24 hours ago leaving only a rear guard. Starfleet likewise pulled us off the line and back for refit."
Swinging her pixie like legs down off the bed, Rebecca tightly gripped the bed rails for long moments as she struggled to maintain equilibrium.
Her head screamed.
"Refit?" was the only word she could choke out. She wanted to scream….wanted to sing….wanted to throw her hands up and yell 'I quit' at the top of her lungs.
Instead she gagged on ship's business.
"Yes Captain…refit." Panic replaced the tricorder and fixed the small woman with a hard stare, " We are missing part of our ship….remember."
A stupid question…..she remembered everything……no matter how hard she tried to forget.
She remembered the console exploding….shards of metal and plastic slicing through her face, her lips going numb.
She remembered the equations dancing in her head, brilliant white-hot math pounding at her temples with the solution….the only solution to the problem of being outgunned and out maneuvered.
Kill em….Kill em all!!
She remembered spitting orders from a blood filled mouth, head pounding…..soul screaming.
"Ram em….Overload Warp Core and drop the hull section!"
The USS Zeus…a Prometheus class vessel with the ability to split into three warp capable combat ships……dropped her bottom 1/3 full of screaming crewmen and rammed it into the heart of the Hydran Dreadnought.
A sacrifice of Angels at the orders of the red headed devil who sat bloody but safe at the helm of the 2/3 that pulled away at the last minute.
Two hundred and sixty three……..
"Ma'am?"
"I said Two hundred and sixty three." whispered Rebecca. "That's how many people were on duty in the bottom section."
Panic said nothing. If nothing….the Captain knew her crew roster intimately. The list of people she ended up killing.
~~~Anderson, Lt Aaron C………Andrews, Crewman Elizabeth R……..Baas, Ensign Jorel……Baker, Crewman Harriet…..~~~
Rebecca screwed her eyelids shut against the roll call parading behind her vision.
~~~Noodles….why cant I forget…..why did I read crew bios?~~~
Spencer, Lt Commander J Everett……Syrok, Lt…….Tanner, Ensign Gregory J……..
"Why?" she whispered at last when 12 score ghosts danced their way into her black heart.
"Ma'am?"
"The refit. Why are we going for refit?" The unasked question was Why am I not going for court marshal.
Panic understood. "Because we won. Or more specifically….we didn't lose. Don't worry…I don't think Starfleet will put you in command of a task force anytime soon, but there are still butts to be kicked in this universe and …..well….." she trailed off.
Shoving her tiny self off the bed, Rebecca winced at the tingling in her feet….but she did not fall. "Right….and I'm the one to do it."
Panic simply nodded. "USS Pandora is another Prometheus class…..she sustained heavy damage to her upper hull recently, but her bottom section…..well…..its waiting for us back at Delta IV. We just got to go link up….pretty nifty coincidence huh?"
"The universe is mocking me." Rebecca almost hissed as they walked out of the sickbay. "Its an obscene coincidence."
Panic didn't argue.
Obscenities seemed to be par for the course in working for von Ernst
The ranks of her injured crew parted before them as they walked.
The bloodied veterans of the USS Zeus paused in their duties as the tiny captain and her avatar made their cursed way up to the bridge, their eyes trailing after them…with hate….with scorn….with guilty pride.
The undefeated Zeus……the undefeated crew……oh how they hated their success.
~~Only a matter of time….only a matter of math….until you too will fall.~~~ Rebecca thought a bit deliriously.
"Why the rush on the refit…..where are we going?" she asked settling back into her command chair….still stained with blood…her blood.
"A new fleet is assembling for a major action." Panic replied…..taking her place and nodding to Fear who held the helm. "don't worry…you're not in command, but merely one of the Captains."
Stained with blood…..all of Zeus was stained with blood.
She looked down…almost for an instant seeing it on her own hands.
She clenched her fists……~~Daddy….daddy is dead today…….today…….twenty years ago…..what's the difference?~~~
"Who's in command." she asked, vomit in her throat. Why did she have to ask?
Fear and Panic looked at each other for a moment. "Good leader….Excellent tactician……You may have heard of him….Captain Jean Luc Picard will be commanding the fleet."
~You Will Never Know Peace~
Cutter Kara'nin
Daniel Scarborough
Cutter stared at his reflection in the small mirror, big enough to reflect only one feature back at him at a time. As his mind ran over the facts he knew and the reports he had assembled and contemplated the profundity of the possible outcomes of the experiment he was trying to convince himself to conduct, the small reflection roamed across his face, darting from one corner to the other as fast as the thoughts racing through his brain. But, the reflections always returned to the same place - to his dark blue eyes and the black pupils in their center. And blackness was where his mind constantly returned to - the infinite blackness of the singularity he had studied for two years of his life. To the singularity he had nearly been lost to.
He wondered, as he stared into his own eyes, had he been lost to it?
His mind flashed back to that day. It was the culmination of two years of work; he was going to be the first living creature in all of history to pierce the veil, to peer behind the event horizon and into the core of a black hole. He would have been the first to look the universe in the eyes and learn all there was to know.
But, his work was sabotaged. Destroyed by a madman, Virgil Maro, a human lost to religious propaganda with schizophrenic visions of God. Cutter's experiment, a great achievement in science and exploration, had nearly been turned into a weapon that would have destroyed the universe.
Despite the loss, Cutter still got what he had wanted, after a fashion. In his attempts to stop the creation of a new big bang that would have overwritten this universe with a new one, he was able to look down through the knife that had been stabbed into the event horizon. He witnessed the wonders hidden behind the dark curtain, and whatever had been caged there witnessed him, too.
He had been irradiated by the energies of the singularity, blanketed with radiation that had never before been identified and that he did not understand. It had killed Maro. But, Cutter, he had walked away with only minor injuries. He thought it had left him unchanged.
But, it was clear now that that was not true.
He stared at his own eyes in the tiny reflection, the metal smooth and flawless. He rotated it with his hands, until he was staring at its edge, glinting like a diamond in the light, and just as sharp.
"Cutter?" someone asked behind him.
Startled, he stood, rising from the corner of his desk on which he sat. He turned and placed the scalpel he held in his hands on the glass surface, hiding it in a pile of pens and styluses. "Daniel?" he asked, noticing the mousy-brown haired human in his doorway.
"Yes, I, uh, I, uh, um, sorry for, uh, uh, for, for interrupting," he said, stepping in. He held a PADD in his hands.
"No, its fine,"Cutter responded, taking a sharp breath and trying bury the sensation that he had just been caught in the act. He stepped over and blanked the notes on the large holographic blackboard on his office wall. The action was a little less than subtle, as Daniel, who had apparently not noticed the writing before now stared curiously at the board where it used to be.
"Um, I, uh, um, I just, uh, I just wanted to, uh, to, um, run this setup by you," he stumbled, more hesitantly than normal. "Should, uh, um, should I, um, should I come back? Um, later?"
Cutter nodded as he composed himself. "Yes, now's not really a good time for me. I was... in the middle of working something out," he explained.
Daniel studied him curiously for a moment, which gave Cutter a sense of dread. He had worked with Daniel since first joining the Galaxy years ago. He was the one human who knew him best, and who could past the masks he threw up. Unsurprisingly, Daniel ventured, "Are you, um, are you okay?"
"Yes," Cutter lied, "I'm just frustrated by this problem I'm working on."
Daniel eyed him for another moment before giving up. "Okay, so, um, I'll, uh, I'll, uh, just, uh, come back, um, come back to you, uh, with this, um, with this later, then," he said, and backed out of the office.
Once the doors had closed, Cutter turned back to the holographic blackboard and reactivated it. On it was the compiled list of all the strange things that he had been part of since his incident with the singularity.
- The lack of any phasing on the recent away mission.
- The record-player-like skips and reversals Chris Daniels and 8-Ball had witnessed during the original away mission.
- The premature reaction to the stampeding parasites in the veins of the starbeast.
- His faster than expected recovery from the attack by the serial killer Manslaughter.
- The loss of time between the attack by Manslaughter and the discovery by Naranda Roswell.
- The apparent enhanced speed he displayed during a sparring match with Naranda Roswell.
- The lack of illness or minor injury since the encounter with the singularity. No colds or viruses. Not even a headache or paper cut.
- His altered reaction to Victor Krieghoff, the lack of a desire to fly away.
The last two items he had only added today. Of all of the items, these were the most circumstantial, but were still probably related.
It was becoming more and more clear to him that he had been changed by his exposure to that black hole. But, he was not sure how. What had Maro said to him? 'If you do this, Cutter, if you do this, you will never know peace.'
He looked away from the board, to the scalpel on his desk. He picked it up carefully, looking at his reflection once more before his gaze turned to the video camera set up in the corner of his office. He stepped over and set it to record. Then, with a determination that he had been struggling to find moments ago, he took the blade and pressed it against the tip of his finger. With a quick motion, the skin would slice open.
But, then, he looked up, unsure what he was doing. He looked around and quickly regained his bearings. In his hand was the scalpel he had picked up from his desk. As he looked down at his reflection in the smooth metal, and with a long, deep breath, decided to go through with it. He stepped over to the video camera set up in the corner of his office and reached out to set it to record. But, to his surprise, he found it already recording.
Confused, he stopped it, and rewound the stream, and let it play on the little side screen. It showed him pulling his arm back from activating it, then taking the scalpel with one hand and pressing it to the skin of his finger. Then, he saw the blade slice the skin open and stream of blood squirt out. Which was odd, since he hadn't done any of this yet.
Then, the video seemed to mess up. Or, at least, he first thought it was the video. His image seemed to flow, like quicksilver, back to his desk and then cleared, leaving him standing with scalpel in hand, and lost, unsure what he had been doing. But, the effect wasn't a technological malfunction in the camera. While his image melted and reformed, no other image had. His office sat still, unchanged.
Cutter looked down at his finger and found no cut.
He realized then that his breathing had accelerated and he could begin to taste the coppery sensation of panic in his mouth.
Reactivating the recording function of the camera, Cutter stepped out into the middle of his office. He counted to thirty. Thirty seconds of trying to calm himself down. Thirty seconds of relative good health. And when those thirty seconds had passed, he took the scalpel and placed it against his wrist.
But then, he looked up, unsure what he was doing. He looked around and quickly regained his bearings, finding himself standing in the center of his office. The camera was still recording, and he looked down, and found that the scalpel that was in his hands was now on the floor, lying in a small puddle of blood.
Afraid he had cut himself on accident, he scanned his body for damage. There was no blood on his clothes, on his pants or his sleeves, and his hands were unharmed. Then he remembered what he was planning to do.
He glanced down at the blood on the floor once more before walking over to the camera. It played back the image he now expected himself to see - one where he slit open his arm with the scalpel, starting at the wrist and then moving down to his elbow. And then, like before, the image morphed and his outline fuzzed, and he began to understand what Daniels and 8-Ball had claimed to have seen, about him skipping like a broken hologram. When his image resolidified he was standing there, unharmed. His arm didn't even have a scar.
Cutter looked back at his blackboard, finding the coppery taste having returned to his mouth.
What was happening to him?
"Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls"
Artim Shivar (Written by Michal)
Character Swap Week
==============================
Some things healed with time, somethings did not.
He stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom. Regulation black uniform pants fit him snugly around his small waist as he continued to stare at himself in the mirror. He wondered, just for a moment when he should order more uniforms. Months ago, it seemed, he had placed a request for the replicator to be categorized with size 12 pants and extra small tunics. The request, for some reason was never fulfilled. Inwardly, it did not surprise him that it was never done. Perhaps some day, he could replicate a uniform that would be 'standard issue'. That day...was not today.
His young looking eyes drifted down his smooth chest. Developed as much as he could have it developed, he wondered yet again what it felt like to be 'big'. Years he had been stuck behind this body. Years of knowledge, not wasted, yet not instantly appreciated once eyes met the body behind the brain. It was common place, even still on board this ship. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught the scar that rested lengthwise on his back in the reflection of the mirror that rested on top of his dresser. Someday, he would take the mirrors down. That day...was not today.
The pink jagged tissue screamed back at him to help it heal.
"Damned Dominion" He muttered.
Reaching around, his finger crawled up his back as far as it could and found the very tip of the wound. No rough tissue signaling healing, just soft, young flesh that still hurt at times. Someday, it would heal completely, leaving only the hint of twisted flesh. That day...was not today.
Blinking twice, Artim studied just his face. The reflection was one of innocence. Skin fresh with a spring like tautness held no hint of experience within it's pores. No gray hair of experience or stress made itself known for only black thick hair parted to one side was present. No signs of teenage acne, no signs of the sting of first love rejection, no fake teeth, nothing except the curse of youth stared back at him. Just once, he wished for a wrinkle. A single crow's foot around the corners of his eyes that whispered just a thought of the passage of time would be nice. But...not today.
Yes, he had accepted his lot in life. Somewhat. There were times, such as this, that he wished for age. If there were a genie in a bottle, he would only request one wish. The other two wishes, anyone could have those. What Artim wanted, was age. He wanted to look his experience. He wanted to know what a day felt without being called 'Kid' or being asked for identification when he wanted a simple drink in Ten Forward. When he wanted to hit on a woman, he wanted to receive no more smirks or comments such as 'Well, arn't you a cute thing?' No, he wasn't a cute thing and he actually did know a thing or two concerning 'things' not related to science.
The side of his closed mouth puffed out as a small breath escaped upwards. Shuffling out into the main room, he sat and scooted himself up to the console. Pressing the button, a small light on the console lit up the display screen.
"Computer, run age advance program, file 2412."
The screen blinked twice as a current picture of himself materialized. He stared at his pixelated reflection before speaking.
"Computer, age image ten years."
In less than a blink of an eye, the young man before him aged. His cheekbones became more predominant, his hair line started just to slightly reside, and his eyes appeared 'knowledgeable'.
He traced his finger around the images jaw line.
'Stubble' Artim thought with a mild amusement.
"Computer, age image twenty years."
Shivar looked at himself, and really concentrated on the image. He was always one to keep clean shaven, not that it was something that he had a problem with. But, he had to conclude that he was a handsome man with a salt and pepper beard and hair. Distinguished. His posture straightened a little in his chair, and for the first time in a while, he could actually picture himself at the ripe age of thirty seven. His eyes now held the experience that he felt he had, with capturing still a tad of the mischievous side that Artim knew he would always have despite his looks.
"Computer, run voice advance program, file 2451"
"Recording..."
"Hello, my name is Artim Shivar." Childlike in tone, Artim smirked as he spoke his orders to the computer.
"Computer, stop recording, run file."
"Hello, my name is Artim Shivar."
He played this over and over, time and time until he could hear what he sounded in his head. His voice was rich, baritone and woodsy in nature, and a pure man's voice.
Growing silent, he continued to stare at the age progressed image while listening to his age progressed voice. He felt the warmth of the overhead illumination on his bare back that was slightly slumped from his posture. The scar still rested on his back and felt the heat. It was the one thing that hinted at the experience that the man, boyish in looks, contained deep within his soul.
A Walk In The Corridor
Jaal Jaxom
Arel Smith
Counselor Mark
****
USS Galaxy
Arel was unsurprised when she rounded the corner and saw Jaal waiting there. She was a bit taken aback by Mark, however.
She slowed her (limping) stride, stopped, and nearly crossed her arms before realizing how painful that might be. She settled for a hand on her hip and as polite a greeting as she could manage. "What?"
Mark and Jaal looked at her with some disbelief showing in their expressions.
"Shouldn't you be resting still?" Mark asked with concern.
"Resting is overrated," Arel replied with a half shrug.
Jaal had a witty remark on the tip of his tongue but decided to hold it for the time being.
Arel rolled her eyes. "So, I don't suppose this lecture can be done in transit?"
Jaal and Mark took up a position on either side of Arel and offered an arm.
"So long as the transit is towards your quarters," Mark told her cheerfully.
She rolled her eyes and grabbed Jaal's arm. "Kill joys."
"But what could be more joyous than escorting the best looking woman on the ship to her quarters?" Mark quipped with a wide grin.
"The counselor's got a point," Jaal added with a smile of his own.
"Whatever. Tell me what's happening on the ship. I already terrorized an ensign into telling me what he knew about the away teams."
"The captain, in her finite wisdom, has enacted a ship-wide smoking ban," Mark told her as his smile quickly diminished.
"Oh, it's not THAT bad," Jaal shot back teasing, "It 'is' for your health and welfare after all."
"Your office will smell nicer," Arel added.
"Listen here you two," Mark admonished the younger officers, "I don't anyone telling me how to live my life! Least of an over-pompous, egotistical Vulcan."
"Cranky, isn't he?" Arel asked Jaal.
"Well, the ship won't let him light up," the Trill explained, "He hasn't had a smoke in days and I think it's starting to get to him."
"Oh STOP!" Mark exclaimed, "The least you could do is talk about me when I'm not around."
"Oh, we'll do that too," The security officer said. "Anything else?"
"Aside from the rescue mission looking for missing crew, there isn't a whole lot going on," Jaal stated plainly.
Arel looked unhappy. "Well, I suppose I can help enforce that no smoking thing."
"Unlikely," Mark replied conspiratorally, "I've already found a way to defeat the smoke detector in my office and quarters. It's no big deal, but no one is going to tell me what's good for me and what's not."
She thought about busting him on that but decided that it wouldn't kill nearly enough time to suit her. Plus it might make their counseling sessions a bit awkward. Arel nearly wrenched her arm out of Jaal's grip, she was so irritated. "This sucks. Resting is bullshit. It takes too damn long and I have to just sit there and ... and think and shit. I hate that."
"My father always said 'A little thinking never hurt anyone,'" Jaal glanced sideways at Arel again, "' just don't over anal-ize things.'"
She rolled her eyes. "I need something to do, damn it."
"You should rest and think a little," Mark replied. "It would do you some good believe it or not. Haven't you ever heard 'all work and no rest makes for a... a... ah crap, I can't remember the rest now."
"It makes for a cranky Arel," She said. "And I have weapons."
"This just may come as a surprise to you," Mark went into 'counseling mode', "But not every single situation you come across can be dealt with using violence and bloodshed."
"Oh yeah? Name one that can't."
"Well," Mark began confidently, "There's... " his expression changed to one of deep concentration. "... and then there's... but of course there's... how about when... ah shit."
"How about a promotion?" Jaal asked, "There's no reason for violence and bloodshed then."
She shot him a look. "Don't help."
"You're the one that asked," Jaal quipped back.
"Ah look," Mark announced, "Here we are safe and sound at the door to Miss Smith's quarters. Once you're safely inside I think we can go on about our business."
"Get going," Arel said.
"As soon as we see you are safely in your cabin," Mark advised sagely.
"Oh for Kahless sake," She snapped and stepped into her quarters. "Happy?"
"Close the door," Jaal added while holding back a laugh.
She flipped him the bird and stomped towards her bedroom, letting the door hiss shut behind her.
As the door slid shut Jaal and Mark looked at each other for a moment. Mark had a slyish grin on his face but before he could say anthing Jaal cut him off. "No." He pointed a warning fore finger at the counselor. "Don't even think it."
"But?" Mark pressed on.
"I said no and I mean it."
"Bu..."
"Don't make me hurt you Mark."
The two men started back down the corridor. "That's unlikely..."
"Secrets"
PART III of the BREAKABLE SAGA
(The morning after the date)
Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Crewman Allison von Ernst
****
USS Galaxy
Deck 39
Victor Krieghoff's Office
Allison von Ernst laid back on Victor Krieghoff's comfy new couch and scowled. Her arms were crossed angrily over her chest, and her stylish little shoes were plopped high up on the armrest, wiggling slightly in agitation.
Her style was different than her usual bubblegum and happiness look. The usual glitter-speckled cheeks were pale and sallow, the bright blond hair streaked with angry blue dye, and the kissable red lips were now a rather gothic black. Clearly all was not well in Alli-land.
"Vic." she grumbled, "I've been totally having a spuffy week."
Victor looked up from his paperwork and considered how to reply to that. He knew that Counselors often had couches in their offices to make people more comfortable and more likely to open up while talking from the years he'd spent making trips to them, but hadn't really thought about the fact that having one in his own office might produce the same effect. In fact, he hadn't really thought about having a couch in his office at all until Allison had redecorated it in the interval between the end of the Battle of the Kateren Nebula and his departure on the rescue mission that had retrieved Branwen London and the other POWs.
His first reaction to the redecoration had been confusion, followed by worry as to why a Crewman was paying for something like that out of their personal funds, and how to explain it all without someone being hauled up on charges. Not to mention what Angelienia would think about the whole thing. Fortunately, all of those issues had worked themselves out.
A little research and some advice from Shelley O'Rourke had produced a simple method for dealing with the issue of his new office décor: simply acknowledge it. There were some forms to fill out, explaining that he had neither asked for, not sought the gift, but once that was done the issue was settled as far as Starfleet was concerned. The prevailing Starfleet mindset on the issue, as O'Rourke explained it, was that by openly acknowledging the gifts he eliminated the stigma of illicit behavior, since no one with something to hide would risk discovery by doing so. Or so, she explained, it was believed. Victor wasn't too sure of that, but didn't see a reason to raise an objection since it would likely mean *more* paperwork to fill out.
That settled, to his relief the rest had settled itself as well: Angelienia hadn't been upset over Allison's behavior, had told Victor that she knew there wasn't going to be anyone else but her, and had loved the new décor enough that she'd made him promise not to change it.
Still, the whole concept of acting as someone's counselor was… strange. Never mind the fact that Allison seemed to feel far more at home talking to him than was strictly permissible by regulations. On the other hand, she hadn't told him that she believed that she was going to have to kill him now, which put her one up on Victor in his relationship with James Corgan, so things weren't as bad as they could be. "Perhaps," he offered, "you could start with what a 'spuffy week' is for you? I'm not certain that my definition is the same as yours."
"A bad week... duh! Hel-lo....a little sympathy here." she replied. "Let me sum up the spuffiness of my life. First, Corgan is being a total butthead as per usual... whining about his pointy-eared hussy; second nobody respects me down in the Armory; Third the Marines are always being Mr. Grabby-Hands with the phasers and returning them all oily and dirty; and to top it all off my Horta roommate is dating a geek."
She grit her teeth angrily. "But you want to know what the big problem is? You want to know how the universe and everything in it is conspiring against me worst of all? Sure you want to know….go on ask me….ask me I dare you!"
A pause….."Okay,how is the…."
"Okay….let me tell you." Allison interrupted Its that Fighter pilot dude! He was totally NOT hitting on me! Hel-lo what am I Hag-face or something? A little respect for the hotness of me right?"
"The hotness of……?" Victor shook his head to clear unwanted images.
"Setting aside your….hotness…. and the other things for a moment, I wasn't aware that there was another Horta crewman besides your roommate, much less that the Horta… dated." Not, of course, that he was an expert on the subject by any means.
"Not a Horta geek." Alli gesticulated, "But a Horta and a different geek. A human geek. You know, horned rimmed glasses, buckteeth and acne. Big Star Trek nerd! Arrrgh!"
She shook her head at the horror of it all. "I tell ya Vic, that boy could use some serious exfoliation. Maybe he could borrow Mary's power sander."
"Power... sander...?"
"Little power tool that goes vrooom vroom? She uses it to get rid of annoying little flecks of shale and limestone.....you know...a beauty product." Allison covered her eyes hiding away from the unfairness of the universe as a whole. "And it's not just that, all the little things, its everything put together ya know?" , more foot waggling in annoyance, "Like I've been aboard this space going loony-bin for over a year now and I'm like… ugh, excuse me, what have I got to show for it? Some horribly outdated fashion ensembles, a potty-mouthed boss, and umpteen lectures on preserving the nature of the timeline...."
Relieved to be speaking about anything but Allison's Horta roommate and her human... boyfriend, Victor's mind skipped over the entirety of that statement and he began to respond. "Well, as things go it has been a busy..." AHOOOGA! AHOOOGA! Danger Victor Krieghoff! Danger! Danger! "Excuse me," he interrupted himself as the mental warning klaxons blared loudly enough to be heard in the next sector, "but did you say... 'preserving the nature of the timeline?'"
Allison looked uncomfortable for a moment while she pondered the philosophical implications of letting 'Uncle Vic' in on her secret. Fortunately Alli was not especially philosophical about most things in life so she figured…."What the spuff."
Sitting up she spun to plant her stylish little sneakers square on the floor. "Okay Vicky-poo, hold onto yer phaser banks because I gotta lay some heavy duty whoa-nelly on your spiffy new desk."
Mental warning klaxons still blaring, and visions of Temporal Investigations paperwork piled higher than the nacelles on the Galaxy, Victor nodded slowly. "All right...."
"Where to start, where to start." Alli mused tapping her chin cutely. "I suppose I need to start with a little secret that yer Boss… Commander Corgan and I have been keeping… Sorry, but I need to bring our real relationship out into the open."
Based on one of their previous conversations, Victor thought that he had that narrowed down to two choices - assuming that either of them had some basis in reality outside Allison's mind. He considered them, tossed a mental coin that was buffeted by the fading echoes of his mental panic alarm, and went with 'tails.' "That you and he are... involved?" he essayed carefully.
"NO….EWWWW." Allison sat bolt upright in shock and had a shiver of the 'heebie-jeebies' that had nothing to do with Victor's spooky-aura. "Are you mental Vic? The spuffer is totally ancient….practically geriatric... he's at least 30 or so!"
"Ah, yes, ancient indeed," Victor observed, deciding that mentioning that he was a few years into 'totally ancient' himself.
"Noooo," Allison rolled her eyes and tossed her blue tinted blonde hair, "The dude is my DAD okay. Call me little Corgan-ette if you like. Mi Papa loco got it?"
And there it was, the solution that explained everything - she was James Corgan's child. A young James Corgan's child from her age; possibly by a girlfriend on the - as Victor was told, anyway - traditional guaranteed 'last night home' score before one departed to the Academy. The odd behavior, the obsession with the Commander, everything wrapped up in one easy to understand bundle. Except the part about preserving the time stream. And the part that explained why this conversation was taking place. And... "The Commander is your father," he repeated, just to make sure there wasn't anything wrong with his hearing after the 'time stream' warning klaxons.
Unfortunately, there were other things to tell.
"Well as weird as all that sounds, that's not the half of it Vic." Heaving a deep sigh, Alli lay back down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. "Let me tell you a story about my childhood 'kay?"
"A story… about your childhood?" Visions of home movies from the future moved through Victor's thoughts, and he prepared to do the most sensible thing he could think of when faced with that prospect – flee. "I'm not sure that I have time…" he began, starting to stand up.
"Well sit down grumpy-gills cause I'm telling you anyways," she commanded before a wistful expression passed over her face. "Long time ago, when I was about eight years old or so, I got into a fight with my Mom. Mom is kinda an overprotective stick in the mud mind you, but let's just leave it at 'creative differences' over how loud my guitar should be right?"
"All right." Victor hadn't really had fights with his parents, but he supposed that playing the electric guitar could have led to one.
"Anyhoo... so I'm like all zarked off right? Well, I run down to the Lake....Lake Mytavn' right? Well it's the beginning of winter and the Lake's frozen usually, but like not all the way, and I know I'm not supposed to go out on thin ice but I'm all angry and I put on my skates....still with me here Vic?"
"Frozen lake," he repeated. "Skates. Thin ice. Angry at your mother."
"Right... try to keep up.... Well so I'm like skating away on the ice and wouldn't ya know it... CRACK... into the water I go. Now I'm a good swimmer, but having a couple of five pound skates strapped to your feet don't make for good bouyan... buoyan... boo... they don't make you float good." Alli turned to look at Vic. "I almost drowned until somebody pulled me out."
The fact that someone had saved her seemed evident, since their conversation was taking place, but that didn't seem to be the point Allison was trying to make. Perhaps it was another example of how her father had never been there for her, and her mother had been forced to handle everything? Of course, given the age at which James must have participated in her conception, he would have been off in space by the time Allison was eight. If it wasn't her father, then that meant that… "Your mother had followed you to the lake," he continued for her."
She shook her head. "No not mom. She's a skinny little thing who couldn't lift a potato sack to save her life...." Alli paused, "It was you. You pulled me out. You wrapped me up in your coat and told me not to die."
Victor stared at the smaller girl for a moment. She thought that *he* had saved her? From a frozen lake? On Earth? When she was eight? For a second, he actually searched his memory for such an event before sanity reasserted itself. Like the Commander, Victor had been out in space the year Allison would have been eight, either aboard the USS Leonidas or Deep Space 9, depending on timing, and couldn't have rescued anyone back on Earth, no matter what Allison remembered – or thought she did. He'd read about transference issues like this before, where people chose to edit their memories to make someone that they looked up to or felt strongly about a more central figure in their lives to make their desired connection stronger, but had never encountered it personally. Perhaps Allison, disappointed in her father, had chosen him as her replacement father figure…?
"Allison," he began gently. "I was nowhere near Earth the year you were eight. Are you sure that you're not mistaking me for someone else?"
Allison gave him a weird look. "Oh excuse me....I must have confused you with another big spooky looking guy who has a habit of denying people the right to die?"
She shook her head, now dead serious. "No... Mistake my favorite 'Uncle Vic'? I don't think so. Truth is… ah… well...." she worked her jaw for a moment. "Truth is that I sorta ran away from home again…..in the year 2402."
She paused to let Victor work out the math, giving him a nervous smile. "Surprise… wanna know next week's lottery numbers?"
For a single moment everything was fine. The words Allison had just uttered entered Victor's mind, were processed, and were cognitively recognized. Their meaning set off several chains of thought that clamored for attention or vanished in the dark alleys of Victor's mind, mugged and left for dead by the stronger, more imperative thoughts, until only one was left. That one, unfortunately, was not the most useful of thoughts - or questions. "2402," he repeated quietly, as if that would suddenly make the numbers mean something else. "2402… as in the same 2402 that won't happen for seventeen years? That 2402?"
Alli bobbed her head. "If ya want to stick around for another year and a half you can come to my birthday... literally."
In all of Victor's years in Starfleet, with all of times he'd been formally and informally in trouble with various commanders and Starfleet as a whole, there was one thing he'd managed to avoid, one thing he'd managed to *not* be personally and solely in fault over: a Temporal Discontinuity. All those years, and now, sitting in his office, trying to fill out paperwork, he'd just been run down with one in the form of a trim, perky blonde teenager from the future.
He considered the idea that she was somehow deranged, that this was all a figment of her imagination, something that she'd created to make her mundane life more exciting; considered it, and then discarded it. Allison might be many things, but she didn't feel like a liar. Which meant that she… that she knew about… that she could tell him if… Which meant that he couldn't ask her anything he really wanted to know, for concern of destroying the very things that he desired the most.
"You're from… the future," he said quietly, not as a question, but as a fact, accepting it.
Allison stood and began pacing Victor's office, careful to stay outside the bright yellow line painted on the floor. "Look... I totally know this is gonna blow your warp containment fields, but let me try to sum things up for you... I grew up alone with just my mother to support me. All my life I had been surrounded by various Starfleet personnel who knew my real father and had plenty of tall tales to jab about him, but I never met the guy."
"My Dad... James Corgan... the mysterious chief of Security of the USS Galaxy who bravely fought back the Borg hordes, hero of the Hydran wars, and the man who finally won my momma's heart when no other man could tame her." Alli shook her head. "Totally zarky stuff right? I realize now that you guys were probably filling my head with nonsense, but to me dad became this mythic figure that for some reason I could never know."
She crossed the yellow line, and ignoring the little goosebumps, leaned over Victor's desk. "It's partially your fault you know? After that day on the lake you never let me go skating on my own anymore, and while you were skimming across the lake with me all those times, you told me plenty of heroic tales about dear old dad."
Victor, who had never skated on anything except metaphorically speaking, thin ice, in his life, considered that. "I'll know how to skate?" Time, he decided, to start lessons now. Thank the Divine for the holodeck training classes Starfleet offered.
Alli smiled. "Ice skating? Yes, you skate. You even flew me to Icecapades in America one year."
Icecapades? What on earth were the Icecapades? Dare he ask? Would that damage the timeline? More, at least, than this conversation already was? He decided to simply nod and avoid actively asking for more temporally significant information that way.
"The point is." she tapped her finger on the desk, "It finally got to the point where I had to meet the guy in real life you know. I hear all this zarky stuff, and I'm like... chick, you so gotta meet Dad." She gestured to indicate the room as a whole. "And voila... a few math calculations from mom, some technical gizmos from Uncle Lysander and simple time slingshot thingie later... here I am."
She paused. "The only problem is you guys all lied... Dad's a total spuff-head. My boyfriend thinks I'm ugly, and I wasted a year of my life for nothing... mom was right all along."
"Your mother was right?" Her mother was right? About James Corgan? Right about what? "And, we lied? About… James?"
"Oh…..didn't I tell you. My mother is Rebecca von Ernst….uh….she didn't tell me when y'all met so you may not know her yet, but….."
Rebecca von Ernst. Rebecca von Ernst? Little red-headed Rebecca von Ernst? The former XO and current CO of the USS Zeus, Rebecca von Ernst? She and James Corgan were going to…?
Allison was their…? "I met Rebecca back when she was aboard the Galaxy," Victor said slowly, while hammering that image from his mind. Some things he didn't need to know. "We didn't socialize much because, well, I wasn't very sociable and entertaining to be around back then. Not like now." A vague memory from the Galaxy's stay at lanJep returned, and he debated repeating it, but decided against it, uncertain how Allison would take the idea that he halfway recalled that Rexa and Ar'resh had once started to try and fix him up with Rebecca there before he'd made them stop.
Alli nodded, retreating back to her couch and sitting sadly. "Yeah... dear old mom the fabled ass-kicker of yore. She never talks about it but again, you wiggos filled my head with all sorts of stories... those are probably lies too."
"I don't know," he conceded, driven to speak by Allison's despondent visage, even though the whole conversation was likely sending his career spiraling down to Hades. "That depends on the stories. Your mother has done some amazing things already – and she's not even your mother yet. Sort of. In a way." He frowned. "This is a bit difficult for me; you do understand that, right?"
"Oh totally dude." Allison waved a hand. "Permission granted to wig out for five minutes, but when you get done spazzing….I'm still here." She smiled cutely.
"As long as we're clear on that part," Victor nodded. What did you do for temporal incidents? He'd mostly ignored those classes in the years of remote learning he'd taken – an error he'd be correcting soon. You… contained it. Containment, that was it. For both the timeline's protection and Allison's. "Now… who else knows this? Have you told anyone besides me? Has anyone figured it out?"
"Told?" she looked confused, "Oh… bout the space-chick from the future stuff. Um, there's dad….but I don't think he was listening that day. My roommate…..she's probably told Percy, the big nerd." She paused to think. "Oh and the nurse-dude in sickbay who ran the paternity tests.
Well, Victor told himself, that was better than he'd been afraid of. The Commander knew, but Victor doubted that James wanted to think about it too much, and might, if pushed, admit that he'd like the whole issue to simply vanish. There was, after all, no guarantee that Allison was even from the same timeline that she was currently in. Victor wasn't sure about the mechanics of time travel, but he did know that it was difficult - very difficult - and that any number of things outside the control of even Rebecca's math might have sent Allison skipping a universe to the left or right when she went back. He would need to visit Allison's roommate and make sure that she told no one else. He'd also, the Divine help him, have to speak to Percy the geophiliac - Or was that tectophiliac? Endocarpophiliac? Why was he even *thinking* of this? - about the same thing. And then there was the medic....
The medic that did the tests, what did he look like? And were they recorded?" Now *that* was going to require some work to explain if so... Victor paused, remembering the fuss T'lan had made about he pink planner. Allison's pink planner. "And.... your planner. The pink one. Did it contain future technology? Anything that might point to your origins?"
Alli blanched, "OMG....I totally forgot about that thing, but zarjk yeah it's got future stuff in it. Howzabout the entire ships logs for the next three years...Battle results and damage reports...casualty lists....ummmm you live by the way." She pondered a moment, "Last I heard that Engineering chick totally fried its circuits, but some guy in Intelligence picked up the cinders to examine. Benny-something or other."
"Bental." Victor wasn't sure that it would help, but he thought he'd try and see what Bental would tell him. If push came to shove, he probably knew something to trade for the information, even without discussing the mission he'd been on with the Attendant. "I'll talk to him and see what happened there." Victor considered why he was doing this as he spoke, wondered why he was willing to skirt the edge of disaster for a girl he really didn't know that well. Was it that she said he was her adoptive uncle? That she came from a future where someone would allow him to help care for their child? Or was it… yes, that was it. She needed him. Not as an officer, or a killer, or anything else. Just him; his assistance, his advice, his… presence. She needed him, like the daughters and sons he'd had with Sakonna had… and he couldn't say no to that feeling. "Is there anyone else you can think of that might know?"
Ignoring him, Allison had a random thought and looked worried. "Oh… by the way. If sometime in the next say, 10 years or so, your prized original 2007 John Wayne .45 Colt Red River Classic…suddenly gets mysteriously flushed down the toilet.....go easy on me…..uh…..whoever may have done it….kay?"
That didn't seem too difficult. Aside from the geometry of getting the pistol into a toilet in the first place. "All right," he agreed quietly. "I think I can do that. I doubt they meant any harm… who ever they were. Will be," he corrected." Time, he decided, to quietly replicate a copy and use that as his display model when he finally got around to displaying it, that is.
Allison looked relieved, "Thanks....um....same goes for the fire in the den... you shouldn't leave papers lying around like that... pure accident."
"I'll remember that," He agreed. "Obviously an accident as well." He made a note to always keep duplicate copies of important papers in the future.
The young girl sat quietly for several minutes before speaking again. "I'm sorry to dump all of this on you Uncle Vic, but ever since that day on the lake you've been kinda my guardian angel right? Maybe a bit stuffy and un-cool at times... by the way that boy from Norway was NOT kissing me, and you didn't need to make him wet his pants...." she shook her head to get back on track, "The point is I'm kinda feeling lost in this place now. I didn't find what I wanted, and now... now I don't know what to do next."
She sighed and brushed back a lock of hair. "I thought that things were gonna get better with my new boyfriend…..but he hates me….wont even touch me! You know….TOUCH me Vic? I must be so ugly."
"One thing you aren't, Allison," Victor said with a quite smile, "is ugly, or lost for that matter. You can't be lost if someone knows where you are – and, unless something's wrong, there are people that know where you are. So if you're not lost, what would you like to?"
"What I want." Alli explained softly, "I want to go back to my stupid childhood fantasies... I want to go back to Dad being the mysterious hero I never saw, and not the jerk I now know him to be." She paused. "I want to go home."
"Into The Night" Part One
Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
Staff Sergeant Thral- Played by Mike
Demolitions Specialist
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
Other NPCs as Needed
======================================
(Alpha KS-128)
It had taken a full day to move into position. The 153 remaining members of the 188TH, plus 300 'volunteers' from the SVG (who had gotten wind of the mission when Ava 'accidentally' let word slip to those parties she thought would be most interested) had to maneuver through rather treacherous terrain to avoid possible overhead detection either by Triad craft or satellite. Their comms stayed silent, and their hazard suits were powered down so as to avoid any possible signature or signal detection. That meant that they couldn't simply use the null-space storage system their suits provided... instead, like Marines had done for centuries before them, the 188TH was carrying it's fighting equipment with it. Be it a heavy phaser cannon, a photon mortar, or an Iso-magnetic Generator, whatever it was it had to be carried with you.
That, in nearly 4 inches of newly fallen snow during this Alpha KS-128 'heat wave', was difficult. Further, the SVG blocking forces had to be allowed to move forward and lock down the two trails that the enemy could use as roads to reinforce the prison garrison before the 188 pressed on.
Once everyone was in place though, they were ready to make their final approach.
The wide, open, frozen over lake didn't afford much in the way of cover... but it didn't seem like they needed it. The ground-level guard positions were vacant, likely the men that would normally man them were needed to help with the prisoner extermination program. There was evidence of a mass grave being dug, a work detail of Breen in mechanical suits trying to pull up the frozen dirt of the island prison without the benefit of a laser drill... or at least a laser drill that actually worked.
Overhead, there was the starting and stuttering sound of a thruster assembly. A single modified Peregrine type fighter seemingly struggled to right itself, to gain altitude, a large trail of what looked like drive plasma venting from one of it's wings. The Breen in the guard towers watched with fascination, some even cheering as the fighter seemed to be set zooming for a mountain some several kilometers away. The men on the ground seemed drawn to the opposite fences to watch for a crash.
The booming sound of hot plasma meeting very cold air, the prior being vented by a ship moving near mach 2, provided excellent sound coverage for the Marines. The fighter was the perfect distraction... even those ill prisoners who were set to be the next group to be slaughtered couldn't help but watch in despair; not so much for themselves, but rather the poor pilot of the craft.
Unseen to the enemy, Marine Sniper teams took their positions from the shore based cover that the bluffs provided, opposite of the guard towers. Each team had it's pre-designated targets... be they the Breen in the observation posts, weapons emplacements, power generators, what have you. The clock started again as they planned... this time they wouldn't be counting down to a retreat however... this time it was a count to attack.
5...
4...
The modified TR-116's came out.
3...
2...
Targets were locked on.
1...
Fork's fist went up, and a single pump was the sole indicator to his troops that needed to be given.
Show-time!
Pop... pop... pop... pop...
The silenced, targeted rounds found their marks. The Breen in the towers never saw the shooters who took their lives, and the 'pings' of titanium alloy rounds hitting and penetrating their armored battle suits, and the explosions made by incendiary photon rounds as they exploded against their targets were muffled by the 'struggling' aircraft above... and the 'zoom' whistle of Hydran fighters closing in.
"Go hot." The Colonel whispered.
The Marines activated their Hazard suits, the short range sensors that would've detected the sudden power surge having been suitably dealt with by their sniper brethren.
Above them, the Peregrine suddenly stopped venting the gas. It's systems seemed to just kick on out of no where, and it sped away at a full mach 5, daring the three-ship flight of the Hydrans to follow, and leaving hundreds of stunned Breen watching on...
Watching what they shouldn't have been. It was about to be a very bad day to be a Breen.
A hail of angry phaser fire erupted, cutting down the enemy by the dozens. Photon mortars, painstakingly calibrated for maximum effectiveness, rained down like the wrath of a vengeful god. The automated defense stations were utterly obliterated. The prison's shield generators and communications systems came next. Power soon followed... within the first fifteen seconds of action the prison, and command center for a large contingent of Triad ground forces, was left deaf, dumb, blind, and bleeding profusely.
"Make us a door, Thral. Everyone else stack up." The Colonel pointed to exactly where he wanted the charges set.
"Will do. One door coming right up." , the tellarite responded as a pair of charges whipped into his hands. Unlike a fair number of COs he'd had in his past Fork did in fact know where the charges should actually go to take down a wall. Thus within a moment the charges had been placed and and he was backing away.
"On your word sir."
"Do it."
Once everyone was safely away from the wall, Thral pressed the glowing red button on his wrist unit. A split second later, the wall was engulfed in flame as the largest boom yet rocked the camp. A pillar of smoke arose from where the wall once was. Thral grinned in satisfaction and shouted,
"Delivery, hope you have exact change!"
The freshly made gap in the camp perimeter was wide enough that the Marines filed in from both sides of the still smoking wall. By now some of the guards had managed to acquire firearms of a kind, though even more were plastered to the ground. Appendages and body parts were strewn about as the Marines happily supplied the enemy with large doses of level 7 phaser based pain pills to keep them sedated. From the exact opposite side of the camp another explosion lit up, sending a group of Breen who had been daring enough to try and establish a defensive line sprawling in every which direction.
A third explosion opened up the wall between the vehicle depot and the main body of the camp itself, all the while the well aimed wrath of the Starfleet Marine snipers continued to rain down unseen death from their concealed locales.
And through each of those surprise doors, Starfleet Marines poured through, cleaning up any opposition around them in the merciless, clock-work like efficiency that had become a hallmark of the SFMC. The Breen fell back in disarray, heavy security doors slamming shot as the few who could ran for the cover they would provide. Some ran for the wooden shacks that the more 'privileged' prisoners were allowed to occupy. Those prisoners that were next up on the execution list.
Thral and his squad promptly made a break for the artillery emplacements in a nearby bunker. The trip involved a running firefight with a half dozen brave (or foolish) Breen which Thral promptly ended with a photon grenade. A minute or so later, a breaching charge was on the bunker wall. After another large explosion the point men stormed inside.
"All clear", came the voice of the human corporal on point. Thral gestured for the others to go in as he pointed to where he wanted charges.
"Mortar boys did a good job, but we still have some clean up work to do." Thral said as he survyed the damage.
"Yeah. Don't want the helmet heads fixing these things as we make our escape." The Andorian the marines called 'Big Blue'
"Tell me about it..." Thral's words stopped dead as he heard a distinct whistling noise coming in their direction. It was a mortar round. Thral's reaction was to reflexivly drop to the earth. Seeing his sergent hit the deck, the Andorian dove for the cover of the bunker. He made the right move as the round exploded less then a meter from Thral.
"MEDIC!" The Andorian shouted as the smoke cleared. Thral was clearly alive for the moment but definately looked better.
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